Authors: Victoria Houston
“I have a suggestion,” said Osborne “This reminds me of when dentists in the region would see an outbreak of bacterial infections like ‘trench mouth.’ We would check to see what restaurants and bars our patients had been patronizing. Any overlap and we knew who wasn’t putting soap in the dishwater.”
“That’s a good point,” said Carlson, getting to his feet. “We should find out where these people have been in the last few weeks. Maybe, what—the last month or so?”
“I’ve got my staff flagging every new account that’s been opened recently,” said Rick. “I think we should be checking with those folks, too.”
“And keep calling the FBI,” said Lew in a petulant tone, “because this is really their job.”
Minutes later, as Lew and Osborne were hurrying out of the building for Moccasin Lake, Marlene waved Lew aside. “You know you’ve got that appointment at three today with the firearms rep from Duluth, Chief. Whatshername—Gretel Sandersson.”
“Oh darn,” said Lew stopping at the door, “I forgot all about that. Marlene, please, would you give her a call and reschedule? There is no way I can handle that today.”
“Who’s that?” asked Osborne as they climbed into the police cruiser.
“Oh, Gretel somebody,” said Lew. “In a weak moment I agreed to let her stop by and demonstrate the firearms that other law enforcement agencies are buying. She reps for three different companies. And if there is anything I don’t want to do right now, it is waste time looking at guns I don’t need.”
C
HAPTER
16
The parking lot for the Moccasin Lake public landing was packed with SUVs and boat trailers. Not to be missed in one row was a beat-up, blue pick-up with a silver-chromed walleye leaping from the hood. “Excitement, Romance and Live Bait: Find It Fishin’ with Ray” read the hand-painted bumper sticker peeling from a battered rear bumper. Parked nearby, on a patch of grass along the county road, was a pollen-dusted, forest green Honda Accord.
“I’ve seen that car before,” said Osborne, turning as Lew pulled past the Accord, “but I can’t remember who it belongs to.” He was still thinking about the car as they jogged across the lot to the ramp where Ray had moored the police boat after lashing his canoe to one side.
“I want to go up the channel to the bank where the Moriarty pontoon is anchored,” said Lew, “and do a walkthrough now that Wausau is finished with it. Then, Ray, Doc and I will bring the police boat back here while you work your way up the channel in the canoe. Guess you got a late start, huh?” Lew paused, cocking her head at Ray. “Did you
have
to wear that shirt today?”
Ray glanced down, puzzled. It was obvious he hadn’t given much thought to what he pulled on that morning, which was out of character and prompted Osborne to worry over where and how he had spent the night—not to mention why he had slept in after saying he would be here by six-thirty. The T-shirt, navy blue with white lettering, laundered and in decent condition, was emblazoned with the legend: “Women Want Me, Fish Fear Me.”
“Yikes, sorry about that,” said Ray, sounding not in the least bit sorry. Instead, eyes serious, he jerked his thumb towards a figure hunkered off to one side of the parking lot. “You need to know we got company.”
Marcy Kurlander, her face pale over a loose black tunic that she wore with jeans, raised her hand in an attempt at a wave. Now I know where I saw that car, thought Osborne.
“Marcy—,” Lew’s voice had an edge to it, “what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see where it happened.” Marcy pushed herself away from the fence she had been leaning against and walked towards them.
“We don’t know yet. All we have is the location where your daughter—where DeeDee was
found.”
“That’s what I want to see.”
“Chief Ferris, if the Wausau boys are done up there, is there any reason she shouldn’t be able to?” said Ray.
“Mr. Pradt,” said Lew, “when I need your opinion I’ll ask for it.”
“I just thought—”
Lew raised a hand and Ray shut up.
As Marcy neared the boat ramp, Lew said, “How are you doing, Marcy? Were you able to get some sleep?”
“A little. I had a dream about the person who killed DeeDee.”
“Oh … sorry to hear that,” said Lew, giving the woman’s shoulders a quick, sympathetic squeeze.
“It wasn’t a nightmare.” Marcy’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Have you heard if the autopsy has been completed, Chief Ferris? I talked to the funeral home. I want to be there when they arrive with DeeDee, but they said they didn’t expect her to be released until this afternoon.”
Lew turned to Osborne, a thoughtful expression on her face. He knew what she was thinking: was this a good time to share what had surprised them in the preliminary autopsy report?
“Tell you what, Marcy. I see no reason for you not to come along. But I want you to remain in the boat while we do the walk-through and agree to return with Dr. Osborne and myself. Ray will be working the channel, trying to track where your daughter’s body may have entered the water.”
“What does that mean?” said Marcy, stepping into the police boat behind Lew and Osborne as Ray settled into the driver’s seat. Lew motioned for Marcy to take the seat beside her.
“It means she was.” Lew struggled to find the right words.
“Dead before she hit the water? No water in the lungs?” Marcy spoke with the crispness of a career nurse.
“That’s not entirely true. The cause of death was strangulation before receiving the contusions around the head and the neck. We doubt she was aware of anything after she lost consciousness.”
“But she certainly knew who her killer was,” said Marcy. “You can’t tell me she didn’t know that.”
The inboard engine at a low hum, Ray eased the boat towards open water. Lew caught Osborne’s eye and gave a slight nod. She was going to tell Marcy the news from the autopsy that had been a surprise to both of them. Osborne held his breath.
“Marcy,” said Lew, “were you aware that your daughter was pregnant?”
The look on Marcy’s face answered the question. She was stunned.
“The pathologist guessed DeeDee was about twelve weeks along,” said Lew. “Any idea who the father might be?”
Marcy shook her head, speechless for a long minute. “No … I don’t know. DeeDee didn’t say she was seeing anyone seriously. But … um … we were never chummy that way, not like some mothers and daughters. She didn’t share details. I knew she was having lots of dates this summer but no one …
“Oh, God.” Marcy dropped her head into her hands, then said in a muffled voice, “You’re telling me I lost my daughter
and
her child? Oh.” She curled into her body and turned away, her face towards the water.
No one spoke as the boat arced north towards the channel. As they slowed for the NO WAKE markers, Marcy straightened up as if she had come to a decision. Her chin thrust forward and her eyes were free of tears. “Dr. Osborne,” she said, looking over at Osborne and speaking in a level voice, “something I forgot to tell you for the death certificate—DeeDee was baptized Deirdre.”
“An easy correction to make,” said Osborne. “What a beautiful name.”
“Irish, isn’t it?” said Ray, slowing to guide the boat into the channel.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” said Marcy, with a ghost of a smile. “Since she was three years old she insisted we call her DeeDee, though.” Marcy’s eyes settled on Lew. “Chief Ferris, how did you deal with that boy who killed your son?”
“I … well, you know—no one’s ever asked me that question before,” said Lew, a stymied expression on her face. After a thoughtful pause, she said, “I guess … for the longest time, I didn’t. I couldn’t think about the kid without wanting to scream … or do something worse. My rage was … well, it wasn’t healthy and I’ve never blamed myself for feeling that way. But I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life like that.
“Then one day I heard how the kid’s life was going—which was not well—and I felt sorry for him. Guess in a way I was able to forgive and … move on. Life since has been okay, Marcy. The sorrow is there, always will be, but I have ways of holding on to my son.”
“Like how?” As she asked the question, Marcy’s gaze lingered over the water.
“He loved to help me put the garden in every spring. When he was a little tyke, I let him plant the onion shoots. So every year I plant those onions and I think of Jamie. I make it a point to work in my garden one evening a week—that’s my time with my son. If that sounds crazy, maybe I am, but my garden—and those crazy onions—have made it possible for me to forgive.”
Marcy gave a tight laugh and shook her head. “Forgive? Forgive. Oh God, right now—forgiveness is one cheap grace.”
Lew shrugged, “I know.”
“Yes … well,” Marcy’s shoulders sagged and she leaned sideways to trail one hand in the water, a thoughtful look on her face, “I appreciate what you just told me. Maybe I can find something like your garden that will work for me.” She looked at Lew as she said, “You’re probably the only person I know who understands how I feel right now.”
Lew nodded, saying nothing.
“Would it be out of line for me to invite you to the funeral Mass and the wake for DeeDee? I’m not sure when it’ll be yet.”
“Marcy,” said Lew, “it would be a privilege.”
C
HAPTER
17
Two hours later Osborne found himself standing in one room of Bert Moriarty’s summer home, a summer home with six river-rock fireplaces, a private 500-acre lake and a seven-vehicle garage, its doors open to display two Mercedes, matching Range Rovers, one Jaguar convertible and a white Toyota pickup. Contemplating Bert’s toys—and pictures of his toys—Osborne found himself wondering if Bert put family and career ahead of fishing, hunting, golf, and dogs—or vice versa.
The long, narrow space, which Bert had referred to as his “den,” opened off a living room so vast it might have housed the Loon Lake Country Club. It was paneled in some exotic wood that Osborne didn’t recognize. Anchoring one corner of the room was a massive desk of the same wood, on which rested a flat-screen computer. In the center were two curved leather sofas facing a floor-to-ceiling (or so it seemed) television screen built into the wall. Four Captain’s chairs (again the strange wood)) surrounded a felt-covered poker table, behind which was a window facing west across Bert’s very own Lynx Lake.
“How many millions do you think they spent on this place?” whispered Lew as they wandered through the room, waiting for the Moriartys to appear. Bert had greeted them at the door, ushered them into the den, announced that Audrey, his wife, would be down shortly and excused himself to complete a phone call. That was twenty minutes ago. And while Lew kept a nervous eye on her watch, Osborne didn’t mind the opportunity to look around. And there was plenty to see.
The paneled walls held clusters of framed photos, which included one of Bert on a golf course with men Osborne assumed to be famous (and one Golden Retriever in a golf cart); Bert in hunting and fishing camps with more men Osborne assumed to be famous
(two
Goldens in most of those photos); Bert with his son (just one Golden); and Bert with a woman whom Osborne assumed to be Audrey (no dogs). The woman was as tall as Bert but very slender. Her face was a narrow oblong, but a wide smile softened the sharp features.
“If Moriarty doesn’t show up in five minutes,” said Lew, checking her watch yet again, “I’ll have to move our meeting at Universal Medical Supplies back an hour.”
Just as she spoke, Bert appeared in the doorway, followed by a woman simply dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse. The only jewelry she wore were gold hoop earrings, set off by the dark hair she had pushed back behind her ears. She was, indeed, the woman in the photos, but where that woman radiated happiness, this version carried herself with a haughty aloofness.
After enduring a round of handshakes, she parked herself in a chair at the far end of the room, crossed her legs, crossed her arms over her chest and waited. It struck Osborne that she had positioned herself as far from her husband as possible.
“My lawyer will be here shortly—another five, ten minutes or so,” said Bert, taking the chair at his desk and beckoning Lew and Osborne towards the sofas. “I really prefer we not discuss anything relative to the death of that young woman until he arrives.”
“Whether or not you choose to reply to anything I say is entirely up to you,” said Lew, “but Dr. Osborne and I do not have time to wait for your lawyer.” She checked her watch. “We’re due somewhere else in less than an hour.”
“So what’s so important you have to see me right now?” said Bert.
“Earlier today we got the preliminary results of the autopsy on DeeDee Kurlander,” said Lew. “Given what we’ve learned, I have reason to think that you may be able to help us with this investigation. But I think it would be best if we met with you in private on this matter …”
Bert tipped his head towards Audrey. “Sorry, dear, I thought they wanted us both in on this.”
“I’m not leaving the room,” said Audrey, her head held high like that of an eagle on alert for carrion. “Anything that concerns Bert concerns me—and my lawyer is due any minute as well.”
“You
both
have lawyers?” said Lew. “May I ask why?”
Audrey stared at Bert, who said nothing, just kept twirling a pen in his right hand. “That ball’s in
his
court,” she said. Still Bert said nothing.
“Well, okay, whatever the deal is, you folks can share what I have to say with your legal team,” said Lew. “We’re here because the autopsy report indicates DeeDee was three months pregnant at the time of her death—”
“Now just you wait a minute,” said Bert, interrupting, “if you have any intention of pinning her pregnancy on my son, I guarantee you I can prove that that young woman was having sex with other people.”
“We do know
that,”
said Lew, her voice soft and firm.
The room went quiet. Very quiet.
“Bert,” said Lew after thirty seconds had passed, “do you want to tell us about it? I take it you were aware of the pregnancy….” She kept her eyes on Bert. Her manner was direct but not threatening. Osborne had seen her do this before, and every time he admired her skill at letting people know that she knew the truth and they had a chance if they did the right thing. Bert didn’t have to answer—but he did. He tossed his pen onto the desk, a gesture that was followed by an explosion from the other end of the room.