Dead Insider (12 page)

Osborne left the house early Monday on a hunch that Lew would be at her desk before seven. He was right. Not only was she was there, but the coffee pot was half empty.

“I thought I would finish my paperwork on the victim recovery yesterday,” he said, walking into her office. Lew glanced up. “Want me to work here,” he pointed to a chair in the corner behind the table, “or in the conference room?”

“In here, if the phone and the scanner don’t bother you, Doc. I just left a message over at the Inn for Lauren Crowell. I want to meet with her first thing this morning—”

As she was speaking, the phone rang. Lew picked up. “Yes, Marlaine, that’s fine. Put her through.” Lew signaled with her eyes that it was Lauren. “Morning, Lauren. Say, we had a development late yesterday that Dr. Osborne and I would like to discuss with you. How soon can you meet with us here in my office? Yes, the Loon Lake police located right behind the courthouse. The front desk will be expecting you. Thank you, Lauren.”

“What’s new since last night?” asked Osborne.

“Nothing yet. We’re waiting on the results of the samples that Bruce sent down south, and Ray will be spending today scouring the Ericsson property. In the meantime, I want to get a handle on anyone who may have been in that house Friday night.”

Lauren arrived within half an hour. “Sorry if I look bad,” she said as she took a chair beside Osborne in front of Lew’s desk. In fact, thought Osborne, she looked rested and relaxed. Maybe she thought she
should
look bad.

“Lauren,” said Lew, “a thorough investigation of Jane Ericsson’s house indicates that she died there sometime during the night Friday. We’re hoping you can tell us the names of any people—workmen included—who may have been in or around Jane’s house during the day or later that evening.”

“Let me think about this for a minute,” said Lauren, concentration wrinkling her forehead. “Well … you have me down in Madison, though I was in the house until around noon Friday before leaving to drive down. I don’t remember seeing any workmen around, though that doesn’t mean they didn’t come by later.”

“We’ve learned that Jane had plans to meet with a Mike Kelly that evening. Does his name mean anything to you?”

“Oh, that guy. He was a pest. He showed up at almost every rally. But Jane was due home so late that it doesn’t make sense she would have made an appointment to see him. I suggest you ask him about that—if you can find him.”

“What do you mean, ‘if we can find him’?” asked Osborne.

“He lives in his van, I think. I can’t imagine that he can be reached very easily—except by phone, of course. I can assure you, no one on staff has his number. We tried to ignore the guy. Like I said, he was a pest. And a nut case, in my opinion.”

“Anyone else, Lauren?” asked Lew.

The woman gave a heavy sigh and said, “Well, of course, that old frog next door might have tried something. She used to come in and out all the time, without knocking. Even though Jane tried to put an end to that, she may have found a way to get in.”

“You’re referring to Kaye Lund, I assume?” asked Osborne, his voice stern as a parent. Lauren’s snarky comments about Kaye were wearing on him.

“Were locks changed recently?” asked Lew.

“Yes. But that didn’t help. Jane often left her doors unlocked—especially when she was drinking. I got so mad at her for that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lew, “I think I asked you this before and forgot to write it down, but who did you say you had planned to stay with in Madison? Before you got the news about Jane.”

“Phyllis Cook. She’s a good friend who always has a spare bunk for me.”

“Would Jane have stayed there, too?”

“Heavens, no. She was to stay with the Winters at their home in Maple Grove. They were hosting the event on the pontoon. That’s why I wanted her to fly into Madison instead of spending the night up here. If only she had taken my advice, but no, she insisted on staying here Friday; said she was exhausted. May I ask what makes you so sure that Jane was … that she died in her home?”

“Sorry,” said Lew, “that’s confidential until I have all the results in. Doc, do you have any more questions for Lauren?”

“Will you be at the memorial service tomorrow?” asked Osborne. “Kaye told me it was scheduled for ten
A.M
.”

A wave of irritation crossed Lauren’s face before she answered. “Of course. I’m giving the campaign staff their final notices later today, so I’m sure many of them will be there, too.” Lauren stood up. “I have one thought, by the way. Our campaign got so much attention all these months that someone I never knew or saw might have targeted Jane. She was in the public eye so often, who knows what deranged person might have decided to …”

“Good point,” said Lew. “I’ll be in touch when we can allow you back in the house for the rest of your things.”

Early that afternoon, Bruce poked his head around Lew’s door. “Chief Ferris, got a minute? Just had an e-mail from my sister at the pediatric genome lab—the DNA samples all match. We have one victim. Just one.”

“What about the blood samples that you found at the Ericsson house?”

“The DNA in the blood is a match to the other samples. No question in my mind that that is where the Ericsson woman was killed and her body dismembered.”

“Have we heard anything from Ray yet?”

“Nothing new. He has laid out a grid pattern with ropes to be sure he works the entire area. Told me he’s hoping to finish before dark.”

“Well, you two,” said Lew, rocking back in her chair. “Looks like we’re stalled for a while.”

“Kenton texted me a few minutes ago asking if Dani has run the background check on Lauren Crowell yet,” said Osborne.

“Oh, right,” said Lew, sitting up fast. “My mistake—I forgot to tell her to run Crowell’s name along with all the local staffers through the NCIC. Someone broke into the pharmacy across from the sports bar during the storm Friday night, and she has been up to her ears trying to find current addresses for our local meth abusers. I’ll have her run that check as soon as she’s done with the other.”

Bruce checked his watch and said, “Say, guys, I don’t expect the pathology report on the victim found in the van for awhile. How about a couple hours in the trout stream?”

Lew’s face brightened then fell. “I can’t fit all three of us in my pickup.”

“I’ll drive,” said Osborne. “Bruce, did you bring your fly rod?”

“You must be kidding,” said Bruce with a pleased chortle.

In the thirty minutes it took Osborne to drive out to his place, change clothes, pack his fishing gear into the back of his Subaru, and drive back to the police department, Lew had changed out of her uniform and into dark green fishing shorts, a tan T-shirt, and her fly fishing vest. She and Bruce, also dressed for action in the water, were sitting on the stoop at the back door to the station as Osborne pulled up. After stowing their gear in the back, they scrambled into the car.

“Got waders?” Osborne turned sideways to ask Bruce. He didn’t have to ask Lew. She drove her pickup in to the department every morning, except in the dead of winter, with her gear (which included a half-inflated float tube and a bike pump) at the ready for fishing on a moment’s notice.

When Osborne kidded her for never leaving home without a fly rod, she would laugh and say, “Hey, when you live this close to water, you never know when you can snatch half an hour here or an hour there. No better way to take your mind off a day’s problems and let the old subconscious work.”

An excellent excuse, and maybe even true
, thought Osborne. After all, he liked to say he practiced dentistry so he could afford to fish.

“Yep, got waders, got a couple new dry flies, and a box of #16 Adams that I tied myself,” said Bruce, slouching happily in the back seat.

“We’re heading for my favorite stream north of here,” said Lew to Bruce. “It’s less than an hour away, in case something breaks on the investigation and we have to get back fast. But it’s also secret water that few people know about.”

“What stream is it?” asked Bruce.

“Secret Stream,” said Lew.

“Oh, all right, I get the message,” said Bruce with a pout. “It’s still so warm—do you think we’ll see any brookies?”

“Depends if there’s a hatch or not. This time of year, that’s iffy. The rain should have cooled the water down, but you never know. It is August, after all.”

Following Lew’s instructions, Osborne pulled off the highway and down an unmarked country lane before parking alongside some farmer’s fence. Moving quickly, they piled out of the car and grabbed their gear.

Ten minutes before Osborne and Bruce had finished threading their fly lines and tying on new leaders, Lew was ready: waders belted, fly rod in her right hand, polarized sunglasses perched on the curls crowding her forehead, and two boxes of trout flies tucked into her shirt pockets. She waited patiently before leading them down a narrow path to enter the water near a beaver dam that had been pulled apart by earlier visitors.

“This is when I love life,” said Bruce as he splashed into the stream. Osborne agreed. The afternoon sun was hot on their shoulders, but a steady breeze eased the heat. The water in the stream was running fast and clear, burbling around large boulders and spilling over shelves of rock and stone left by the glacier as it had carved its way through the Northwoods.

“No hatch,” said Lew with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t dinnertime somewhere.” She smiled. Hatch or no hatch, she was happy.

After forging upstream forty feet, Bruce made his first cast. “Oh, dear,” said Lew. “Do that again.” Bruce raised his right arm to send the fly line up, back, and forward where, instead of unfurling thirty to forty feet ahead … it puddled at his feet.

“Too much wrist,” said Lew. “I didn’t teach you that. And, Bruce, your back cast sucks—you got loops, when that line should flow straight back on a nice, level plane. And your stance … honestly, Bruce, you have picked up some bad habits. Watch me,” she said, “try to be more fluid in your movement. Even Doc back casts better than you.”

“Thanks,” said Osborne drily, though he was tickled with the backhanded compliment.

Lew waded into the middle of the stream to demonstrate. With her right arm at her side, she set her right foot slightly behind as she held her fly rod at a forty-five-degree angle, then turned her hips and shoulders, keeping her elbow firm and not elevated. The fly line whipped back and forth on a level plane until she stopped the rod abruptly, letting the fly line unfurl nearly sixty feet and drop her dry fly with such delicacy, there was not even a whisper as it landed.

“You got a better rod than I do,” said Bruce, sputtering. “You got that Joan Wulff-designed rod with the thumb groove.”

“No excuses, Bruce,” said Lew. “You can make a good cast no matter what rod you’ve got. Remember the three rules I taught you—or tried to teach you. One: if you’re right-handed, your right foot should be positioned to the rear. Bruce, that’s the first thing you forgot. Two: be sure your casting-hand thumb is positioned behind the rod handle. And three:
do not raise your elbow on the cast
. I know it’s counterintuitive, but think of keeping your elbow on a shelf that’s as high as your elbow—
no higher
. Okay, try again. This time, watch that wrist!”

Bruce tried, and tried … and tried. After half an hour, while Osborne busied himself casting further upstream, Lew finally said, “Better. You’re still letting that rod tip drift up too high, but it’s coming.” She sighed. “You will catch fish, Bruce, but you’ve still got a lot to learn. I want to see your casting improve.

“You, too, Doc,” she said, loud enough for Osborne to hear. “I want to see that back cast of yours parallel to the ground. All right, you two, I’m heading upstream. See you later.”

Each in their own world, they fished until dark. As the full moon rose through the feathery fingers of tamarack growing in the bogs along the rushing water, Osborne found himself in a section where the stream narrowed to less than ten feet wide. A patch of brush on one side held ripening wild raspberries. Even as he relished the thought of a luscious berry or two, he realized they would have more appeal to another denizen of the woods: a bear. Maybe a young bear. Maybe a young bear followed by a hungry wolf. Osborne knew he was letting his imagination get the better of him, but he was also hungry, and not a little fatigued.

At the sound of splashing, he caught his breath. But it was only Lew coming toward him, Bruce a shadow behind her. “Doc, have you had enough? It’s getting late. I’m afraid I lost track of time. Neither Bruce nor I had even a rise. What about you?”

“Nope, but no complaints. A beautiful night in the water.” He decided against mentioning his imaginary but worrisome bear and wolf.

After they packed up their gear and climbed back into the Subaru, Bruce said, “I’ve been thinking about that Lauren woman and your son-in-law’s comment that she may have been seen shoplifting—”

“He’s not my son-in-law,” said Osborne, interrupting. “Not yet anyway. Hopefully not ever.”

Lew gave Osborne a funny look. “Don’t hold back, Doc.”

“I don’t like the guy. He’s a bully. Anyway, Lew seemed to think that Christina, Ray’s friend who mentioned the shoplifting incident, was likely mistaken.”

“That may be,” said Bruce. “But I heard Kenton telling Dani that people tell you who they are, who they
really
are, in unexpected ways: comments, gestures. That’s what I like about my work at the crime lab: I keep an eye out for the little stuff, the off-kilter detail that gives it all away. I’m always learning, and I like that.”

Lew turned to look back at Bruce. “Okay, then, student—if you’re so smart, what are the four phases of fishing?”

Glancing up at his rearview mirror, Osborne saw Bruce grinning as he said in a singsong voice, “I know. Phase One is when you want to
catch
a fish. Phase Two is when you want to catch a
lot
of fish. Phase Three is when you want to catch a
big
fish. And Phase Four is …”

At that they all chimed in together: “…
when you just want to be able to fish.”