Death in Cold Water (25 page)

Cubiak remembered what Cate had said about the long processions of carts piled with bones that had been escorted through Paris at night by robed priests who chanted prayers and burned incense. There would be no such public display of reverence and respect for the remains he was escorting that night. For now at least the rowboat and its sad freight had to be kept secret.

The fog and rain had cleared the streets. To any locals who ventured out and noticed the truck, this would be just another load of material heading to one of the shipyards.

Exiting the bridge, the truck made a wide left turn and followed a silent street for the last quarter mile of the journey to the charcoal-colored building known as Lakeside Industries Hangar Number Three. The nondescript metal structure was one of several that lined the waterway just blocks from the downtown businesses that catered to tourists. It was an odd juxtaposition of the two industries that formed the bedrock of the local economy.

The overhead doors of the four-story hangar opened and the truck rolled into a well-lit cavernous space. Most of the usual array of equipment—metal scaffolds, forklifts, generators, and an assortment of welding tools—had been moved to the rear wall. Closer in were the wooden cradle and the platform that the sheriff had requested.

Emily Pardy, Evelyn Bathard, and the two deputies Cubiak had called in on special assignment waited near the entrance. They wore protective coveralls and gloves. Respirator masks hung around their necks. When the truck stopped, the four moved forward and stood in the shadow of the shroud-covered boat.

Cubiak dropped from the cab, just as Rowe hurred in and joined them. “I'm afraid it's going to be a long night,” the sheriff said.

Before the bones could be touched, the boat had to be transferred off the truck and into the cradle. The cursed vessel had been tugged and dragged and raised from the lakebed. How much more abuse could it sustain? Cubiak wondered.

When the sheriff met the crane operator that Lakeside had sent, the sheriff worried that he was too inexperienced for the delicate task. But in one smooth motion, the young man grasped the boat in the crane's orange jaws and swung it over the cradle. Then, as if he were nestling a tiny infant into its carriage, he lowered the vessel into place.

For the first time in years, perhaps for the first time since it had been built and launched into the bay outside Baileys Harbor, the doomed little boat rested on solid ground.

U
nder the hangar's bright light, the canvas that covered the boat glowed a murky white, like the color of the bones hidden beneath. Cubiak and Rowe untied the tarp and slowly peeled it off. Inside the sleek, modern hangar, the sight of the simple wooden vessel filled with human bones was as riveting and distressing as it had been on the bay.

No one spoke.

Then the building exhaust fans kicked on. Cate's camera clicked.

Cubiak explained the process they were to follow. Rowe was to document the position of every bone before it was removed. As he finished with each of the pieces, the other two deputies would carry the remains to the platform where Doctors Pardy and Bathard would lay them on the tarp. Cate would photograph the process step by step.

“It appears there are four skeletons in the boat, and while some of the remains may have shifted due to currents or while the boat was being transported, it seems reasonable that each group of bones represents a different individual. We'll run tests later, of course, but in the meantime I need you to be systematic about the work,” the sheriff said.

While they were focused on the contents, he would work on cleaning the boat. “If there's a name or marker, we'll know where it came from, and that might be helpful later in identifying the victims,” he said.

To make it easier for the others to work on the interior, Cubiak started by pulling the seaweed from the side of the boat nearest the platform. The plants were wet and cold and unpleasant to the touch. In places, thick algae coated the wood. As best he could he scraped it off.

The sheriff was kneeling behind the boat when Rowe came around.

“Sir, you need to see this.”

The deputy pointed to the first set of bones. By now most of the skeletal pieces had been removed, but about a dozen remained in place and with them were two narrow stips of blackened leather that were tied in loops. There was a bit of rag as well, and both ends had been knotted together.

“What do you think this means?” Cubiak said.

The deputy looked stricken. “That at least one of the victims was bound and gagged.”

Cubiak nodded. “One, yes, but probably they all were.”

The sheriff moved closer. “What's this?” he said, reaching for what appeared to be a thick ribbon of seaweed on the bottom of the boat. Beneath the slimy surface he felt the rough texture of rope. Careful not to disturb the remains, he checked the line. There was more than enough to reach from the bow to the stern. And at one end was an eye hook. Cubiak ran his hand along the upper planks until he found a small hole at the front of the vessel. There would be another at the back, of that he was sure, and maybe one or two along the sides. He closed his eyes and imagined the rope strung through the hardware and then twisted around the young victms.

Cubiak called Cate over with her camera. “They were tied to the boat; that's why they didn't get out. They couldn't.”

Then, to Rowe, he added, “Bag all this as evidence.”

With renewed vengeance, Cubiak went back to scraping off the moss. After a few minutes, he aimed a flashlight at the wood. The boat had been painted green. The sheriff saw a faint blue letter
m
. He cleared away another inch of scum and the letter
o
emerged.

Cubiak could hardly breathe. He scraped off more detritus.
H
and then
s
appeared. Not all the lettering had withstood the ravages of time, but despite the bits that were missing, recognizable words began taking shape. By the time the sheriff cleared off the rest of the frame, he knew what he'd uncovered. The rowboat filled with bones was from the Forest Home for Orphaned and Needy Boys.

W
ishing he had a cigarette, Cubiak stood outside the hangar and waited for Moore. The sheriff had never asked where the agent was staying but it couldn't have been far because it took only five minutes for the familiar black SUV to arrive.

“What the fuck is this all about?” Moore asked, his voice husky and thick with exhaustion, as if he'd been half asleep or nodding off in front of the TV. Still, he'd managed to put on a pair of neat khakis and a black cotton sweater so that even without a suit, he emitted an air of spit and polish.

Cubiak ran a hand through his hair. He was a crumpled mess. “Something you need to see. In here,” he said and shoved the door open.

Moore blinked against the bright interior and crossed the threshold. His aggressive posture suggested that he was about to say something harsh, but whatever it was evaporated before the sight of the eerie tableau inside the hangar.

Bathard and Pardy had finished assembling the first human skeleton. In the huge space, the figure looked alarmingly diminutive. Under the glare of the lights, the white bones shone with an eerie luminescence. Red tags marked the three discovered on the beach.

For several moments, Moore was uncharacteristically silent.

“You kept looking, didn't you? And you found all this?” he said finally.

“Yes.”

“In there?” He pointed to the rowboat from which the sheriff 's deputies were carefully lifting two more bones from a second small heap of remains.

“It looks like four bodies. The victims appear to have been tied to the boat and bound up with these.” Cubiak held up one of the leather loops.

Moore inhaled sharply.

As they talked, the two men approached the platform where Bathard was setting the right scapula of the second skeleton in place.

“Jesus. They were just kids, weren't they?” Moore said.

“Most likely. We'll know more after a detailed analysis. I assume we can count on your resources to help with that.”

“Absolutely. With something of this magnitude, we'll do everything we can to assist.”

A moment later, Moore tightened his already square shoulders, a signal to Cubiak that the FBI agent was done with being sentimental and was about to resume his no-nonsense mantle of authority. “Very tragic, of course. But why call me? Unless . . .” Moore stopped and cupped a hand to his chin. “Oh, sweet mother of God. I don't believe it.”

Wordlessly, Cubiak led the agent way past the platform and around the back of the boat. At the stern, he trained a flashlight on the transom, illuminating the lettering that had survived decades underwater. The words were faded and Moore had to bend down to read them.

“Forest Home is the name of the camp Gerald Sneider operated,” Cubiak explained.

Moore straightened. “The camp for orphaned and needy boys,” he said. He was suddenly alert. “This changes everything. We'll have to get on this right away. But of course you already realize that.”

It was meant as a compliment and they both knew it.

S
omehow Rowe had rustled up an urn of coffee and a platter of cookies for the crew. The cookies were left untouched but the coffee went quickly. Against the hum of the overhead blowers, Cubiak and Moore drank their share of coffee black while they waited for Cate to print the photos the sheriff had requested.

“A woman named Marilyn Ross may know the story behind this, or at least a good part of it,” Cubiak told the agent. “I thought of bringing her here but I'm not sure she could take the shock of all this.” They turned and looked at the tarp where the second skeleton was being assembled.

“The photos should be enough,” he said.

“Mind if I tag along?”

Cubiak was startled by the agent's request. “If you want, sure, but it's probably better for me to talk with her alone.”

Moore drained his coffee and tossed the cup into the trash. “Of course. You're local. I represent something foreign and scary.”

The sheriff called the widowed woman. Apologizing for the lateness of the hour, he explained that he needed to stop by. Something had come up.

A few minutes later, Cubiak and Moore were on their way.

The fog had cleared, and they made the drive under a sky that brimmed with stars. “That's the Milky Way, isn't it?” Moore said, looking up. “Don't see that in the city anymore. But you're probably used to it.”

“Not really.”

“Aren't you from here?”

In the dark, Cubiak smiled to himself. Who'd ever have thought he'd be taken for a local? “I've only been living here for four years.”

The agent seemed surprised. “And before?”

Might just as well lay it all out, Cubiak thought. “Chicago. CPD. Homicide,” he replied.

“Ah.” Moore made the single syllable translate into something like, Well, that explains a lot.

W
hen they reached the Ross home, Cubiak went in alone as planned.

Marilyn had a pot of tea waiting for the sheriff. They sat at the kitchen table again, a sign that he was being welcomed as a friend and neighbor. Cubiak knew they were both playing a game but for several minutes he went along with the pretense. Then he put down his cup and as gently as possible he explained why he'd come to see her.

He started with the bone Butch had found on the beach outside Baileys Harbor. When he repeated what Emma Pardy had said, that it was a human bone, she went rigid.

“There's more,” Cubiak said and walked her through the events of the past few days: The retrieval of two additional bones in the same location. Rowe's underwater investigation. The discovery of a sunken rowboat.

A clock in the living room chimed the hour. In the overheated house, Marilyn pulled her sweater tight and shivered.

“What was in the boat?” she asked in barely a whisper.

Cubiak showed her one of the photos.

It was the picture Cate had taken when the rowboat hung suspended alongside the salvage barge. The wooden vessel was still submerged and all that was discernible was the outline of the gunwale and the four blurred light-colored spots against the dark background. Cubiak pointed to the white blotches.

“These are all bones,” he said.

Marilyn stared at the image. Her lower lip quivered.

“I think you know what this is about,” Cubiak said.

The late Fred Ross's wife touched the edge of the picture. “What else do you have?” she asked in a faint voice.

Cubiak set out two more photos. The first was of the boat in the hangar, before the remains had been removed. The second was a picture of the first complete skeleton.

Marilyn pulled an embroidered handkerchief from the wrist of her sleeve and pressed it to her eyes.

Cubiak waited for her to stop crying. “You had nothing to do with any of this,” he said quietly. Then he added, “It's what tortured your husband, isn't it?”

Her head bobbed. She sniffled and twisted the handkerchief in her gnarled hands. “Fred couldn't let it go. He told me about it when we were first married, and to be honest I don't think I believed him. I didn't want it to be true. They were all just kids.”

She looked at Cubiak beseechingly, as if he had the power to undo the past and make things right again.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Marilyn nodded. Things were what they were. “The older Fred got, the more obsessed he became. On his death bed, he kept talking about the four boys.” She hesitated and then went on. “He and Jon tied them up in the boat! No one was supposed to get hurt. It was another of Sneider's lessons. That horrible, awful man.”

She began to cry again. Cubiak sat with her for several minutes, and then he slipped the photos back into the envelope.

“I need you to tell me what you know about that night,” Cubiak said.

Marilyn watched him refill her cup. She blew on the tea and took a sip; it was barely a taste but it seemed to revive her.