Dead Renegade (17 page)

“A disappointing day,” Lew said. “But maybe seeing you and spending a little time on the water will improve my mood.”

“I promise you it will and now—if you’ll grab your fly rod, I’ll get your gear and we’ll head down to the dock,” said Osborne. “I have the canoe ready with a few surprises inside.”

As they rounded the house towards the walk down to the water, Osborne noticed her face had fallen. “Lew, what has you so down? Too much time around Mr. Schradtke?”

“Quite the contrary. He wasn’t at his mother’s, which is where he is supposed to be living. She didn’t know where he might be and, in fact, had not seen him since he left yesterday afternoon with his brother, Ron, and a friend of theirs. ‘Off to drown a worm’ is what they told their mother. You believe that?”

“No sign of his car I take it?”

“Nope. Nothing. No basis on which to get a search warrant to search his mother’s house. That’s for sure. Kind of a dead end.”

“Has he violated his parole by not being there?”

“Tough call. I asked his mother to call me when he shows up. We’ll see. The woman definitely shows signs of dementia. Then Ray called. They located the boat that hit C.J.’s jet ski. It had been abandoned two lakes up the chain—pulled up on shore near an empty cabin. I’ve got Todd checking it for prints but I doubt we’ll find much. Ray said it looked like whoever it was wiped it down before leaving it.

“He stopped by the resort that owns the boat. Because it’s their ski boat, they keep it full of gas and ready for use on these summer afternoons. Their ski instructor was on his lunch hour when it was stolen. Some kids who were swimming said they saw a pickup drive down to the dock and drop off the guy who took it.”

“Can they identify him?” asked Osborne.

“Ray wasn’t sure. They’re little kids—six year olds. Not the best eyewitnesses, but then the worst witness is the
eye
witness anyway. Haven’t I learned that the hard way.”

“Well, sweetheart,” said Osborne, slinging one arm across her shoulders as they walked down to the canoe that was tied to the dock, “are we ready to set work aside and enjoy the evening?” He held the canoe steady for her to climb in.

Seconds later, they were gliding over the water. The frustration clouding Lew’s features gave way as she scanned the surface for signs of feeding insects. These were the moments Osborne loved to watch—the dark beauty of her eyes, the excitement she radiated as she rigged up her fly rod and puzzled over the absolute correct dry fly that might entice a trusting bluegill.

“I thought we’d go up a new ‘secret passage’ this evening,” he said, using the phrase his daughters had coined to name the small, lovely streams that fed into Loon Lake from the surrounding wetlands. “I’ve never taken you up this one stream that runs down from the northwest. For once, the water is high enough for us to scoot through the culvert that runs under Dragon Fly Road. Good cold water up there.”

“You’re in charge, Doc,” said Lew, resting her paddle across the bow of the canoe as he paddled. The evening was still. Only a hint of a breeze—more like breath on a pane of glass. A great pink sun was beginning its descent in the west. “I love the colors in the sky right now,” she said, her voice relaxed and soft. “Lavender and mauve.”

“Mauve?” said Osborne.

“Mauve—I had an aunt, my mother’s sister, who was an English teacher, and that was one of her favorite words. She wrote poetry.”

A shriek from somewhere ahead pierced the calm. Lew straightened up. Osborne stopped paddling. “Sounds like a great horned owl just scored a rabbit,” said Osborne.

“Listen,” said Lew. “Hear the splashing?” As she spoke two kayakers paddling furiously came into view. A man and a woman whom Osborne guessed to be in their forties. They wore swimming suits and baseball caps and appeared to be out for an evening of leisurely kayaking—except for the terror on both their faces.

“Excuse me,” said the man in the front kayak. “Do either of you have a cell phone? We have to call the police.”

“I
am
the police,” said Lew, “Lewellyn Ferris—I’m with the Loon Lake Police Department. What’s wrong?”

“We found part of a dead body,” said the man, taking off his baseball cap and wiping sweat from his forehead. “My wife did. She looked in this pail back there. It’s awful—”

“Back where? How far back?” said Osborne.

“Back not too far, around a couple bends,” said the wife. “Just … a head. I mean the thing in the pail is a human head.” She choked as if trying hard not to throw up.

“Wait here for us, will you, please?” asked Lew. “No, wait, why don’t you paddle out onto the lake, and about halfway down the shoreline you’ll see a light pine shed close to the water. Dr. Osborne’s dock is to the left of that. Please paddle down there and wait for us.”

“The door off the deck is open if you need anything,” said Osborne, “and the dog in the yard is friendly.”

“And, please, don’t call anyone until we return,” said Lew. “We don’t need everyone glued to their police scanners crowding into Dr. Osborne’s driveway.”

Two bends later, they came upon an ancient railroad trestle over which ran a snowmobile trail. Hanging off a large nail hammered into one of the wooden supports was a beat-up metal minnow bucket with its lid tipped to one side.

Osborne edged the canoe close to the minnow bucket and Lew got up onto her knees to peer in. “Oh …” she said and backed away fast. “Doc, your turn.”

Staring down, Osborne wondered if Bobby Schradtke’s eyes were colder in death than in life. He doubted it.

CHAPTER
24

N
ot even the rocking chair squeaked as Edna Schradtke sat hunched and silent with her eyes closed. A slight shake of the rosary beads clutched in one gnarled hand was the only movement. Osborne and Lew sat on the sofa to her right, waiting.

Finally she tipped her head slightly to the right and said, “Chief Ferris … tell me how it happened. Was he beaten? You know,” she took a deep breath, “his father beat him as a boy. Is that how he died?”

“We don’t know,” said Lew, answering the question for the third time. She remained patient. “I have officers at the scene gathering what evidence we can find, and when we know, I’ll tell you. Right now, it is critical that we find your other son, Ron. As far as we know, the two of you are the last people to have seen Bobby.

“Ron may be able to help us find out who killed your son—or he may be in danger himself Please try to remember if they mentioned where they were going, who they were with …”

The old woman rocked slightly in her chair. “People don’t understand Bobby. I’m leaving him the house, you know.” She opened her eyes and gazed around the room. “He’ll be happy here.”

“Edna,” said Osborne, getting to his feet and walking over to place a hand on her shoulder, “do you have other family members we can call to help you out this evening? You need someone here. Now. We can’t leave you like this.”

“For heaven sakes, why?” she said. “No family. My brother died last year. But I’m fine. The boys will be home any minute. They take care of me just fine.”

“Who lives next door, Edna?” asked Osborne, realizing the woman’s short-term memory was hopeless. Likely the shock of hearing of Bobby’s death didn’t help, even though Lew deliberately withheld the details. “Do you know your neighbors?”

“Of course, I know my neighbors. June Fisher is a dear friend. You know, she lost her husband just a few months ago.”

Lew motioned to Osborne and left the living room. He heard the front door close, followed by a murmur of voices. He waited as Edna rocked back and forth, humming. Then he heard the sound of the door opening, and Lew walked back into the room along with a tiny, older woman in a light green bathrobe, her white hair in pink curlers.

“Mrs. Schradtke,” said Lew, “June is here to help you out. Maybe you should stay at her place tonight?”

“I heard the sad news about Bobby, hon,” said the neighbor, bending over Edna. She glanced up at Lew and Osborne. “Edna’s short term memory has been a problem for quite a while, Chief Ferris. We keep an eye on her whenever Ron is gone. I’ll see what we can do for her this evening.”

“She said you lost your husband recently?” said Osborne, wondering if this small person in her bathrobe had the strength to help Edna who was at least a foot taller.

“No, not me. Luther is fine. I’m sure the shock of the news has Edna even more confused.”

“We’re trying to find out where her son, Ron, might be,” said Lew. “We think he is the last person to have seen his older brother. Do you have any idea where he goes? Is he always gone for days at a time?”

“Heavens, no, he’s the one who really takes care of his mother. But it
is
Saturday night. Maybe he’s out with Kenny? They work together, play cribbage at Kenny’s place some nights.”

“And who is Kenny?” said Lew.

“Ron’s pal, Kenny Reinka. Lives out by the cemetery. Raises sled dogs.”

Leaving Edna’s house, Osborne reached for his cell phone to call the one person who knew everyone—and their personal business—in Loon Lake. “Ray, you know a man by the name of Kenny Reinka?”

“Kenny Reinka? Sure do. Quiet fella. Real short. Why?”

“Where’s he live?”

“Up behind the old cemetery at the end of Fawn Road. Why?”

“Just a minute,” Osborne lowered the cellphone: “Lew, Fawn Road—down at the end.

“Okay,” Osborne said to Ray, “but I just have a minute. Here’s the situation …” After giving a quick rundown, he listened to a question, then said, “No idea. Severing the head like that—the loss of blood is so severe I don’t have the expertise to make any kind of guess as to how long ago it would have happened, but Lew and I both have reason to think it’s been within the last twenty-four hours … yes … Todd Martin is at the site where we found Bobby—or that part of him anyway,” he added.

“He’s securing the area and the route in so forensics can work it in the morning. Lew has a call in to Wausau but she could use your help, too.”

“Of course, but—”

“Not a word to anyone until we know more.”

Lew tapped Osborne on the arm, “Ask him to drive out to Curt Calverson’s—check on the place, see if Calverson’s home, ask him if he’s seen or heard anything unusual. But call ahead and let him know he’s coming.”

“I heard that, Doc. I’m on my way. Watch out for Kenny’s dogs—those are big puppies he’s got.”

With Lew at the wheel, the Loon Lake police cruiser sped down Lincoln Street, over the new bypass and onto the county road leading to Kenny Reinka’s place. No lights, no siren.

Osborne threw a quick glance into the back seat, making sure his 20-gauge was secured by the seat belt. It was.

It was midnight when they started up the rutted drive in front of the small house. A clear sky and the glow of a high, bright moon outlined the two-story house perched at the top of a slow rise. A series of five small huts lined the drive all the way up to the house and beside each one Osborne could make out the dark, hulking shapes of huskies hunkered down in the warm night air. He hoped they were chained.

“Open your door slow, Lew,” he said, “I’m worried about those dogs.”

“We’re not stopping here,” said Lew, swinging the steering wheel to the left as she drove up onto the grass. She had switched on the cruiser’s searchlight and its beam picked up a car backed into the woods off to the left of the rear of the house.