Dead Insider (6 page)

Roger Adamczyk yawned as he leaned back against the headrest of his squad car. What he wouldn’t give for a pillow right now. On the other hand, he couldn’t complain. This was the easiest assignment he’d had in months—the kind he had hoped for when he joined the Loon Lake Police Department three years ago after struggling too long trying to sell life insurance.

It was the benefits that had convinced him to go into law enforcement, a no-brainer. Not only could he retire at age fifty, but he figured Loon Lake must have so little crime, chances were he could spend his days emptying parking meters. Boy, was he wrong.

Since the day he was hired, Chief Ferris had had him working his butt off. This summer was the most stressful yet, as she had assigned him to lead the Fourth of July parade, search for stolen outboard motors, and do pre-dawn surveillance on a couple of jabones known to be raiding a private raspberry patch. Heck, last Tuesday he found himself wading chest-deep in Squirrel Lake, trying to lasso a rogue pontoon boat.

Worst of all, twice a week he’d been assigned to the night desk processing paperwork on the DUIs that Chief Ferris and Deputy Donovan brought in. What a nightmare that was. Over the last year, six of the fellas arrested for driving under the influence were buddies of his, including three who had bought life insurance from him. Talk about losing friends? Sheesh.

Yep, he deserved tonight: An eight-hour snooze of a watch on Woodland Avenue where the once-underground river overflowing the culvert had risen to nearly level with the road. His mission: if water overflows Woodland, don’t let any numbnuts drive through. And, Jeez Louise, who would be dumb enough to do
that
?

Right away, he had made a deal with Stan Kowinski, the water utility worker assigned to the same watch. Each would sleep four hours while the other stayed awake.

Piece of cake
, thought Roger. If the rain ended, he might even sleep through his own watch. With tomorrow off, he had plans to fish walleye on the Willow Flowage, so he needed a good night’s sleep. This rain was good for something at least—cooling the lakes to where the fishing was better than usual for mid-August.

A rapid knocking on the passenger side window jolted him from his reverie. Stan’s face was highlighted by the glow from the lantern he held in one hand as he motioned for Roger to unlock the door of his squad car. He did, and Stan jumped into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Rog, gotta tell you what I saw,” said Stan, calling Adamczyk by his first name. They had known each other since first grade at St. Mary’s. “Lucky thing I had my muskie net in the back of the pickup.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Roger, rubbing his eyes. He blinked hard and peered at Stan as he turned up the interior light of the squad car. “Don’t tell me that water’s higher …”

“Nah. You know how all the basements around here are flooding?” asked Stan.

“Yeah, so? Nothin’ we can do about it.”

“That’s not my point. Somebody’s freezer must have come unlatched. I just caught six packages of prime venison that came floating by. Leastways, I’m betting it’s venison. Could be nice chops, a tenderloin and backstrap if we’re lucky. They aren’t marked though. We’ll have to guess. Wanna see?”

“Sure.” Adamczyk heaved his body out of the squad car. Stan might be on to a real treat. Cops didn’t get much time off for deer hunting and, boy, did his wife love a good venison steak.

Pulling the hood of his rain jacket over his head, Roger jogged over to Stan’s truck. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the glow of a nearby streetlight reflected off the asphalt. No water was flowing across the street. A good sign. Sleep could be just around the corner …

Six packages, each wrapped in white butcher paper and banded with white tape, were piled on the floor mat on the passenger side floor of Stan’s pickup. Roger leaned in for a good look as Stan held his lantern over the mound of roast-size parcels.

“Think it would be okay for us to rescue these?” asked Stan with a hopeful grin.

“Can’t imagine why not,” said Roger. “Given where all the water’s going, it’s you and me, or the Tomorrow River, right? Still frozen?” he asked, reaching as he spoke. The package he grabbed gave under pressure from his fingers. “Oh, oh, this one’s thawed. What about the one you got there?”

Stan squeezed another package. “This one, too. Well, maybe they’re no good, huh?”

“Oh, hell, I wouldn’t say that,” said Roger. “Let’s check. If they smell okay, just cook ’em up in the next day or two. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Sounds good to me. Maybe we should see what we got, huh?”

“I got better light in the squad car,” said Roger. “Bring a couple over there and we’ll take a look. I’ve got some old newspaper we can use in case the meat oozes.”

Under the dome light in the Loon Lake Police squad car, each man laid a section of newspaper on their laps before using a pocketknife to slice through the tape securing the white packages. Roger had the smaller of the two, so he got his unwrapped first. He stared down.

The thing was six inches long with black specks of blood on what appeared to be a scattering of light brown hairs over white skin. He thought he saw tendons exposed on one end but he couldn’t be sure. The foreleg of a fawn, maybe?

Stan never said a word after opening his. He leapt from the car, vomiting through hoarse, strange cries. Roger looked down at the contents of the package Stan had thrown off his lap onto the floor of the squad car.

“Argh,” he choked, too stunned to scream as he scrambled backwards out of the vehicle.

Nestled in its crumpled white butcher paper wrapping was a human head: eyes half closed, blood oozing from the severed neck, black hair matted tight to the skull. He didn’t wait to see if it was male or female. It sure as hell was not a venison roast.

“Dad, we won’t let you do this. You’re killing yourself.” Erin shook him by the shoulders, her words torn with sobs.

“We love you, Dad. Please, don’t you want to see Erin’s kids grow up?” Tears were streaming down Mallory’s cheeks as she echoed her younger sister’s pleadings. In the distance, Osborne could hear the siren of the ambulance they had called to take him to rehab …

The trill of a cell phone pierced the quiet of the bedroom.

“Damn,” said Lew, fumbling for her phone on the nightstand to her left. “What?” At the sound of her voice, Osborne realized with relief that he had been deep into a nightmare. Rehab was behind him. He was sober. Laughter and smiles had replaced his daughters’ anguish.

Raising himself up on one elbow beside Lew, Osborne could hear the terror in the voices shouting over the phone. He watched Lew’s face as she tried to make sense of what sounded like absolute chaos.

“Slow down, Roger. I can’t make out what you’re saying. Breathe. Who’s that other person shouting? Hold on, let me call you back on the landline. I can hear better.”

Leaping naked from the bed, Lew ran to the kitchen for Osborne’s ancient phone mounted on the wall near the sink. He grabbed her robe from the hook on the door and chased after her, throwing it over her shoulders as she punched in Roger’s number.

“What—” he started to ask, but she shook her head and raised a finger for him to stay silent. He checked the clock on the wall: 2:20
A.M
. Pitch black outside. A light patter of rain on the roof.

“Okay, Roger, start over. But first tell me this: Do you need an ambulance? Has someone been hurt?” She listened. “Dead … no question? No, I believe you. Please stop shouting—well then, tell Stan to stop shouting. Now, Roger, listen to me: Nothing is going to change before I get there in fifteen minutes so both of you
calm down
.

“And you’re in no danger from the flooding, correct?” A one-second pause while Lew rolled her eyes at Osborne.

“Now tell me again: who is this Stan person?” A brief pause. “I see. Well, please lower your voices—both of you—before you wake the entire neighborhood.

“Last thing, Roger—don’t either of you talk to another person until I get there. That means stay off your walkie-talkie. No, do not call the switchboard. I don’t want this on the scanner until I know more. I will handle notifying the switchboard. Understand? The last thing we need is some damn television crew messing us up.

“And, Roger, everything I said goes for Stan, too. He does not call his boss, his wife—anyone. Am I clear? Now, the two of you back away from your vehicles and please, try to calm down.”

Lew quit the call, then punched in another number. She got a voicemail on the answering machine and hung up. For a second, she covered her face with both hands. Then, looking up at Osborne, she said, “I forgot. Pecore was called down to Madison for a hearing Friday that has been moved to Monday morning. A cold case from twenty years ago has been opened, and the lawyers don’t like how he handled the chain of custody on critical evidence. Surprise, huh.

“Sorry about roping you into this, Doc, because it is one of the few times I could rely on Pecore—it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to declare a severed head deceased.”

Osborne’s mouth dropped open. “Wha—?”

“Pull your clothes on ASAP, sweetheart. You’re my deputy coroner on this, and it sounds like a doozy. Tell you what I know as we drive in.”

“Okay.” Osborne paused for one minute to scribble a note to Mallory before running back to the bedroom. Neither of them took the time to brush their teeth. Leaving the house, Osborne made sure to pick up his black bag with the instruments he would need. Thinking ahead, he hoped Ray was not too engaged with his houseguest as Lew might need photos, too.

Seconds later, as they hurried across the yard toward Lew’s cruiser, Osborne was relieved to see the rain had leveled off to a light mist. “Doc, you drive. I have to reach the Wausau boys. This is one for them.”

Reaching Woodland Avenue, Osborne would have pulled up behind Roger’s squad car, but the police officer waved his arms in the glare of the headlights, motioning for them to pull over across the street. Before getting out of the cruiser, Lew finished leaving a message with the Wausau Crime Lab’s night operator.

“Any luck?” said Osborne as she got out of the car.

“Yes, actually. The director is on vacation; they’re trying to reach my buddy, Bruce Peters. Ought to hear from him shortly.”

They started across the street. Through the mist, the street lamps threw enough light that it was easy to see both Roger and the water utility worker standing a good fifty feet away from their vehicles, as if the pickup and the squad car were themselves possessed.

Roger ran toward them. He was so pale that Osborne half expected him to faint. “Chief Ferris, you won’t believe what’s going on. I keep hoping this is some kind of prank.” He pointed toward his squad car. “Okay if I stay back here while you—”

“Fine,” said Lew. “Doc, will you hold this torch for me?” They walked over to the police squad car. The package that Roger had opened lay where he had thrown it onto the wet grass beside the open door on the driver’s side.

“You don’t have to take a cadaver lab to know that this is part of a human forearm,” said Osborne as he crouched over the crumpled wrappings for a closer look.

“Are you sure?” asked Lew. “I can’t tell you how many people confuse bear remains with humans, Doc.”

“It’s the bones that confuse people, Lew. This is human, and recently severed. Within the last forty-eight hours or so, given the coloring and the blood.”

“Male or female?”

“No idea. Let’s see what else is here. That may help, but Wausau will be able to tell you for sure.”

Next was the bundle that Stan had unwrapped. Lew took a quick look. “Careful, Doc, it’s upsetting.” She got to her feet and turned her face into the breeze, as if hoping to cleanse the sight from her memory. “I’ve seen a lot since I’ve been on the force but never anything like this …”

Osborne knelt on the wet ground beside the open door. He knew from experience that moving the butcher paper any more than was necessary might contaminate the crime scene. After pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, he leaned into the squad car, keeping his head tilted to one side to avoid blocking the beam from the dome light above.

With a delicate touch, he parted the folds of the butcher paper. He stared. He could hear Lew breathing beside him as she gathered up the courage to take another look. He leaned back to reach into his medical bag.

Even before he pushed aside the dark tendrils covering the dead white face with one of his instruments, he had the sensation he had seen this skull, these cheekbones, this jaw before. Paul Osborne was a man who might forget names, but never a face.

Dropping his hands to his sides, Osborne sat back on his heels. “I hope you’re ready for a shock,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Lew put a hand on his arm. “Someone you know?”

“Jane Ericsson.”

Lew said nothing for a long moment. “You’re sure.”

“Positive. And I can prove it. Back when she was a teenager, I filled a couple of cavities for her. The record will be in my files. If you need a first-degree relative for the official ID, you’ll have to depend on Kaye Lund. Jane has no family left alive, but Kaye has known her since childhood.”

“She’ll have to do,” said Lew.

“That worries me, Lew. Kaye is not a well person. This will be quite a shock.”

“Oh great. Just what I need: give the only person who can identify the victim a heart attack. They didn’t offer training on that at the police academy. We’ll need to soften the news somehow.”

Osborne nodded. “Want me to take care of it?”

Years of informing patients they needed thousands of dollars of dental work or they would lose their teeth had taught Osborne how to broach a difficult subject with the grace and sympathy that might help a listener cope.

“Please. If you would, Doc. Meanwhile, everything stays as is until I can get one of the Wausau boys up here.

“Roger?” Lew called out to the deputy who was leaning against her cruiser. “I want you to cordon off this entire block. As neighbors wake up, please explain that we can’t have anyone walking, biking, or driving around here. This is a crime scene. I’ll call Deputy Donovan and ask him to give you a hand.”

She turned to Stan. “You need to call your boss—”

“Yep,” said Stan, “Bert Gilligan’s who I work for.”

“Let him know what the situation is. I’ll give you my cell number. He can call me if he has questions. And both of you,” said Lew, looking hard at the deputy and the utility worker, “no one talks to the media except me. Got it? This is going to cause an uproar over the next few days, and I have to be able to depend on your silence—or you could jeopardize the case. Besides which, you two are witnesses. You wouldn’t want the person behind this coming after you, would you?” Both men looked unsettled.

After Lew gave Roger more detailed instructions on how she wanted the squad car and Stan’s pickup protected, she and Osborne headed back to her cruiser. As she shut the car door, her cell phone rang. She checked the screen before answering, and a wave of relief crossed her face.

“Bruce! Thank you for calling so soon. I have Doc Osborne here with me—okay if I put you on speaker?”

“Sure.” The voice of the young crime lab expert who was a favorite of Lew’s sounded sleepy. “I have a hunch you got something going that means I might get a little ‘up north’ time, maybe some … fishing?”

“Well, yeah,” said Lew, managing a smile. “But, man oh man, I have a hell of a situation up here …” Talking fast, she laid out the situation.

“Sounds like a case they had in Milwaukee back in the forties,” said Bruce. “At least we’ve got DNA these days and you know me—I love a challenge. Should be up there in less than ninety minutes. Meantime, here’s what I need: Doc, you get those dental records and round up the family friend who can identify the victim. How many packages did you say have surfaced so far?”

“Six that I know of,” said Lew. “I have two men watching for more.”

“That doesn’t account for any that may have drifted by earlier. Do you know where that underground stream empties?”

“The Tomorrow River,” said Osborne, “and that flows into the Wisconsin on the south end of Loon Lake.”

“Got it. I’ll alert the DNR to keep an eye out. Doc, what’s your estimate on time of death?”

“I can’t tell,” said Osborne, “but I see no signs of decomposition, if that helps.”

“Whoa,” said Bruce, sounding as if the reality of the macabre scene had just registered. “I’ll bet you make the national news! Put pressure on our lab, too. Do you have Ray Pradt shooting the crime scene? I know you like to work with him.”

“Not yet,” said Lew. “It’s been less than half an hour since I got to the scene. He’s next on my list to call.”

“Tell you what, Chief,” said Bruce. “If you can keep the site pristine until I get there, I would like to bring one of our photographers with me. Gives us better control. I don’t have to tell you that the minute you have a prominent person as the victim, the media and lawyers can make life difficult.”

“Fine with me,” said Lew, “I’m going to have my hands full as it is.”

“Last thing, Chief Ferris, and you know the drill.” Bruce might be sleepy but he knew the question to ask. “What are you offering to sweeten this deal?” It was a game they always played: when Lew was fortunate enough to have Bruce assigned to her case, she made sure to help him with his casting. He had taken his first fly fishing lessons from her at Osborne’s urging and, since then, when he was assigned to help the Loon Lake Police, Bruce would try to take an extra day in order to get more instruction from Lew. Osborne made it a point to tag along; he always picked up pointers watching and listening as she worked with Bruce. Lew chuckled. “Bruce, how ’bout this—we’re a month away from the World Classic Muskie Championship, which will be held up around Eagle River. A friend of mine has designed a special fly for the folks who want to go after the big girls with a fly rod. He calls it the Baby Smallmouth Bass Figure Eight. How ’bout I get you one of those and, when this is over, we’ll spend some time in muskie water with our fly rods.”

“Are you kidding? That’s like an early Christmas. I am all yours, Chief.” Bruce had thick black eyebrows that twitched when he was happy. Osborne thought he could hear them twitching over the phone.

“Bruce, thank you. You’re on the clock starting now. I’m running Doc back to his place for his car then I’ll be back here waiting for you.”

It was four
A.M
. when Bruce arrived at the scene on Woodland Avenue, photographer in tow. It was quarter to six when Osborne turned down Rolf Ericsson Drive on his way to pick up Kaye Lund. As his car wound through the grove of ancient hemlock, he felt a sadness so profound he wished he could turn back.

He drove past the big house. The windows were as dark as they had been the morning before, and Jane Ericsson’s black Jeep was still parked in the driveway.