Dead Creek (16 page)

Osborne
was surprised to see it was only 8:30 when he dropped off Lew and Ray at their cars in the jail parking lot. The day had seemed a month long. But as he started home past Saint Mary’s Church, parked cars lining both sides of the street indicated the Sunday night Lenten service was still going on. He pulled the station wagon over, feeling a little too wound up to go back to the dark silence of his house quite yet.

As he entered and took his usual seat in the eighth pew on the far right, it calmed him to hear the familiar singsong phrases, the muted responses from the small crowd attending. Tonight he even savored the smell of incense in the air. It was all familiar, it was all safe, and it kept him from wondering what the hell he was getting himself into.

The ceremony was over in less than ten minutes, but Osborne sat quietly until most of the parishioners had left. Then he rose and walked over to the nook under the statue of the Blessed Virgin, Mary Lee’s favorite. He slipped two quarters into the scuffed tin box attached to the stand of vigil lights and heard them rattle loudly in the now-empty church. He picked up a taper and book of matches from the little tray beside the coin box and lit two candles. They would be the only two burning that night. Then he bent his knees and lowered himself slowly onto the kneeler before the statue of the Holy Mother.

The Virgin was hidden under a dark-purple Lenten shroud, and Osborne wondered if the churches in the big cities still followed that ritual. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and mentally ran through a “Hail Mary” while trying to summon up a prayerful calm and an image of Mary Lee, but all he could see in his mind’s eye were the twinkling dark-brown eyes of Lew. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to concentrate.

“Dr. Osborne?” A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Startled, Osborne jumped involuntarily and opened his eyes to see Father Vodicka studying him intently.

“Are you in a rush?” the elderly priest had an eager look in his eye.

“I have a few minutes. What’s up?”

“Well, ah, we’d planned a demonstration for folks this evening, after the services, but, ah, well, no one has stayed, and I was wondering … well, it would be a little less embarrassing if you wouldn’t mind …?”

“Of course.” Osborne got the picture instantly. The poor guy. Father Vodicka was taken for granted in the parish, even as he struggled to bring modern ways to the church with not a little resistance from his flock. “What are we demonstrating, Father?”

The relief on the priest’s face was palpable as he shepherded Osborne toward the door to the adjoining offices.

“Oh, Dr. Osborne, this is quite impressive. We’ve had our first computer installed, and a computer sciences student from Nicolet College over in Rhinelander is inputting all the baptismal records onto a database.”

The chapel office was brightly lit and a distinctly hip-looking young man with long hair and a semi-insolent look on his face was typing away on a keyboard. He looked up with some interest as Osborne entered the room.

Clearly, he and Father Vodicka had been looking forward to showing off their achievement to someone. Osborne was happy he was a professional man with the title Doctor. It would lend weight to the significance of their little meeting. It might even make the snub from the other parishioners a little easier to take. And Osborne was a past president of the church board, so that would help, too.

“I’m afraid I know nothing about these kinds of things,” he said. “Please keep it as basic as you can.”

“Don’t worry about that, Dr. Osborne,” said the priest, “but we thought you might like to see how Wally takes the original document, scans it with this penlike instrument, and—there—see all the information on the screen?”

“Very nice,” said Osborne. “Now, why are you doing this?”

“Oh. people call all the time for their baptismal records,” said Father Vodicka. “In some communities, you can’t get married in a Catholic church if you can’t furnish a copy of your baptismal records. Then, of course, years ago, many early residents never did file
birth
certificates. Often babies were born in the home, and they never thought too much about it, but they
always
had their children baptized. So we have calls from people looking for their baptismal certificate in lieu of a birth certificate. Very important, these. We used to have to spend hours looking through files, but now, if people give us a name or a date or even just the month, we can find the correct listing in seconds and print multiple copies instantly.”

“Father,” the student spoke up, “have you decided what you’re going to do about the fancy ones?”

“Oh, those. Look at this, Doctor.” The priest picked up a box from the floor and pulled open the flaps. “These are from the late 1800s.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers, many on parchment, some with delicate hand drawings and elegant script. “People drew up their own baptismal records in those days. Some are works of art. I’m not sure what to do with them.”

Osborne reached for one, but even as he looked at it, his mind was leaping ahead to a much more contemporary question.

“So, if I give you a date right now, maybe just a month, can you locate the records as we stand here?”

“If we have those years completed,” said Father Vodicka.

Osborne reached into his jacket pocket. He had slipped the folded dental record for the Bowers boy into his pocket early that morning to show Ray. He pulled it out. Yes, it had a birth date. What if Shanley were right? What if the boy had been born in the area? What if Ray was right, and the victim was connected to those triplets born so many years ago? It was a long shot, but anything is possible in a small town.

“Okay,” said Osborne, “let’s see March twenty-fifth.” Then he gave the year.

“Good,” said Wally, “I’ve got that year all done.”

His fingers danced over the keyboard and he punched lightly with his forefinger several times.

“March twenty-fifth?”

“Right,” said Osborne. His fatigue had disappeared. He felt wound up if not tense.

“Nothing for the twenty-fifth.”

“Oh.” Osborne’s disappointment was obvious.

“Now, wait,” said Father Vodicka, “that was a birth date, correct? Most Catholic parents had their babies baptized three weeks after the birth. Let’s move up two to three weeks….”

“We’re looking for triplets,” said Osborne.

“Triplets?” The priest’s head and the student’s eyes swung toward Osborne simultaneously.

“I know who you want,” said Wally. “Here it is.”

And it was: names, date, family.

“Now …” the student shifted forward in his chair, “here’s an interesting piece we added to this particular record. Father Vodicka and I decided that the entire file should be input. So see this box? I’ll move my cursor here and click on this like so. Voilà! Now you have the entire record that was attached to their certificates. Here, take my chair and sit down so you can read it.”

Osborne moved much faster to sit than he had twenty minutes earlier to kneel.

As he read, Father Vodicka leaned over his shoulder. “I thought everyone had forgotten about this,” the priest said softly. “Mother Superior kept it all quiet, you know. Only a few of us in the parish knew that the convent had taken in those children under such circumstances, but Mother Superior prided herself on running an unofficial adoption service that kept Catholic babies in Catholic homes. That’s why the records are here, she took responsibility for those youngsters.”

Sure enough, it was all there, straight from the nuns who’d brought the children to the priest for baptism. First, Mother Superior’s note stating the local superstition that these “poor babes were considered ‘evil angels’ by their late mother … because of that some rather outspoken and unkind members of the church are insisting they not be baptized because it can’t be proven that the deceased parents were, indeed, Roman Catholic … however, given their French-Canadian heritage, I believe there is no doubt of Catholicism,” the good nun had said.

In addition to the note from the nun, the parents’ death certificates showed cause of death to be suicide. These were followed on the screen by medical records from the hospital detailing the health exams of fraternal triplets, two boys and one girl. The attending physician noted simply that the children were healthy and normal in every respect with the exception of both males having undescended testes.

Finally, the names of the adoptive parents. There were two family names—the Bowers took one of the triplets, a boy, and Ruth Minor took the other two.

“Ruth Minor?” Osborne was stunned. The names of the babies surprised him, too: Charles William Minor and Judith Benjamin Minor. “I never heard of Ruth having adopted a brother and sister,” said Osborne. “Never. She raised Judith Benjamin, and that’s the only child I ever knew her to have in her home. Whatever happened to the third child?”

“You know, I’m not sure,” said the priest. “This was Mother Superior’s responsibility, and she kept things very hush-hush always. Quite a few young women from the area were able to have babies placed after they got into trouble, thanks to the good nuns. It was a woman’s thing, and they didn’t share much with me. The last of the nuns in that group passed away a few years ago, I’m afraid.”

Osborne remembered Mother Superior well. She ran the convent and the priests with an iron hand. Father Vodicka had probably dedicated himself to staying out of her way.

“Let me try …” said Wally, punching the keys of the computer. He waited for a few moments, “No … these are the only records we have on those names,” he said.

“Now, the Bowers name …” said Father Vodicka, “I remember that well. Mother Superior was most pleased with that adoption. The Cantrell family felt quite badly about the situation. I’m not sure why, but Mrs. Cantrell inquired personally. As it turned out, her sister was eager to adopt one of the children. She was in her early forties, and in those days, you know, it was very difficult to adopt if you were older. That child went to a very good home—out of town, of course.”

Osborne decided to say nothing more. He had to get this information to Lew as soon as possible.

“We also kept this,” said Father Vodicka. From the box with the beautiful, handwritten records, he pulled a dingy envelope. It contained a scrawled note from Herman Ebeling.

“I know this man,” said Osborne. “We call him Herman the German. He’s a hermit, lives out past McNaughton. Hasn’t come to town in years.”

“Oh? He’s still alive?” Father Vodicka looked quite surprised. “I told someone recently that I was sure that person must be dead.”

“To whom did you say that?” asked Osborne. “Did you mention Herman’s name?”

Father Vodicka looked alarmed as if the tone in Osborne’s voice was alerting him to something amiss. He thought hard for a minute.

“Judith Benjamin asked about the old man,” said the priest. “At the time, I was standing outside the church, telling some folks about this fascinating discovery, but I couldn’t remember the old gentleman’s name. She didn’t seem to want to get in touch with him, it was more a question of whether or not anyone knew if he was still living. No one knew anything. She asked me to let her know if I heard anything. You know Judith Benjamin, Doctor. She’s at Mass every Sunday.”

“Yes, I know her.” Osborne decided not to say more. He certainly wasn’t going to say another word about Herman until he knew what was going on.

“Father, if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss this with someone—a friend of mine—in law enforcement before you say anything to Judith. I am not in a position to explain why that is, but could you extend this courtesy for a few days?”

“Of course,” said the priest, now clearly taken aback. “That was several weeks ago, and she hasn’t pursued the matter, so I feel no obligation.”

“Wally?” Osborne had noticed that the young programmer was all ears. “This entire discussion is confidential. Agreed?” Wally nodded, his eyes large and serious. Osborne patted him supportively on the shoulder.

The note from Herman said two things. It attested to the Catholicism of the parents, and it stated that Herman would accept the guardianship of the triplets’ older sibling.

“Do you have a record for this other child?” asked Osborne after absorbing the meaning of Herman’s note.

“We should,” said the priest, “since the nuns took the children in, all their records were kept—birth and medical.”

“Do you have a name or a date?” asked Wally.

“Let’s try the family’s name,” said Osborne.

The computer could find no more family members with the same name.

“Wait,” interrupted Father Vodicka. “Look under Ebeling. I’m guessing that Mr. Ebeling might have had the child baptized in his name.”

“Good idea,” said Osborne, somewhat doubtfully.

The name came up instantly: Marie Ebeling.

“I wonder if that child has a medical record?” asked Osborne out loud, though the question was really for himself.

“Let’s check,” said Wally, clicking on a small box again.

“Sure enough,” said Osborne, his voice soft and wondering, “looks like they had all the children examined at the same time. This one is one year older, female. Isn’t this just the darnedest thing?”

“That’s not bad, Dr. Osborne,” said Wally, flipping his long hair out of the way and looking up at Osborne with wide brown eyes. “You should see some of the weird stuff in these records, like—”

“Now, now,” interrupted Father Vodicka, “we have to keep quite of bit of this confidential. Wally, you must remember that.”

Osborne looked at the priest.

“Oh, you can imagine,” said Father Vodicka, “we have illegitimate children, fathers with names different from the mothers—that kind of thing.”

“What about the baby that looked like a fish?” asked Wally. “That’s the weirdest. They even got a picture of it in the file!”

The priest tried to ignore his assistant. Osborne could see he was trying to avoid the impression that he and Wally had been more than a little taken aback with their discoveries. “I don’t think all the people in Loon Lake know exactly who their ancestors or siblings are … in all cases. And it is not our job to tell them.”