Dead Spider Page 3

  Osborne had to turn around to find Charlotte. The wife of Jerry Pfeiffer, Chuck’s son from his first marriage, sat partially hidden in a chair pushed against the wall and not in full view until the door was closed. Later it struck Osborne she had been seated as far away as possible from the other woman.

  Arms and legs crossed, right foot pumping up and down, Charlotte managed a nod in the direction of Lew and Osborne. The set of her jaw told Osborne she was less grief-stricken than her stepmother-in-law. Whatever color Charlotte’s eyes might be under normal circumstances, at the moment they were pinpoints of black and flat as a snapping turtle’s.

  “Mrs. Pfeiffer,” said Lew, addressing the widow in a kind voice, “before we talk I have to ask if you have washed your hands since touching your husband. I assume you may have touched him when he didn’t respond—?”

  “What?” The woman dropped the bunch of Kleenex from her face and stared at Lew. “What on earth? Why?”

  “A forensic expert from the Wausau Crime Lab is on his way by helicopter. I expect him shortly and he’ll need to check your hands for gunshot residue . . . ”

  “You think I shot my husband?” Her voice cracked.

  “I didn’t say that. But someone did and by touching your husband’s body you may have picked up gunshot residue that can help with the evidence collection.”

  “If you’re telling me I can’t use the ladies’ room and wash my hands . . . ”

  “Have you?”

  “No, I have not, but that’s disgusting.”

  “Disgusting or not, we need you to help with the investigation.” Lew’s tone had shifted from kind to firm.

  Ignoring an expression of annoyance on Rikki Pfeiffer’s face, Lew slipped first one then the other Tyvek bag over her hands, pulling drawstrings through string locks to secure them. As she did so, Osborne noticed the flow of tears had stopped.

  “Good, that’s done,” said Lew, stepping back and straightening up. With that she introduced herself to each of the women. “ . . . And this is Dr. Paul Osborne—”

  “I know Dr. Osborne, he used to be my dentist,” said Rikki.

  “And mine,” said Charlotte in a grunt from where she remained sitting against the far wall, foot still pumping. “But why is he here?”

  With those words, Osborne recalled what a dour person Charlotte was and always had been. In her mid-forties and celery thin, Osborne once wondered if she might not be anorexic. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Paul,” Mary Lee had said crossly when he had asked if she thought Charlotte might have a weight problem. “Charlotte Pfeiffer is a champion golfer. Golfs seven days a week when she can. And when she can’t golf she gardens—she has a gorgeous garden. What would you expect?”

  Osborne had opened and closed his mouth. He knew better than to argue that one. But he didn’t buy Mary Lee’s reasoning. Golfing, gardening, whatever: Charlotte Pfeiffer did not look well. Well? Hell, the woman looked like a witch. Even today in her pink button-down shirt over tan Bermuda shorts: classic golf attire.

  But if Charlotte had the ability to hit a golf ball with unerring accuracy, when it came to basic human interactions she lacked both grace and a sense of humor. He had forgotten how hard it was to be around the woman, but then he hadn’t seen her since shortly before he retired.

  What he did remember was how she had taken to running ten to fifteen minutes late for her dental appointments. After the third time, Osborne had instructed his receptionist to say, “Mrs. Pfeiffer, you are so late, Dr. Osborne has rescheduled you for two weeks from now.”

  Upon hearing that, Charlotte had erupted with a stream of verbal abuse aimed at the poor receptionist until Osborne intervened. He suggested she choose another dentist.

  That worked. Neither he nor the receptionist had to deal with Charlotte Pfeiffer again. Until today.

  “Our coroner is out of the country at the moment,” said Lew in answer to Charlotte’s question. “Dr. Osborne fills in as deputy coroner when Mr. Pecore isn’t available. So he’ll be needing information from you,” Lew had turned to Rikki as she spoke, “for the death certificate. Also, as deputy coroner, I’ll be asking him to help me gather more details from each of you as we try to piece together what happened here this afternoon.”

  “You mean he’ll interrogate us?” Charlotte’s tone was demanding. “A dentist, for God’s sake?”

  “More like ‘interview,’ ” said Lew, countering Charlotte’s challenge with a smile. “As deputy coroner Dr. Osborne is often critical to our investigations as neither Loon Lake nor the county nor the Wausau Crime Lab can afford a full-time odontologist.”

  Seeing the confused looks on both women’s faces, she said, “An odontologist is a health professional with expertise in dental forensics—the study of human remains and related matters. Fact is: teeth remain the gold standard for identifying a corpse.

  “Dr. Osborne was trained in dental forensics during his years in the military. He continues that study by attending seminars offered by the Wisconsin Dental Society as well as specialized websites designed for medical examiners. I speak for both the Loon Lake Police Department and the Wausau Crime Lab when I say we are fortunate to have Dr. Osborne’s expertise so close at hand.

  “Any questions on that, ladies?”

  Neither woman said a word. They seemed satisfied with her response, which was good as Lew had no intention of sharing the other reason she would ask Osborne to sit in on her “interviews” with the two women.

  It wasn’t until after Lew had deputized Osborne the first time that she realized what a valuable partner he could be during an interrogation. Her instinct was to listen for answers to her questions—while Osborne took a different approach. Years of observing patients with issues that may or may not be related to their dental health had taught him to listen between the lines. The spoken answer might not be the truest answer.

  So it was that two years earlier Chief Lewellyn Ferris and Dr. Paul Osborne had discovered they made a good team when questioning key witnesses.

  This had followed on the heels of meeting one another in the trout stream early one summer evening after Osborne had signed up to take lessons on casting a fly rod from a fellow named Lou. “Lou” turned out to be Lew and Osborne quickly became a struggling but determined student of fly-fishing.

  They had known each other before this but from an arm’s length—Lew was a patient of Osborne’s since long before she entered law enforcement and long before he was widowed. That evening in the trout stream was serendipitous for both: not only was he encouraged to pursue a sport that had intrigued him, but she asked for and got his help working a current criminal case that required the skills of an odontologist.

  Since then they had continued to collaborate on land, in water, and—though not as often as Osborne hoped—late into the evening.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “My husband and I arrived here shortly after one,” said Rikki Pfeiffer after Lew had asked her to give as many details of the afternoon’s activities as she could recall. “We were running late because he had a morning meeting with my son, Bart, regarding management changes at the company that Chuck wants—”

  “Damn you!” Charlotte jumped to her feet. “Chuck doesn’t want any such thing. You—you’re the one who wants that idiot kid of yours in charge,” said Charlotte, her voice vibrating with anger. “Jerry and I know what you’ve been up to, you sneaky bitch—”

  “Ladies, ladies—that’s enough,” said Lew, getting up from the folding chair where she had been sitting with her notepad braced on one knee. Raising her hands as if to quiet a crowd, she said, “I know you’re both under a great deal of stress but this is not a time for confrontation.” Ignoring Lew, Charlotte opened her mouth only to see Lew make a zipping motion across her lips. “I mean it, Charlotte.”

  Speaking slowly and deliberately, Lew said, “All I need to know right now—from each of you as witnesses—is where you were sitting, standing, or walking at approximately the time that Chuck Pfeiffe
r was shot. That is all the information I need. If other issues have a bearing on the case, we will deal with those later.

  “So, Charlotte, if you will please sit down I’d like Rikki to go first.” Lew turned to face the new widow. “Rikki, just tell me what you remember doing from the moment you arrived at the tournament with your husband—where you were standing or walking, anyone you may have spoken to, and what you were doing up to when you found . . . him.”

  Before Rikki had a chance to answer, Charlotte gave a loud snort and plunked herself down on her chair.

  Osborne, watching from the folding chair he had set up near Lew’s, wondered how much refereeing his good friend might be in for: Charlotte did not look like she planned to keep quiet for long. Just as Rikki started to answer Lew’s questions, his cell phone rang. He glanced down to see Ray’s name on the screen.

  “Excuse me, Chief,” he said, standing up phone in hand, “but the photographer we called is on the phone. I’ll take the call outside.” He hurried out of the tavern.

  “Doc? I got your message and I’ll head over shortly.” Osborne could tell from the labored breathing that Ray was running. “Took care of your dog, my dogs, and I’m loading gear into the truck right now. Oh, and I grabbed that black bag from your office. Should be there in ten minutes.

  “But, Doc . . . ” Ray paused to take a deep breath, “were you kidding? Is it the Chuck Pfeiffer we know and love who’s been shot? The same Chuck Pfeiffer who refuses to provide health benefits for his employees?” Ray was not a fan.

  “Not kidding,” said Osborne. “And it’s going to be one long night over here. Bruce Peters is on his way but the Wausau boys are short on photographers. Busy weekend for the crime lab, which is why Lew was hoping you would have the time—”

  “Hey, tell her not to worry. My guide bookings are down for the month—got nothing the next ten days so I can use the moola.”

  Osborne chuckled, “Are you ever not short of cash?”

  Ray ignored his comment. “Doc, tell me where and when this happened so I am sure to bring everything I’ll need. Was it inside the tavern? That SUV of theirs? Or outside somewhere?”

  After Osborne had briefed him on Rikki finding her husband slumped in his chair under the awning and the fact that a bullet entering his skull behind the right ear appeared to be the cause of death, Ray asked, “Is there a lot of blood? Did the people who found the body make a mess of things before Lew could get there?”

  “I was the second person to get close to the body after his wife found him and I made sure to keep people back,” said Osborne. “No one has entered the Pfeiffer booth since without booties on. And there is so little blood that I told Lew he must have died within seconds of being shot. We’ll wait for the pathologist to confirm that of course.

  “Ray, all we know so far is that no family members were near when he was shot and no one remembers seeing any bystanders close by the booth, either. Not that there weren’t a lot of people walking past but no one close enough to—”

  “Sounds like a sniper.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. The man was sitting down. A sniper couldn’t possibly have aimed through the crowd milling around the pavilion grounds. You were there. You saw how packed the place was. I’m not saying that’s not possible, but I’ll leave it to the pathologist who can say more once he or she sees the entrance wound.”

  “Hmm. Boy, if I were you, Doc, I’d tell Chief Ferris ASAP that I saw so many people taking photos and videos all afternoon that chances are good someone may have caught something on their phones or cameras. She needs to get hold of those. Maybe make that request on radio and TV right now? And before too many people leave the area.”

  “Good idea. I’ll let her know that and see you when you get here.”

  Osborne clicked off his phone and ran back into the tavern office where Lew was jotting down notes as she spoke with Rikki Pfeiffer. “Sorry to interrupt,” said Osborne, “but Ray has suggested we get a request out to the media that anyone taking photos or videos this afternoon should share them with the Loon Lake Police . . . ”

  “Of course—why didn’t I think of that?” Before he could finish, Lew was on her feet and heading for the door. She turned to the two women. “Ladies, please stay here. I’ll be right back. Where’s that television reporter?” she asked Osborne as she ran by. “Let’s hope she’s still in the parking lot.”

  She was. And by the time Lew had finished allowing the reporter to air the news of Chuck Pfeiffer’s death “under questionable circumstances” along with the department’s request for photos and videos, a beat-up blue pickup had pulled into the lot.

  Sunlight flashed off a polished brass walleye that appeared to be leaping into the air from where it was glued onto the hood of the pickup. As the truck swung around to back into a spot near the fence separating the parking area from the grassy pavilion, Osborne spotted a brand-new white bumper sticker plastered across the tailgate. In neon green letters it read: I have sex every day. Oops. No, I have dyslexia. Ray Pradt had arrived.

  Osborne watched as his neighbor unfolded his six-foot-six frame in sections from the front seat. “That man has more joints than a marionette puppet,” Osborne’s buddy, Don Jarvis, would mutter every time the McDonald’s coffee crowd watched Ray enter and leave with his morning brew. Maybe old man Jarvis was jealous that Ray didn’t even have to try to make an entrance. Came natural.

  Today was no different. With his deep tan set off by crisp black fishing shorts and a white T-shirt emblazoned with the newest twist on his beloved mantra, Excitement, Romance, and Live Bait—You Can Have It All Fishing With Ray, he looked outfitted more for a day on the boat than an evening at a crime scene.

  Later that evening when Bruce Peters teased him about his less than professional attire for the grisly job at hand, Ray gave him the dim eye and said: “Hey, bud, I was asked to get over here as soon as possible with my photography equipment—I wasn’t asked to shave, shower, and have my hair done. So I hauled ass and this is what I happened to be wearing, okay? Before Doc called I’d spent my morning helping with kids and the fishing tournament. And I did a good job, too—not one of the little monsters got a fishhook in the ear.”

  Bruce’s response? A big grin and a knowing shake of his head.

  Appearances aside, Bruce did not hesitate to trust Ray’s skill with the camera: He might be incorrigible, but he took damn good photos.

  Lew knew that, too, just as she knew that Ray Pradt was more than just a guide to Loon Lake’s most productive “honey holes” for trophy muskie and legal limit walleye. Even as she had learned to value his tracking skills in the woods and swamps that surrounded the lakes in the region, she had discovered that he brought the same disciplined and intuitive eye to shooting photos, whether the grim details of a crime scene or the poetic outdoor vistas he captured for the annual calendar put out by a local insurance agency.

  So it was that over the last three years both Lew and Bruce had come to depend on the quality of Ray’s work—plus he worked as fast or faster than the crime lab’s own photo techs.

  “Hey, Doc, here you go,” said Ray as he handed him the black bag that held the paperwork and clipboard Osborne would need to complete Chuck Pfeiffer’s death certificate. He turned to Lew: “You want Doc to point me in the right direction, Chief? I’d like to get started before the light changes.” He glanced overhead where the summer sun was still high in the sky.

  “That’s great, Ray,” said Lew, “but Bruce isn’t here yet and even though Officer Martin has cordoned off the area we haven’t begun processing the crime scene, so put on some booties, watch where you walk, and keep a close eye on the ground just in case you come across something that doesn’t seem right. Know what I mean?”

  “Yep, I do.”

  “Doc,” said Lew, turning to Osborne, “after you get him started, will you meet me back up at the tavern, please? I want you there while I talk with Rikki and Charlotte.”

  “Whoa,” said Ray, “yo
u got both Pfeiffer women in the same room? Good luck with that.”

  Lew threw him a curious look. “Guess I’ll have to ask you about that later.”

  “And I will be happy to share,” said Ray. “Just so you know, in case Rikki sees me, I am not in her good graces.”

  “Really?” said Lew, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like you and I definitely need to chat.”

  Minutes later as Ray trotted after Osborne, two cameras hanging from his neck and a duffel stuffed with more gear slung over one shoulder, he said, “Doc, I still cannot believe this. Chuck Pfeiffer murdered? How does that happen?”

  At the sound of Ray’s words, Osborne experienced a flash of memory from a conversation that took place at least thirty years ago at a time when Chuck’s exploits in business and love had riveted most of Loon Lake. It happened over coffee at McDonald’s, which had just opened in Loon Lake and during a time when Osborne was getting to know the men with whom he would be sharing that early morning delight—safe from the discord of family life and before the demands of the dental chair.

  He couldn’t remember who made the remark, which was after one of the fellas had updated everyone around the table on the latest of Chuck’s bad behaviors. This one being his affair with the young wife of the son of one of Loon Lake’s most prominent families—the same woman who would soon dump her husband to become Chuck’s first wife. The speaker might be forgotten but his comment was memorable: “Why doesn’t someone just shoot the guy?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Rikki’s right about where she was before and after the awards ceremony,” said Charlotte, her sullen expression making it clear she despised having to corroborate her stepmother-in-law’s version of her arrival and activity during the final hours of the tournament. “Chuck insisted she be the one to give the winners their prizes this afternoon. He didn’t want to do it. Because she had to be up on the stage she would not have gotten back to the Pfeiffer booth until after three.