Dead Deceiver (15 page)

“Very interesting he found that snowshoe,” said Ray. “We’ll have to show it to Rob Beltner, but it has to be his wife’s. Funny Walter found only one. And just as strange that he found it so far from the trail. Almost as if it fell off a vehicle.”

Osborne nodded in agreement. “Say, I’m curious as to what’s happening at the old Russian camp. We have time to swing by that place, don’t we?”

Ray checked his watch. “Sure. It’s only three-fifteen, Doc.”

“Take us ten minutes at the most. God forbid we make you late for Suzanne. Hey, here’s where we go straight …”

Osborne slowed to pass the hemlock that had been shattered by lightning. Sure enough, not far beyond was the logging lane just as Walter had said. Turning right onto the lane, he was relieved to see it was well traveled enough that four-wheel drive would get them in and out okay.

The lane forked and he bore right again, memories of the old Russian camp he had known as a kid vivid in his mind. But the structure they drove up to bore little resemblance to the ancient log cabin he remembered.

Someone had shored up the sagging log walls and the exterior appeared to have been power-washed and re-grouted, giving the cabin a fresh, new look. Telephone and power lines had been run in to the back of the building, too. “Looks like whoever lives here now has electricity and running water?” asked Osborne. “I shouldn’t be so surprised. It’s been fifty years since I last saw this place.”

“Maybe running water,” said Ray. “I can see putting a well in out here but a septic? I doubt that. Not in these wetlands.” Sure enough, even as they spoke they caught sight of an outhouse beyond the main cabin.

“The original cabin had a tarpaper roof,” said Osborne. “Looks like they’ve added a modern version of a deer stand up there.” He pointed to the rooftop, which now sported a crow’s nest lined with windows.

“Wow. Look at that! That’s something you don’t see that very often but handy, for sure,” said Ray. “Lots of deer in this swamp. Let’s get out and take a closer look. Nobody’s around that I can see though over there,” he pointed, “I see ruts from a truck coming and going.”

“Isn’t it peculiar that with all these improvements there’s still no fire number?” asked Osborne. He opened the car door and stepped out, “I think the place is developed enough the tax man would be interested–”

“If he can find it,” said Ray. He walked over to the cabin to peer through one of the windows.

“Hold on,” said Osborne, “I think I hear someone …” He looked in the direction of a low rumbling noise to see a beat-up black Dodge pick-up approaching. The truck looked overwhelmed by a shiny new snowmobile that it was carrying in its bed. As the pick-up neared, Osborne could make out a dingy red “Dakota Sport” emblazoned on the driver’s side. “Yeah, looks like the guy who’s rebuilding the place. Let’s have a little chat.”

The figure that climbed out of the pick-up was imposing to say the least: as tall or taller than Ray’s six feet five inches and well over two hundred pounds, though it was tough to tell as he was wearing insulated overalls and a filthy grey-green parka that hung to his knees. A full, unkempt grey beard under a brown hunter’s hat with a long brim and earflaps hid most of his face. Barely visible under the brim of the hat were eyes that were not happy.

“You two don’t read?” he said in a thin voice that wheezed as he spoke. “This property is posted.”

“It is?” challenged Ray in a calm voice. “I didn’t see a posting—last time I was out this direction this was all state land. Where is it posted?”

“Maybe it came down in the wind. Who the hell cares? I said you are trespassing. Get outta here.
Now.”
He started towards them, his height and thickness menacing.

“Whoa, is that an Artic Cat Sno Pro 500 you got in your truck there?” asked Ray, pleasantly ignoring the unspoken threat as he pointed at the back of the truck. “I hear that sled is one helluva racer.”

The man stepped in front of the truck, barring the way. “You have a hearing problem too?”

“Hey, wait just a minute, fella,” said Ray, putting a hand out defensively. “We’re deputies with the Loon Lake Police and we’re just here to ask a few questions. Only take a minute or two.”

“No questions. Leave.”

“You want to answer the questions at the station?” asked Ray. Now he took a step towards the guy. Osborne didn’t like the feel of the situation at all but he kept his mouth shut. Ray may have had plenty of experience with razzbonyas like this, but not Osborne. He began to hope they could get back in his car alive.

“What is it?” said the man with a grunt.

“Well, sir, first we’d like your name and the address …” At Ray’s cue, Osborne reached into his jacket pocket for a notebook and pen. The man just stared at Ray.

“Forget it. What else you want?”

Ray exhaled and said, “O-o-o-kay. If you don’t want to tell us who you are—”

“Until you tell me why you’re here, I see no reason to. Got a badge?”

“Not on me at the moment. We’re deputies,” said Ray, gesturing towards Osborne. The man threw up his hands and started to walk back to the truck.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said.

“Have you seen any people snowshoeing or skiing back in here in the last week or so?” asked Osborne. “We’re trying to locate a lost person—and one of those aluminum snowshoes, a red one. Seen anything like that lately?”

The man stopped and turned. “Why didn’t you say so before? No and no. Look around—does this look like the county fairgrounds? This is the middle of a goddamn swamp. All I see out here are deer and rabbits. Now will you get off my property?”

“Thank you, sir, that’s all we needed to know,” said Ray. “Sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to walk back to Osborne’s car, then stopped and pointed off to the left of the cabin. “I see you got a carcass hanging off that pine over there. Somebody forget to tell you deer season ended eight weeks ago?”

“Ray …” Osborne warned.

As they drove down the lane towards the town road that would take them back to the highway, Ray said, “That was a polite conversation. I’m turning that joker in to the game warden. What … a commode.”

“He worried me,” said Osborne. “And he seems familiar. That voice. Does he remind you of anyone?”

“Hell, he’s like every other jack pine savage who thinks they’re entitled to squat wherever,” said Ray. “And after I talk to the game warden, I’m calling the DNR and the Forest Service—get that guy outta there pronto.” Ray was quiet for a short morment. “Doc, I know that land is not posted. Our friend is squatting and boy is he
irritating
.”

“Lew’s right about people with no fire numbers,” said Osborne. “Chances are they
do
eat their young.” As he turned on to the highway, he asked, “That was the last place where you saw lights, right? Because we should get you back to town.”

Before Ray could answer, Osborne’s cell phone rang. He took the call then closed the phone. “That was Marlaine on the switchboard. Lew wants me at the Schumacher place—it’s been vandalized.”

C
HAPTER
21

O
sborne ran up the front steps onto the porch of the Schumacher house and banged on the door. When no one answered, he pushed his way inside. The living room to his right was dark.

“Hello?” he shouted, standing in the foyer and uncertain which way to go. Just then Patience came walking towards him from the back of the house, unsteady on her feet. As she got closer he could see that her cheeks were tear-streaked and her eyes red and swollen.

Throwing her body onto an armchair, which nearly tipped over as she landed, she shook her head in despair and said, “Things are out of control, Dr. Osborne. I don’t know what to do.” She gave a weak wave in the direction from where she had just come. “Chief Ferris is back in the den—but it has been destroyed. Just
destroyed.
My personal files ransacked. Our bedroom is a disaster. You won’t believe it.

“I tell you,” she said, her voice shaking, “some evil, angry people—or person—tore through here. And why? My god, why? The things they did to my beautiful home? Oh, I wish Charles were here.” As she buried her head in her hands, Osborne gave her a swift pat on the shoulder and headed for the den.

“Doc? Is that you?” called Lew at the sound of his footsteps. “Go slow coming in here so you don’t step on any glass …”

Osborne entered the den to find Lew standing in the midst of a maelstrom of dumped file folders, strewn papers, torn books and shards of glass from lamps that had been smashed on the floor. The desk was the only bare space in the room and he saw why: Patience Schumacher’s laptop computer had been knocked onto the floor and bludgeoned to pieces.

“Lewellyn—” Osborne paused, dumbfounded.

“I know. What a mess, huh. Patience called me about half an hour ago. We think whoever did this had to have been in the house for at least an hour. Certainly not on the premises when she got home, which may have been a good thing.”

Gazing around the room, Lew gave a heavy sigh as if the prospect of cleaning up—much less investigating—was too daunting.

“Well, Doc, at least you got here fast and I thank you for that. Roger and Todd are so busy with the tournament that I have no other backup. And, frankly, I don’t know where to start except to be sure there is no way anyone touches a thing in here tonight. I want the Wausau boys in on this and, believe me—this is one time when I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Is anything plugged in?” asked Osborne, looking around. “I’m worried about fire.”

“I’ve checked for that. Unplugged the router and the modem, all the lamps, the computer of course. Even the phone. Boy oh boy, this is one hell of a mess. Hard to tell if someone was searching for something or just into tearing the place up. So far Patience isn’t sure if anything was stolen though her personal file cabinet was ransacked—all the contents dumped on the floor over there.” She pointed.

“You think one person did this?”

Lew shrugged. “Doc, I have no idea but I am beginning to think this has nothing to do with students from the college. This is rage, pure unadulterated rage. Wait ‘till you see the bedroom. But look here first,” she pointed to the damaged computer. “Whoever did it must have taken a sledgehammer—something heavy enough to destroy the hard drive.”

Osborne followed her into the master bedroom. Dresser drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. Closet doors stood open and piles of clothing had been strewn in every direction. Even curtains and wooden shades had been ripped from the window casings.

Oddly, on the couple’s king-size bed, the bedspread, blankets and sheets had been piled up and left in a teepee-like heap in the middle of the bed. Osborne walked across the room towards the bed.

“Doc, wait,” said Lew, handing him a pair of Nitrile gloves, “we don’t want to touch a thing here or in the den without gloves on.”

“This looks like there might be something hidden under here,” said Osborne, studying the strange mound. “A dead animal? Do they have a dog? I don’t remember seeing one.”

“That’s why I called you,” said Lew. “I decided I’d just as soon find out what it is with you here.” She dropped her voice, “Forget Patience. She is just this side of full-blown hysterics.”

“Where’s the husband?”

“In Milwaukee taking an art seminar at the university. Supposedly.” Lew gave Osborne a knowing look. “Due back on Tuesday though I am sure that will change.”

Lew waited while Osborne finished pulling on the gloves. “Ready?” she asked, standing alongside Osborne. “Don’t be surprised if this is nasty.”

“We’ll deal with it.”

Gingerly, they pulled the sheets and blankets apart. The first layers exposed nothing. As they reached the lowest clump of sheets, Lew lifted the top sheet from the bed and they stared at a wet, viscous pool: small but potent.

“At least it’s nothing dead … or worse,” said Osborne.

“No. But why leave such a calling card?” asked Lew. “I mean—this is something I can work with—
right now.”

She leaned back against one of the dressers and pulled out her cell phone. “Bruce Peters,” she said, using the voice activation feature. She hit the speaker button so Osborne could hear the conversation.

“Hey, Bruce, Lewellyn Ferris here,” said Lew at the sound of a cheery male voice. “Sorry to call you at home on a weekend but I have a serious situation up here.”

Osborne crossed his arms settled himself against the wall to listen. He checked his watch and saw it was after five. Suddenly the prospect of not having to touch anything in the bedroom or den was a welcome one.

“Chief! That’s okay. Good to hear from you,” said Bruce. “Hold on. Let me turn down the television—got the Packers on.”

“Sure.” She winked at Osborne as she waited. Bruce was her buddy—he’d come through.

Bruce Peters was in his early thirties, recently engaged and possessed of such a buoyant personality that Osborne wondered how he came to be so interested in forensic science: too often the study of bad things people do to one another. But then who knows how one finds their calling in life? How had Osborne come to love dentistry? Or fishing, for that matter?

It was fly fishing that Lew counted on to lure Bruce north. Months earlier, and not long after he had been hired by the Wausau Crime Lab, Bruce was assigned to help the Loon Lake police with a murder investigation. On arriving in Lew’s office, he had noticed two artworks on the wall behind her desk.

“Like those, Bruce?” Lew had asked. “I just bought them at the Trout Unlimited Banquet—the ones on the right are Ausable Wulff trout flies tied by Francis Betters, a very famous fly fisherman and fly tyer. The other holds two of his Haystack trout flies—unsinkable but I would never fish with those. Too beautiful.”

After studying the framed trout flies up close, Bruce had said, “you know, I’ve always wanted to learn how to fly fish but I’ve never met anyone who could teach me …”

“You have now,” said Lew.

That plus his sunny manner and his impeccable forensic skills prompted Lew to take him under her wing. Evenings after a day’s work, she would drive him down to the Prairie River where she initiated him into the mechanics of casting, the challenge of “matching the hatch” by choosing the trout fly most likely to seduce a brook trout—and the sheer magic of an evening spent in whispering waters.