Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler Read online

  Racing into the hall, Osborne shouted, “Help! He’s convulsing. Please, someone, help!”

  Two nurses in blue scrubs came running out of nearby rooms.

  “My grandson—he’s having a seizure,” said Osborne, pointing at the open door behind him. “Get a doctor. Now.”

  The first nurse hurried into the room and leaned over Cody. “Looks okay to me.”

  “A moment ago, he had a seizure,” said Osborne, struggling to control his fury. “I was a dentist for thirty years. I know a goddamn seizure when I see one. This is my grandson and I can tell you I know he had a seizure.”

  Before the nurse could reply, a young physician rushed into the room. Osborne closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. He told the doctor, “I know I’m overreacting but my mother died of spinal meningitis and these symptoms, Doctor…”

  “I understand. I’m on the trauma unit, I know what to look for,” said the physician who appeared to be all of twelve years old. After checking Cody’s vital signs, he had the child sit up and try to touch his chin to his chest. Meantime, the first nurse had left and a second arrived to take her place.

  Standing with his back to Osborne, the doctor spoke in a low tone to the nurse, “We need to move him to the ICU Isolation unit until we know if this is viral or bacterial. I’ll need tests run ASAP. Get someone else to cover other patients coming into ER.”

  He turned to face Osborne. “Dr. Osborne, I’m Dr. Schrieber. I’ll be attending your grandson. Please, the waiting room is right around the corner. I’ll keep you fully informed but right now—”

  “I’ll get out of the way,” said Osborne with a wave of his hand. “I have to reach his parents.”

  Entering the waiting area, Osborne spotted Lew across the room talking with his son-in-law, Mark. He started toward them but before he had taken two steps, a tall, heavyset man blocked his way. “Hey, Doc, what’s up? You in for brain surgery? Always knew you had a screw loose.”

  One look at Osborne’s face and Bud Jarvison backed off. “Sorry. Anything serious?”

  “Later, Bud.”

  “Okay, Doc. I’ll be here—got the old lady in recovering from surgery. Later, then, and sorry for the intrusion,” said Bud as he dropped his weight into a nearby chair.

  A hulking, loquacious man with an alcohol nose, Bud had a habit of greeting Osborne as if he were his best buddy—until someone more important showed up. It had been that way since childhood. Osborne usually managed to find a polite way to exit whenever he ran into the guy. Today he had no time for good manners.

  Relieved to get by Bud with no small talk, Osborne motioned for Lew and Mark to follow him into the hall and out of earshot of the people in the waiting room.

  “I reached Erin on her way back from Wausau. She should be here any minute,” said Mark. “How bad is it?”

  “Not sure yet. The doctor is running tests right now. I’m afraid it is meningitis but whether it’s bacterial or viral—we don’t know yet.”

  “What difference does that make?” asked Lew.

  “Bacterial can be treated with antibiotics, viral has to run its course. We have to hope that it’s viral—even with antibiotics bacterial can be deadly. That’s what my mother died of.”

  “What’s going on, Dad?” Erin ran toward them with a look that should never visit the face of a mother. “Dad? Mark?” As she neared, she burst into tears. “What on earth? What did I do? Oh, my God…”

  “Hey, hey, hold on,” said Osborne, folding his arms around his daughter. “You didn’t do anything. I’m sure Cody was not that sick when you left. But by the time I got there, his temperature had skyrocketed.”

  Dr. Schrieber appeared in the hallway. “Are you the boy’s parents?” he asked Mark and Erin. “Come with me. You, too, Dr. Osborne.”

  “I’ll wait here,” said Lew. Osborne nodded and followed the trio down the hall into a small office.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Amundson, Dr. Osborne,” said the physician. “Here is all we know right now. Meningitis is an inflammation of the lining that surrounds the spinal cord and the brain. Symptoms can come on so fast and seem so ordinary—fever, headache, stiff neck, and a rash. You may have thought it was just a cold or flu,” he said to Erin. “I would have thought the same if one of my kids looked like that earlier today. Has anyone else in the home or your neighbors been sick recently?”

  “Yes, some of the boys on Cody’s T-ball team have had the mumps,” said Erin.

  “That could be it,” said the doctor. “Could be a virus hit your son’s immune system and it reacted this way. We’ll be running tests to see what we have. Meantime, we have to keep Cody in isolation because we may not know for several days…”

  “Know what? How many days?” asked Mark.

  “Not sure, five, six maybe.”

  “But you won’t know what?” asked Erin.

  The doctor paused, then said, “If he’ll make it. Your son is a very sick little boy. All we can do right now is keep him stable. There are a number of different strains of meningitis. Some we can treat, some not. The risks run from hearing loss to brain damage to limbs that may need to be amputated.”

  “That bad,” said Erin, trying hard to keep her composure. “That bad, really?”

  “I wish I could tell you more. We’re bringing in a specialist from Madison and he may be able to answer your questions better than I can. Oh, one question—I have two residents on the team who are studying infectious diseases. Do you mind if they run some additional tests? They will meet with you first and tell you what and why.”

  “Anything. Everything,” said Erin, trying to talk through her tears.

  Mark put an arm around his wife. “Can we see him?”

  • • •

  Osborne left the office and walked back to the waiting room. With a quick glance through the doorway he could see Bud Jarvison still parked in an easy chair near the magazine rack. Once again he motioned for Lew to join him in the hall. The last person he needed asking questions right now was Bud.

  “Lew,” said Osborne. “They don’t know how sick Cody is. Could be…” A sudden pressure of tears made it difficult for Osborne to continue. Lew put a comforting arm around his waist and waited. “Well, it’s not good. Some strain of meningitis and we have to hope that it’s viral. If it’s bacterial…” Again Osborne choked up, pressing his fingers against his eyelids.

  Watching his face, Lew could tell the news was everything he did not want to hear. She also knew how helpless he must feel. “Would you like me to stay, Doc? Until you know more.”

  Osborne inhaled deeply, “No, this could take a while, Lew. You have a police department to run.”

  “Things can be canceled…” She pursed her lips as she looked up at him.

  “Really?” Osborne managed a small smile. “You can tell a bunch of jabones to put their bad behavior on hold?”

  “Well, no, but I can ask Todd to take over for a while.”

  “No, Lew, it’s okay. You can go.”

  She squeezed his hand and stood on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. “Call if you need me, okay?”

  “Thanks, I will.” As she walked off, Osborne watched her go, thinking as he often did these days how lucky he was that she had invited him into her life.

  He turned around to find Bud standing at the entrance to the waiting room, hands on his hips and his big head thrust forward. “I didn’t know you knew Chief Ferris, Doc,” said Bud. The knowing grin on his face irritated Osborne. “How long has this been going on? What have I missed?”

  “It’s business, Bud, all business,” said Osborne with a dismissive wave. “For the last couple years, I’ve been asked to fill in for Pecore when he’s, ah, you know, out of sorts as they say. You know what I mean—on occasion. The county and the police department like to have a health professional as coroner when they can and I have the time so—there it is.”

  The grin hadn’t left Bud’s face so Osborne heard himself rattle on, �
�I had to call 911 this morning and Chief Ferris wanted to be sure that there hadn’t been an accident—that’s all.”

  “You called 911?” asked Bud, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, my grandson’s got some virus or something. Not sure, yet. No big deal, Bud.”

  Heading toward the exit, Osborne gave a weak grin and waved goodbye, hoping that would satisfy Bud, for the moment at least.

  Chapter Four

  After the race to the emergency room with the siren on and lights flashing, Lew decided to take her time driving back to the station. She wanted time to think over the crisis facing Doc and his family.

  How could the life of that rambunctious little boy be in such danger? And without warning? One minute he’s a child coming down with a cold and then…

  A crackle from the police radio interrupted her thoughts.

  “Chief Ferris? Dani, here. I’m back at the station—is Dr. Osborne’s grandson okay?”

  “They’re running tests,” said Lew. “See you in a minute, Dani, I’m only a few blocks away—”

  “That’s why I radioed, Chief. The Forestry Service called in a few minutes ago. Two kayakers found a body in the Pine River. Sounds like it’s in bad shape—like really dead. Y’know—like bones and all?”

  Lew couldn’t help getting a kick out of Dani’s take on some of the situations that the police had to deal with. The young woman had never considered herself a candidate for police work but after being assigned to help the Loon Lake Police with an investigation at the local tech college, she surprised everyone, including herself, with a natural talent for using the computer for advanced searches and data analysis.

  “I’m a geek and I never knew it,” she had laughed when praised for using the computer to locate the source of criminal activity on the college campus.

  It didn’t take much for Lew to convince her she had a future on the investigative team. Although the nineteen-year-old changed her major at the tech college from cosmetics to law enforcement, she had not lost her less-than-sophisticated perspective on dead bodies.

  “Yeah, so, at first the ranger who took the call thought they must have found a dead bear but the kayakers told him bears don’t wear snowmobile suits so—”

  “Okay, okay,” said Lew with a sigh. “I’ll get Pecore on the line and have him meet me there. Do you have an exact location?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Dani.

  Lew pulled over to jot down the directions.

  “Damn,” she said to herself as she scrolled through the numbers on her cell phone looking for Pecore’s home number. Wasn’t the day bad enough without being forced to work with that razzbonya?

  Thanks to his brother-in-law, Loon Lake’s longtime mayor, Pecore had been appointed Loon Lake’s coroner in perpetuity or, at least, until the mayor expired. This was in spite of the fact that his prior work experience was limited to running a tavern—though which side of the bar he preferred was a subject for debate among many Loon Lake citizens.

  Worse had been Pecore’s longtime habit under the former chief of police of letting his two golden retrievers into the coroner’s office and its long-out-of-date small morgue where bodies had once been stored until identified. More than once the dogs had been seen nosing around the shelves holding evidence bags—thus violating the chain of custody and compromising more than one criminal case. The nightmare among some Loon Lake families had been that the dogs may have had access to the dearly departed stored nearby.

  Outraged when she heard about Pecore’s habits—and after being promoted to Chief—Lew had been able to limit his access to evidence and the bodies of the deceased. Given he was not a pathologist, she effected a policy change that ensured that the bodies of any victims not claimed by families were now stored in the hospital morgue before being sent south for autopsies.

  Time and again Lew had argued that Pecore should be replaced by someone with credentials in the health-care field, each time struggling to find a nice way to say that the man was so incompetent she worried he would declare a live person “dead”—and get them all sued.

  These days the one redeeming factor for Loon Lake’s Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris was Pecore’s habit of spending a good chunk of his days and most of his nights so over-served that she had a handy excuse for deputizing a certain retired dentist to step in for him. Pecore didn’t mind—he was salaried.

  But this was no day to ask Doc to help out.

  Punching Pecore’s home number into her phone, Lew sighed as she waited for the usual voicemail. Neither Pecore nor his wife believed in answering their phone. If they didn’t pick up, she decided after two rings, she would drive right over to his house and physically tear numbnut away from the History Channel. All he had to do today was declare a poor soul dead who had been in the water for months. She hoped he could rise to the occasion for once. It was ten in the morning but this wouldn’t be the first time she might find him on his fourth or fifth beer.

  To her surprise a cheery male voice answered. Cheery and sober. “Hello, this is Ed Pecore—is this Dr. Portman?”

  “Sorry, Pecore, this is Chief Ferris. Who’s Dr. Portman?”

  “Oh.” The disappointment in Pecore’s voice was palpable. “He’s my orthopod, what’s up?”

  Lew couldn’t help but notice how quickly he changed the subject.

  “I’m calling because I need the services of our trusty Loon Lake coroner this morning,” she said, trying hard to sound friendly. “Couple kayakers just called in saying they found a body in the Pine River over in the national forest. Sounds like a snowmobiler who went through the ice a few months ago—so be prepared. Got a pen? I’ll give you directions where to meet me.”

  “Guess I don’t have much choice, do I?” asked Pecore in a dull tone.

  Before he hung up, Lew made him repeat the directions to be sure he had them right. An orthopod, huh, thought Lew as she put her phone away. Wonder if he’s having some surgery? That would explain why he’s still sober. She knew that anyone about to have a knee or hip replacement would be told by some orthopedic surgeons to stay off alcohol for at least two weeks beforehand. Now wouldn’t that be just like Pecore—schedule major surgery and not tell her until the last minute?

  Turning the squad car around, Lew headed for the entrance to the national forest. She had been relieved to find the man fairly articulate, but then the day was young. Because her mind kept wandering back to the events of the morning, she found she had to check the directions from Dani twice. Even so she still managed to miss the side road leading back to where she needed to be. Frustrated, she willed herself to concentrate on the dire task ahead. Nevertheless, she knew the grave concern on Doc’s face would haunt her morning.

  • • •

  It had been three years since Lewellyn Ferris and Dr. Paul Osborne met unexpectedly on a riverbank one quiet June evening. Lew was there because the owner of Ralph’s Sporting Goods had hired her to teach one of his customers how to cast a fly rod. Not yet promoted to chief, she had the time and jumped at the chance to moonlight teaching the sport she loved.

  She assumed the customer would be similar to others Ralph had sent her way: a young doctor, college professor, or engineer—the classic young professional—new to the Northwoods, home of the largest population of native brook trout in the country. But to her surprise the student she was expecting was not the usual young professional but her dentist! At least he had been her dentist. It was two years since Osborne had retired from his practice.

  She learned later that her new student had been just as surprised. He had been told to meet “Lou”—whom he assumed was a guy—for a lesson in casting a fly rod. Not just any fly rod but one that he had purchased years earlier and never used for a rather sad reason, as Lew would discover as she got to know Osborne better.

  Over the months that Lew and Osborne spent time together in the water—thanks to his interest in having her teach him how to cast and to a personal chemistry that surprised them both—she could tell
that Mary Lee, his late wife, had not been a woman naturally given to kindness. Nor was she appreciative of the time her husband might need to refuel from long hours in the dental office by spending time on the water fishing alone or with other fishermen.

  From the snippets of information that escaped from Osborne during moments when he let down his guard while wading in the trout stream, Lew was able to piece together an understanding of his life as a husband and a father and a man who had loved the outdoors since childhood. That was when she learned the history behind his showing up for his first lesson with the fly rod. Even though he was a longtime muskie fisherman, Osborne said he had been so intrigued by the stories of friends touting the thrills of fishing “the shark of the north” that he had decided to give it a try and bought himself a fly rod.

  “Problem was,” he told Lew, “I forgot to ask permission.”

  Once Mary Lee got wind of the $300 purchase, she had ranted for days. “What? You already fish two days a week. Look at all the money spent on those dumb fishing lures and muskie rods. Paul, I need a new sofa—not a fishing rod!” Osborne had shared that story in a tone of embarrassment as if he had made a mistake and should have known better.

  To appease his wife, he had hidden the rod away without ever attaching a reel or threading the fly line. But with Mary Lee now “redecorating the big house in the sky” (as his neighbor, Ray Pradt, liked to say) he was free to give fly-fishing a try.

  Lew, on hearing of Mary Lee’s reaction to her husband’s interest in learning something new and exciting (to him), was happy she would never have to meet the woman. She also found herself admiring Osborne’s loyalty to a wife who did not (in Lew’s opinion) deserve it.

  That first night of instruction three years ago went so well that Osborne asked if he could have another lesson… and another. As the lessons multiplied, Lew could see that Osborne might be a man of a certain age but young at heart with an enthusiasm for spending time in the trout stream that matched hers.

  During the first winter that she had known him, she taught him how to tie trout flies. A man who had loved the field of dentistry where he worked with agile fingers in a small space, Osborne delighted in the art of tying trout flies and was happy to find a new hobby in his retirement. Before long, he had decided to rename a seldom-used space in his house (his late wife’s beloved formal dining room) and called it the “dead animal room,” filling it with all the tools and accessories needed for tying trout flies: more feathers and moose manes, squirrel tails and hunks of deer hair than he could use in a lifetime. The nights that Lew chose to bring her equipment and tie beside him were the best. After an hour or more of fly tying, they would retire to sit in front of the log fire burning in his living room. Fine evenings that ended well.