“Chief Ferris, I am so sorry,” she said. “These guys would not wait. I told ‘em you were in a meeting but they ran back here anyway.”
“We have a problem,” said one of the men.
“That’s obvious,” said Lew as she ushered Dan to the door. “Dan, thank you and please thank your colleagues for tackling this as quickly as you have. Be sure to tell Chuck I said ‘thank you,’ too. We’ll talk later.” She waved him out, then turned.
“OK, Bob, what’s up?” The three were all familiar faces, all presidents of local banks. Each was as clean-shaven, pink-cheeked and shirt-and-tied as the other, but where bankers do their best to exude confidence, these three were so rattled they were vibrating.
“Chief Ferris,” said Bob Carlson, taking on the role of spokesman for the three, “you and I know each other since you bank at First National, but have you met Rick Bonds from Mid-Wisconsin?” Carlson pointed, “And Charlie Madson from the credit union?”
“How do you do, gentlemen,” said Lew with a round of handshakes. “And are the three of you familiar with Dr. Osborne, our deputy coroner?”
“Oh sure,” responded the three in unison as they plunked themselves into chairs and leaned forward, elbows on the conference table. Having seen two of the men and the third one’s wife as patients over the years, Osborne joined the chorus.
Carlson took the lead. “We’re here to report bank fraud involving tens of thousands of dollars, Chief. Each of our banks has been hit in the last two weeks. And it’s on-going! We need your help.”
“Sorry, fellas, but—”
“Chief Ferris, please,” Carlson raised a hand, “hear me out, okay? The three of us were having drinks at Business After Five last evening—you know the monthly get-together sponsored by the Loon Lake Economic Development Agency—when we discovered that every one of our banks has lost between twenty and seventy thousand dollars. For a town this size, that is one shitload of money, Chief.”
“FBI,” said Lew. “Bank theft is a federal offense and not within the jurisdiction of the Loon Lake Police Department. I’m sorry.”
“We know that and we called the FBI,” said Carlson. “They’re all tied up with Homeland Security issues along the Canadian border. They said it’ll be two weeks before they can get someone down here!” Carlson’s voice broke. Whether from anger or despair, Osborne couldn’t tell.
“Chief Ferris,” said the banker from Mid-Wisconsin, “would it make a difference if I were to tell you that two of the accounts that were opened and emptied within the last thirty-six hours were in the names of your murder victims? DeeDee Kurlander and Mrs. Loomis.”
Lew stared at him. “I knew DeeDee had opened an account with a large amount of money that was withdrawn on what now appears to be the day after she died but—” Lew turned to Osborne. “Do you know anything about Nora Loomis, Doc?”
“I do. You don’t because we haven’t had a chance to review my notes from my meeting with her son late last night,” said Osborne. “And, yes, he expressed concern over a twenty-thousand dollar checking account that his mother had opened without telling him. And Rick is correct—the money was withdrawn yesterday afternoon.”
“Before or after the call from Sharon Donovan?” said Lew. “Gentlemen,” she addressed the bankers, “we don’t have an exact time of death yet from the crime lab but we do know when Mrs. Loomis’s body was found.”
“The withdrawal was made just after noon,” said Rick.
“In that case, gentlemen, it does make a difference. But difference or not—the reality is I run a small-town police department. Even though I’ve added two deputies and have the Wausau Crime Lab assisting with these homicide investigations, we are overwhelmed. I don’t have to tell you this is the height of the tourist season—with all the problems that brings. I’ve got my two full-time officers up to their ears in drunk drivers, shoplifters, teenagers smoking marijuana in the McDonald’s parking lot … And that is aside from domestic violence, a flasher at Kribbetz Pizza and tourists doing 50 mph in a 25 mph zone. So unless you gentlemen are willing to do some of the legwork—”
“That’s why we’re here!” said Carlson. “Whatever we can do to help.”
A soft trill filled the room and Charlie Madson from the credit union reached for his cell phone. He checked the number on the digital read-out, then listened.
“Thank you,” he said, ending the call. He looked at the faces around the table. “People, we have three more accounts opened and emptied. Another forty-seven thousand buckaroos down the goddamn drain. We’re looking for an expert counterfeiter, because these checks are clearing the issuing banks. It’s the firms they’re drawn on whose internal accounting staff is flagging them when they don’t match the bookkeeping records. Thank God for electronic banking, or it would take days for this to surface. Chief Ferris, you are looking at three men who could lose their jobs if we don’t find a way to stop this. Our banks are FDIC liable for every penny missing.”
“Charlie, call your office back,” said Lew. “Check the names on those accounts. Let’s see if any ring a bell.”
Madson did as she asked. The names were local residents, one woman and two college students. “One of the kids is in the credit union right now filling out a report for us. What’s interesting is all three have accounts with other banks that haven’t been touched. Each of these was a new account opened within the last couple weeks.”
“At least you’ve got a live one filling out a report,” said Lew. “I was starting to worry that every emptied account might lead to a homicide. Tell me this, are the accounts opened in person and do we have a description of the party opening those accounts?”
“Well,” said Rick, “it’s the blessing and the curse of electronic banking. The accounts are opened electronically but the deposits are made at busy drive-ups. As are the withdrawals. As best we can tell, whoever is doing this uses one of the drive-up kiosks that are a distance from the teller windows and they do it during daytime rush periods. The glare off the car windshields makes the security camera worthless. Also, they withdraw the money in increments so that activity isn’t flagged until the account is empty. Is that how it’s been happening at your banks, fellas?” He looked at the other two bankers, who nodded in agreement.
“But not any longer,” said Bob. “We’ve closed down all but our two closest kiosks and we’re taking no significant deposits into new accounts via the drive-ins. Still, it’s hard to police everything.
“This time of year with people buying property, changing jobs, kids going off to college—we open so many accounts every day that my staff does their best just to get the paperwork filled out and filed with the deposit. They really don’t pay too much attention beyond making sure the check looks legitimate—and these are very sophisticated operators. The checks may be fraudulent, but the way our system works you can’t tell that for several days. Plus, they’re using the names and Social Security numbers of real people with good credit records.”
“Okay, gentlemen,” said Lew, “here’s what you do. Go back to your offices, contact each of the people whose names are on those emptied accounts and list all personal information you can think of—we’re looking for a pattern.”
“I have a suggestion,” said Osborne “This reminds me of when dentists in the region would see an outbreak of bacterial infections like ‘trench mouth.’ We would check to see what restaurants and bars our patients had been patronizing. Any overlap and we knew who wasn’t putting soap in the dishwater.”
“That’s a good point,” said Carlson, getting to his feet. “We should find out where these people have been in the last few weeks. Maybe, what—the last month or so?”
“I’ve got my staff flagging every new account that’s been opened recently,” said Rick. “I think we should be checking with those folks, too.”
“And keep calling the FBI,” said Lew in a petulant tone, “because this is really their job.”
Minutes later, as Lew and Osborne were hurrying out of the
building for Moccasin Lake, Marlene waved Lew aside. “You know you’ve got that appointment at three today with the firearms rep from Duluth, Chief. Whatshername—Gretel Sandersson.”
“Oh darn,” said Lew stopping at the door, “I forgot all about that. Marlene, please, would you give her a call and reschedule? There is no way I can handle that today.”
“Who’s that?” asked Osborne as they climbed into the police cruiser.
“Oh, Gretel somebody,” said Lew. “In a weak moment I agreed to let her stop by and demonstrate the firearms that other law enforcement agencies are buying. She reps for three different companies. And if there is anything I don’t want to do right now, it is waste time looking at guns I don’t need.”
CHAPTER 16
The parking lot for the Moccasin Lake public landing was packed with SUVs and boat trailers. Not to be missed in one row was a beat-up, blue pick-up with a silver-chromed walleye leaping from the hood. “Excitement, Romance and Live Bait: Find It Fishin’ with Ray” read the hand-painted bumper sticker peeling from a battered rear bumper. Parked nearby, on a patch of grass along the county road, was a pollen-dusted, forest green Honda Accord.
“I’ve seen that car before,” said Osborne, turning as Lew pulled past the Accord, “but I can’t remember who it belongs to.” He was still thinking about the car as they jogged across the lot to the ramp where Ray had moored the police boat after lashing his canoe to one side.
“I want to go up the channel to the bank where the Moriarty pontoon is anchored,” said Lew, “and do a walkthrough now that Wausau is finished with it. Then, Ray, Doc and I will bring the police boat back here while you work your way up the channel in the canoe. Guess you got a late start, huh?” Lew paused, cocking her head at Ray. “Did you have to wear that shirt today?”
Ray glanced down, puzzled. It was obvious he hadn’t given much thought to what he pulled on that morning, which was out of character and prompted Osborne to worry over where and how he had spent the night—not to mention why he had slept in after saying he would be here by six-thirty. The T-shirt, navy blue with white lettering, laundered and in decent condition, was emblazoned with the legend: “Women Want Me, Fish Fear Me.”
“Yikes, sorry about that,” said Ray, sounding not in the least bit sorry. Instead, eyes serious, he jerked his thumb towards a figure hunkered off to one side of the parking lot. “You need to know we got company.”
Marcy Kurlander, her face pale over a loose black tunic that she wore with jeans, raised her hand in an attempt at a wave. Now I know where I saw that car, thought Osborne.
“Marcy—,” Lew’s voice had an edge to it, “what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see where it happened.” Marcy pushed herself away from the fence she had been leaning against and walked towards them.
“We don’t know yet. All we have is the location where your daughter—where DeeDee was found.”
“That’s what I want to see.”
“Chief Ferris, if the Wausau boys are done up there, is there any reason she shouldn’t be able to?” said Ray.
“Mr. Pradt,” said Lew, “when I need your opinion I’ll ask for it.”
“I just thought—”
Lew raised a hand and Ray shut up.
As Marcy neared the boat ramp, Lew said, “How are you doing, Marcy? Were you able to get some sleep?”
“A little. I had a dream about the person who killed DeeDee.”
“Oh … sorry to hear that,” said Lew, giving the woman’s shoulders a quick, sympathetic squeeze.
“It wasn’t a nightmare.” Marcy’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Have you heard if the autopsy has been completed, Chief Ferris? I talked to the funeral home. I want to be there when they arrive with DeeDee, but they said they didn’t expect her to be released until this afternoon.”
Lew turned to Osborne, a thoughtful expression on her face. He knew what she was thinking: was this a good time to share what had surprised them in the preliminary autopsy report?
“Tell you what, Marcy. I see no reason for you not to come along. But I want you to remain in the boat while we do the walk-through and agree to return with Dr. Osborne and myself. Ray will be working the channel, trying to track where your daughter’s body may have entered the water.”
“What does that mean?” said Marcy, stepping into the police boat behind Lew and Osborne as Ray settled into the driver’s seat. Lew motioned for Marcy to take the seat beside her.
“It means she was.” Lew struggled to find the right words.
“Dead before she hit the water? No water in the lungs?” Marcy spoke with the crispness of a career nurse.
“That’s not entirely true. The cause of death was strangulation before receiving the contusions around the head and the neck. We doubt she was aware of anything after she lost consciousness.”
“But she certainly knew who her killer was,” said Marcy. “You can’t tell me she didn’t know that.”
The inboard engine at a low hum, Ray eased the boat towards open water. Lew caught Osborne’s eye and gave a slight nod. She was going to tell Marcy the news from the autopsy that had been a surprise to both of them. Osborne held his breath.
“Marcy,” said Lew, “were you aware that your daughter was pregnant?”
The look on Marcy’s face answered the question. She was stunned.
“The pathologist guessed DeeDee was about twelve weeks along,” said Lew. “Any idea who the father might be?”
Marcy shook her head, speechless for a long minute. “No … I don’t know. DeeDee didn’t say she was seeing anyone seriously. But … um … we were never chummy that way, not like some mothers and daughters. She didn’t share details. I knew she was having lots of dates this summer but no one …
“Oh, God.” Marcy dropped her head into her hands, then said in a muffled voice, “You’re telling me I lost my daughter and her child? Oh.” She curled into her body and turned away, her face towards the water.
No one spoke as the boat arced north towards the channel. As they slowed for the NO WAKE markers, Marcy straightened up as if she had come to a decision. Her chin thrust forward and her eyes were free of tears. “Dr. Osborne,” she said, looking over at Osborne and speaking in a level voice, “something I forgot to tell you for the death certificate—DeeDee was baptized Deirdre.”
“An easy correction to make,” said Osborne. “What a beautiful name.”
“Irish, isn’t it?” said Ray, slowing to guide the boat into the channel.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” said Marcy, with a ghost of a smile. “Since she was three years old she insisted we call her DeeDee, though.” Marcy’s eyes settled on Lew. “Chief Ferris, how did you deal with that boy who killed your son?”
“I … well, you know—no one’s ever asked me that question before,” said Lew, a stymied expression on her face. After a thoughtful pause, she said, “I guess … for the longest time, I didn’t. I couldn’t think about the kid without wanting to scream … or do something worse. My rage was … well, it wasn’t healthy and I’ve never blamed myself for feeling that way. But I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life like that.
“Then one day I heard how the kid’s life was going—which was not well—and I felt sorry for him. Guess in a way I was able to forgive and … move on. Life since has been okay, Marcy. The sorrow is there, always will be, but I have ways of holding on to my son.”
“Like how?” As she asked the question, Marcy’s gaze lingered over the water.
“He loved to help me put the garden in every spring. When he was a little tyke, I let him plant the onion shoots. So every year I plant those onions and I think of Jamie. I make it a point to work in my garden one evening a week—that’s my time with my son. If that sounds crazy, maybe I am, but my garden—and those crazy onions—have made it possible for me to forgive.”
Marcy gave a tight laugh and shook her head. “Forgive? Forgive. Oh God, right now—forgiveness is one cheap grace.�
��
Lew shrugged, “I know.”
“Yes … well,” Marcy’s shoulders sagged and she leaned sideways to trail one hand in the water, a thoughtful look on her face, “I appreciate what you just told me. Maybe I can find something like your garden that will work for me.” She looked at Lew as she said, “You’re probably the only person I know who understands how I feel right now.”
Lew nodded, saying nothing.
“Would it be out of line for me to invite you to the funeral Mass and the wake for DeeDee? I’m not sure when it’ll be yet.”
“Marcy,” said Lew, “it would be a privilege.”
CHAPTER 17
Two hours later Osborne found himself standing in one room of Bert Moriarty’s summer home, a summer home with six river-rock fireplaces, a private 500-acre lake and a seven-vehicle garage, its doors open to display two Mercedes, matching Range Rovers, one Jaguar convertible and a white Toyota pickup. Contemplating Bert’s toys—and pictures of his toys—Osborne found himself wondering if Bert put family and career ahead of fishing, hunting, golf, and dogs—or vice versa.
The long, narrow space, which Bert had referred to as his “den,” opened off a living room so vast it might have housed the Loon Lake Country Club. It was paneled in some exotic wood that Osborne didn’t recognize. Anchoring one corner of the room was a massive desk of the same wood, on which rested a flat-screen computer. In the center were two curved leather sofas facing a floor-to-ceiling (or so it seemed) television screen built into the wall. Four Captain’s chairs (again the strange wood)) surrounded a felt-covered poker table, behind which was a window facing west across Bert’s very own Lynx Lake.
“How many millions do you think they spent on this place?” whispered Lew as they wandered through the room, waiting for the Moriartys to appear. Bert had greeted them at the door, ushered them into the den, announced that Audrey, his wife, would be down shortly and excused himself to complete a phone call. That was twenty minutes ago. And while Lew kept a nervous eye on her watch, Osborne didn’t mind the opportunity to look around. And there was plenty to see.
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