Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler (6 page)

“That’s what I don’t know,” said Lew. “Pecore tried to say the victim drowned but it looks to me—and I could be wrong—like he may have been shot. The helmet was badly damaged. Half the skull is missing. Pecore argued that critters or current could have the same effect. That’s why I called in the Wausau boys.”

“That old man running the show give you trouble?”

Lew grinned. “Not this time. I outsmarted him.”

More than once Osborne had witnessed Lew’s struggles with the head of the Wausau Crime Lab. Fred Boettcher was in his late sixties and, being old school, of the opinion women did not belong in law enforcement: “Certainly not in
my
jurisdiction.”

Determined to make the life of Loon Lake Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris difficult, he instituted a two-stage torture template. Initially, he had accused her of overreacting to a potential crime scene saying, “Come on, Ferris, we see bullet holes through the skull all the time:
It’s a suicide for chrissake
.”

The first time he tried that, Lew persisted and an autopsy proved her right. The entry wound was at the back of the skull, which made it highly unlikely it was self-inflicted.

Undaunted, Fred then forced her to complete hours of unnecessary paperwork before he would grudgingly assign one of his investigators. That such a delay could compromise a crime scene didn’t bother Fred.

After suffering through that process several times—and discovering she was the only law enforcement professional who was required to complete the bogus requests—Lew learned to e-mail her tormentor that the paperwork was “in process,” then contact Bruce Peters directly.

Bruce was in his late twenties, well versed in the forensic sciences, and new to fly-fishing—so new that he was fanatic. Once he discovered that Chief Ferris was an expert in the trout stream, he jumped at every chance to work with her.

Lew knew the drill. Every time they worked together, she made sure he got time in the stream. “Bruce, stop muscling that fly line. A good cast is all about
touch
—not strength. Try it again.”

And so Lew had learned to alert Bruce when she needed help—and let him finagle the assignment to a Loon Lake Police investigation. Fred had no clue.

“Today was my lucky day, Doc. I got Bruce on the phone right away. He jumped in his car and he’s at the site now. He called in two scuba divers to help search the river bottom—”

Before she could say more, Ray banged through the screen door. “Okay, I got hold of Sherry. She and her husband are home today and I told her we’d be right over—”

“Who’s Sherry?” Lew interrupted.

“An old girlfriend,” said Ray. “She married Russell Kelliher and they raise Plott hounds for bear hunters. She said the DNR has declared a four-mile buffer zone along that stretch of the Pine River—right where you said that body was found. Hunters lost seven hounds to wolves there last winter.

“When I told her that a snowmobile had gone down in the river, she said, ‘Makes no sense, Ray.
No one who knows the Pine goes anywhere near that area
.’”

The Kellihers’ yellow frame house sat high up on a rise from the county road. The land around the house and a small barn behind it had been cleared of trees so the house appeared to be surrounded by gently sloping acres of fresh-mown lawn. The entire property was surrounded with an electric fence that ran close to the drive and right up to the buildings. Half a dozen dogs were lazing about in the pasture.

“I hope someone owns a riding mower,” said Lew drily as she drove up the paved driveway. Before she could turn off the ignition a tall, wide-shouldered man with short dark hair and a full beard stepped out onto the front stoop.

Ray jumped out of the backseat saying, “Yo, Russell, hope we aren’t keeping you.”

“Heck no, you folks come right in,” said the man, holding open the door behind him. “Good morning, Chief Ferris, I’m Russell Kelliher and the shy little woman you’ll meet in the kitchen is my wife, Sherry—she’s a Ray Pradt survivor.” He chuckled at his joke while shaking Lew’s hand before introducing himself to Osborne.

“Shy, my eye,” said a cheery voice from the kitchen just to the right of the front foyer. Sherry Kelliher was a petite blond with short curly hair. Faded jeans and a black tank top showed off her slim, muscled figure. She had lively eyes and a well-tanned face, evidence she spent a lot of time outdoors.

“Sorry I’m so sweaty,” she said, “I was just out working a couple of the dogs.”

She gave Ray a friendly peck on the cheek before herding the three of them toward the kitchen table where a portable coffeepot and cups sat behind a large map that had been spread out over a blue-and-white checked tablecloth. The kitchen was neat and smelled of dog.

“Help yourselves to coffee,” said Sherry. “Russell and I have been worried about the increasing numbers of depredations, which is the term the DNR uses for the killing of dogs by wolves. Why they don’t just call them ‘dog kills’ I don’t know. Depredation is an awfully big word.”

“Whatever they want to call it, too many fine dogs, trained for hunting bear, are being killed these days—seventeen in the last six weeks,” said Russell.

“Seventeen? That many just in this area?” asked Lew. “Are you sure? That’s a lot.”

“In this multicounty region,” said Russell. “I keep track of the packs and I can show you their territories on this map I put together. I made a list of the packs that have killed dogs recently and just listen to the stats I got.

“The Venison Creek Pack killed a four-year-old Plott hound, the Lost Creek Pack a seven-year-old Plott hound, the Ranger Island Pack—their territory is just west of here—got two Plott hounds. The Flag River Pack ‘depredated’ two redbones in training, the Carps Creek Pack got a three-year-old male redtick, the Crescent Flats Pack went after a German shorthaired pointer, and in the Nicolet National Forest the Black Lake Pack got a Walker hound—”

“Excuse me, Russell, but is this unusual?” asked Lew. “Have wolves always been this aggressive?”

“More wolves, more packs,” said Russell. “Now, I’m not saying wolves don’t have their place in the food chain but Sherry and I aren’t the only trainers of hounds for bear hunting who are of the opinion that just maybe it’s time for more controls over this goddamn wolf population.”

“Have any humans been attacked?” asked Osborne.

“Not that we know of… yet,” said Russell. “When he called, Ray said you got someone maybe lost back in the Nicolet somewhere—that’s not good and I’ll tell you why.”

“I’ll cut him off after ten minutes,” said Sherry with a smile.

“Here’s the deal,” said Russell, hitching his chair closer to the table and pouring a fresh cup of coffee. “Sometime in June the packs gather with their newborn pups in what’s called a ‘rendezvous site.’ These sites are used once the pups are weaned and they stay there until the nomadic hunting periods in the fall and winter when they can join the pack.

“So any people or dogs entering a rendezvous site are at risk?” asked Osborne.

“Definitely the dogs. You may be surprised to hear that the value of the dogs lost this year alone had to be $30,000 or $40,000,” said Russell. “These are not mutts—these are purebred dogs trained to hunt bear.

“Once the DNR hears about a depredation and the owner can pinpoint the location, then they establish a caution area, usually a four-mile buffer around a depredation site. And that’s what’s been happening all along the Pine River in the Nicolet National Forest. Like I told Ray, no one is going near there these days. Not for training their dogs, not for hiking, and not for picnics. You got grandchildren? You better find somewhere else to take ’em wading.”

“Are you saying that once the hunting periods start in the fall and winter, the rendezvous sites will be safe?”

“We don’t know that,” said Russell. “Wolf packs are territorial. I don’t think it’s wise to challenge them in areas where you know they have killed dogs. Who knows what a wolf is thinking?”

“I take it you two are training your hounds elsewhere?” asked Lew.

“Yeah, like in our backyard,” said Sherry with a laugh. “No, we’ve found forest areas where it’s safe to train them right now but we are keeping our eyes open. You never know when a new pack might form and establish a territory.”

“Wolves are very intelligent,” said Russell. “My advice? If you think you’ll be searching in that buffer zone along the Pine, then keep your eyes and ears open. Wolves howl to enforce their territory. You hear that—scram.”

“Can you show us exactly where the danger zone is in the national forest?” asked Ray.

“Sure,” said Russell, pulling the map toward him. Lew and Osborne stood up to look over his shoulder. “It starts up here and runs from a logging road south to this section—then figure a four-mile radius around that stretch.” With his finger, he drew a circle that showed the Pine River running through its center.

“What makes it even more dangerous for dogs like ours is that this particular rendezvous site is within the territories of three wolf packs. Incidentally, one entire wolf pack area will average forty to sixty square miles. Sherry and I happen to know the trainers who lost four hounds to wolves in or around that rendezvous site since late May. Now everyone knows to avoid the area—bear hunters, bird hunters, deer hunters, everyone.”

“I assume it’s posted,” said Osborne.

Russell shook his head. “No idea. We haven’t been back there in ages.”

• • •

Half an hour later, Lew pulled into the clearing at Ray’s trailer to drop him and Osborne off.

“I’ll check with you later, Doc. I have to call Bruce—maybe Pecore is right and it was wolves who got to Corbin after he drowned. There must be a food source around there. If they have been weaned and aren’t old enough to hunt, what do you think the pups eat?”

“You mean besides expensive bear hounds?” asked Osborne.

“Small children,” said Ray. “Just kidding.”

Lew’s cell phone rang. As she glanced down at the number on the screen, Osborne and Ray got out of cruiser. “It’s the dispatch center,” said Lew before Osborne shut the door. “Something must be up. Dani has instructions not to call me unless it’s an emergency Officer Donovan can’t handle or if it’s Bruce checking in. Excuse me while I take this call.”

As the screen door to Ray’s trailer banged shut behind them, Ray said, “Wait here, Doc. I’ll be right back.” He walked through the small kitchen and down the narrow hall to his bedroom. A minute later he returned with a book in his hands. Thrusting it at Osborne, he said, “Here, give this to the little guy. Tell him it’s my favorite book and when he feels better I’ll take him out for muskies.”

Osborne looked down at a worn copy of
Lunkers Love Nightcrawlers
. “Gee, Ray, thank you but I’m not sure Cody reads at this level. He’s only seven.”

“If that’s the case, how… ’bout… you…” Ray pointed an index finger at Osborne, “read it to him.”

“That’s an idea. Good idea. I’ll give it a try.”

Osborne knew better than to let skepticism dampen his friend’s heartfelt intention. He would indeed give
Lunkers
a try. The promise of fishing with Ray would thrill Cody. The youngster adored his grandfather’s friend, to the point that at times Osborne felt more than a little jealous of his neighbor.

After a quick flip through the pages of the book, Osborne grinned at Ray who smiled back in silent agreement. Now Cody
had
to get better—not only did he have Ray’s favorite book to read but a date to go after muskies!

Holding the screen door open, Lew leaned into the room. “Hey, you two. I’m expecting a visitor any minute—a man from Chicago who called the dispatch center early this morning. Said he was driving up and asked to meet with me when he got to town. I assumed he would call before he arrived and I’d told Dani to forward the call if I wasn’t back. But he was just at the station and she misunderstood my message. She thought I meant for her to ‘forward’ him so he’s on his way out here.”

“Anything serious?” asked Osborne.

“Not sure. Worried about his son. Apparently the kid is a college student, a summer intern, and has gone missing from the Bass Lake Natural Resources Center. The folks at the center aren’t too worried—students have a habit of going camping and forgetting to tell the office staff that they’ll be gone for a few days. But this boy’s father is pretty upset.”

“Sounds like a good time for me to head home,” said Osborne, getting to his feet.

“And I have a ton of gear I need to set up for three clients I’m taking on the Rainbow Flowage tonight,” said Ray.

“Too late,” said Lew, her eyebrows raised in apology at the sound of tires outside the trailer.

A black Lincoln Navigator had pulled up behind Lew’s cruiser. A tall man dressed for a day at the office got out of the car and looked around. Without saying a word, he took in the sight of the battered house trailer adorned with the gaping jaws of the lurid green muskie, the gleaming new pontoon tied to the dock and bouncing lightly on the water, Lew in her khaki police uniform walking toward him and, right behind Lew, Osborne in dark slacks and a blue-and-white-check button-down shirt open at the neck. Even at the sight of Ray in camouflage shorts and a bright green T-shirt emblazoned with
Fishing With Ray: Excitement, Romance, and Live Bait
, the visitor still said nothing.

Watching the newcomer in the clearing, Osborne was relieved that Ray had not insisted on wearing his beloved fishing hat—the one with the stuffed trout sewn on top and positioned so that the head and tail stuck out over his ears. He had reached to put it on before leaving the trailer only to catch a stern look from Osborne. Much as Ray hated missing an opportunity to make an unforgettable first impression, Osborne sensed this was not the time.

Their visitor remained silent, his eyes shifting from the trio walking toward him to the lake shimmering in the afternoon sun. He walked over to the picnic bench holding Ray’s tackle boxes, sat down, and dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders heaved but there was no sound. Lew threw a look of caution at Osborne and Ray before sitting down beside the man. She waited. No one spoke.