Dead Frenzy

by Victoria Houston

  Jack had been a carpenter whose first love was bass fishing. He might not have been the most outgoing of men, but he sure could argue live versus artificial bait. When Jack had run into financial difficulties after his wife left, he had paid his bill with two bookcases he made from trees he’d cut on Osborne’s land. The bookcases still stood in his living room.

  Osborne pulled the files on the Schultz girls. He didn’t have the ex-wife’s in this cabinet. Hers would be in a file drawer with those of other patients who had long ago moved away from Loon Lake. But the girls were there with their father: Evelyn, Edith, and Esther. Old-fashioned names today, but popular back then. Evelyn and Esther had both married and settled in Loon Lake. But whatever happened to Edith?

  He looked over the Polaroids he had taken of each of the girls from their junior high days. They all had that same genetic crowding of the lower front teeth. Though he’d sent them to Wausau for their orthodontics, he had kept current with their cleanings, with an eye out for any signs of decay on the enamel under their braces.

  The expressions on the faces of the younger girls were open and relaxed, if slightly embarrassed. But not Edith’s. Her eyes were so old, too old for a girl barely into her teens. She was the oldest and possibly the one that was most aware of the reasons for the breakup of her parents’ marriage. She was also the one who took her father’s death the hardest—and stepped in to take his place.

  Her photo had been taken a year after his suicide when the girls were living with an aunt. Edith was only fourteen but her expression was so tense and knowing that she might have been at least ten years older. The eyes were too solemn. There was no youth in that face.

  Osborne walked over to the doorway to examine the photo better in the natural light streaming into the cleaning porch. He knew Jack didn’t murder that teenager. A man who cared so deeply for daughters nearly the same age as the victim? Whose concern for their health and well-being drove him to work late nights in order to have something to barter for their dental care? It didn’t make sense. He could understand Jack murdering his ex-wife—but a child like one of his own?

  The victim—her file should be in there, too. Osborne pulled open the drawer holding the files from A to E. As his fingers walked through the B’s, he could recall the sight of the corpse but he couldn’t remember ever hearing how Jack was supposed to have killed her.

  Ah, here she was. Gloria Bertrand. Her last visit was for a school checkup. Osborne looked over the dates: she was fifteen when she died. His receptionist had noted the date of her death and that she was interred in St. Mary’s Cemetery. Bertrand … Osborne stared up at the ceiling as he sifted back through his memory. Yes, she had an older brother, Tim. That would have been an active file when Osborne retired so Dr. Frahm, the dentist who had purchased Osborne’s practice, might have an updated address for Gloria’s brother. If Osborne was lucky, he might still be living in the area.

  Osborne checked his watch—nearly ten-thirty. He had less than an hour before Ray came to pick him up. As he stacked the records to carry them back to the house, he heard the low roar of an inboard motor. It grew louder. Loud enough that Osborne decided to call the warden—that boat was too big for Loon Lake. Damn these tourists who want to race all the time. Big boats and jet skis—some days he wished there were a bounty on their heads.

  The boat drew closer and closer until the old oak file cabinets started to shake. It sounded like it was in his driveway. Osborne banged shut the screen door of his cleaning porch and headed toward the offending noise.

  Then it dawned on him. Of course, it must be Mark on the motorcycle. Relieved as he would be to see his son-in-law, he knew he had to have one question answered right away: Who the hell was Cheryl?

  The motorcycle in the driveway, white and gleaming with chrome, was larger than any Osborne had ever seen. Mark, dressed head to toe in black leather, had swung himself off the bike and was just removing his helmet. Osborne was struck by how much shorter his son-in-law looked when he wore all black.

  But the rider who turned a stricken face to Osborne was not Erin’s husband. It was Lewellyn Ferris.

  thirteen

  “See how he throws his baited lines about, And plays his men as anglers play their trout.”

  —O. W. Holmes, The Banker’s Secret

  “Doc?” Looping the strap of her helmet over one of the handlebars, Lew bent forward to shake loose the curls clinging damply to her temples. “Got a minute? Whoa, it’s hot under that helmet.”

  “I didn’t know you rode a motorcycle.” He must have had a funny look on his face because Lew chuckled as she looked up at him. “You never asked. Of course I do. We all do. Myself, Roger, the other deputies. It’s just part of the job, Doc.”

  “Roger rides?” Osborne found that hard to believe. “He tries to avoid it, but it’s a requirement of his position. I won’t be surprised if he calls in sick next week during the rally.”

  Osborne leaned back on his heels, studying the bike. He knew nothing about motorcycles. Lew was hardly a small woman but this was a lot of steel and chrome for anyone to handle. “That thing must weigh a ton, Lew. Is it yours?”

  “Heavens, no. It belongs to the department,” said Lew, peeling herself out of the leather jacket. She was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, which matched the khaki color of her summer uniform. Osborne couldn’t help but notice the shirt was damp against her chest.

  “We get a new one every year from Harley-Davidson. They lease us the bike for a dollar, then take it back after one year and sell it used. Some community program they have; I’m sure they get a tax break. And it doesn’t weigh a ton, more like seven hundred pounds. It’s an Electra Glide model, nice bike.”

  Jeez, she was offhand about something that huge. “Seven hundred pounds, two thousand pounds—what difference does that make if it tips over?”

  “Doesn’t happen—not to me anyway,” said Lew. An edge in her voice signaled she hadn’t come to discuss motorcycles.

  “Is something wrong, Lew?” A rush of tenderness laced with concern tightened his chest. Was she here to say she had made a big mistake last night?

  “I didn’t ride out here to show off. I have to put some time in on this machine because it’s brand new and I’m not sure that I won’t need to patrol the motorcycle rally later this week. You don’t go into a crowd on one of these babies unless you are real comfortable. So I rode it up to Park Falls for my meeting this morning and that is what I’ve come to see you about.”

  Whew, thought Osborne.

  She threw the jacket over the seat, tossed her gloves on top, and hands on her hips, looked him over as if she were measuring him for a new suit or, he would think later, a casket.

  “I need you to help me out, if you can. But we need to talk so you are fully aware of the risk before you agree.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Love a cup.”

  Osborne shifted the stack of dental records he was carrying onto one arm and held the gate open. “You want to sit inside? Outside?” He checked his watch as he beckoned toward the deck at the rear of the house. “Ray’s picking me up at eleven and we’re going into town. He agreed to stop by the motel and see if he can intercept our friend Bert.”

  “Good,” said Lew. “One thing I learned this morning—Bert Kriesel is up to his ass in something much bigger than a livewell of smallmouths.”

  Minutes later, coffee mugs in hand, they strolled out onto the deck. The drizzle had let up and a hazy sun coupled with a light breeze had dried the puddles off the plastic deck chairs. Osborne did a quick check of the patio table: no unexpected baked goods, thank the Lord.

  Sitting down, Lew checked her watch, then took a quick sip of coffee. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees as she waited with anxious eyes for Osborne to get settled.

  “Lewellyn, you look like you’ve been slugging Mountain Dew.”

  “Bad for the teeth.” She managed a slight grin. “But I can probably use some. With what happened this mor
ning, I’ll need that or No-Doz to make it through the next week. Doc”—she inhaled deeply—”my workload has just quadrupled and I’m not sure how to handle it.

  “Here’s the deal. Our meeting this morning was with two DEA undercover agents out of Chicago. Over the last six months, the DEA has seen a three hundred percent increase in the amount of Ecstasy coming in from Canada and funneling south via commercial traffic—like UPS and FedEx. They have word that a large shipment is due to enter just north of here so they are setting up a bust to take place sometime next week.”

  “Not this week, but next week?” said Osborne. If Lew asked him to help out in some way, he would have a great excuse for canceling Brenda. He felt better already.

  “Right. They know the source in Canada but they want to nail the couriers down here. One of those couriers, a major player, happens to be headquartered in our backyard, Doc, and my job is to provide undercover backup here.”

  “Just when you’ve got the motorcycle rally and the fishing tournament. Do these people understand that Loon Lake doesn’t normally see fifty thousand people all in one four-day period?”

  “Actually, Doc, that is exactly why it’s happening at this time. The information is that dealers from Indiana, Iowa, Minnesota, Michigan, not to mention southern Illinois, are coming in for the Tomahawk rally and to pick up their merchandise. But”—Lew raised her hands as Osborne started to speak—”let me finish because there’s more to the story.

  “The agents have been watching a small farm not far from Loon Lake. They are pretty sure that this is where the drugs are being delivered, sorted into smaller loads, and shipped downstate. They want me to put someone near that location to observe traffic patterns and level of activity. It’s no coincidence that a major shipment is due in because the people behind the drug ring know that every law enforcement team in north central Wisconsin will be stressed over these next ten days.”

  “Where exactly is the farm?”

  “Back in on Willow Creek. The owner has been using an import-export business for his cover, alleging that he’s a private dealer in fishing antiques like bamboo fly rods, wooden muskie lures, rare trout flies, that kind of stuff. The business allows him to receive and ship internationally with few questions from his shippers.”

  “I know the woman who manages the Loon Lake UPS office,” said Osborne. “Her mother was a patient of mine.”

  “Oh?” Lew’s face fell. “That’s not good. I was hoping those people wouldn’t know you. Well, let me finish because there’s one more wrinkle to all of this. Turns out the gentleman in question, before adding Ecstasy to his inventory, had been and still is a fence for stolen Harley-Davidson bikes and parts. That’s been his bread and butter, not the antiques—and he’s been doing this, they think, for a number of years.”

  “And you didn’t know any of this?”

  “Nope.” The edge was back in her voice.

  “One reason I didn’t which I can understand is that the only Harley-Davidson dealership in this area is in the next county and has only been open a year. They filed their first complaint last week. They had a customer bring in a bike and asked one of the mechanics to file off the VIN number. With permission from the dealership owner, the mechanic did what he was asked. Later, over beers, the customer told the mechanic he could get him a good deal on a ‘new’ bike. A few more beers and the mechanic had the address.”

  “Same place where the drugs are coming and going?”

  “Right. And, Doc, I probably don’t have to tell you the second reason I know nothing…. ”

  “Wausau?”

  “Yep,” Lew snapped the word. “Our time-honored tradition of the Wausau boys refusing to share information with the rest of us. They’ve known about the Ecstasy route for several months now, but they’ve never said a word to me, to Eagle River, to Mercer, to any of us. I find that inexcusable and I plan to bust their chops.”

  “So you’re telling me they knew about this guy operating up here and didn’t tell you?”

  “Well … not exactly. They’ve known Ecstasy was being moved down Highways 45 and 51, but they thought the deliveries were being made in Stevens Point near the university. I have to be fair—no one knew until last week about the size of the operation here in Loon Lake. A UPS driver got suspicious of too many cash COD deliveries and boxes that rattled.”

  “What else do you know about the farm?”

  “The main house is built right on the ridge above the creek, just past Hagen Road. A newer barn is where the inventory is kept. The problem is the house, which is known to the DEA as being a ‘safe house’ with cameras installed in the eaves. The ridge makes it possible for them to see anyone coming in by road. The one attempt the agents made to search the place, someone was well warned—both house and barn were clean.”

  “I know that area pretty well,” said Osborne. “It backs up to state land where I used to deer hunt. Willow Creek does not have any public access but it does have trout. You might be able to find a logging road that’s been cut in recently and follow that back to the creek, then fish your way down. Who cares about some elderly guy casting Woolly Buggers?”

  “That’s not a bad thought. You get in there from the back, you’ll have a good view of the place,” said Lew. “But guess who owns the property in question?” She paused for dramatic effect: “Patrick Baumgartner.”

  “Never heard of the guy.”

  “AKA Patty Boy Plyer. Seems he put together a false ID and moved back up here a few years ago. He’s been so respectable, he’s the local fire warden.”

  “But if he’s been living up here, why haven’t we seen him around?”

  “Does all his business in Eagle River. Never comes into Loon Lake or Rhinelander. And he’s careful how he travels—keeps a private plane in Land o’ Lakes.”

  “That’s smart,” said Osborne. “He’s close enough in to have access to major highways, but far enough off the beaten track to ensure his privacy.”

  “Yep,” said Lew. She didn’t have to add what they both knew: Patty Boy could count on the fact that little towns in Wisconsin, like little towns anywhere, are very parochial. Twenty miles could be a thousand, so seldom does one community know much about the other, much less interact.

  “If Patty Boy and Catherine are operating within a hundred miles of each other, I can’t imagine that Dickie doesn’t fit into this whole routine. Family traditions die too damn hard for that crew.”

  “Doc, that is the first thing I mentioned to the agents. You want to nail Patty Boy, I said, then you just sit back and wait for a good old Plyer family reunion.

  “Something else I learned this morning. Remember Harold Jackobowski saying that Dickie is into boats? That’s how Ecstasy is sold to dealers: a thousand pills equals one boat. And a pill can go for anywhere from ten to fifty bucks, so one boat is worth a hell of a lot of money. No wonder Dickie is into boats.”

  “Hence you are more interested than ever in Harold and Bert.”

  “You betcha.”

  Osborne thought back to his encounter in the Loon Lake Market parking lot. “I don’t know if this means anything, Lew, but when I ran into Catherine and her husband, they sure looked like bikers—leather vests, tattoos.”

  “But driving a van, you said, not riding, which is odd. Bikers don’t usually dress that way unless they plan to ride. It’s just too damn hot.”

  “Speaking of driving, any news on that girl?”

  “I stopped by the hospital on my way to Park Falls this morning and had a little chat with her and her parents. She was in much better shape than yesterday.”

  “Was Ecstasy the cause of the convulsions?”

  “Definitely related, but the doctors aren’t positive she was convulsing. What we saw could have been convulsions caused by heat exhaustion or it could have been muscle spasms caused by an excessive release of serotonin, which is another side effect of Ecstasy. She told me she paid twenty-five dollars for two pills she bought from a boy she met at th
e rave. Name is Danny and he’s cute. ‘Curly blond hair, medium height … cute.’ Not exactly Miss Observant, this girl.”

  “Cute,” said Osborne. “Well, we’ve both raised daughters so I guess we know what that means.”

  Lew gave a quick glance at her watch and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Doc, you can see I need help, but if you say no, I’ll understand. This is risky stuff.”

  “But can you find someone else if I say no?”

  “It’ll be tough. I should never have alerted Ray to that other job. Dammit, he would be perfect for this.”

  That was it for Osborne. Lew thought Ray would be better at this? Oh, she had another thought coming if that was the case. Without even hearing the details, he decided right then and there that he was the man for the job, whatever it was. Ray, for God’s sake.

  “The rally in Tomahawk will draw over thirty thousand bikers,” said Lew as she poured out the last of the coffee into both their cups. “And it’s anticipated there will be more than a few finding their way to Patty Boy’s place. A DEA informant said the word is out that he’s hosting a flea market of stolen Harley parts and accessories for his nearest and dearest. That plus a few boats of Ecstasy.”

  Osborne was confused. “As much as I want to help, I’m not sure how I fit into this picture, Lew.”

  “Nor am I … yet. But one thing I do know, Doc—you aren’t going to get close to that place, not even to fish, unless you’re on a motorcycle.”

  “Now, w-a-a-it a minute. You want me fly-fishing in Willow Creek and riding a motorcycle?”

  “Peter Fonda does it.” Lew shrugged. “Look, forget it, Doc. I knew this was too much to ask.”

  “No, no, I can handle it, but you have to show me how to ride one of those things.”

  Lew grinned over at him. “I knew you’d say yes. I called Marlene from Park Falls after the meeting this morning and asked her to enroll you in the motorcycle safety class at Nicolet College over in Rhinelander.”