The note included a handwritten map a kindergartner could follow along with Lew’s request that Pecore get to the scene of the accident “ASAP.” Osborne jotted his initials along with the time—not that he expected that to make a difference. The throb and whine of Country Fest drifting across the water made it highly unlikely Pecore would be back soon.
Cresting a hill on the old highway, Osborne spotted the two men and their trucks parked across from the overturned car. A baby blue convertible. He knew that car. Only one person in Loon Lake drove a car that color: custom painted to match her fingernails. The sunny August day turned dark and shot through with dread.
Osborne slowed to pull in behind the Forest Service vehieles. He recognized Bob Miller. He sat three pews behind him at eight o’clock Mass every Sunday. The young man with him must be on his staff.
“That’s Peg Garmin’s car,” said Osborne, loping past the two foresters toward the wreck, hoping against hope that the report of a fatality was wrong. “Chief Ferris sent me out to help with the recovery and identification of the victim.”
“Well, Doc, you got more than one trapped in there—three women far as I can tell,” said Miller. “Got an eagle in that tree over your head’s done some damage, too.”
“No sign of life?”
“No-o-o sirree. Brian here came across the vehicle on his way home about an hour ago. That right, Brian—an hour would you say?” Brian nodded from where he was leaning against his truck, arms folded. The young man looked queasy and not a little frightened, as if he was worried he might be asked to approach the car again.
Kneeling to peer under the car, Osborne thrust his head forward, then backed off fast. “Whoa!” He paused, then bent forward again. This time with caution.
The car had rolled with its top down. The bodies of two women were compressed at strange angles in the front seat; a third had been thrown half out of the rear seat. Her torso rested on the ground with her head twisted back as if searching for something behind her. Too bad she had been injured, thought Osborne. He could see plenty of room for that victim to have crawled out.
In spite of the damage done by the eagle, he had no doubt the driver was Peg Garmin. The cloud of pale blond hair was dark with dried blood; those snappy blue eyes would never laugh again. Osborne reached through the twisted steering wheel, his fingers gentle on her eyelids: Someone had to say good-bye. No matter how harsh the gossip he had heard from his late wife and her friends, he had always liked Peg Garmin.
For all the darkness in her life, she had been a woman of light and laughter, a woman with style: her hair done, her makeup fresh. That her loveliness had been for sale did not diminish it. How sad she would be if she could see how she looked now. It crossed Osborne’s mind to wonder if the eagle could have done allthat damage. But, of course—had to be.
He stood up. “They’ve been here longer than an hour, that’s for sure.”
“Yep,” said Bob. The three men stood in silence, nodding.
“Well, this sure is more than Chief Ferris was planning on,” said Osborne. “Bob, you got a cell phone or a radio in that truck of yours? I need to let Marlene on the switchboard know that I’ll need at least one more ambulance to get these poor folks to the morgue.”
“Sure, Doc, you’re welcome to use our radio. Here, I’ll set you up.”
As Osborne reached for the walkie-talkie, a distant rumbling could be heard heading their way. “That may be the EMTs now,” said Osborne.
But it was a tow truck that crested the rise.
four
The great fish eat the small.
—Alexander Barclay
With Osborne and Bob standing by to let him know when to stop, Robbie Mikkleson swung his tow truck around, then backed it in tight to the rear end of the overturned convertible. He was the police department’s favored tow operator: fair in his pricing and gentle with his touch. Even insurance adjusters loved him.
The burly thirty-year-old was also a close friend of Osborne’s neighbor, at whose home he could be found, on random weekdays, savoring a midmorning cup of coffee doused with local gossip and a round-up of who-caught-what-where. In return, he managed to keep Ray’s rusty red pickup running against all odds. While he couldn’t unlock the frozen passenger side door or replace its broken window, he was able to keep fuel flowing.
Robbie wasn’t bad on small engines either, and had repaired Osborne’s Mercury 9.9 outboard after the prop took a clobbering from an unmarked, submerged boulder. And like Ray, he knew just about everyone in Loon Lake: If you were over sixteen and driving a vehicle in the land of ice and snow, sooner or later you met Robbie. The motto painted across the hood of his truck was designed to salve wounded wallets: DITCHES HAPPEN.
“Hey there,” said the big guy, dropping down from the seat of his truck with a thud. “Heard on the scanner you need a tow out here.”
Robbie’s broad, friendly face floated above a summer uniform that never changed: denim overalls hooked over a greasy sweatshirt that may have been white once upon a time and whose stretched-out cuffs were rolled up over his elbows. He sported a four-day stubble on his cheeks and a band of sweat across his forehead. As he walked toward Osborne, he was grinning the grin of a man tickled to earn an unexpected eighty-five bucks—until he got a good look at the overturned car. He whistled then said, “Doggone, baby blue? That has to be Peg Garmin’s car. Don’t tell me she’s in there?”
“Afraid so,” said Osborne. “Couple other victims as well. Haven’t been able to get a good look at those two yet. Maybe you can help me move things around a little so I can.”
“Sure thing, Doc … doggone …” Robbie repeated himself as he walked around the wreck. He knelt on the far side, near the passenger seat and across from where Osborne stood. “Oh … that’s too bad,” he said. “I know those ladies. Played a few hands of poker with Donna just last week.”
He got to his feet, eyes searching every exposed surface. Eyes as expert as Osborne’s when examining the mouth of a new patient. “Boy oh boy,” he said after a long minute of deliberation, “I can’t figure this out. Just how the hell did they manage to do this?”
“Donna who?” said Osborne. “What’s her last name? Any idea who that gal in the back might be?”
“Donna’s last name is Federer,” said Robbie, “You might know her old man. He used to drive for Johnson Septic—Ralph Federer.”
“Oh, sure,” said Osborne. He remembered Ralph. He remembered Ralph’s cheap, awful dentures better.
“I can see better after we raise the vehicle,” said Robbie, “but that woman in the backseat looks a lot like Pat Kuzynski to me—same hair anyway. Those two—Donna and Pat—both been working at Thunder Bay, y’know.”
“Oh,” said Osborne. Knowing Peg, that didn’t surprise him. “Strippers, I take it.”
“Yep. Jeez, doggone. I liked those gals. Always friendly.”
“Too bad they didn’t befriend a designated driver,” said Osborne.
“Boy, I dunno,” said Robbie, scratching his head. “I seen people walk away from rollovers worse than this. Especially drunks—they never get hurt. Thrown out, doncha know—but not hurt. Hell, the gas tank didn’t even explode on this one.”
As Osborne watched, Robbie continued to examine the exposed underbelly of the car, then walked around to unscrew the gas cap. As he did so, Bob Miller and Brian backed away so fast they bumped into each other, stumbled, and nearly fell.
“No worry,” said Robbie. “Looks safe enough even though that tank sure is topped off. Man, if this tank had blown—we’d have heard it in town.” He pulled a kerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. “Jeez, it’s hot. You sure as hell don’t want these folks sitting here much longer—whaddya say I hook her up and get things rolling?”
“Hold off a few more minutes, Robbie,” said Osborne. “Chief Ferris needs the coroner to take a few photos—a case with fatalities, you never know. Could be litigation by the families, questions from the insurance a
gency—we have to wait.”
“Not a problem,” said Robbie. “Who we waiting on? Ol’ Dog Face Pecore?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Wouldn’t you think they could rid of that joker?” “Political appointee,” said Osborne, shaking his head.
Few people in Loon Lake accorded their coroner much respect. Before Lewellyn Ferris took over as Chief of the Loon Lake Police Department, Irv Pecore had run his own shop—partly because he wasn’t needed very often, partly because dealing with the dead had been one chore Lew’s predecessors had been happy to assign to someone else.
For twenty years, he had conducted autopsies on his own schedule and often under less than sanitary circumstances—the worst of which was allowing both his golden retrievers to observe the procedures. Every one in Loon Lake knew it, and more than one set of anxious relatives had accompanied their dearly departed through the uncomfortable process just to be sure canine interest was halted at the door.
But while Pecore’s position was secure due to the fact his brother-in-law was the mayor, Lew had been able to cite enough violations of the chain of custody on evidence that she was able to gain control over a significant portion of his budget.
That made it possible for her to limit his involvement in criminal investigations and allot the monies to bring in the Wausau Crime Lab or professionals like Osborne. With her appointment to Chief of the Loon Lake Police Department, the dogs were banned, the evidence storage improved, and Pecore put on notice that he was likely to be terminated with the next mayoral election: no kin, no job.
“If I hoist this about four feet,” said Robbie, pointing to the back end of the car, “you should be able to remove the victims. Won’t take long after that.”
“Oh boy,” said Osborne, checking his watch for the tenth time, “I hate this waiting. Hold on a minute.” He walked over to where Brian and Bob were standing. “Bob, you wouldn’t happen to have a camera in your car, would you?”
“Sorry, Doc.”
“Mind if I use that radio of yours again?” The forester gave him a nod.
“Marlene,” said Osborne, “it’s me again. Robbie’s here with the tow truck and still no sign of Pecore or an ambulance. We really need to get a move on getting these victims out of the wreck. Could you check with Chief Ferris and see what she thinks about getting Ray out here with his camera? This time of day he’s usually home.
“Oh—and let her know one of the deceased, the driver, is Peg Garmin. Robbie’s pretty sure of the other two victims, too,” said Osborne. “Donna Federer and Pat Kuzynski, but that’s not official yet. Thank you, Marlene.”
“Dr. Osborne,” said Brian, as Osborne got out of Bob’s vehicle, “how long do you need me to stay?”
“Poor guy’s trying to leave on his vacation,” said Bob.
His back to the wreck, Osborne looked over at the two men. “This is going to take a while. I see no need for either of you to hang around. Brian, since you were the first on the scene of the accident, can you give me a phone number in case Chief Ferris has any questions?”
As he spoke, he heard a grinding from the tow truck and turned to see the convertible shifting upward. “No!” shouted Osborne. “Not yet!”
“Just testing,” hollered Robbie from his cab. It was obvious he couldn’t hear Osborne over the sound of the winch. Osborne watched helpless as the car was lifted far enough off the ground that the two women in the front seat, strapped in with seat belts, now looked like riders on a macabre roller coaster. The body of the third woman rolled onto the ground. She lay on her back, face up.
“Oh, jeez,” said Bob. Brian turned away. Osborne hurried over to kneel near the body. He tipped the head to one side.
“Oh my God,” he said, his voice soft. He didn’t need dental forensics to tell him he was looking at the effects of a bullet fired at close range, a bullet that entered the left temple.
“Sorry, Doc, I wasn’t thinking,” said Robbie, rushing up from behind. Osborne motioned for him to stay back. He checked the two bodies in the front seat.
Three women, three bullets, three victims all right. No accident.
five
You can’t say enough about fishing. Though the sport of kings, it’s just what the deadbeat ordered.
—Thomas McGuane, Silent Seasons
“He-e-y, you Jack Pine savage,” said Robbie, his voice booming as he sauntered over to where Ray had just jammed his pickup into reverse. Following a wave of Robbie’s hand, Ray backed up to park twenty feet from the front of the tow truck.
He had arrived just as Brian and Bob were leaving, making it necessary for Robbie to direct him to the opposite side of the road. The cloud of dust thrown up by the departing Forest Service trucks coupled with his own tires’ skidding in reverse made it difficult to see beyond the tow truck. With the help of the tag alder along the side of the road, the overturned vehicle was completely obscured.
As the pickup came to a stop, Robbie walked over. He leaned into the open window. “What the hell was that I heard on the police scanner this morning?” he said, thrusting his face at Ray. “You assaulted some poor woman with a dead fish?”
“I … did not … assault … anyone,” said Ray, offended. “It was a ri-dic-u-lous sit-u-a-tion… . B-i-i-g … mis … understanding.” His habit of mixing pauses with elongated syllables had been known to drive more than one listener away. But Robbie was wise to his tricks. He wasn’t going anywhere until he got the whole story.
“All right, all right,” said Ray, raising a hand in defeat. “All that happened was I was down at the post office minding my own business and some goofy state cop tried to put me in the hoosegow for smelling walleyes with one of the nuns I know. And that’s the whole story.”
As the clouds of dust settled, he caught sight of Osborne coming around from the front of the tow truck. He craned his neck past Robbie to shout: “Hey, Doc! I phoned Channel Twelve and told ‘em to send a news crew out here.”
“Jeez, Ray. Why the hell did you do that?” said Osborne, not a little annoyed. The last thing Lew Ferris needed right now was a TV crew tramping over evidence. He kicked at a chunk of gravel on the road, then planted his feet, crossed his arms, and glared at Ray still sitting in the cab of the battered red pickup.
“For what it’s worth, I suggest you get the photos taken care of now. The sun is good and high and we’ve got a shot at some definition if we find any tracks near the crash site—before your TV people mess it up.”
He knew he was wasting energy. Three years of living next door to the guy coupled with three years of fishing in the same boat had taught Paul Osborne the reality of life with Ray. He could be guaranteed to move with speed on only two occasions: one was to set a hook, the other to save a life.
Otherwise, as every member of the morning McDonald’s coffee crowd would swear, based on personal experience, you were held hostage to “Ray time”: The more he was needed, the slower he was likely to move.
Proving the point, Ray unfolded his six feet five inches from the cramped interior of the pickup section by section. Watching him reminded Osborne of the aluminum wading staff Lew had given him for his birthday: its nine-inch links, separated and folded in on themselves, needed only a shake to lengthen and lock in.
Ray paused to adjust his belt and pluck at the folds of his shirt. That’s when it dawned on Osborne. No wonder it had taken the guy forty-five minutes to get there: That razzbonya was dressed for a photo op!
In a challenge to the heat and humidity of the afternoon, he was decked out in pressed khakis, an equally well-ironed khaki fishing shirt (sleeves rolled with care to just above the elbows), and a deerskin vest, fringed below the shoulders. A sterling silver walleye, pinned above the fringe on the left shoulder, glinted in the sunlight.
Ray’s auburn curls glistened, fresh from a shampoo and tousled with care to hang rakishly over his forehead. Even his beard, the auburn flecked with gray, had been tamed. Add to that a deep summer tan and dark eyes tha
t sparkled with anticipation, and you had a fishing guide the ladies would love. Osborne groaned: Only Ray could turn a homicide into an audition.
“Hey, you haven’t answered me yet—what do you mean, smelling walleyes?” said Robbie, his voice insistent as he stepped back to let Ray pass. Ray frowned. Osborne was curious himself by now. Robbie was on to something—maybe Ray had spent the morning in jail.
“Marlene said you got a triple murder out here—that’s big,” said Ray, determined to change the subject. “Could make network news—network evening news—you never know.”
Osborne shook his head. The guy was a hound for attention when it came to the media.
Ray was convinced that talent scouts would someday realize he was a natural to replace David Letterman: “Think about it, Doc,” he would say, twisting a lock of his beard as he ruminated over a grilled cheese sandwich in Osborne’s kitchen. “What does ol’ Dave have that I don’t? I’m good-looking, I’m different, and I’m funny.”
Not that he wasn’t willing to compromise: host of the Outdoors Channel would work. In the meantime, aware that a number of television professionals out of Chicago vacationed in the northwoods, Ray never missed an opportunity to—as he put it—“catch air time.”
Yep, Ray never lost hope that some lucky day a producer would drive up to that lurid muskie-green house trailer of his, barge through the doorway outlined with the raked teeth of the ferocious “shark of the north,” and slam a multiyear contract down on his kitchen table.
Until that happened, he trained for fame by inflicting his humor on clients. Some got a kick out of the bad jokes, caught big fish, tipped well, and came back for more. Others winced, caught big fish, tipped modestly, and were never seen again. But Ray had faith in his credentials, and Osborne, along with his McDonald’s buddies, agreed: Ray was indeed different.
Given that the economics of life as a fishing guide were as chancy as the weather in the northwoods, he shored up his fluctuating income by digging graves in the summer, plowing snow in the winter, and selling a few photos—more and more each season. The latter not by accident as the photography mirrored Ray’s passions.
Dead Boogie Page 2
