Dead Renegade Read online

  “That’s called ‘double dipping,’ my man,” said Curt. “Against the law. IRS’ll be after you.”

  “The hell they will—this is under the table, you know that.”

  “Yes I do. You want me to blow the whistle?”

  “Are you saying you’re not gonna pay us?” Incredulity rang in Ron’s voice.

  Now even Kenny was surprised. He was expecting the guy to hassle them down a few bucks. But not pay them anything?

  “How many times I gotta repeat myself?” Curt knocked an ash off his cigarette. “Bye, boys.” He walked back into the house, the screen door slamming behind him.

  Speechless, Ron turned around, then turned again as if ready to run up the stairs.

  “Hey, man, forget it,” said Kenny, pulling him towards the pickup. “I don’t need this shit—you don’t either. The guy’s a jackass. We can take care of it—we can make damn sure nobody works for that asshole ever again.”

  “I’ll make sure of more than that,” said Ron, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door hard.

  “Hey, easy on my truck,” said Kenny. “Look, we got twenty minutes before we gotta be back on the road crew—let me buy you a beer. Calm us both down.”

  “Don’t want a beer.”

  “You don’t want a gun either or you’ll end up back in the hoosegow,” said Kenny, angling for a little humor.

  But Ron wasn’t buying. Hunched forward, his face closed in, he was silent. As the pickup sped down the county highway, Kenny glanced from the corner of his eye. Ron’s lower jaw was working. Never a good sign.

  That Calverson is one lucky guy, thought Kenny as the two men drove in silence back to the road construction crew that was their employment seven months of the year. He’s lucky Bobby Shradtke is still doing hard time or sure as hell Ron would be calling on his big brother for help just like he did when they were kids.

  Kenny remembered those days all right. Big Bobby was always there for Ron, which is why to this day guys stayed out of his way. Kenny was still in the service when Bobby got sent away, but he had been informed of the circumstances. Circumstances he heard once and never wanted to hear again.

  “Yep,” said Kenny, attempting to lighten the dead air between them, “he sure is lucky Big Bobby ain’t around.”

  Ron looked down at the floorboards of the pickup, then swiveled his head to grin at Kenny. “Who said he’s not around? I didn’t say that. Did you hear me say that?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Erin and Catherine peered over Osborne’s shoulder as he used his pen to tip the skull from one side to the other. A touch of gold caught light in the dim room.

  “Isn’t that interesting,” he said, leaning closer only to pause, then sit back on his heels, “but I better wait before examining this further. The light in here is lousy, and the last thing I need to do is compromise any evidence that the Wausau boys might be able to use.”

  “Why, Dad? You think that skull is human?” Erin spoke in a whisper, her eyes wide.

  “Without question.”

  “Oh dear,” said Catherine, adjusting her glasses for a closer look. “Things are so old here.” She touched the far end of the rug, which was still rolled tight. “Thick with dust—this hasn’t been moved in ages. Maybe it’s from a museum?”

  Osborne shrugged, “only Bart can answer that question, but we aren’t the people to ask.” He got to his feet.

  “Now why did you say ‘Wausau boys,’ Dr. Osborne?” said Catherine, “what on earth does Wausau have to do with this?”

  Osborne repressed the urge to be short with the elderly woman. He wasn’t in the mood to provide a complete profile of the workings—or non-workings—of the Loon Lake Police Department.

  “They run the crime lab for our region,” said Osborne. “Since Chief Ferris has only two full time police officers and a couple deputies she can call on—like myself or Ray Pradt—Loon Lake needs their lab services whenever there’s a crime requiring more science than what’s available here.”

  Was it Lew canceling their weekly Wednesday morning coffee (the one his McDonald’s buddies kidded him about) that put him in such bad humor? The more he dwelt on it, the more it bothered him. Not the reunion so much as that homebuilder guy. And the fish fry.

  And not just any Friday night fish fry but one with former classmates and … and that homebuilder guy. Lew was honest about the guy, saying she’d had a crush on him sophomore year. The same guy who was recently retired, divorced and worth millions. She also said he had started emailing her last month, letting her know he was coming for the reunion. Osborne knew exactly what that jerk must have in mind.

  No wonder he was doing his best to keep any discussion of Loon Lake Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris to a minimum.

  “But I thought that’s what we pay Dr. Pecore for,” said Catherine, unwilling to drop the subject. “I see his wife at the beauty shop every Friday and she’s always complaining that he has to work so hard. He’s the coroner, isn’t he? Isn’t that what coroners do? Make decisions on dead bodies?”

  “Pecore may allege to be a pathologist but his level of competence extends to determining if someone’s dead or alive—period,” said Osborne. “And that’s assuming he’s not dead drunk at the time.”

  “Yeah, Dad, don’t hold back,” said Erin. She tipped her head to look at him, “Dad, what is eating your shorts today?”

  Osborne gave her the dim eye. She winked back. Pursing his lips and saying nothing, Osborne pointed the two women in the direction of the cabinet. Following behind, he said, “I don’t mean to be unkind, Catherine, but you know what they call the guy who graduates at the bottom of his class in med school, don’t you? M.D.”

  “I understand,” said Catherine, “Dr. Pecore is not your favorite person.”

  “This is true. Drives me nuts taxpayers have to pay for his incompetence.” Dumping on Pecore boosted Osborne’s spirits enough that in spite of what he knew would make him a better person, he decided to deliver a full dose: “You heard about the dogs, right?”

  “The dogs?” asked Catherine, stopping to turn a puzzled look his way. “I don’t believe I have.”

  “Well, that razzbonya was letting his golden retrievers hang out in the autopsy lab. Think about that for a minute. Think how families of the dearly departed like to hear someone they love has been nuzzled by canines.”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Catherine.

  “Darn right it is,” said Osborne, letting the rant relieve even more of his frustration.

  Erin, who had heard the story numerous times, listened with a grin on her face. “Don’t stop now, Dad,” she said.

  “I’ve said enough,” said Osborne, catching himself from saying more with a sheepish smile.

  “What Dad hasn’t said is that Pecore got the job and keeps the job because he’s married to our mayor’s wife’s sister. Local politics trumps taxpayer rights every time.

  “On the other hand, if Pecore weren’t such a screw-up, Dad wouldn’t be the dental forensics go-to guy for Chief Ferris—and for the Wausau boys. Right, Dad? It’s in your best interest that Pecore Velcroes his butt to a bar stool. Means you get a second career as a part time odontologist—and a girlfriend to boot. Right?”

  “Now the girlfriend part I have heard,” Catherine said, with a chuckle that proved that even at the age of eighty-six one is never too old for good gossip.

  “All right, Erin,” said Osborne, “enough of this or I won’t help you ladies get your furniture out of here.” He stared down at the oak instrument chest before glancing up at his daughter. “Think you and I can manage to move this ourselves?”

  Picking up one end of the cabinet, Osborne was surprised to find it lighter than he expected. Erin grasped the other end and together they lifted it easily. “Okay,” said Osborne, “but set it down for a minute. One thing I have to do before we move it—do you have your cell phone with you?”

  “Sure, Dad, but where’s yours?”

  “Ou
t in the car.”

  “Dad, are you kidding me? You’re supposed to have it with you all the time—isn’t that why the Loon Lake Police Department pays the bill?”

  “Erin,” said Osborne, adopting the tone he used when she was a youngster who had to be reminded to brush her teeth, “I’m wearing my pager. That’s enough electronics for one man.”

  “Not if he’s a deputy police officer. D-a-a-d, you need to carry that phone. This is an excellent example why. Right now, right here.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right,” said Osborne, the crankiness of the morning descending again. He had deliberately not worn the phone so that he wouldn’t be tempted to call Lew and pester her with questions that were none of his business. Questions like ‘Does this homebuilder jabone have all of his own teeth? Has he any concept of a fly rod? Maybe he’s allergic to fresh air. Maybe he’s too out of shape to wade …’ Questions that were none of his business for sure.

  “Now—can I make the call?” He held out one hand.

  With a shake of her head and a grimace of exasperation, Erin reached for her cell phone, which she wore attached to her belt. She tossed it to Osborne.

  CHAPTER 5

  Marlene, on the switchboard in the Loon Lake Police Department, answered his call. She listened then said, “Doc, Chief Ferris is in meetings with probation officers until one p.m. I can patch you through if this is an emergency.”

  “Use your judgment, Marlene. The victim isn’t going anywhere fast, believe me. But this is a skeletal remain, it is human, it is in a place of business and I do need direction on what to do next.”

  Seconds later, the voice that lifted his heart no matter the frustrations of their relationship came on the line: “Yeah, Doc, Marlene said you found a body at Nystrom’s shop? An accident? What’s the story?” Lew’s tone was clipped and urgent.

  “Not a body, a human skull—but it’s been here a while. Years from the look of it, Lew, so no reason to leave your meeting and rush over. I just need to know how to handle the situation with Bart Nystrom. And, Lew, this may be nothing. Could be part of a cadaver from a medical school—”

  “But it is human, right?”

  Oh, yes, I am sure of that.”

  “Okay, Doc. Tell Bart to close up shop and not let anyone in until I can get there, which won’t be until around two or a little later. Make it clear that order includes Bart as well.”

  “Last question, Lew. Erin’s client found a cabinet that belongs to her and she wants it back. It’s in a section of the storeroom a good distance from the skull. Is there a problem if I help the ladies move that?”

  “If moving it doesn’t damage the chain of custody for any evidence related to the other finding, I see no reason why you shouldn’t. Are you available to meet me out there later?”

  “Certainly.” Now came the familiar rush of guilt tempered with a light heart. Crime scenes might be sad scenes for most people, but not for Dr. Paul Osborne. Not only did they give him an excuse to stay current with forensic dentistry and the profession he had loved—but they promised more time with a woman he wished he could see every day.

  Osborne handed the phone back to Erin, saying, “Thank you, hon. Let’s you and me move that cabinet and then I have bad news for Bart.”

  Bart’s face morphed into a crimson moon when Osborne told him to close up shop. Without saying a word, he spun around and headed for the door to the basement. Storming down the stairs, he paused to hit a light switch that illuminated the storeroom quite nicely.

  “Wonder where that was for the last two hours,” mused Osborne as he hurried after Bart who was bumping and shoving his way through dust-burdened, rickety stacks of chairs, headboards, dressers and tables.

  “Where the hell is that thing?” said Bart, his big head swinging back and forth as his eyes scanned the back of the storeroom. “That rug in the corner—that it?”

  “I wouldn’t go there, Bart,” said Osborne. “I relayed Chief Ferris’s instructions: do not touch anything until she gets here. This may be a crime scene.”

  “The hell it is,” said Bart, pushing the tall armoire so hard it tipped sideways onto a nearby desk. He stared down at the rolled up rug and the skull on the floor. “Goddamn bear skull is what you’re lookin’ at. My old man had some taxidermy crap that he couldn’t get rid of so he stored it back here.”

  Osborne understood Bart’s reasoning: the skeleton of a bear so closely resembles that of a human being that local game wardens and law enforcement officials anticipate several calls a month from hikers or hunters convinced they’ve stumbled onto a dead body. Ninety-nine percent of the time the bones are bear, not human.

  Before Osborne could stop him, Bart had yanked at the rug, rolling it back to expose a jumble of skeletal remains.

  “Bart!” Osborne reached for the man’s arm, which he held tight, “don’t move another inch or you’ll find yourself under arrest.”

  The two men stared in silence at the contents of the rug. Whoever it was did not appear to have arrived in one piece. The interior of the old rag rug was stained black in the areas surrounding the bones. Time had not erased traces of decomposition.

  Ohmygod—what the hell is this?” said Bart, backing away from the grisly display, nausea knotting his face.

  Relieved that the antique dealer was willing to step back and not disturb anything further, Osborne didn’t answer. He had his own questions: Had a human being been dismembered? Body parts shoved into this rag rug to decompose?

  He spotted a tag on one end of the rug and bent to read it.

  “Hey, Bart,” he said, “this may help—looks like the tags got the name of the person who gave your father the rug to sell.” As Bart reached for the tag, Osborne grabbed his arm for a second time, “please don’t touch that. Could have fingerprints.”

  “Doc,” said Bart, straightening up and shoving his face into Osborne’s, “what is it with you? You’re not a cop—you’re a retired dentist. So just keep your nose the hell out of my business. You hear me? And forget closing my shop. This is tourist season—I have people stopping in …”

  “I hear you, Bart. But if you’ll take a minute to listen to me, I’ll explain things. No, I am not a police officer, but I am deputized by the Loon Lake Police Department to assist with the forensic investigations on any unnatural deaths.”

  “Whaddya talking about? That’s Pecore’s job.”

  Osborne resisted the urge to punch the guy in the nose. He took a deep breath before answering.

  “I do the dental exams.”

  “So—” said Bart, planting both hands on his hips before waving an arm at Osborne, “Go off and do a goddamn dental exam and leave me alone, will ya?”

  “Bart …” Osborne kept his voice firm, “before helping the ladies move their cabinet, I took a good look at this skull.”

  “And …?” Bart challenged.

  “Bears do not have gold fillings, son. Doors closed until two this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Human confetti dotted the steps of Erin’s front porch: a vivid blur of yellows, blues, greens and orange-reds scattered among the t-shirts, shorts, blue jeans, baseball caps, sneakers and shorts. If Osborne hadn’t known it was time for lunch, he would have thought it was already the Fourth of July—with his grandchildren and the neighbor kids waiting for the parade to begin. As it was, they were just waiting for their mom and peanut butter sandwiches.

  On the bottom step, tossing a neon green beach ball back and forth with his best friend Ben, was Cody, the youngest of Osborne’s grandchildren. Nearly four and the only boy in the family, Cody was as blond as his mother, as slender as both his parents, and already one of the tallest boys in his class.

  Two steps above Cody sat Beth, age twelve, and as fair-haired and fair-skinned as her brother—except for the lavender eye shadow, darkened lashes and scarlet cell phone glued to one ear—hints of teendom already vexing her parents. Two neighbor boys, Ben’s older brothers, were hunkered
off to one side of the porch intent on a handheld video game when they weren’t stealing glances at Beth.

  Nearly hidden behind Beth was a figure unfamiliar to Osborne: a young woman with a peach fresh face and shoulder-length blond hair pulled tight into a ponytail. Dressed like a runner in a tank top, shorts and sneakers, she sat on the porch step with her knees bent, one arm cradling the shoulders of eight-year-old Mason.

  As Osborne got closer to the crowd on the porch he could see that his youngest granddaughter had been crying.

  The sight of Mason with her cap of dark brown hair and face tanned nut-brown by the summer sun never failed to remind Osborne of his own mother, who had died when he was six.

  He kept a photo of Mason’s great-grandmother on his dresser—a picture taken by the man who had loved her. In the picture she sat, knees tucked under a light summer dress on a blanket laid for a picnic. Every time Osborne let his gaze linger on that photo—his mother’s easy smile, her even, white teeth, the strands of dark hair loosened from her bun to blow in a summer breeze—he saw the woman Mason would be someday.

  Of all his grandchildren, she was the only one who had inherited the warm, brown skin and the black-brown eyes so similar to his own: evidence of his mother’s Metis heritage. Each year the high cheekbones and the broad forehead grew more pronounced in the young girl. Each year her grandfather let his hands rest longer on her shoulders. So long as he lived he would be there for her no matter her mistakes.

  Right now, those shoulders were hunched as she leaned into the woman beside her. Leaned as if she would hide if she could. Well, thought Osborne, Mason is the one kid in Erin’s household you can count on for surprises. Wonder what the little rascal has been up to this time?

  If he had to guess, he would bet she’d been caught setting off firecrackers—the tiny red ones kids always seem to find even though they’re illegal—but a quick scan of the sitting child indicated Mason had all her appendages, no obvious injuries and no blood in sight. Whatever it was couldn’t be too serious.