Dead Water

by Victoria Houston

“Yes,” said Helen. “I don’t know how she heard about us, but when she registered, she did give a name and number in case of an emergency. I’ve got a call in. It’s some woman in Kansas City. I assume that’s all right?”

  “Fine. I’d like to be the one to talk to her, but right now just tell me exactly what has happened so far.”

  Helen took a deep breath. “Last night … well, see, I thought she left the house to go out last night. No one saw her return from her run, but we didn’t worry. I just assumed she came back to change while I was in town shopping and then, maybe, went to dinner with friends. I mean, we don’t keep track of our guests’ activities….”

  “Of course not,” said Lew. “You’re not running a scout camp.”

  Helen heaved a sigh of relief. It was clear she was feeling very guilty that she had not noticed her guest’s absence.

  “What friends would she have planned to see?”

  “Now, that we don’t know,” said Bert. “We were talking about that before you got here. When she arrived Sunday, she spent some time looking in the telephone book, and I asked if I could help her find someone, but she said she had what she needed. She was gone for a while yesterday morning, but she didn’t say where she went or what she did. She was a very pleasant woman but quite private.”

  “Right.” Helen nodded. “Some of our guests tell you their whole life story, but not this one. It was almost like she had something on her mind.”

  “So she didn’t seem happy.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Helen, “more like she was preoccupied. No questions on where to rent a bike or a kayak, didn’t ask about fishing guides, not even restaurants. She just stayed in her room, used the phone in the living room a few times, and then went for that run. Now this!” Helen raised her hands in frustration.

  Lew walked over to the body. The other guests still stood in a cluster at a polite distance, watching. The ambulance attendants hadn’t moved from where they had propped themselves against their vehicle, arms crossed. Osborne remained standing alongside Bert and Helen. He looked up.

  Once again, the birds had gotten there first. A bald eagle circled, the massive head gleaming white in the sun. He thought of Ray’s description of the magnificent birds: “Vultures in king’s clothing.” Not that Ray was down on vultures. He frequently appalled clients by alleging that the birds of prey were proof of the Resurrection: “Hey, they recycle, doncha know … turn death into life.”

  Lew crouched to look at the quiet form, touching the shoulder with her fingertips to roll the body back slightly. She glanced over at Helen.

  “How do you know this is Ashley?”

  “That’s what she was wearing when she left for the run.”

  “I see. Doc, come here.”

  Osborne walked over. The dead woman wore mottled purple and pink running shorts and a pink tank top. The straps of her white sports bra were exposed near the neck. The victim’s legs were tanned and rather thick for her small frame. Lew had pulled the body back far enough that he could see there was no need for his black bag: The woman’s face had been completely blown out from the side. If there were any teeth, he was more likely to find them in the bushes, in the tree trunks, or on the ground.

  Osborne took a quick look at the ground around the body. Teeth, the hardest bones in the body, can survive the most severe physical trauma, including the blast of a bullet. He combed his fingers through the grass near the victim’s head. No sign of teeth. Not even much blood. Odd.

  “Gunshot wound?” said Lew softly under her breath.

  “Yep. High-powered rifle.”

  “Doc, look at this….” The woman’s chest was a bloody mess. “Shotgun?”

  “I doubt that,” said Osborne. “Looks like knife wounds to me. On the other hand, if the body was out here overnight, could be predators. I don’t know, we’ll need Wausau for that.”

  Osborne crouched beside Lew. He spoke in a low, deliberate tone: “I can tell you this: See how the blood has pooled down along her left side? With very little blood and no teeth or tissue in the vicinity of the body, I have to believe this young woman was shot somewhere else, Lew.”

  “And dumped here.”

  “Yep.”

  Osborne watched as Lew let the body fall back in place. As she took her fingers from the bare shoulder, Osborne caught her hand. “Wait … look.”

  “Oh, brother,” said Lew.

  The two bite marks were unmistakable. Osborne knew without looking that he would find two more on the other shoulder.

  eight

  “I know several hundred men. I prefer to angle with only four of them.”

  Frederic F. Van de Water, author

  “Here comes another police car,” said Bert from behind Osborne. He pointed to the roof of a white sedan bouncing in and out of sight as it crossed the field toward them.

  “Oh good, that’s Roger,” said Lew. “Is this the only access to the area?” she asked Bert.

  “No. Our property line ends just the other side of our deer stand, a couple hundred feet past the feeder, due west. The neighbor’s road runs in just behind there. In fact, we have quite a problem with hunters trespassing onto our property, if that’s a help. We can’t see this area from the house—”

  “So someone could have driven onto your neighbor’s property, walked a few yards this direction to drop the victim, and you would never see anything. Is that correct?” said Lew.

  “I’m afraid so.” Bert thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. He looked very worried. “But the Bearskin Bike & Running Trail is less than a mile from here, too. I think that’s where she went to run. We keep a map of the trail at the front desk.”

  “Could someone have entered Timber Lake Lodge unobserved and pulled Ashley Olson from her room?” asked Lew.

  “That’s not impossible, but it’s not likely,” said Helen. “My desk faces our front door, which opens into the lodge living room. I’m there in the late afternoon and early evening because that’s when most of our guests arrive. You have to come and go down the center staircase to reach any of the bedrooms. That’s how I saw Ashley leave for her run in the first place.”

  As Lew stepped away from the body, she studied the lush ferns blanketing the ground beneath the hardwood forest behind them. “Darn! I wish Ray were here to see if there’s any sign left in those woods.”

  “I doubt he could find much the way everyone’s been walking around, Lew,” said Osborne.

  “I’m afraid I tromped around in there myself,” said Helen. “I thought maybe someone had been in that deer stand of ours. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

  Lew shrugged. “I’ll have Roger rope off a half-mile radius around this site. We’ll do a foot search through the brush. Doc, would you see if Ray can come out after he’s finished with that client of his?” She looked at Bert. “Don’t panic if you see a man with a fish on his head poking around out here. He’s one of my deputies. Ray Pradt. He’s good; he can track a crappie under ice.”

  “Even if it rains?” Osborne looked up at the sky.

  “Yes,” said Lew. She lowered her voice so Bert couldn’t hear. “I’ve got a lot more confidence in Ray than some Wausau jabone who wouldn’t know a fox from a feral cat.”

  As she spoke, they watched Roger Adamcyzk climb slowly out of his car. Roger never looked real eager to join the party. Lew had inherited him as her senior deputy, and he was a lifer. Formerly a life insurance salesman, Roger had made a career switch in his late thirties, thinking that being a cop in Loon Lake would ensure a foot on the stool and a light snooze for most of the day. That was twenty years ago. He was right at the time, but Loon Lake changed. The tourist trade took off. Not only was Loon Lake redefined as a “destination location,” but the cost of living went up along with an increase in drug traffic, poaching, and domestic violence. Then Lew arrived. Poor guy rarely got a snooze in any longer. Worse yet, he was always assigned the body bagging. Today was no exception.

  “Got that
other victim on its way to Wausau for you, Chief. Pecore never answered his phone. Jeez Louise.” Roger had spotted the woman’s legs behind Lew. “Boy, oh boy, guess I shoulda had the van wait, huh?”

  “I thought that’s what Lucy asked you to do.” Lew’s voice turned testy.

  The look on Roger’s face said it all: “Oh, that’s what she meant. She told me that one of the techs from Wausau would be here in a couple hours so I just thought—”

  “You thought he could use his Jeep?”

  Osborne suppressed a smile. He remembered Lew’s description of her staffer: “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.” She could say that again.

  “Call Lucy, tell her to reach that van somehow. If she has to ask one of the state boys to pull ‘em over, that’s fine. Just get it back here, Roger.”

  The older man slouched toward his car.

  “And Roger,” Lew continued, “no one moves the victim until Wausau gets here. When they’re done, be sure the EMTs save every piece of clothing and shoes … just like I told you with the other victim. Every item, got that?”

  Roger waved.

  “Are we waiting for the coroner?” called Bert from where he stood watching, arms folded.

  “No. Pecore’s at his granddaughter’s graduation this morning,” said Lew. “Doc here does a preliminary ID and then we send the victims to Wausau for a full workup. A lab tech is on his way from the Wausau Crime Lab to do the preliminary here at the site.

  “Thanks, but we won’t need you folks.” She waved at the ambulance crew. “Crime lab should have a van on the way in about thirty minutes.” She turned to the Jameses. “Would you take your guests back to the lodge, please. I’ll be down to talk with everyone shortly.”

  Bert shook his head, and Osborne knew exactly what he was thinking: First, Lew arrives late to the scene, now there’s no coroner. What the hell kind of operation is this? Not being a Loon Lake native, Bert would have no idea that the absence of the coroner was a blessing.

  Pecore wasn’t well respected in the small town. It wasn’t just that people resented the fact that he let his two golden retrievers roam freely through his office and autopsy lab, leading to speculation that one of the pooches might lick a beloved. The man had a darker side to him. In addition to signing off on cause of death, he was also expected to photograph victims of assault and other crimes. Apparently, the confidential nature of his work didn’t register. Osborne knew of more than one instance when the guy had shown up at a local bar and proceeded to display official photos of his subjects, particularly if they were young females. It was no surprise to Osborne that when the daughter of one of his closest friends was raped and beaten, the family refused to report the crime rather than risk Pecore’s involvement. The problem was that the position was a political appointment; Pecore could not be fired, but he could be avoided.

  As if she knew what he was thinking, Lew caught Osborne’s eye. “I don’t want Pecore in on this. I’ll do a point-and-shoot myself and leave the rest to Wausau.”

  Bert and Helen had just started to trudge down the road, guests in tow, when a black Range Rover came bouncing across the field.

  “Who the hell—? He’s driving right through my raspberries!” Bert put his hands on his hips, his face reddening with anger. “Is this one of your people, Chief Ferris? Please tell them to stay on the lane.”

  Lew looked as surprised as anyone. The big, boxy car continued toward them. Finally, Lew could make out the driver. “What on earth is Hank Kendrickson doing out here?” she said. “I hope Lucy didn’t tell him—”

  “Hey, there.” A cheery voice came at them from the car window. Behind the driver, their big heads hanging out the open window, were two yellow Labs. As the big car neared the group, the dogs went crazy, barking and bouncing around in the backseat.

  “Keep those dogs in the car!” shouted Lew.

  The door opened, and the occupant jumped out. “I spotted Roger in town and followed him this direction. I thought I might find you here, Chief.”

  Watching Kendrickson advance on Lew, Osborne remembered Ray’s take on the jerk: “a Hemingway wannabe.” Right on, Ray. Not only did the man sport a squared-off blond gray beard replete with a slightly flattened pink nose, but he was perfectly outfitted in crisp khaki pants, a matching fly-fishing shirt, and a spanking-new fishing hat whose brim sported a cluster of colorful trout flies. Osborne knew without asking that the razzbonya would say he had tied them himself.

  Hank continued toward them, his gait an insouciant swagger that Osborne found irritating as hell. He recognized the look on the guy’s face, too. It was exactly the type of seductive grin he had alerted his daughters to when they were in their teens, lovely and vulnerable. “Guys like that are dangerous,” was all he had been able to say, too embarrassed to let them know exactly what worried him most. But even as he could at least warn his daughters, he didn’t dare say a word to Lew. He had to hope she knew.

  “Oh my goodness!” Hank came to a skidding halt, smile vanishing at the sight of the curled and bloody human form. He yanked his hat off and clutched it to his chest as if to pay his respects to the deceased.

  In spite of his big head, he was modest in height and stocky, with a peculiar posture that made him look like he was perpetually leaning into the wind. The bearded face was topped with a stiff frizz of grayish blond hair. At the moment, hair standing on end and eyebrows arched in shock, he looked like he was plugged into an electric socket. At least, that’s what Osborne hoped Lew would think.

  Osborne guessed him to be in his late forties. What he didn’t have to guess at was the obvious: Hank Kendrickson had the money to look like he had just stepped out of the pages of Fly Fisherman magazine, the kind of money that buys a man time to fish Montana, Canada, the Yukon, New Zealand, probably even Russia. Worst of all, Osborne suspected he was infinitely better at fly-fishing than Osborne could ever hope to be. How could Lew not be seduced by a guy like Hank Kendrickson?

  “Who is it? What happened?” Hank started to walk forward, but Lew moved quickly to block him.

  “Hank.” Her voice was crisp, blunt. “What are you doing here? I told Lucy to get back to you—”

  “Oh, she did, she did. But as I was leaving your office, I heard her send Roger after you.” Hank tried to peer around Lew, but she stepped into his line of vision. “I guess I shouldn’t have followed Roger, but I thought maybe it was just routine stuff, y’know.”

  Osborne wondered just what Hank thought was so routine in law enforcement that Lew encouraged drop-ins.

  “I need you to leave, Hank.” Lew advanced in such a way that Hank had to back up.

  “I-I, well, Lew, I just have to show you something. Hey …” He raised his hands at the hostile expression on her face. “C’mon, Lew.” He dropped his voice seductively as a charming smile crossed his face. Hank gave a nod toward his car and started to walk to it. “You can take a minute, can’t you? I’ve got it right here in the car.” He hurried back to the Range Rover, where the door on the driver’s side stood open, reached for something on the seat, grabbed it, and ran back toward them.

  “I really do not have time for this, Hank.”

  Osborne had never heard Lew sound so terse. He moved closer, as if his presence could serve as a buffer.

  “Voilà!” Hank waved a piece of paper at her. Osborne looked over Lew’s shoulder as she accepted the photo, scanned it, nodded, listened for a polite moment to Hank’s excited bragging, and then, her left hand on his shoulder, walked him back to his car and shoveled him into his vehicle. He kept talking and gesturing until she could slam his door shut.

  Arms on her hips, Lew blocked the drive as she waited for the Range Rover’s engine to purr back into life and for Hank to put it in reverse. Only when the car was moving did she back away.

  “What was that all about?” said Roger, emerging from his vehicle as Lew headed back toward the body, a set look on her face.

  “Mr. Important caught a trophy trout this morning,
” said Lew. “A big brown … twenty-six inches, seven pounds. He says. He’s on his way to the taxidermist with his photo. And it is so special that he had to track me down at a crime scene.”

  The irritation in her voice made it clear that Big Bucks Hank had just made a big mistake. With luck, it was one from which he might never recover. Osborne relished the moment. Maybe he should feel ashamed at his delight over Hank’s faux pas, but he didn’t.

  “Oh, it gets better,” said Lew. “Told me he caught it about ten o’clock last night, fishing the Deerskin … south of the dam.”

  “Really?” said Osborne. “Did he have a witness?”

  “Oh yeah, he got some kid who works for him to sign off on the catch. Sign off or lose his job, probably.” Lew was quiet for a few seconds as the two of them walked back toward the victim. Then she muttered, “I hate fishermen who lie. Especially fly-fishermen. Comes with the sport, I guess, but I don’t like it.”

  Osborne felt positively gleeful. That should cement her feelings for Hank Kendrickson now and forever. Of course, the guy had caught a hell of a fish, and Osborne could understand why he would want to show it off. Osborne would do the same but within limits. What he wasn’t sure about was how Lew knew Hank was lying, but he sure wasn’t going to demonstrate his own ignorance and ask.

  “Can’t agree with you more,” he said. “At least he released it.” That was the good news about new techniques in taxidermy. A close-up photo made it possible for the taxidermist to replicate a fish using a basic model. The actual fish was not necessary in order to document your trophy catch. In fact, the new process was not only less messy, but it reinforced efforts at conservation. Even so, it was, as a man like Hank would know, a more expensive technique.

  “But to push your way in where I’m working, when it’s obvious I’m busy?” Lew shook her head. “Men like Kendrickson never take women seriously. No matter what. And that’s what I really don’t like.”

  Osborne bit his lip. He took her seriously, way too seriously. A condition from which he was beginning to think he might never recover.