Murder on the Red Cliff Rez

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  Generally, all the Bayfield County guys looked alike. Same height and build and uniform, same vapid expression. During his first month as police chief, David had quickly realized that Sheriff Bothwell broke the mold—maybe due to his sheer volume. It had come as a bit of a relief that Bothwell was basically friendly. That certainly made it easier for David to work hand in glove with the Bayfield County department. So as Bothwell, hand extended, lumbered toward him, a smile on his wide face, David stepped away from his officers, smiled, and accepted the outstretched hand. Then his attention was diverted by the blond deputy hurrying to join them.

  David’s first impression was that the newcomer was a Wisconsin Swede, the kind likely to begin each sentence with Ya sure or You betcha. The clencher was the deputy’s smile. The guy had three dimples, two dead center in the cheeks and a third just below the curve of his mouth. A Viking son, by golly.

  The blond shook David’s hand. “Good morning, Chief.”

  “Police chief,” David replied coolly, retrieving his hand. “I answer to David or, if you prefer, Police Chief Lameraux.”

  “A Frenchy in the woodpile, eh?” Michael was now unsure of what to do with his hand after the Indian had roughly extracted his own. He allowed it to drift slowly down, settle at his side.

  David knew the guy was just trying to make a friendly joke, but a man’s ancestors were off-limits. Mentally David counted to five, then said casually, “Guess we’re all a little Froggy around here.” David turned to Bothwell. “Doc Ricky’s been waiting for you to show up. I think he’s smoked about a pack and a half by now.”

  Bothwell laughed, blithely ignoring the jibe that it had taken his department almost two hours to put in an appearance. “Hey, the doc’s always at his best when he’s stressed.” Bothwell turned to Michael and explained. “Doc Ricky runs the rez hospital. He’s also the best M.E. in four counties. The only fly in the ointment is, the doc hates dead people.”

  Michael’s eyes were as blank as a cud-chewing cow’s, but he nodded as if this information was useful.

  Pushing the jacket of his suit back with his elbows, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, Bothwell asked of David, “Is Gracie La Rue still cooking over at the Lanes?”

  “Last time I looked.”

  Bothwell removed one hand from his pocket and patted the rounded belly straining the buttons of his regulation shirt. “Woman whips up the best breakfast in the world.”

  David grinned. “Yeah. Order one egg, you get three.”

  “Order an omelet, you get an even dozen.” Bothwell issued a rolling laugh.

  David laughed with him, knowing that Sheriff Bothwell was more than able to handle two of Gracie’s whoppersized omelets. “Talk to Doc Ricky first, then we’ll get you fed.”

  Bothwell turned to Michael, clapping a hand on Michael’s shoulder as he spoke to David. “This here’s Deputy Bjorke.”

  Okay, David thought. He’s not a Swede, he’s a Norskie (Norwegian).

  “He’s the man who’ll be handling the investigation. I’m only the ride along on this one.”

  Bothwell, watching the police chief’s dark eyes, caught the snap of disapproval. The Shinnabe police chief now blamed Michael for Bayfield County’s tardiness. And Lameraux was the kind of guy who would make certain a report on that tardiness was filed with the state.

  Cool.

  Bothwell’s smile widened. Despite the fact that he was famished, eager to sit down to one of Gracie La Rue’s legendary omelets, the sudden prospect of watching the Indian cop lock antlers with the lieutenant governor’s nephew promised to be terrific comic theater. The omelet could wait.

  With a cheery cry of “Lead on MacLameraux,” Bothwell, with Michael beside him, began following David toward the courthouse. Bothwell nudged Michael. “Ya know, judging from the way the introductions went, I’d say you two young fellas are gonna get along just great.”

  “You mean that crap Bothwell spouted was true?” Michael cried. “The M.E. really does have a phobia about dead bodies?”

  David chewed the side of his cheek as he stared fixedly at the corridor’s pine paneling. “What I’m trying to tell you,” he said, enunciating carefully, “is that Dr. Blankenship doesn’t normally deal with violent deaths, but he does know forensics, so you’re damn lucky to have him. My advice is, try very hard not to piss him off.”

  Michael Bjorke wasn’t very good at taking advice. Kneeling on the floor, his head less than an inch from Doc Ricky’s, Michael examined the fatal wound to the victim’s forehead. The Ex-Tribal Attorney’s entire head was covered with a clear plastic bag secured to the neck with tape. The doctor’s gloved hands were pressing the plastic against the head wound, so Michael had an unobstructed view of it.

  “The barrel was against the skin,” the doctor said.

  Michael glanced at the M.E. “That close?”

  Dr. Ricky nodded. “Oh, yeah. I need the microscope to place the barrel’s depression for the purposes of technical evidence, but just with the naked eye you can see the gas spray.”

  The blond man nodded as still on their knees they moved back from the body and each other. Doc Ricky began talking about types of gunshot wounds, bullet entrances and exits, shots at close range and long shots. Despite himself, Michael was enthralled. Never before had an M.E. actually talked to him. The M.E. in Madison had gone about his grim business, revealing little or nothing at all to the uniformed cops on the crime scene. A week later, the medical examiner made his final report to the detectives. And that was that. But this M.E. was a real motormouth, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke.

  Hands that were no longer shaking.

  “A bullet comes out with incredible speed. Faster than the speed of sound, really. The bang of a gun comes from the explosion in the barrel, not from the bullet. During the exit, the bullet takes all of the barrel explosion gases with it, and everything is spinning because of the ridges in the barrel. It’s the spinning that makes the bullet fly straight. The ridges inside the barrel not only put a spin on the bullet, they groove a pattern into the slug, making firearm identification not only possible but thoroughly reliable.

  “But back to target damage … When the bullet strikes at close contact, all three layers of skin are affected by the gases right behind it. The bullet strikes first and then the gases hit. For about a millisecond the gases cause the skin to swell up like a balloon. A millisecond later, all three layers of skin just go pop. It’s the popping that creates this blackened shredded trace. Under normal conditions, the bullet goes in clean, kinda like a drill. The mess a bullet makes tends to be on exit. The tissues, muscle, bone, and organs a bullet has to pass through slow it down, and a slowing bullet is an awkward rascal, tearing open a filthy hole on exit. I saw an upper leg once that from the front looked like the patient had a bee sting. The back of the leg, though, now that was unbelievable. The back of his leg looked like the guy sat down on a land mine.”

  Before the doctor could rattle on, Michael asked, “Okay, then why is the back of our guy’s head so neat and clean?”

  “Huh?” Pulled from his train of thought, Doc Ricky blinked several times, then simply stared vacuously from behind his thick lenses. It was like watching someone having a ministroke. Then he was back, just as crisp as a newly issued dollar bill. “Oh. That. Well, simply put, because the bullet’s still in the noggin. It made a circular pattern in the skull until it ran out of steam and stopped. Which is good, because after I take it out, you’ll have a spiffy match to the murder weapon.”

  Michael thought for a long moment as both men stared down on Judah Boiseneau’s mortal remains. Behind them the two crime techs were working quietly and efficiently, one dusting for fingerprints with gray aluminum powder on light surfaces, white Lonconide on dark. The other was handling the camera, photographing the office from every possible angle. The camera flashed, then the automatic film advance purred. Besides bagging the victim’s head, the doctor had also covered his hands, the plastic held in plac
e by rubber bands around the wrists. Plastic bags also protected the victim’s shod feet. The techs hadn’t done the bagging. Doc Ricky had. Michael had to give the man credit for knowing just how to preserve evidence. But a nervous M.E. made Michael nervous. He could not afford a failure. Not if he wanted to get out of Bayfield County and back on the force in Madison.

  “You have autopsy facilities here on Red Cliff?”

  “We don’t have the forensics specialists or the equipment you’ll find in Green Bay,” Doc Ricky admitted honestly. “But we are adequate.”

  Michael thought it over. The nearest hospital with proper morgue facilities was in Ashland. Transport would mean a rush by the rez ambulance up Highway 13, meeting the Ashland ambulance somewhere in the middle. The corpse would be moved into the second wagon, then taken to the larger hospital. A lot of time would be lost. Crucial evidence could very well be tainted.

  Michael took a long look at the Indian doctor, noting the gaunt features, the nervous twitch of the mouth, the almost Asian cast to the dark eyes. He decided he simply couldn’t afford to trust Doc Ricky.

  “I believe I’d prefer Ashland.”

  The doctor looked openly hostile, then calmly said, “You got it.” With that, he stood and peeled the disposable gloves from his hands while heading for the door. David blocked his exit, standing like a tree inside the door frame.

  Ducking so that he was nearly eye level with Ricky and speaking in a voice too low to be normal yet too loud to be described as a murmur, David asked, “Wegonen anin?” (What’s the matter?)

  Chippewas point with their lips; Cherokees, with a lift of the chin. Lifting his chin in the blond man’s direction, Ricky answered in a quiet voice and in perfect Ojibway. “Nin angoa.”

  Ricky tried to push on through, but David’s bulk was in the way. His face full of anger, Ricky stared David down. This silent exchange lasted only a few seconds, just long enough for David to understand that this time good old Doc Ricky wasn’t kidding around. Either David would move or Rick would find the strength needed to remove him. David chose to step out of the way, watching as the doctor strode off. After Ricky rounded the corner, David fixed his attention on the blond deputy. Bjorke hadn’t seemed to register that he’d mortally offended Doc Ricky. Either that or the man simply didn’t care.

  Suspecting the latter and finding himself offended as well, David seethed. “Ho-wah.” Motioning to Eric, the only officer left to guard the scene, to follow him, David stormed off. If the Bayfield County deputy wanted to play dirty, David could play dirty, too. And dirty in this instance meant leaving the Bayfield fool to worry about the crime scene all by his lonesome.

  Meeting Bothwell in the center of the hallway, David passed him without a glance. The instant he and the officer turned the corner, Bothwell continued wandering down to the late attorney’s office, poking his head through the open door. With a merry twinkle in his eyes and a grin the Cheshire Cat would envy, he called to Michael, “Well, looks like you’ve got our little collaboration off to a grand start. Good job, Mikey.”

  Five

  C. Clarence Begay was so distressed he felt like he was dancing on a nail. Trapped in the public eye, he couldn’t give in to the calming habit of chewing great holes into his knuckles. But he had to do something. Especially after being none too subtly dismissed by Frenchette. C. Clarence had every right and authority to sit in on the meeting between the Tribal Chairman and the Bayfield County sheriff. What C. Clarence hated most about Perry Frenchette was that the man wallowed in his own self-importance.

  The truth as C. Clarence saw it was that Frenchette was little better than a jumped-up jack pine savage that no one outside of Wisconsin had even heard of. But in Indian Country—the real Indian Country—everyone knew C. Clarence Begay. Granted, his being a little too well known had bitten him in the ass—the primary reason he was doing mea culpa time in Wisconsin—but that was a side issue.

  Reduced to prowling outside the courthouse like a bloated cat, C. Clarence was smoking like a steam engine and trying not to dwell on the fact that the Bayfield County crime techs were taking apart Jud Boiseneau’s office. If the techs came across that file and paused to read it, his best bet was to waste no time hotfooting it over into Canada. But if they should unearth the thing and simply toss it aside, he should also be near at hand to put the grab on it. The sheer uncertainty of it all, plus that little voice inside his head repeatedly advising him to run like the wind, had C. Clarence sweating buckets. He was relieved that his two assistants weren’t around to witness his agitation. To spare himself that, he’d sent them off to fetch sandwiches and cold sodas. That little chore ought to keep them occupied for all of five minutes. After that, he didn’t know what the hell to do about them. He shouldn’t have brought them along. Then again, it would have looked suspect if he hadn’t.

  “I hate my life,” he mourned, taking another long hit of nicotine.

  David pushed through the glass door, eyes glancing off the jittery BIA agent, settling on Joey, who was waving an arm inward, shouting, “Wewibisiwin!”

  As requested, David began to hurry. As he was passing the BIA agent, the Navajo paused as if he were about to speak. Obviously thinking the better of it, the portly man continued pacing and puffing on a cigarette. Joey, standing near three police cruisers, seemed barely able to contain himself. David was only halfway across the parking lot when Joey began shouting the latest developments. “Benny was spotted!”

  David picked up speed, running the remaining distance. Joey continued talking as David ran and was still talking when David arrived.

  “Elliott’s going nuts. Lots of calls coming in. Some of the calls were total crap, but everybody, and I mean everybody, knows we’re huntin’ Benny.” Joey paused to take in a needed lungful of air. He ran a hand through his closely cropped black hair. “Anyway, Elliott got a call from Ned Girard. I can’t remember all the details because you know how Elliott is when he’s relaying information. I think you’d better talk to him.”

  David could have walked over to the station, but sliding inside one of the cruisers and using the radio was quicker. Sitting sideways on the driver’s side, long legs hanging out of the opened door, David keyed the mike. “Elliott.”

  “Right here, boss.”

  “Talk to me about the call from Ned.”

  Elliott breathed heavily over the airwaves, his exasperation apparent. “It wasn’t a call from Ned. I told Joey that. It was a call from Leroy Crane’s wife Betty. You know her good, David. Remember when Leroy bought her that fur coat after he won big at video poker? Well, Betty doesn’t really wear the thing, but she worries about it plenty. Which is why she made Leroy put in one of those house alarms. Trouble is, half the time Betty forgets to turn the thing off. She’s worse about it in the mornings. I blame the cat.”

  David wiped away a trickle of sweat from his face, his expression pained. “Elliott, is this information vital to the call about Benny?”

  Elliott’s response was brisk. “I’m getting to that just as fast as I know how.” Elliott cleared his throat over the airwaves. “Betty slept in this morning and her cat was scratching at the door mouse—you know, one of those things made out of hemp rope that looks like a big mouse? She hangs it off the doorknob and the cat scratches at it whenever it wants to go outside. Betty claims she was still half asleep when she opened the door because that set off the alarm. Then that set Ned Girard’s dog to howling, and the cat, who was already scared by the alarm bell, got more scared about Ned Girard’s big old dog Brutus. Especially after that dog jumped the fence and chased the cat straight up into a tree.”

  David keyed the mike, trying to cut in, but Elliott was relentless. The dispatcher ignored the clicking and kept right on talking. “Well, Betty got real upset about her cat being in the tree. So upset that she was yelling at Ned and Ned’s wife Irene. The three of them were having a big old over-the-fence fight and the alarm’s still ringing. Which is why Betty’s friend Clara Beauclaire, who liv
es just down the road, heard the alarm, and after five minutes of it still ringing, called in screaming that this time Betty was getting robbed for sure. So I sent Charlie to check it out.”

  David finally got through. “Elliott?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Is there an end to this story? In my lifetime?”

  “I told ya I’m gettin there!” The force of Elliott’s tinny voice caused the radio speaker to vibrate. Having regained David’s rapt attention, Elliott proceeded in a calmer tone. “Okay, so Charlie does the drive over, yeah? And according to him everything’s just a shade crazy ‘cause Betty’s yelling at Ned, who’s trying to control Brutus, and Irene Girard’s yelling at Betty on account of Betty yelling at her husband, and the alarm’s still going loud enough to be heard all the way over to the U.P, and the cat’s way the hell up in the tree lookin’ like it’s about ready to jump to its death. First thing Charlie does is, he gets the alarm turned off and then he’s gotta sort out the ugliness between Betty an’ the Girards. It’s after he gets everybody settled down that Ned tells him.”

  David allowed Elliott two seconds worth of selfsatisfaction. Then he keyed the mike, his voice utterly deadpan. “What did Ned tell Charlie, Elliott?”

  “Huh? Oh.” Elliott cleared his throat again. “Ned said his wife Irene had been walking their dog real early this morning, like about five, an’ seen Benny’s truck’s over at the Boiseneaus’ house. She said seemed to her that Benny was trying to look in one of the windows. When he spotted Irene, he ran and jumped in his truck and peeled out.”

  “He was at Jud’s!” David cried.

  “Yeah, live an’ bigger’n Paul Bunyan.”

  “Aww, shit,” David breathed.

  Rez rumor, most especially Mug Row speculations, were not admissible in a court of law. But a big-mouthed witness like Irene Girard testifying that she saw Benny Peliquin prowling the murdered man’s home playing peekaboo with the widow was.