Dead Boogie (2 page)

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been back in there bird hunting. But, Lew, no one drives that road—it dead-ends.”

“Likely a drunk who took a wrong turn. And, darn it anyway, it’s right on the township border. One-half a mile to the north and I could off-load it onto Vilas County. As it is, someone has to check it out, but I cannot possibly get away from here for another hour. I’ve got a yahoo from Crandon who just caught his wife in the back of his pickup with his best friend. Took off to get his gun.”

“Lewellyn …” said Osborne, his voice tightening with worry.

“It’s okay, I called over there and a Forest County deputy is already at the house. They’ll put him in the hoosegow ‘til he calms down. But I’m stuck with the guilty parties on this end until we know he’s under control. So I hope you don’t mind—”

“Just tell me what you need. An ID on the victim? Want me to get in touch with the family if the victim is a local?”

As he spoke, Osborne headed toward the den, where he kept his instrument bag. Since meeting Lew Ferris one night in a trout stream, he had been forever grateful for his stint in the military when he had been schooled in forensic dentistry. The better he had gotten to know her, the more he had made it a practice to keep current with new developments in the field. He might be retired from a full-time dental practice, but not from affairs of the heart.

Fortunately for Osborne, the Wausau Crime Lab was a distant seventy miles away and lacked the funding for a full-time odontologist. This put Lew in a position to deputize him whenever she needed an ID based on dental records.

On a few cases over the last two years, he had been able to help with background checks as well. Thirty-some years practicing dentistry in Loon Lake had taught him more about people than you could read in a dental chart. And he came cheap—whatever the budget, he was happy.

When the money wasn’t there, he would bargain for another lesson in the trout stream. Lew was an expert fly-fisherman who’d been his first instructor. And last, if he could help it. While he knew his technique frustrated her—“Doc, you’re losing way too many good trout flies!”—he was improving. Slowly. Slowly on purpose.

On water with a spinning rod, he was a seasoned fisherman with 51-inch muskie mounted over his fireplace to prove it. But the minute he pulled on waders, picked up a fly rod, stepped into a stiff current, and tried to cast a lure with the weight of a feather—the world changed. He was a rank beginner. And that had its advantages.

“If you could get to the site within the hour, that would be much appreciated. Oh, and one more favor?”

“Sure. But on one condition—” Before he could extend his invitation, she interrupted.

“I can’t reach Pecore. Now why the hell would a coroner turn his phone off during the busiest week of the summer?

Marlene called his neighbors and they told her he took his wife and mother-in-law out on the pontoon boat so they could listen to the music free from the water. Honestly, Doc, what a commode.

“So could you swing by the public landing and see if his car’s there? If it is, leave a note on the windshield to meet you at the scene of the accident ASAP or I’ll have his pension. And mark down the time you leave it, too. Guy needs to be a hell of a lot more accountable.”

“Got it. Say, Lew, later this evening—”

“Uh-oh, here comes trouble. Later, Doc.” She hung up before he could say another word.

Darn, thought Osborne as he placed the cordless phone back in its stand. He called in a disappointed Mike and refilled the water bowl. Oh well, might get back too late to bake that cake anyway.

As he set the berries in the fridge, he plucked one from the top. Its rose red perfection prompted a vision of Lew’s breasts in the moonlight. He entertained that thought. It was the kind of daydream that in his youth had led the Jesuit confessor to levy a penance of six Hail Marys and six Our Fathers: a venial sin well worth the prayers.

He would have to stop by Ray’s to borrow a whisk another time. Jumping into his Subaru, Osborne checked the gas to be sure he had enough to make it out to County A and the old highway.

Bob Miller missed the turnoff and had to double back. He was almost a mile down the road before he spotted Brian leaning back against the hood of his truck. The look on his face accused Miller of forgetting to include “discovery of corpses” in his job description.

“I called the police,” said Miller as he walked over to put a reassuring arm across the shoulder of the white-faced young forester. “And your wife. I explained it would be a while until you got home. Shouldn’t take too long to remove the body.”

“The
body?”
said Brian. “Bob, there are three women in that car.”

three

Fish now. You’re dead for a long time.

—Anonymous

The
eagle persisted—not even the arrival of more vehicles could dissuade him. Osborne was the third to arrive, not long after Bob Miller. Five minutes at the public landing was all he had needed to locate Pecore’s boat of a Town Car in the sea of SUVs and wedge a scrap of paper under the windshield wiper.

The note included a handwritten map a kindergartner could follow along with Lew’s request that Pecore get to the scene of the accident “ASAP.” Osborne jotted his initials along with the time—not that he expected that to make a difference. The throb and whine of Country Fest drifting across the water made it highly unlikely Pecore would be back soon.

Cresting a hill on the old highway, Osborne spotted the two men and their trucks parked across from the overturned car. A baby blue convertible. He knew that car. Only one person in Loon Lake drove a car that color: custom painted to match her fingernails. The sunny August day turned dark and shot through with dread.

Osborne slowed to pull in behind the Forest Service vehieles. He recognized Bob Miller. He sat three pews behind him at eight o’clock Mass every Sunday. The young man with him must be on his staff.

“That’s Peg Garmin’s car,” said Osborne, loping past the two foresters toward the wreck, hoping against hope that the report of a fatality was wrong. “Chief Ferris sent me out to help with the recovery and identification of the victim.”

“Well, Doc, you got more than one trapped in there—three women far as I can tell,” said Miller. “Got an eagle in that tree over your head’s done some damage, too.”

“No sign of life?”

“No-o-o sirree. Brian here came across the vehicle on his way home about an hour ago. That right, Brian—an hour would you say?” Brian nodded from where he was leaning against his truck, arms folded. The young man looked queasy and not a little frightened, as if he was worried he might be asked to approach the car again.

Kneeling to peer under the car, Osborne thrust his head forward, then backed off fast. “Whoa!” He paused, then bent forward again. This time with caution.

The car had rolled with its top down. The bodies of two women were compressed at strange angles in the front seat; a third had been thrown half out of the rear seat. Her torso rested on the ground with her head twisted back as if searching for something behind her. Too bad she had been injured, thought Osborne. He could see plenty of room for that victim to have crawled out.

In spite of the damage done by the eagle, he had no doubt the driver was Peg Garmin. The cloud of pale blond hair was dark with dried blood; those snappy blue eyes would never laugh again. Osborne reached through the twisted steering wheel, his fingers gentle on her eyelids: Someone had to say good-bye. No matter how harsh the gossip he had heard from his late wife and her friends, he had always liked Peg Garmin.

For all the darkness in her life, she had been a woman of light and laughter, a woman with style: her hair done, her makeup fresh. That her loveliness had been for sale did not diminish it. How sad she would be if she could see how she looked now. It crossed Osborne’s mind to wonder if the eagle could have done
all
that damage. But, of course—had to be.

He stood up. “They’ve been here longer than an hour, that’s for sure.”

“Yep,” said Bob. The three men stood in silence, nodding.

“Well, this sure is more than Chief Ferris was planning on,” said Osborne. “Bob, you got a cell phone or a radio in that truck of yours? I need to let Marlene on the switchboard know that I’ll need at least one more ambulance to get these poor folks to the morgue.”

“Sure, Doc, you’re welcome to use our radio. Here, I’ll set you up.”

As Osborne reached for the walkie-talkie, a distant rumbling could be heard heading their way. “That may be the EMTs now,” said Osborne.

But it was a tow truck that crested the rise.

four

The great fish eat the small.

—Alexander Barclay

With
Osborne and Bob standing by to let him know when to stop, Robbie Mikkleson swung his tow truck around, then backed it in tight to the rear end of the overturned convertible. He was the police department’s favored tow operator: fair in his pricing and gentle with his touch. Even insurance adjusters loved him.

The burly thirty-year-old was also a close friend of Osborne’s neighbor, at whose home he could be found, on random weekdays, savoring a midmorning cup of coffee doused with local gossip and a round-up of who-caught-what-where. In return, he managed to keep Ray’s rusty red pickup running against all odds. While he couldn’t unlock the frozen passenger side door or replace its broken window, he was able to keep fuel flowing.

Robbie wasn’t bad on small engines either, and had repaired Osborne’s Mercury 9.9 outboard after the prop took a clobbering from an unmarked, submerged boulder. And like Ray, he knew just about everyone in Loon Lake: If you were over sixteen and driving a vehicle in the land of ice and snow, sooner or later you met Robbie. The motto painted across the hood of his truck was designed to salve wounded wallets:
DITCHES HAPPEN.

“Hey there,” said the big guy, dropping down from the seat of his truck with a thud. “Heard on the scanner you need a tow out here.”

Robbie’s broad, friendly face floated above a summer uniform that never changed: denim overalls hooked over a greasy sweatshirt that may have been white once upon a time and whose stretched-out cuffs were rolled up over his elbows. He sported a four-day stubble on his cheeks and a band of sweat across his forehead. As he walked toward Osborne, he was grinning the grin of a man tickled to earn an unexpected eighty-five bucks—until he got a good look at the overturned car. He whistled then said, “Doggone,
baby blue?
That has to be Peg Garmin’s car. Don’t tell me
she’s
in there?”

“Afraid so,” said Osborne. “Couple other victims as well. Haven’t been able to get a good look at those two yet. Maybe you can help me move things around a little so I can.”

“Sure thing, Doc … doggone …” Robbie repeated himself as he walked around the wreck. He knelt on the far side, near the passenger seat and across from where Osborne stood. “Oh … that’s too bad,” he said. “I know those ladies. Played a few hands of poker with Donna just last week.”

He got to his feet, eyes searching every exposed surface. Eyes as expert as Osborne’s when examining the mouth of a new patient. “Boy oh boy,” he said after a long minute of deliberation, “I can’t figure this out. Just how the hell did they manage to do this?”

“Donna who?” said Osborne. “What’s her last name? Any idea who that gal in the back might be?”

“Donna’s last name is Federer,” said Robbie, “You might know her old man. He used to drive for Johnson Septic—Ralph Federer.”

“Oh, sure,” said Osborne. He remembered Ralph. He remembered Ralph’s cheap, awful dentures better.

“I can see better after we raise the vehicle,” said Robbie, “but that woman in the backseat looks a lot like Pat Kuzynski to me—same hair anyway. Those two—Donna and Pat—both been working at Thunder Bay, y’know.”

“Oh,” said Osborne. Knowing Peg, that didn’t surprise him. “Strippers, I take it.”

“Yep. Jeez, doggone. I liked those gals. Always friendly.”

“Too bad they didn’t befriend a designated driver,” said Osborne.

“Boy, I dunno,” said Robbie, scratching his head. “I seen people walk away from rollovers worse than this. Especially drunks—they never get hurt. Thrown out, doncha know—but not hurt. Hell, the gas tank didn’t even explode on this one.”

As Osborne watched, Robbie continued to examine the exposed underbelly of the car, then walked around to unscrew the gas cap. As he did so, Bob Miller and Brian backed away so fast they bumped into each other, stumbled, and nearly fell.

“No worry,” said Robbie. “Looks safe enough even though that tank sure is topped off. Man, if this tank had blown—we’d have heard it in town.” He pulled a kerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. “Jeez, it’s hot. You sure as hell don’t want these folks sitting here much longer—whaddya say I hook her up and get things rolling?”

“Hold off a few more minutes, Robbie,” said Osborne. “Chief Ferris needs the coroner to take a few photos—a case with fatalities, you never know. Could be litigation by the families, questions from the insurance agency—we have to wait.”

“Not a problem,” said Robbie. “Who we waiting on? Ol’ Dog Face Pecore?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Wouldn’t you think they could rid of that joker?” “Political appointee,” said Osborne, shaking his head.

Few people in Loon Lake accorded their coroner much respect. Before Lewellyn Ferris took over as Chief of the Loon Lake Police Department, Irv Pecore had run his own shop—partly because he wasn’t needed very often, partly because dealing with the dead had been one chore Lew’s predecessors had been happy to assign to someone else.

For twenty years, he had conducted autopsies on his own schedule and often under less than sanitary circumstances—the worst of which was allowing both his golden retrievers to observe the procedures. Every one in Loon Lake knew it, and more than one set of anxious relatives had accompanied their dearly departed through the uncomfortable process just to be sure canine interest was halted at the door.