Dead Rapunzel (17 page)

The night dispatcher had received a phone call late one night from a young mother who alleged that someone was running a “large machine” after midnight and the noise was keeping her children awake. On investigating the source of noise, the officer on duty found Vern Steidl dumping fill into a section of wetland in violation of the Department of Natural Resources statutes protecting “natural wetlands.” He was given a warning, but “I suspect he'll do it again,” the chief had noted.

“He did, too,” said Osborne, looking up as Lew read the report aloud. “I remember hearing about Vern filling in a wetland outside Rhinelander where a big-box store was about to be built. The good news for the builder was that the bank had not yet signed off on the purchase of the land from Vern. At the last minute, we had two weeks of rain, and during a final inspection it was discovered there was permanent seepage from a nearby swamp. End of deal. No one felt sorry for Vern on that one.

He continued scanning the other file that Dani had dropped off. “Lew, this is interesting. Remember Tim Tomlinson's comment that his sister, Kenzie, had pushed Caroline down the basement stairs?”

“I certainly do. I've been wondering about that ever since. I haven't wanted to act on it until I saw the report.”

“Well, he's flat-out lying. It says here that Officer Roger Adamczak arrived with Pecore right behind the ambulance, and he states that Catherine Schultz, the cleaning lady, said she saw Caroline slip and fall.

“I knew Catherine,” added Osborne. “She cleaned for many of the families in town, including Mary Lee before the girls were in their teens. A hard-working woman who raised three kids all on her own.”

“So she was at the Tomlinson house when it happened?”

“It says here that she had just washed the floor in the pantry where the door to the basement was located. Caroline came rushing in, wanting to run down to the basement for a suitcase. Apparently she was planning to drive the children down to Lake Forest later that day.

“Catherine told her to wait for the floor to dry, but she went ahead anyway. She slid on the wet linoleum and pitched headfirst down the basement stairs.”

Osborne paused to read more. “Catherine was hysterical when Roger got to the house and kept saying it was all her fault. He mentions, too, that the youngest child—that would be Kenzie—was asleep upstairs. No mention of the other two children being around. Lew, you can check this accident report with Roger, but Catherine passed away a few years ago . . . ”

“I'll go with Roger's report. If Catherine Schultz was right there and saw it happen, I'm good with that.”

“Why would Tim Tomlinson say such a thing?” asked Osborne.

“Because he's a sicko,” said Lew. “I can't get those paintings of his out of my head. Frankly, Doc, I expect he'll throw anyone he has to under the bus to get the Tomlinson money. How much you want to bet I'm right?”

A knock on the door to Lew's office and Sloane Tomlinson, wrapped in a thick fur coat with a hood pulled up over her head and carrying a bushel of a purse, bustled in.

“Hello, Chief Ferris, Dr. Osborne. I'm sure I have nothing of importance to tell you, but here I am and I will do my best.” Tossing the hood back, she threw the fur coat down onto one of the two chairs in front of Lew's desk and plopped herself into the other one. Osborne picked the coat up, moved it to a chair near the conference table at the far end of the room, and then sat down in the chair beside Sloane.

Lew offered Sloane coffee or a bottle of water, both of which were refused as Sloane made it clear she was short of time. “Let's get this over with,” she said, the corners of her mouth spiking down as she spoke.

“Sure,” said Lew. “Sloane, I'm under the impression that you didn't care for Rudd. If I'm correct, can you tell me why? Was there something that happened between the two of you?”

“Aside from the fact she stole my inheritance, nothing much happened.” Sloane tipped her head up and back as she focused her gaze toward the windows at the far end of the room. “I did not kill her or arrange for someone else to kill her, if that's what you mean.” She picked at a piece of lint on her slacks before heaving a sigh. “Isn't that all you need to know?”

“How did you get along with your father?” asked Lew.

Sloane gave her a sharp look. “What does that have to do with the price of pigs?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“My father was a cold, mean man. He didn't like me or my mother or my brother, so we stayed out of each other's way. Don't ask me why. Just the way it was.”

“Did he tell you he didn't like you?”

“He didn't have to. Mother did. She said he never wanted children. End of story.”

“How about your brother?”

“What about my brother?”

“Do you two get along?”

“Tim is fine. Why go there, anyway? He doesn't even live here.”

“How about Tim and Kenzie—are they close?”

Sloane gave a sigh of exasperation. “Look, if you want a complete picture of the dysfunctional Tomlinson family, you'll have to exhume both my parents and ask them. I don't really know why we are the way we are.”

Lew was about to ask another question when Osborne made a subtle move with his right hand. It was their mutual signal to wait, not speak, to let the person being interrogated have the next word.

“You know, when we were kids, Kenzie was the one who got all the attention from our father. She's the only one he ever had time for. But don't you dare take Kenzie's word for anything. She takes things way too seriously. Drove my mother nuts.”

A smile stole across Sloane's face as she said, “I'll never forget, there was this one day when Tim and I were goofing around. We told Kenzie we were playing hide-and-seek, and when we found her, we tied her up. Tied her to this big tree in the front yard. She lost it. Started screaming bloody murder. She said that we said we were going to cut her up and feed her to the bears—”

“Did you tell her that?” asked Lew.

“Yes, but c'mon, we were kids. Next thing you know, the old man is running up from his place yelling at us. We had to stay in our rooms for two days. Kenzie got ice cream, for God's sake.” Sloane snickered at the memory.

“You thought that was funny? Tying her to a tree?” asked Osborne.

Sloane gave him a dry look. “You had to be there. She was damn lucky our mother died when she did, by the way.”

“Why's that?”

“Mother hated Greg. She told Kenzie he was ‘trailer trash.' That's because after the divorce Greg lived with his mother in a house trailer. He and Kenzie eloped just two weeks after Mom died.

“Your father lived in a trailer,” said Osborne.

“Yeah, well, Mother didn't think much of him either.”

After Sloane left, Osborne said, “She's charming.”

“She's vicious. Oh, I hear footsteps in the hall. Must be Tim. Isn't this fun?” Lew rolled her eyes.

After polite introductions, Osborne sat back down in one of the chairs in front of Lew's desk and gestured for Tim to take the other, which he did. Unlike his older sister, Tim unzipped his loden-green Filson jacket and hung it carefully on the coat rack inside the door. He sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You're not married,” said Lew, studying the notes in front of her.

“I don't have time for a family. You may remember I'm an artist and an amateur geologist researching the rock formations and coral reefs in Bonaire. I am a very busy man.” Tim's right foot pumped and he continued to hold his arms tight against his chest.

“Mr. Tomlinson, I find the paintings that you sent your late stepmother disturbing.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Why on earth? I have started using new imagery in my work and I wanted her to be aware of that. Very emotional, very raw imagery. I am in a ‘Francis Bacon phase,' so to speak. Of course, you wouldn't know his work, but he's a very famous British painter.”

“I know Francis Bacon the writer,” said Lew. “He's famous. I studied him in college.”

“Oh,” said Tim, taken aback. “Uh, no, I'm talking the painter, British. I don't know the writer.” He sounded mollified but only for a moment. Osborne suppressed a smile, pleased that Lew's remark had forced Tim to drop his pretentious attitude.

“The face of the woman in your painting is your stepmother, Rudd.”

“Of course it isn't.” The foot pumped harder. “What makes you say that?”

“You stuck photos of her in the corners of two of the canvases and the similarities are unmistakable.”

He shrugged. “You are overstating the case, Chief Ferris. Let me explain something.” He spoke as if he were addressing a two-year-old. “Rudd was planning a museum to showcase two of America's most significant women artists. Assuming Judith does her job, that museum will draw attention from all the serious critics in the country. I was hoping that one of those paintings of mine could be seen—if only in the museum shop. All I want is a
smidgeon
of that attention.”

“Well, you've got a smidgeon of my attention, Mr. Tomlinson,” said Lew. “Because of those paintings, I consider you ‘a person of interest' in the death of Rudd Tomlinson. You are not, under any circumstances, to leave the country. Do you understand?”

Tim said nothing. He stood up and walked back to the coat rack, where he took his time pulling on his jacket. He drew a knit cap from the pocket and pulled it on. He opened the door and paused.

“The ‘person of interest,' Chief Ferris, should be my sister, Kenzie. And if you don't believe me, talk to her therapist. She is bipolar, borderline schizophrenic, and capable of causing harm to herself
and
to other people. If you don't follow that up . . . ”

“I have,” said Lew. “Thank you.”

Later that day and after Osborne had left to check on Mike, Lew was relieved to find she had a good hour left to catch up on emails as well as the report from Todd Donovan on the alleged accidental drowning of poor young Chip Dietz. After studying Todd's report, she picked up her desk phone and punched in a number.

A woman's voice answered. Soft and shaky. “Yes, who is this?”

“Mrs. Dietz, this is Lewellyn Ferris, Chief of the Loon Lake Police. Do you have a minute?”

“Not really. I'm at the Miller Funeral Home making final arrangements for a memorial for my son. May I call you back?”

“You're only three blocks away from the station,” said Lew. “Would you mind coming by here when you're finished? In the meantime, I'll check to see when the Wausau Crime Lab will be releasing your son's remains.”

“I would appreciate that,” said the woman. “Yes, I'll be by in half an hour, maybe sooner.”

Lew got Bruce on his cell and asked him if he'd heard when the autopsy would be completed and the young man's body returned to Loon Lake.

“Should be there in the morning, Chief,” said Bruce. “I had a conference call with the guys over lunchtime. They said the pathologist found the kid suffered blunt-force trauma before he hit the water. Whoever did it hit him so hard the skull was fractured in numerous places. The trauma to the brain would have killed him instantly. No water in the lungs. He was dead before he went through the ice.”

“Any trace evidence on his clothing or—”

“They're still working on it. That and those cigarette butts that I sent down. Sorry, but this DNA testing takes a while.”

“I know, I know,” said Lew, sounding frustrated. “Bruce, I know you disagree with me, but I feel like that boss of yours deliberately delays analyses of case materials that belong to this department. You've heard what he thinks of women in law enforcement. He's determined to make me look bad.”

“Chief, you're cranky. You need some time on hard water.”

“I need sleep,” said Lew.

“For the record, the boss is off on his winter vacation. I'm making sure nothing gets delayed.”

“Thanks, Bruce. Oops, I have another call—”

“Before you hang up, Chief. Ray and I are over at the Wisconsin Silica Sands office. Ray fishes with Rob Dickerson, one of the mining engineers here, and we asked him to take a look at the photos we shot on the Tomlinson property. You know, the metal pipes that we found drilled under that woodpile?

“Rob's got a real interesting take on these photos. You need to know what we found. Be over in a bit, okay?” He hung up before Lew could say she was expecting someone, someone who might also have critical information.

As it happened, her visitor arrived early.

Donna Dietz was in her mid-fifties but she looked older. A plump woman who wore her brown hair in a simple page around her face, she had chosen a hairstyle that might have been old-fashioned but it highlighted her best feature: large, serious brown eyes. Brown eyes rimmed red at the moment. Lew recognized her immediately.

“You were the librarian at Pike Bay School when my daughter was there.” Lew walked around the desk with her hand out.

“That's a few years ago,” said Donna. “Yes, I retired six months ago. I remember your daughter. How is she doing?”

Lew offered a quick snapshot of her daughter's career and family—but only a few sentences. She was sensitive to the fact that Donna had just lost her only child. This was not the time to talk of your own child's health and success.

“Oh, he told me exactly what he saw,” said Donna once Lew had directed the conversation back to Chip's alleged drowning. “I asked for every detail since Chip and I figured he would have to be a key witness when they, I mean you, caught the guy.

“He said he saw an old man run by the window in the direction of the street just before—like less than a minute before—the truck ran over that poor woman. Old guy with white hair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses.”