Fishing for a Killer

by Glenn Ickler

  “Can I help you with something?” Shirley asked.

  “My name is Warren Mitchell and I’m a reporter for the St. Paul Daily Dispatch,” I said. “And I’m looking for the list of evidence removed from the boat involved in the drowning at Madrigal’s Friday morning. Can you help me with that?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid not,” Shirley said. “You’d definitely have to talk to Sheriff Holmberg about anything to do with evidence.”

  “Could you give me his home number?”

  “Not if I want to keep my job. Sorry, but Sheriff Holmberg is very particular about getting calls at home unless it’s an emergency.”

  I had expected that but figured it was worth a try. “When will the sheriff be in?” I asked.

  “He’s always here by seven o’clock on Monday morning,” she said. “Did you want to leave a message?”

  I gave her my cell number and the number at my desk in St. Paul, thanked her and said, “Goodbye, Shirley.”

  “Have a good day, Mr. Warren,” Shirley said.

  We found Trish Valentine curled up in an overstuffed arm chair and she agreed to share it, with me perched on the left arm and Al on the right. This took the load off my feet and gave me a vantage point for looking down Trish’s partially unbuttoned blouse. After all, it’s a reporter’s duty to observe everything within observable range. In this case I observed two partially uncovered, perfectly formed mammaries that must have been propped up from below by a sturdy support bra. Mitch Mitchell reporting live.

  Trish asked what we’d been talking to Ann Rogers about and I said nothing in particular, just chitchat about the weekend. Trish’s expression indicated that she did not believe me, but before she could follow up Ann Rogers shouted, “Attention, please. Please give me your attention.” She was holding her cell phone in her right hand.

  When the room grew quiet, Ann said, “I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Doctor Bordeaux has been in an accident and was taken to the hospital in Brainerd in an ambulance. I’m calling the hospital now to see if I can find out more about his injuries.”

  “Oh, my god,” Al said. “What if they keep him in the hospital?”

  “Maybe we go to the hospital,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Trish said. “Trish Valentine reporting live from the bedside of Doctor Louis Bordeaux, Crow Wing County medical examiner.” She uncurled her body and legs and rose from the chair.

  “It’s too early to crash the hospital,” I said. “What if he’s in critical condition? For the moment I think we just sit and wait for more word from Ann.”

  Trish plopped back down. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “They’d probably throw our asses out if thirty people all went traipsing up to the hospital now.”

  “I was thinking more of two people slipping out of here quietly while the rest of the mob wasn’t looking,” I said.

  Trish rose from the chair again. “How about four people? I’m off to have a quiet talk with my cameraman. Bye, boys, maybe see you at the hospital.”

  “Why did I mention going to the hospital out loud?” I said after she’d gone.

  “Because you love to hear her say ‘Trish Valentine reporting live,’” Al said.

  We slid our butts off the chair arms and sat back to back sharing the seat, with our legs hanging over the arms. The rumble of voices filled the air around us and I was half asleep when Ann Rogers again called for our attention. She positioned herself in front of the exit before delivering the news.

  “Doctor Bordeaux has a head injury and is being kept in the hospital overnight for observation,” Ann said. This brought a chorus of groans.

  “And in case any of you have ideas about going to the hospital, they’re not letting any media in,” she said. More groans.

  “If all goes well, Doctor Bordeaux will be released in the morning and will come here to give his autopsy report.” A third round of groans.

  “What time?” somebody asked.

  “That hasn’t been determined,” Ann said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.” She turned and ducked out the door.

  “Now what?” Al said, hauling himself out of the chair.

  “Now we call the desk,” I said getting to my feet. “I’m betting we have another night together in our cabin by the lake.”

  “Somehow I had a better roommate in mind for tonight.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  “That’s kind of the shits, ain’t it guys?” said a female voice behind me. I turned and found myself looking into Roxie’s upturned face.

  “That’s a fair assessment of the situation,” I said.

  “Huh?” Roxie said.

  “That means I agree with you; it is the shits.”

  “Gives you girls another night’s work,” Al said.

  “That’s a fact,” Angie said. “Maybe we can even slip in an extra John this afternoon.”

  “If somebody nice bought us a drink we could watch the traffic in the bar,” Roxie said. She stepped forward and pressed her soft warm body tight against mine. “Or Mitchie could come to my place for a freebie,” she whispered.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed myself away. “Not going to happen,” I said. “And the bar isn’t open until lunch time. This is Sunday in Minnesota, remember?”

  “You’re no fun,” Roxie said. “Come on, Angie, let’s go mingle with some of those hot guys over by the fireplace.” And away they went to talk to a couple of young TV reporters with perfectly blow-combed hair.

  “Let’s us go where it’s quiet and call the desk,” I said. I led the way through the outside door with Al a step behind. I called Gordon Holmquist, the Sunday city editor, gave him the bad news and asked if we should stay for the next day’s meeting with Doctor Bordeaux. Gordon said he’d call Don O’Rourke at his home and ask for instructions. “Sit tight. I’ll get back to you right away,” he said.

  Five minutes after that conversation, my cell phone rang. “Must be Gordon,” I said. Instead it was Don O’Rourke.

  “What the hell’s going on up there?” Don asked.

  I filled him in on the postponement of the autopsy report and asked if we should stay another night. The fingers of my empty hand were crossed, hoping he’d say no.

  “Is everybody else staying?” he said.

  I had to tell the truth. “It looks like it. There hasn’t been a rush for the parking lot.”

  “The guy accidentally fell out of a boat and drowned, right?”

  “That’s what it looks like, but there’s one little hitch. The guy normally wore a lifejacket that he brought along with him, but for some reason he wasn’t wearing it when he fell out of the boat and the jacket wasn’t found in his room. I don’t know if anybody but us is aware of the missing jacket.”

  “Wasn’t it in the boat?” Don asked.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “The sheriff has custody of everything that was in the boat and he’s not taking calls until Monday morning.”

  After a moment of silence, Don said, “Oh, what the hell, stay for the autopsy report and talk to the sheriff. But don’t put any fancy dinners or high-buck bottles of wine on your expense accounts.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me with wine but Al drinks only the finest French imports,” I said.

  “Tell him the paper will pay for one glass of house red,” Don said. “And get your butts on the road as soon as the press conference is over tomorrow.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” I said, but Don had already hung up.

  “From the look on your face I assume we’re staying,” Al said.

  “We’re waiting for Bordeaux. I shouldn’t have mentioned the missing lifejacket.”

  “Too late to divest yourself of that. So what do we do the rest of the day?”

  “Well, there�
��s always lunch to be eaten. And after that—the sun is out and the temperature is rising. We could go fishing.”

  “Can we find the walleyes without our trusty fishing guide?”

  “According to local piscatorial experts, the walleyes are in the water, and the water is right there,” I said, pointing toward the lake.

  “Very professional. You could be a reporter,” Al said.

  “Thanks. Right now I’m going to report our new schedule to Martha, and I suggest you do the same with Carol.” He agreed, and we separated to make our calls.

  As I expected, Martha was not happy with my report. “Couldn’t you come home today and get the autopsy results by phone or e-mail or carrier pigeon tomorrow?” she asked.

  “It’s a matter of showing the flag,” I said. “Remember, we’re competing with everybody from Trish Valentine down to the bloggers on the Web, and they’re all staying another night. The hand that feeds us wants us to stay here with them.”

  “Well, the arms that love you want you to be here with them.”

  “Believe me, I’d much rather be with those arms but the command to stay with the troops has been given. I promise I’ll be in your arms tomorrow.”

  “The arms will be open and waiting. So what are you doing with the rest of today?”

  “We’re going fishing without the TV cameras this afternoon. I might even catch a walleye to bring home for dinner after I show it live to Trish Valentine.”

  “Better make it a big one. You’re going to need plenty of nourishment after I get done with you.”

  “Sounds like I’d better fortify myself before I get there,” I said.

  “Don’t waste a lot of time sitting in a restaurant,” Martha said. “Get something at the drive through window.” This from a vegetarian who wouldn’t stop at the Golden Arches if she’d been without food for a week.

  Our conversation continued for a few minutes and as we were starting our goodbye ritual Martha said, “Don’t forget to call your mother.”

  “Oh, my god, that’s right, it’s Mother’s Day,” I said. “Thank you for reminding me. Mom and Grandma Goodie would give me holy hell if I forgot to call today.”

  “Just call me your little holy reminder angel.”

  “I’ll call you a lot of other good things as well.”

  “Just don’t call me with any more news about staying another day.”

  “Can’t happen,” I said. As I noted earlier, ignorance really is bliss.

  After Martha and I had signed off with our customary kissy sounds, I punched in my mother’s number. After seven rings I got her voicemail instructing me to leave a message. I should have known that she and Grandma Goodie would be in church at that hour. I left a happy Mother’s Day greeting and said I’d call back later in the day.

  Al returned and we exchanged what little we’d heard beyond complaints about the schedule change. Al had also called his mother and left a message. “She doesn’t go to church that regular any more,” he said. “She’s probably gone to my sister’s for Mother’s Day.”

  I clamped my teeth together to keep from saying “regularly” and we went back to our cabin to read the online edition of the Sunday paper until lunch. In the local section I found a list of things to do with your mother on Mother’s Day. I cursed the woman who wrote that piece because I could imagine Mom spotting it in the print edition and reading it aloud to a son who went on goofy fishing expeditions on this of all weekends.

  Nine

  Island Bound

  I was stuffing the last french fry into my mouth when Roxie pulled up a chair and sat down at our lunch table. “Hi, Mitchie; hi, Allie,” she said. She was wearing those incredible jeans and a too-small T-shirt with a picture of a sea turtle on the front. The word Endangered was stretched to the limit across her boobs.

  We both greeted her and I asked what was endangered, the turtle on the shirt or the body parts inside the shirt. She giggled and said, “All three.”

  “So where’s your bosom buddy?” Al asked.

  “She’s got herself an all-day John,” Roxie said. “One of the creeps from the governor’s office is paying her big bucks to go fishing with him this afternoon, have dinner with him at some fancy place in Brainerd and play games with him in his bedroom all night. Wish I could hook a sucker like that.”

  “Sounds like Angie really hit the jackpot,” Al said. “How are you doing?”

  “I struck out this morning. I suppose you two choir boys are still saving yourselves for your ladies back home.”

  “That’s right,” we said in unison.

  “We’re going to be good boys and go fishing this afternoon,” Al said.

  “Want company?” Roxie said.

  “That’s one thing we can’t put on the expense account,” I said.

  “No charge. I got nothing else to do,” she said.

  “You could be trolling the lodge for that sucker,” Al said.

  “Business will be better after supper,” Roxie said. “If you take me along you might catch something. After all, I am a hooker.”

  Al looked at me and I looked at him. We both shrugged. “Okay,” I said. “Meet us on the dock in half an hour. We’ll check out a boat and some lifejackets. Do you want us to get you a rod and reel?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “You won’t let me play with the only rod I really want.”

  * * *

  Roxie was already on the dock when we arrived carrying our rods, tackle boxes, a landing net, three lifejackets and a bucket containing a dozen silver shiner minnows that were almost big enough to filet. She was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse, baggy tan shorts that went down to mid-thigh and white canvas sneakers. The blouse was unbuttoned and hung open revealing a seriously yellow bikini top underneath.

  We found our boat and loaded our gear. I sat in the stern seat and took charge of the outboard motor. Roxie grabbed the bow seat and sat facing me, leaving Al the seat in the middle. After detaching the lines that held us to the dock, he dropped in and sat facing the bow so he could look at Roxie—a good choice in my book. The motor started on the first pull and I turned and headed into the bay.

  The temperature had risen almost to seventy and the sun was shining in a cloudless sky as I steered the boat toward the underwater rock pile near the island. This seemed like the best place to start our excursion since it was there that most of the fish had been caught the previous day. Three other fishing parties with the same idea were already trolling the area so I joined the parade at a respectful distance from the nearest boat. Al and I put our trolling lines out and we started the routine of cruising back and forth about thirty yards out from the island, which was about half a mile long. The island was heavily wooded with pines and budding deciduous trees behind an uninviting rockbound shoreline. It was not a place you’d go ashore to have a picnic.

  Roxie put on her sunglasses. “Time to catch some rays,” she said. She peeled off the blouse, pulled off the shorts and stretched out facing Al and me, an eye-catching vision in her electric yellow bikini. I was silently debating whether or not the entire bikini would yield enough fabric to make a man’s handkerchief when Roxie reached behind her back and tugged on the knot that secured the top. The knot came untied and the bikini top dropped into her lap. Her breasts, perky with the firmness of youth, popped out and hung suspended, looking like two orbiting globes complete with pinkish-brown polar regions at the tips.

  “Hey,” Al said. “That’s a little too much exposure.”

  “What’s your problem?” Roxie said. “Are you some kind of prude or what?” She bent over and pulled off her sneakers.

  “I have no problem looking at your bare tits but there are people in the other boats who might,” Al said.

  “Fuck ’em,” Roxie said. “I gotta get an even tan.”

  �
�Then slide down on the seat and keep a low profile,” I said. “Or as low as you can with that mountain range sticking up.”

  “How about I take off the bottom for an all-over tan?”

  “No,” we both said, again in unison.

  “You guys really are old sticks in the mud. Real men pay money to see what I’ve got.”

  “Well, these real men don’t want you flashing what you’ve got on a public lake with three other boats sharing the view,” I said. “Keep that scanty panty on or I’ll take you back to the dock and kick your little bare ass out of the boat.”

  “What about you, Alsie,” Roxie said. “Are you afraid to see what’s in my panties?”

  “Save it for your clients tonight,” Al said. “You’ll have guys diving out of the other boats and swimming over here if you take off any more.”

  “God, what a couple of grumpy old farts you guys are,” she said. “You sound like my grandmother.” But she slid down as far as she could, stretching out her legs and putting her bare feet against Al’s sneakers as she did. I noticed that he didn’t pull his feet away. I also noticed that two guys in the nearest neighboring boat were in danger of falling over the side as they leaned our way to ogle Roxie. To prevent another accident, I shut down our motor and drifted for a few minutes to widen the gap between us.

  When we resumed trolling, I found it difficult to watch the other boats and tend to my drifting fishing line while my eyes kept drifting back to view the scenic Roxie mountain range. Ah, if Don O’Rourke only knew what his dynamic reporter/ photographer duo was doing on company time. God help us if he ever found out. And not even God could help us if Martha and Carol found out.

  I missed a strike and lost my minnow to a walleye because of this distraction. I was chasing a replacement minnow around the bucket when Al said, “I hate to say this but I had too much coffee at lunch. It’s hitting bottom and I need to get rid of it.”