Death in Cold Water (9 page)

“So far, so good. They're smart.”

“You aren't just being polite?”

Cubiak shrugged. “The feds have instant access to information it would take weeks for me to get my hands on, as well as other classified data that's off limits to me. They're also very high tech. Not exactly my style but I appreciate what it can do.”

“But you're not here to tell me about the feds.”

The sheriff put the towel-wrapped bundle on the medical examiner's desk. “Something my dog found on the beach near Baileys Harbor,” he said as he undid the cloth.

Pardy's face hardened. She picked up the bone. “When?”

“Today, maybe an hour ago.”

“You think it has something to do with the case?”

“No, but I couldn't leave it there, and I wanted you to have a look,” he explained.

The physician studied the bone from a number of angles and then put it back down. “It's definitely human and one of the long bones that make up the limbs. This one, the radius,” she said as she held up her arm and ran a finger along the inside from wrist to elbow. “The narrower end connects at the elbow and the wider end here at the wrist.”

“Any way to determine gender?”

“Not really. Could be male or female. No way to know the exact age either, though I could make a reasonable guess.”

Pardy carried the bone to the skeleton model suspended from a black metal frame in the corner. “This is an average adult male, and look how much longer and thicker the radius is than the one you found,” she said, holding up the bone from the beach alongside the arm of the model. “Depending on how long it's been exposed to the elements, erosion could account for some shrinkage, but this doesn't look like it's from the skeleton of an adult, unless it's from a very slight man or a petite woman.”

Cubiak winced. “You mean it could be from a child?”

The medical examiner nodded. “Sadly, yes, or perhaps an adolescent.” Then she added, “But I hope not.”

They avoided eye contact, Cubiak thinking of his daughter and suspecting that Pardy's thoughts had gone to her two children.

“You think it was washed ashore?” she said after a moment.

“Pretty likely, yeah.”

“Do you spend much time on the water?”

“A bit.” Two years earlier, Cubiak had helped Evelyn Bathard, the retired coroner, refit an old wooden sailboat. The project took months and when they finished, Bathard had taught the sheriff to sail in return for his efforts.

“It can get pretty rough out there,” Pardy said.

“I know.” Cubiak had never been caught in a storm but he'd heard harrowing stories from those who had. Nature's immense power was impossible to ignore when sailing, and he knew an angry sea wouldn't distinguish between gender or age. Cubiak found it difficult to imagine a child in that kind of danger, but of course it was possible. Children as well as adults were passengers on ships that went down. Before child labor laws were passed, countless young boys worked under harsh conditions aboard ships that regularly traversed the inland water system.

Children drowned, too. Swimming accidents in summer. Falling through thin ice in late fall and early spring.

Cubiak wondered how much of this the doctor was thinking as she set the bone back on her desk and slid into her chair. She was tall and sat erect, prompting Cubiak to straighten his shoulders.

“You ever been to a body farm?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Very bizarre when you think about it, yet vital to helping researchers study the decomposition of human skeletons under various conditions. Most of the work focuses on bodies that are left to deteriorate in the open or those buried in different kinds of ground. But there's some work that's been done with bones in water.”

Pardy rubbed the rough edge at the narrow end of the shaft. “Human bone is very durable but not impervious. Anything in the environment will affect it. In acidic water, the inorganic compounds, mostly calcium and phosphate salts, will leach out more quickly. Microflora, mineral content, and even the speed at which the water moves will affect the condition of submerged bones. A lot also depends on the rate of tissue deterioration, which is accelerated in water. Then there's the corrosive effect of abrasion against rocks and gravel and such, which we can pretty much see.”

The medical examiner looked at Cubiak. “There are tests I can run to determine how long it's been in water but I won't be able to give you anything very exact, more like a range. And it will take time.” She paused. “The FBI could do a better job faster.”

“No doubt. But they won't be interested in this.”

T
hat afternoon, Gerald Sneider was the lead story on the TV news broadcast by the three Green Bay stations that served the region. Earlier the Green Bay Packers had announced that the team was offering a ten thousand dollar reward for information about the emeritus director, who, it was reported, had disappeared Sunday afternoon while driving from the game in Chicago to his home in Ellison Bay. In his office, Cubiak flipped through the channels. On one, a talking head breathlessly suggested that Sneider might have fallen ill along the way or become disoriented and gotten lost.

As a reporter related Sneider's life story and extolled the virtues of the missing man, the department phones started ringing. The sheriff went into the incident room and confronted Moore. “You know about the reward?” he asked.

“We approved it.”

“I see,” Cubiak said. So much for being kept in the loop, he thought. “Now the deluge starts. The media demanding answers, and calls from people claiming they know where he is.”

Moore shrugged. “For now, it's ‘no comment' to all media inquiries. As to the leads, we already heard from a man who claims he saw Sneider being lifted aboard an alien spaceship. But seriously, this could be helpful. Anything out of the area will be handled by our Green Bay office, but I'm depending on your team to follow up on all the local leads.”

“Of course.”

Later that evening, Cubiak sat in his kitchen and nursed a beer while he fed droplets of goat milk to the kittens. He'd hoped to have dinner with Cate, but she'd left a note saying she was working and would be home late. The sheriff heated a bowl of leftover stew in the microwave and forced down a couple of bites. After lunch on the beach with Cate, he didn't feel like eating alone. He gave the rest of the food to Butch and opened another beer for himself.

A
s he turned up the drive to the justice center, Cubiak swore under his breath. The multimillion-dollar complex occupied once vacant pasture-land a couple miles from downtown Sturgeon Bay and was usually quiet this early. But that Tuesday morning, cars and SUVs littered the parking lot and three remote broadcasting trucks from Green Bay's TV stations were lined up along the curb, their roofs sporting a sophisticated array of satellite dishes and antennas. A throng of men and women swarmed the main entrance.

The center housed the sheriff 's department, the jail, and the courthouse, and Cubiak figured the media mob was heading toward his side of the building. The news people were hot on the trail of the Sneider story.

Bypassing his reserved spot, the sheriff parked in the farthest corner of the lot and loped around the west end of the building, intending to sneak in through the side entrance. After yesterday's news, he figured a couple of reporters would show up looking for local color on Sneider, and he was fine with that. Cubiak generally got along well with individual reporters. He found them entertaining, hardworking, and founts of knowledge about obscure topics. It was reporters as media that made him uncomfortable.

The media wanted black and white, and he was usually mucking around in the gray. Media didn't like gray and grew impatient with him when that was what he insisted on providing.

On the Sneider situation, he didn't even have that much. He had nothing. As far as he knew, the feds had nothing either.

Cubiak's phone vibrated with a text from Moore:
Press conference 30 min.
The sheriff swore again. The FBI had pledged cooperation but it already looked as if the agents were holding out on him. What did they know that he didn't?

The sheriff pulled his tie and sports coat off the hanger on the back of the door and headed to the lobby.

Moore and Harrison were waiting. The two were dressed and polished to a hard shine, a match for the anchors who were buffed and suited up in equal measure. The rest of the media were mostly a motley crew—up since dawn, buzzed on caffeine, and dressed in tired jeans and flannel shirts. They spent their time off camera, waiting endlessly for news to break, and were determined to be comfortable on the job.

Cubiak glanced at the bank of microphones less than ten feet from Lisa's desk.

“A press conference?” he said quietly to the feds. “Nice if someone had given me a heads-up.”

Harrison avoided eye contact.

Moore arched an eyebrow. “Sometimes these things just happen,” he explained.

Cubiak straightened his tie and gestured toward the mics. “Your show, then,” he said.

When Special Agent Quigley Moore stepped up to the front, every take-charge instinct he'd displayed expanded exponentially.

“I am here to give you an official statement concerning local philanthropist Gerald Sneider of Ellison Bay. Mr. Sneider was last seen at approximately 4 p.m. Sunday afternoon at Soldier Field in Chicago, when he left his skybox near the end of the game. He was unaccompanied and is presumed to be missing, which, as you all know, is why the Packers home office has issued a reward seeking information as to his whereabouts. At this time, this is all I can tell you.”

Moore turned away from the microphones as if to leave.

“Has Gerald Sneider been kidnapped?” The question came from the back of the room.

Agent Moore spun around. “As I said already, we consider Mr. Sneider to be missing, nothing more.”

“Do you suspect foul play?”

“No.”

“Is there any chance Sneider merely wandered off? Is he suffering from dementia?”

“Mr. Sneider is reportedly in excellent health.”

“Is it possible his disappearance is linked to the terrorist threats that have been made against the Packers and other NFL teams?”

“There is nothing to indicate a connection between the two.”

Standing before the press mob, Moore performed like a man born to the task. Cubiak had to hand it to him, the guy was a natural. Smooth. Evasive. Just distant enough to avoid being overly familiar but not so aloof that he seemed unapproachable.

A husky cameramen slipped forward and knelt in front of the microphones. His powerful lens moved from Moore to Harrison, lingered on her, and then quickly skipped past Cubiak. Another hand shot into the air.

“Why is the FBI involved?”

Moore smiled. A photo op. “We just happened to be here as part of a routine field activity.”

“Doing what?”

“It's routine. No comment beyond that at this time.”

“You mean you're not looking for Sneider?” The reporter could not hide her skepticism.

“The Door County Sheriff 's Department is gathering information on the possible whereabouts of Mr. Sneider. Since Agent Harrison and I are here, we're happy to assist in any way possible.”

“If you're just helping out, why isn't the sheriff taking the questions?” The call came from across the room, and Cubiak recognized the voice of Justin St. James, a local reporter for the
Door County Herald.

Moore either didn't hear the question or ignored it.

“Do you have any evidence of domestic terrorists in Door County?” This from came one of the Green Bay anchors.

“No.”

“What about the rest of the state? Madison especially?”

“We are always on the alert for disenfranchised individuals.”

The questions continued to pick up tempo. Had there been threats made against the shipyards? Was the coast guard tracking arms smugglers? Had officials discovered a cache of bombs on the peninsula?

No to each.

A dozen hands shot in the air.

Moore glanced at his watch. “Time's up, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you and good day.”

Cameras clicked in a mad flurry, and then slowly the media circus spun to a close. There'd been plenty of B-roll shot but no news reported.

St. James waved, trying to get the sheriff 's attention. The reporter was stuck across the room, blocked by the crowd of men and women heading for the door. Cubiak turned down the hall before the young journalist could get through. The sheriff knew that for the
Herald
, the mere presence of federal officials was news and that St. James, who too often had nothing more to report on than upcoming festivals and unexpected bridge closings, would want to make as much of it as he could.

Cubiak was hanging up his jacket when he heard the steady, harsh slap of Moore's wingtips march down the tiled hall and stop by his door. The agent was not smiling when he stepped inside and glared at the sheriff.