Dead Water Read online

  Spotting a dead tree limb on the opposite bank, he opted to use that instead. Extending the branch, he prodded the left arm. Limp. Rigor mortis had come and gone. That would put time of death at or over twenty-four hours ago, but—given the amount of maggot activity he could see plus the color of the corpse—still within the last forty-eight hours. That would make sense. He could not imagine anyone in Loon Lake missing more than two days without everyone in town knowing.

  Taking as few steps as he could, Osborne hiked up to the back of the tag alder for a better view of the lower body. The lab in Wausau, sixty miles away, was much better prepared than he to assess many details including time of death, the nature of the assault, and the exact weapons used, but his training in dental forensics might help speed up the identification, maybe even point out a few more mitigating factors, something always appreciated by Loon Lake Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris.

  And she needed every advantage she could get over the goombahs in Wausau, who had a habit of trying to weasel in on interesting cases, either for publicity’s sake or to pad the bill for their services. In Osborne’s opinion, the Wausau boys relished giving Lew a hard time simply because she had nailed a job two of them had applied for. He knew that in their feeble minds, a dutiful Northwoods female, mindful of the alpha male culture of the region, should have declined the position when it was offered. Not Lew.

  She embraced it with enthusiasm, gender politics and all. And the politics were an ongoing issue as Loon Lake, population 3,197, was too small to have its own crime lab, though it held its own when it came to crime. Or so Osborne had learned since helping Lew out on two earlier occasions. Those two occasions had also shown him an easy route to Lew’s affections: She loved whatever he could do to save her time, paperwork, and money by limiting the involvement of the Wausau boys.

  From where he stood now, Osborne got a good view of the chest below the halter top. Blood had pooled along the left rib cage, indicating the victim was deceased before she flew off that trestle.

  He stepped around the buzzing flies to view the right side of the body. That’s when he saw what had terrified Marlene: the blown-out face. Not a great sight for a five-year-old. Not a great sight for a sixty-three-year-old retired dentist either, forensic experience or not. He looked away fast, then looked back. Had to be a high-powered rifle to do that kind of damage. Made him think .30/06, but he’d let Wausau answer that question.

  Even though most of the upper face was missing, the mouth and portions of the lower jaw were intact. The mouth gaped, making the teeth easily visible. Osborne knelt again. The canines and the lateral incisors looked vaguely familiar. The lower front teeth were crowded, a pretty distinctive pattern there. With several fillings visible, the mouth appeared cared for. He had a strong hunch he had seen this mouth before. If so, he would have a record in his files. Thank God he had hidden those when Mary Lee tried to force him to throw them away.

  Osborne leaned back on his knees. So … a woman from Loon Lake with a nice smile. A sick sadness flooded his chest as he stood up. Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he stood staring at the still, pale form, committing the details of its position and location to memory.

  Osborne turned to wade quickly through the stream and pull the kayak into the water. He had to get Lew out here right away. With that thought, the sadness gave way to a sheepish eagerness: The murder would generate just the opportunity for which he had been hoping.

  To be honest, more than one opportunity. Given that Lew felt she did her best strategic thinking in the trout stream, and given that she did not like to fish alone, chances were excellent that if she deputized him to work on this case, she would have to include him in her fly-fishing. That could be every night. She had done so in the past, which had improved his fly-fishing immeasurably, not to mention increased the number of trout flies (tied by Lew) added to his box. Her ability to forecast a hatch—and have the right trout fly along—impressed the hell out of Osborne.

  But his urge to help the Loon Lake chief of police went well beyond improving his backcast or learning the hatch. The simple fact was that assisting Lewellyn Ferris bought him time to be around a woman who had no idea he adored her.

  As Osborne leaned to lower himself into the kayak, he scanned the landscape one last time. Marlene had seemed so sure someone might be back here. He heard nothing except the flies buzzing and a few random birdcalls. Not a branch, not a blade of grass moved in the still sunshine. A few yards away, Lost Lake looked as peaceful as heaven.

  He gave the body a once-over. From this angle, he could see the eagles and turkey buzzards had already begun their work: myriad puncture wounds stood out in sharp relief along the curve of the bare shoulders, so close to the ground that he had almost missed them. His eyes lingered. Something was too familiar in those patterns. Much too familiar.

  Shoving the kayak aground and slogging back to the corpse, Osborne dropped to his knees for a closer look. This was not the work of vultures or eagles. No sirree. The Northwoods held many surprises, but that did not include birds with canines, molars, and incisors. Yet he was looking down at four bites, almost symmetrical, two on each shoulder.

  Four bites from four different sets of teeth. Human teeth.

  three

  “An expert is a person with whom you go fishing, and if nobody catches anything, knows all the reasons why.”

  Anonymous

  Marlene ran onto the dock just as Osborne pulled up in the kayak. Osborne had forgotten the woman was six feet tall. She was strong, too, reaching without hesitation to give him a hand up, then help him hoist the kayak from the water. Behind her, Mike, his black Lab, was bouncing happily.

  “I take it you reached Chief Ferris?” said Osborne as they boosted the wooden craft onto their shoulders and started up the river rock stairs toward his house. She nodded. Mike took off ahead and disappeared.

  “She’s on her way,” said Marlene. She turned to look at him, her eyes dark with concern. “Wasn’t I right? That was no natural death, do you think?”

  “I agree with you … but it’s Chief Ferris who makes the call,” said Osborne, reluctant to say more until Lew could check it out. Word spreads fast in a small town, and he knew Lew would want to control just how many details were out there. “She may ask you to keep this quiet for a while, Marlene.”

  Marlene trudged in silence for a minute. “Do you think she was raped?”

  “I have no idea. The Wausau lab will test for that. One thing I do know, which ought to make you feel better, is this: That individual has been deceased at least twenty-four hours. I saw absolutely no sign of anyone lurking, not even a crushed blade of grass. That body came off the trestle sometime yesterday at the earliest. So don’t you worry that you and your son saw something you shouldn’t have or that you were observed by anyone.”

  Marlene’s shoulders relaxed under the weight of the kayak. Even her stride up the rock stairway was suddenly firmer, lighter. Osborne smiled gently at the sight of her relief. He felt like a good father. “Turn right at the gate, head toward the garage, and watch for Mike mines.”

  “Mike mines?”

  “Dog poop.”

  “Ah.” They walked forward in silence. At the gate, Marlene paused to adjust the kayak. “My son is in your kitchen with a strange man,” she said, her voice cheery. “He seems to know you. He walked right in without knocking.”

  “Oh yeah? Tall guy?”

  “Very tall—with a stuffed fish on his head. Robby is fascinated.”

  “My neighbor, Ray Pradt,” said Osborne. “Did you see that trailer home as you paddled toward my dock? That’s his place. You remember Ray, Marlene. He’s just a couple years younger than you and Mallory.”

  “That’s little Raysie?” said Marlene. “Last time I saw him, he was four feet tall. My God, he’s grown!”

  Osborne chortled. “Yes, he has.” At six feet five and in his early thirties, Ray would be mortified to learn that an attractive single woman remembered hi
m as little Raysie. Whoa, Osborne couldn’t wait to lay this one on his pal. Little Raysie. Wait till the guys at McDonald’s heard about it; the seven a.m. coffee klatch would have fuel for weeks.

  “So what does Ray do these days, Dr. Osborne?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

  “You mean, why does he wear a fish on his head?”

  Marlene laughed.

  “Well …” said Osborne, hesitating only because he always got a kick out of describing Ray to adults who spent their lives making sensible decisions. “Ray Pradt is considered one of the finest fishing and hunting guides in the Northwoods. He guides for muskie and walleye in the summertime, ruffed grouse, duck, and deer over the winter. He has clients from Chicago, Milwaukee, even Saint Louis and Kansas City. People who won’t fish if they can’t fish with Ray.”

  “You sound like you’re bragging about a son,” said Marlene, a soft smile on her face.

  “I do?” Now it was Osborne’s turn to be surprised. “Then I didn’t mention the grave digging. God knows why he does that.”

  “The what?”

  “Oh, it’s the goofiest thing,” said Osborne, easing the kayak onto the ground beside the sawhorses and pausing while Marlene did the same. The boat was deceptively heavy. “Yep, Ray’s got the franchise on dead Catholics in Loon Lake. He insists he loves it.” Osborne mimicked his friend’s spiel: “ ‘A grave a week on average, double that over the holidays, and triple ‘tween Christmas and New Year’s. Mackerel snappers love to check out before tax time, doncha know.’ ”

  At the look on Marlene’s face, Osborne eased up. “Well, it is steady work, and it does augment his income between seasons.”

  “Jeez,” said Marlene, “and his father was a surgeon.” Her tone implied that being a doctor’s son should somehow insulate you from career choices such as grave digging. Osborne shrugged. That was just one of Ray’s many contradictions. If anything, his friend and neighbor was living proof you can never predict the future.

  “But he’s a hell of a fisherman, Marlene.” And with that, Osborne made clear the bottom line on Ray Pradt. He knew she knew that in the Northwoods, praise doesn’t come much higher.

  He chose not to say more: Not to tell her that Ray, his junior by a good thirty years, had taught him more about life than any of his peers, that the two of them drove in Ray’s battered blue pickup twice a week to those heartbreaking meetings behind the door with the coffeepot on the front, and that Ray had saved his life on at least three occasions, not counting the drive through the blizzard the night Mary Lee died.

  “Who did you say he’s married to?” Again the forced nonchalance as she followed Osborne’s lead to lift and turn the kayak over onto the sawhorses.

  “Ray?” Osborne repressed a big grin. He had been asked this question in so many ways and on so many different occasions it was ridiculous. Why don’t women just flat out ask if a man’s available or not? Even his daughters stepped around such matters, though they were hardly oblique when it came to their interest in his love life. Mindful of Marlene’s childhood friendship with Mallory, Osborne decided to take it easy on her. That plus the fact that her day had not started out so well.

  “Confirmed bachelor,” he said. “Too bad, too. The man is an exceptional cook.” Osborne stopped there. She would have to discover the rest on her own. He reached for a large blue tarp that lay nearby and threw one end of it at Marlene.

  “That’s so funny,” said Marlene. “I would never have guessed Ray Pradt would turn out this way. He was such a serious kid when we were growing up. I would have thought he’d turn into someone quite different—”

  “Oh yeah?” Osborne interrupted, intrigued to hear speculation on Ray from someone who had known him as a child and hadn’t seen him in years. A bad judge of people too often himself, he loved to hear others make the same mistake.

  “Oh … college professor, history or philosophy … something like that. You know, responsible father of four.”

  “Well, he may be all of those in a certain sense,” said Osborne. “You should get to know him again, Marlene.” She gave him an odd look, her mouth opening then closing as if she had decided not to ask a certain question. Instead, she finished tying down the tarp on her end.

  Calm now and over her fear, Marlene was not a bad-looking woman. Tall as she was, everything was firm, muscled even. That was something Osborne liked about his daughters’ generation: These women looked healthy, quite the opposite of Mary Lee and her crowd. What was with the women in his age group, anyway? They were either overweight or bird-boned. Out of shape, weak, and hardly a one could hold in her stomach. Excluding Lew Ferris, of course. But then he figured Lew to be a good ten years younger. Too young for him, unfortunately.

  “Marlene,” said Osborne, directing her back around the garage with a wave of his hand, “what the heck were you doing in that swamp? That’s a darned remote area, y’know. Not many folks find their way back in there.”

  “Are you kidding? Lots of people know Secret Lake. That’s what we kids called it. There’s a path from my cabin on Shepard Lake—I own my parents’ old place—that takes you back in there. You have to portage a little ways over a patch of Consolidated Paper land, but that’s not hard to do. Dad rigged up kind of a wheelbarrow contraption for our boat, and the two of us would fish almost every day when I was a kid. Great crappie hole—summer and winter.

  “So, anyway, that’s what I was planning to do with Robby this morning. Beach the kayak, fish off an old log that was my favorite spot when I was a kid, and … gosh, that body … I didn’t see it until I was on top of it, and it just scared the living daylights out of me. Thank God you came along.”

  “Halt! Who goes there?” boomed a man’s voice suddenly from the screened-in porch that fronted Osborne’s home.

  Ignoring the intruder, Osborne put a hand on Marlene’s shoulder. “You’re sure you’re okay? And Robby?”

  The latter half of his question was answered by Robby himself. Dashing out the front porch door of Osborne’s house, he rushed up to his mother, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Mom, can I go fishing with Ray? He knows where I can catch a five-pound walleye. Can I please, huh? Please?”

  “Robby,” said Osborne, “want a pop?”

  “Sure. Whaddaya say, Mom?”

  “I want to hear you thank Dr. Osborne for the soda pop first; then I’d like to hear you say ‘May I please'; and, Robby, you know we don’t call grown-ups by their first names; it’s Mr. Pradt,” said Marlene, looking over her son’s head at Osborne with a question in her eyes. “As far as fishing, let me think about it.” Osborne could see she wasn’t entirely sure it was wise to trust the well-being of her only child to a man wearing a stuffed trout between his ears—even if she had known him when he was short.

  Just then, Ray stepped out from the porch. He was looking exceptionally well put together in a pair of creased hunting pants, the rust-colored cotton duck contrasting nicely with an olive-green fishing shirt, sleeves rolled up and an embroidered walleye glistening on the left pocket. He may have even trimmed his beard, thought Osborne, as the auburn curls flecked with gray looked more tailored than usual. The prized hat must have been left indoors as Ray’s head was bare, the rich bounty of auburn curls that matched his beard gleaming in the sun as if freshly shampooed.

  An easy grin highlighted the humor in his dark-brown eyes as Ray loped toward them. Whether it was the care he had taken that morning in the shower or simply the sunny loveliness of the day, Osborne could see from the sparkle in Marlene’s eyes that Ray was looking particularly handsome.

  Or maybe it was Marlene. That was it. Osborne watched Ray straighten all six feet five inches of his lanky frame and suck in his gut as he thrust a large hand toward the woman. “What the heck are you doing looking so doggone beautiful, Robby’s mother?” he said, running his words together while pumping Marlene’s hand with enthusiasm. “Doc, she ran out before I could ask her her name.”

  Marlene, simultaneously charmed and
alarmed, backed up, stepping on Osborne’s foot.

  “You’re Ray Pradt,” she said, her voice less certain than when she was talking to Osborne. “Don’t you remember me?”

  Ray’s eyes looked her up and down, amused, interested. “Give me minute,” he said, staring at her.

  “This is Marlene Johnson,” said Osborne when it was clear Ray didn’t recognize her.

  “I am a few years older than you—”

  “No, don’t tell me,” interrupted Ray, raising his hands as if to stop her, “you look at least five years younger.”

  Marlene blushed a deep red. Osborne shook his head; there was something about Ray that ladies liked right off the bat. On the other hand, Ray never played his hand quite right once he had his foot in the door. In the two years they had been fishing and kibitzing together, Osborne had learned more about women just from watching Ray’s mistakes. Another lesson appeared to be on its way.

  four

  “The last point of all the inward gifts that doth belong to an angler is memory.

  The Art of Angling, 1577

  “Hey, you.” Ray leveled a stern look at Robby over his mug of hot coffee. “Knock, knock.”

  The youngster, delighted to find a grown-up capable of communicating on his five-year-old wavelength, swung his legs so hard he could barely stay in his chair.

  “Who’s there?” said Robby with a grin so wide it framed three missing teeth.

  Osborne looked away from the kitchen window where he was watching Lew’s cruiser pull into his driveway just in time to see a smile break on Marlene’s face. Robby’s pride in letting Ray know he knew this game was so infectious, Osborne followed her lead with an understanding grin of his own.