Black Otter Bay (34 page)

Ike marched straight across the office to the sheriff's desk, but paused when he spotted the crock-pot and cribbage board. He gently settled his bag into a cleared-off spot and turned to Fastwater. “The postmistress was here, wasn't she?”

The sheriff quickly gathered up items from the desk, depositing them on the tops of file cabinets. “She was leaving when you called.”

“So, what's the story with you two, anyway?”

Fastwater ignored the question. Instead, he adjusted the chair next to the desk, pointed to it for his friend, and then took his own seat. “What have you got, Ike?”

The smirk remained on Ike's face while he took his seat and opened the bag. Gitch settled in on his rug next to them. Fastwater's impatience glittered in his black eyes, but the big lawman sat in stoic silence, waiting.

Finally, Ike leaned forward on the desk and said, “So you know, Marlon, your friend Rose Bengston was in exceptionally good shape considering her age. I don't believe she took any sort of medications, and that's quite remarkable for an eighty-year-old.” He pulled a thin sheaf of papers out of the bag and quickly thumbed through them. “I know you're familiar with the results from the official autopsy, which showed there was nothing of note out of the ordinary. In fact, I completely agree with Doc Thompson's diagnosis of cardiac arrest.” He paused for a moment to scan the paperwork again, and then continued. “That is, technically at least, the poor woman's heart gave out on her. To be totally accurate, though, I would have stated the cause of death as ‘unknown.' Of course, we have to consider the fact that she was outside in the cold, working in freezing water, so a heart rhythm disturbance, or arrhythmia, would naturally be the most likely culprit. That would certainly be expected in a person her age, and one not likely receiving regular medical attention. So, all that said, cardiac arrest would be an accurate diagnosis.”

“But she had no reason to be out in the water,” Fastwater interjected. “There's no minnow seining up here this time of year, and she would have known that.”

Ike held a hand up to stop him. “I know, Marlon. You told me that before. But I've also heard that her mind had been slipping. Folks that knew her said they'd worried about her this past winter, living alone down there on the shore, burning wood for heat. People were concerned that she'd either freeze to death or burn the house down.”

Now it was Fastwater's turn to lean over the desk. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but deep and full. “She wasn't wearing waders, Ike. Not even you could walk out there in thirty-two-degree water without waders.”

Ike sat back, nodding. “I know, Marlon, I know. And that was what convinced me we needed more information. So I worked up a chemical analysis of her blood.” He shook his head and made a face. “I have to tell you, buddy, there are people down there who wouldn't go anywhere near it. I ran toxicology tests, but there was nothing: no drugs, and no medications of any kind. And then orders came down to stop the investigation.”

“Stop it? Why?”

“Because it was deemed frivolous and unnecessary.”

Fastwater's excitement began to fade. That sounded like Randall's words at Rose's memorial service, or the opinion Mrs. Bean had shared with him, voiced by some of the townsfolk. He studied his friend across the desk. He'd been so sure . . .

Ike said, “You know me, Marlon. Orders are orders, but loyal friendships trump all that administrative crap.” He dug in his bag again while a sardonic grin rippled across his face. “So I did some work at night, after hours and on my own.”

The sheriff sat back, still eying his friend. “And?”

“Well, basically, I just put some time into taking a closer look.” He pulled out a handful of photographs, lining them up on the desk. “There were a few bruises, but I have to be honest with you, Marlon, old people bruise very easily. You can look at these pictures and make an argument for a physical confrontation, but I can just as easily explain them away as bumps against the woodwork, or a load of firewood cradled in an arm.”

Fastwater skimmed over the photos depicting pale white skin, slack and wrinkled, with purple and yellow blotches. He thought it a blessing that he'd never recognize this as the body of his friend, Rose.

“She wasn't diabetic,” Ike continued. “Although, if she was, we have no medical records to support treatment. But looking further into the chemical makeup of the blood samples, I found an extremely low level of serum glucose.”

The sheriff shook his head. “What does that mean?”

“She didn't have any sugar in her blood, or very little, at any rate. It's something we might expect to see in a case of diabetic shock.”

“Diabetic shock?”

“But again, she wasn't diabetic. So I checked her insulin levels, and they were sky high.” He bit off a chuckle. “It would take the pancreas of a fifty-foot giant to put out that much insulin. I couldn't believe it, so I ran the test again, with the same result.” His expression turned serious as he mirrored the sheriff's stare. “That much insulin had to be administered externally.”

Again Fastwater shook his head. “So, what are you saying?”

Ike looked at the last photograph in his hand, but before flipping it over on the desk, he explained, “Diabetics inject themselves with doses of insulin to regulate their blood sugar. The dosage is strictly monitored—too much and the patient can slip into a state of shock, eventually triggering organ failure, a diabetic coma, or even death.”

“But you said she wasn't diabetic. How does all this apply to Rose?”

“Because somehow she had lethal amounts of insulin in her system. Now, with a person her age, working under severe weather conditions and physical strain, the probability of a cardiac event would be increased, and I believe her heart did indeed fail her, but not because of the strain. Like I said, she was in good physical shape. Instead, it was due to the insulin in her system preventing her body and organs from functioning
properly. Listen to me, Marlon. You were so sure of something more than a simple heart attack that I had to follow up on any anomaly that stood out—in this case, the low serum glucose. Now, to administer insulin, most diabetics simply inject themselves through the abdomen. The needle is tiny, and there's usually plenty of loose skin over the stomach. You only have to break the skin to inject it. So I looked. I went inch by inch, searching for a tiny pinprick of a mark, but there was nothing.” Ike sat back, tossing the last photo like a playing card face up at the sheriff. “But I kept looking, and there it is.”

Fastwater picked up the photo for a closer inspection. “I don't get it. What is this?”

“The way I see it, my guess is that your friend put up a fight. She struggled, but her attacker managed to stab the syringe into the back of her neck.” Ike turned sideways and rubbed his neck, high up under the hairline, showing Fastwater where the syringe had pierced the woman. “Even after she'd been injected, she probably continued to fight, acquiring at least some of these bruises in the struggle. But my argument is this: at some point the needle broke off and the syringe was removed from the scene. And as you can see, because it broke off under the hairline like that, the evidence was nearly impossible to detect.”

Fastwater looked from the photo to his friend as the significance of Ike's words became clear. The pathologist leaned over the desk, resting his long torso on his forearms. He said, “When you put it all together—your arguments about the lack of minnows and her not wearing waders, these test results, and that photo of the broken needle—I can think of only one scenario that plays to all of it.” He nodded at the sheriff, and said, “My guess is that the drowning and the lake were just a cover-up. I think you were right, Marlon, about your friend being murdered.”

Fastwater slammed the desk with his fist and jumped to his feet, sending his chair clattering backwards across the floor. “I knew it!” he exclaimed.

With the sudden commotion, Gitch leapt to his feet, too, and even Ike sat back in a pose of self-defense. “Marlon,” he said calmly, trying to counter the loud outburst. “Marlon, I'm serious, this has to stay right here between you and me.” When Fastwater looked at him and when Ike felt he had his complete attention, he said, “I drove up here for a reason, you know. My phone may be tapped. It's easy to do down there in the city offices. I was ordered to drop the investigation, but I followed through on it because you asked me to. You've got what you need now, Marlon, so from here on I'm out of it.”

Fastwater retrieved his chair and took his seat behind the desk. He said, “But it doesn't matter anymore where the evidence came from. You said it yourself, Ike. Rose was murdered.”

“Actually, Marlon, you're the one who said that. I just got you the evidence. You still have to figure out the who and why.”

Fastwater's eyes roamed over the desktop. “Believe me, I have a few ideas.”

When Ike saw the sheriff reaching for the phone, he stopped him, saying, “This is my job we're talking about, Marlon. It's my career. You have to cover me on this.”

Fastwater sat back, took a deep breath, and nodded. Standing up, he extended his hand, and said, “Okay, fair enough. I really appreciate this, Ike. No one will ever know, but I owe you one.”

“Forget it. Keep the pictures and the lab reports. I don't ever want to see them again.”

The sheriff gathered up the photographs, clipped them together, and slid them into the desk drawer. Then he shuffled the lab reports into a neat stack and set them aside. Ike sat in silence, watching his friend organize his desk, well aware of the gears spinning in Fastwater's head. Gitch closed his eyes as quiet settled over the small stone-and-timber office in the woods. When the phone rang, it took them all by surprise.

It was the sheriff's cell phone, buried on the desk somewhere. With feelings of dread once again pressing down on his
chest, Fastwater shoved the clutter around until he located it. “Fastwater here,” he answered.

“Marlon, something's happened out here at Mom's house.” It was Leonard, talking fast and out of breath. “The door is broken in, and the power is out.”

“Leonard, slow down. Is Arlene there?”

He could hear his nephew running through the house, interior doors banging open and closed. “Mom?” he yelled. “Arlene?” And then, into the phone, “The power is out, Marlon. Somebody cut it.”

“Is Arlene there?”

“I can't find her. But all her stuff is here, I mean, her purse, car keys, and cell phone and stuff. I don't see anything missing. Oh, hell, the basement door is busted, too.” Then Fastwater heard the sound of Leonard on the stairs.

“Leonard, you still there? It's probably a break in. Maybe they saw you and ran.”

More heavy breathing. “Oh, shit.”

“What? What is it?”

“I'm outside now. It looks like Mom drove her car right through the garage door. There's chunks of it all down the driveway, even out in the street.”

“Are there lights on in the neighborhood? Are the streetlights on?”

“Yeah. There are lights everywhere except Mom's house. But, Marlon, how did she start the car without keys?”

“Her hybrid uses a smart-key.”

“A what?”

“It's a keyless remote, Leonard. She leaves it in the car. You just push a button on the dash to start it. When she goes out, she's locks it up with the clicker.” Fastwater stood up and paced behind the desk. “Listen, Leonard. Call the Duluth police. Get them out there to secure the place. Arlene must have been home and surprised the intruders when they broke in.”

“I don't know, man. It's hard to picture Mom running from anyone.”

“Listen, Leonard. I need you to get up here.”

“Wait a minute, Marlon,” Leonard interrupted. Fastwater heard him running again, breathing heavily into the phone. “Marlon? Marcy's car is here, parked around the side of the house.”

The blood suddenly drained from Fastwater's face. “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. And it's parked about three feet away from the curb, like she was in a hurry.”

“What would she be doing up at Arlene's house?”

“I don't know. I saw her and Abby about an hour ago down at The Tempest. They were having some sort of argument with Randall, but they left when I showed up.”

“Okay, Leonard. I'm calling in support.” Fastwater glanced at Ike on the other side of the desk. As if distracted, he picked up the stack of lab reports, but then tossed them aside. “I've got the evidence now to show that Rose Bengston was murdered.”

“What evidence? What happened?”

“Never mind that now. I'm going to have Randall and Jackie picked up, and anyone else hanging out with them.”

“Jackie isn't in this, Marlon. She's out of town at the casino. I saw her board the bus earlier tonight.”

“Oh, she's in it. But she'll be easier to pick up now that we know where she is. It's Abby I'm worried about. Where is she? Do you think Marcy dropped her off at Jackie's?”

“I don't know,” Leonard said. “Hang on a minute, Marcy's car is unlocked.” Fastwater heard the door opening, and a grunt as his nephew climbed in. “Nothing here, Marlon. Oh, wait. There is one thing. Ha! A Minnesota Twins baseball cap.”

The sheriff didn't need to ask. Marcy never wore a cap, but Abby almost always did. “Call the police, Leonard. Wait until they get there, and then haul your ass up here.”

“Want me to check out Randall's apartment?”

“No. I'll have the feds pick them up. If the girls are on the run, they'll be heading up here. Oh, and Leonard, when you come, take the back way. If Arlene is running, she'll be on the back roads.”

Arlene Fastwater

T
he blacktop ended just a few miles out of town, bouncing Arlene's car onto the narrow strip of gravel roadway leading north. For a while, all three women cast apprehensive glances behind them, anticipating the arrival of a big, black luxury sedan. It was dark here where the forest closed in tight against the lonely stretch of road. Not many people lived out here, but a few miles to the east, along the coast of Lake Superior, homes and cabins lined both sides of the highway. On the other hand, locals wanting to avoid the tourist traffic down on the shore used this old county road. Fishermen and hunters were also familiar with it, but after dark on a weekday it was mostly used by foraging deer, foxes, and the occasional meandering moose.