“Hell of a day,” said Lew. “One thing after another. Started with young Lauren. We had a good talk, Doc. I think I’ve got her settled down and willing to give her dad some time to find out things on his own.
“Then she took some time with mug shots we’ve got in of some local no-goodniks, but no one looked like the man she saw with her stepmother.
“Around ten this morning we got a call on a nasty collision at one of the trailheads. I had to send both Roger and Terry out. Six people injured. Two snowmobiles came over a rise and plowed right into a group stopped down below. I’ll bet those riders were doing a hundred. No one killed, thank goodness. But we had to call in EMTs from Minocqua and Eagle River.”
Back at her desk, Lew collapsed into her chair. “If you ask me, Doc, when the holidays are over, I’ll need a vacation from vacation.”
“Oh,” she sat forward suddenly, “did Gina tell you what they found at Clyde’s?”
“Didn’t want to steal your thunder, Chief,” said Gina from her perch.
“I sent Ray out to help Bruce this morning,” said Lew. “First they went over Clyde’s cabin inside and out. They found some tire marks in the drive and went over to see if there might be a match to the ones over where we found the snowmobiles. They got a match all right—and found a strongbox, shoved down between the snowmobiles, with a hundred and seventy five thousand in small bills.”
“Are you serious?” Osborne was dumbfounded.
“I want to put a watch on the location. The only possibility I have is Bud Michalski and I’ll be damned if I can find that guy. I’m beginning to think he went to Vegas or somewhere. I finally located Arne—he’s at a family wedding in Milwaukee. Meanwhile I am really shorthanded. Roger and Terry have their hands full policing the highways and the snowmobile trails.”
“Bruce around?” asked Osborne.
“Right now he’s back in Wausau with that empty snowmobile suit. Wants to see if they can get some DNA off it. The girlfriend of the missing Tomahawk man identified it as belonging to him.”
“Doesn’t that make the DNA test redundant?”
“Well, someone had to remove it from the victim and could have scratched themselves or left traces of skin. Bruce is planning to go over it very carefully along with the two suits from the earlier victims.
“That was something else, by the way. I had those poor people, the girlfriend and the parents, here all morning. The parents brought over their son’s insurance records, so we were able to confirm that it is his snowmobile that we found.
“I’ll tell you, there’s one thing worse than dealing with people who have to claim a body, and that’s family that knows the worst but have to live in a limbo of not knowing where and how someone died. I made it a point to stay with them as long as they needed me.”
Osborne sipped from his coffee. Lew had lost her only son when he was a teenager. The framed photo on the bookshelf by her favorite chair showed a boy who inherited his mother’s dark and lively eyes, though he was tempered with his father’s bad behavior. She had loved him, and the hurt that the Tomahawk family had to be feeling she would know well: Her child, too, had been murdered.
“And how’s Ray? Is he doing any better?”
“I think. I’m keeping him busy, that’s for sure. He stopped in after his get-together with Theurian. Your message on Karin Hikennen had just come in, so I asked him if he’d run up to Hurley and see what he could do about getting me a list of her employees—formal or informal.
“That might take his mind off Clyde. He was so downhearted this morning. He went through the old man’s papers and still couldn’t find any sign of family members. Until we find someone, we have no one to release the body to.”
“Don’t let your new coroner close to Clyde,” said Osborne with a wry smile. “If he so much as touches the old man, Ray’ll turn that jabone into horsemeat.”
“Speaking of Bud,” said Gina from behind Osborne, “why don’t you two come over here for a minute. I’ve got some more information on his references, the funeral directors he interned with in Rice Lake. You know, the ones that were murdered …”
“The best reference is a dead reference,” said Lew. “Why does that seem appropriate for Mr. Michalski, who, by the way, is still not answering his phone. I would have loved to have him photographing the scene of that snowmobile accident instead of Terry.”
“Dock his pay,” said Osborne.
“Wish I could, but technically he doesn’t start until the first of January.”
Mugs in hand, Lew and Osborne crowded in behind Gina.
“So what’s this we’re looking at?” Lew said.
“This is an interview in the Rice Lake Gazette with one of the widows,” said Gina, scrolling slowly through the text. “She is quoted as saying that her husband and his partner had no business difficulties or personal problems she was aware of that might have led to the killings.
“But here she says that when she went in to do the bookkeeping after her husband’s death—and she was the bookkeeper for the business—she found records missing and some that had been handled incorrectly.”
“Huh,” said Lew. “Did they ever arrest anyone for the murders?”
“No record of that in the newspaper,” said Gina.
“If the widow was the bookkeeper, she may have known Bud,” said Osborne.
“That is one reference I would very much like to check,” said Lew.
“My mother’s family is from Rice Lake; why don’t I make that call, Lew,” said Osborne, checking his watch. “It’s only four, I might be able to catch up with the widow today. I’ll work out of the conference room.”
“If you’ll wait one minute,” said Gina, “I’ve got the name, we know the town and …” she hit a few keys, “there you go … here’s the phone number you need, Doc.”
Reticent at first, Margie Dondoneau warmed up the minute she heard that Osborne’s Métis grandmother was from Rice Lake. “My father is Métis,” she said with pride. “I’ll bet they knew each other.”
“I’m sure they did,” said Osborne. “And those were days when you didn’t always say you were Métis either. Took courage.”
“You better believe it,” said Margie.
After explaining that he was a retired dentist and a parttime deputy helping out with forensic dental IDs and randorn administrative duties, Osborne added that he was a widower and his duties as a deputy helped to fill the empty hours.
Margie clucked with sympathy. “You don’t have to tell me, Dr. Osborne. It’s not easy being alone. So what do you need to know about Bud?”
“Just confirming a few things on his résumé. Says here that he worked in Armstrong Creek before his internship with you folks.”
“That’s what he told us,” said Margie. “His uncle gave him a glowing report, but as it turned out, he wasn’t as experienced as we expected. Don’t misunderstand—he was a nice boy. It’s just that my husband got a little frustrated with him at times. He wasn’t careful enough. Before Bert’s death we were expanding our business with several companies in the health care field—”
“Oh, sure, the tissue processors,” said Osborne, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Yes, you know about those? My husband and his partner were pioneers in the field, you know. Ours was one of the first funeral homes in the state to establish an ongoing donation service. With transplants becoming more and more critical to the health care field, we were quite proud to be able to help families feel better about their loss.
“But those donations have to be handled very carefully, and Bud needed more than a little training in that area.”
Using what he had learned during the morning panel about the use of bone and skin-based matrixes in dental surgery, Osborne couched his questions in a way that led Margie to assume he knew more than he did. And she seemed relieved to talk to someone who didn’t find the subject abhorrent.
“Tendons and ligaments were what we trained Bud to help with,” she said.
“But between you and me, that boy has a hard time with detail. Before I took over the bookkeeping for the business, I taught high school English. Well, I tell you, the day Bud told me his favorite book
was How to Kill a Mockingbird I just about died. That was the one time I suggested to my husband that we find someone else.
“The problem, Dr. Osborne, is you have to harvest quickly and under the most pristine conditions. We couldn’t count on Bud to do that. Now, as a coroner he should be fine. All ours does is draw blood, take photos, and keep the records straight. Everything else is turned over to our local pathologists. As a coroner, I would expect Bud to do just fine.”
“Margie, I’m glad to hear that. By the way, did I read somewhere that you had problems with records?”
“We got that all cleared up.” Margie’s voice tightened.
“Do you mind telling me what kind of problems? I mean, was it anything Bud might have handled? Accuracy in record keeping is an essential responsibility for the coroner in this jurisdiction.”
“Like I said, we got it all cleared up. Although … in fairness to the memory of my husband, I’ll be honest. Bud was involved. Again, it was simple sloppiness. The problem was limited to two families who were under the impression that they had approved organ donations only to discover a serious misunderstanding.”
“In what way?”
She sighed heavily. “They asked for a private viewing before the burial and found that more than the approved donations had been taken. It happened on Bud’s watch, and I think he just wasn’t paying attention to the fine print. He explained to us that he thought once a donor contract was signed that all tissues in good condition were available for use. That’s what I mean when I say he’s not the best when it comes to details.”
“Oh dear,” said Osborne. “How did you handle that?”
“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you. People were quite upset. The families filed lawsuits but we reached a financial settlement that they’re happy with. Thank the Lord I was able to keep the details out of the paper. My son-in-law is taking over the business, and that would have killed it.”
“How fortunate it was only two families.”
“Yes, indeed.” Margie had paused just long enough for Osborne to sense she hoped it was only two.
“Good,” said Osborne reassuringly. “Probably just a coincidence those were the records that were missing.”
“Oh no, the missing records were hard copies of my invoices to the processors we supply. I’m old-fashioned, and I like paper—in case of an electrical outage, you know. You know, the more I think about it, I must have done something with those myself.”
“You’ve been such a help, Margie, thank you,” said Osborne. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Any news on who they think may have—”
“Yes and no. They arrested a young man on the Minnesota border who’s been breaking into veterinary offices and funeral homes—looking for drugs. The police are convinced he killed Bert and Jeremy during an attempted robbery. Personally, I doubt we’ll ever know.”
Osborne picked up his notes from the conference room table and made his way down the hall to Lew’s office. Just outside her door, he could hear Ray’s voice.
“Our new coroner’s got an interesting day job,” Ray was saying. “Did you know he’s been working for the last six months as a bouncer for Karin Hikennen?”
thirty-three
… bluegills … ounce for ounce, there is no better scrapper in fresh water.
—Elmer Ransom
As Osborne walked into the room, Gina jumped off her stool, Bud Michalski’s résumé in her hand. “How can that be? Says right here he’s been working the call center at that pet supply place over in Rhinelander. I checked it out, Ray. He does a three-day twelve-hour shift with four days off.”
“Did I say ‘day job’—I meant nights,” said Ray, throwing his parka over the chair in front of Lew’s desk. “He works nights at either the Cat House or Thunder Bay, Wednesdays and weekends.”
Lew looked so stunned, Ray raised his hands in defense. “I’m not lying. You can chalk it all up to some bad bluegills, but I got the scoop, folks. I think everyone better take a seat.”
And for a change he talked fast. As he recounted the events of the afternoon, Ray was as focused and determined as a man with a loaded gun. No joking around, no wasting anyone’s time.
“I walked in and recognized the guy right away,” he said. “Remember the Japanese fella I said was at Thunder Bay last summer? The one who was leading karaoke one of the nights I chatted with Eileen. Well, he was at the bar when I walked into the Cat House today.
“So I took a seat and asked how the fishing was. He said he didn’t fish, and I said too bad ‘cause I just caught a nice mess of bluegills. He said he hated bluegills—’goddam marauding foreign invaders’ he called ‘em.
‘“Come on,’” I said. ‘How can you say such a thing about my favorite piscator.’ And offered to buy him a beer, of course. So he told me. And when he finished telling me why he hates the lovely bluegill, I did what any self-respecting American would do. I offered to buy him another beer.
“Only this round we left the Cat House, went next door. I mean, this is a town with thirty-one bars for a population of eighteen hundred, so I suggested we sample the local culture. That’s when he told me he was celebrating due to the fact that he had just quit his job at the Cat House due to the fact that last night the owner shoved a dancer’s head in the toilet. He figured he’s next on her list …” Ray could not resist a pause.
“You have our full attention, Ray,” said Lew. That was understatement. Both Gina and Osborne were hunched forward in their chairs.
“The gentleman I was talking to? His name is Kenichuro Fujimoto—Ken for short. Real nice guy. Grew up in Oshino, Japan, and came here for college. He’s trained as a lab tech in freeze drying pharmaceutical and biological products.
“Dave Theurian hired him right out of school to work for Theurian Resources. Only when he got here Dave told him because it’s a start-up business, he only had a couple days’ work a week for him. That’s when Mrs. Theurian offered him the job running karaoke nights at three of her clubs.
“He said it was fun at first. He would work Monday to Wednesday at the lab, then have his days off and work nights. Fun until he discovered what was going on.
“That’s kinda how he met Eileen. She came to work for the Theurians at the same time he did and found out, like Ken, that the job opportunity she had been promised—in her case it was the dancing contract—wasn’t gonna happen. At least not right away. Like Ken, she was assigned another job, which was basic bookkeeping—paying bills, handling invoices, ordering supplies. And driving around with Ken to collect receipts.
“He said about a month into working the clubs, he and Eileen started to notice things. On the few occasions Karin showed up at one of the clubs, which was only when she was angry about something, she didn’t hesitate to abuse the staff. A bartender got her fingers slammed in the cash drawer. The dancer whose head was shoved in the toilet? That was because the girl held out ten bucks in tips. An in-house legend says when Karin was a teenager, a boyfriend thought he could dump her: she ran over him with his own car. Yep, according to Ken, the people who work for Karin Hikennen work scared.”
“Did he know anything about the credit card—” Lew couldn’t help interrupting.
“Hold your horses … I’m getting there. This fall Eileen told Ken she was getting calls from club patrons, not locals but people from the cities, who said their credit card statements showed unauthorized cash advances—always after they had used their cards at one of the clubs. They accused someone connected to the clubs of putting those through.”
“That fits,” said Lew. “I called around. No recent complaints of credit card theft in the county, nor the neighboring counties. If tourists had a problem, they would call their card companies direct—and the police in their own districts.”
“Now it so
happens that Bud Michalslci started working as a bouncer right last summer—”
“And you’re sure it’s Bud?” asked Lew. “Were you able to get names of the other people working there?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ray said, reaching into his back pocket, “Ken wrote them down. He’s been there long enough to know everyone at the Hurley club. Bud’s was one of the first names he mentioned, because everyone working there noticed how he and Karin seemed to get along real well. Real well.
“At first, Ken assumed it was a status thing. Bud bragged how his family had so much influence when it came to tax assessments, shoreline regs, that kind of stuff. Now he’s sure there’s something going on between those two. Bud acts like a sick puppy when she’s around.
“Keep in mind Ken is still working part time for Dave and something real curious happens. Early last week, Dave Theurian was out of town on business. Ken drove out to the warehouse to see if there had been any deliveries that needed processing. Driving in, he passed Bud driving out.
“Didn’t think too much about it until he started work in the lab and found that someone had been running the freeze-drying equipment, someone who didn’t realize the computer recorded all operations. This was odd. Supposedly Ken and Dave are the only two with keys to the warehouse—but the computer showed the units had been used during Dave’s absence. And Ken knew he sure as hell hadn’t been there.
“He said something to Dave about it, too, because whoever had used the equipment didn’t seem to know what they were doing. Any tissue processed might have been compromised and shouldn’t be shipped. He’s not sure Dave heard him—the guy seemed to have a lot on his mind. Ken’s main worry was covering his own ass.”
“What about Eileen—did he say anything about her death?” asked Lew.
“Oh, yeah. That’s when he made up his mind to quit. He was so bummed. They had become good friends, and he’s positive Karin had something to do with it. Eileen had confronted Karin about something the day before her body was found. Right in the office, which is located at the back of the Cat House, so everyone heard the shouting.
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