Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 01 - Headaches Can Be Murder (3 page)

Warmed up a little and nourished by the soup chased by a swig of whiskey, Chip returned to his computer to send Chapter One to Lucinda.

Sunday, November 14, 1:37 a.m.

Dear Lucinda,

Check the national weather. We are having a frigging blizzard here on the prairie. Phone and Internet service has been spotty. In addition, I had an accident. Just a 12-foot fall from the roof and a concussion, but not to worry, the book is coming along splendidly. Our fans will love this one. See attached.

Chip

Send. “Pray she buys your malarkey, Chipster.”

Chip powered down the laptop and shut the lid. He went to the sink and put some Dawn on a sponge and began to wash his dishes. The wind had been playing the house with an orchestra of sounds, but it suddenly died down and all was still. His ears picked up a new sound … first a whining sound and then a scratching that seemed to be coming from the backdoor.

A wild animal? What animals do they have in Iowa? Wolves? Coyotes? Bear?
Chip had no idea. No, it really sounded more like a dog.
Wild dog? Rabid dog?
He cautiously knelt down, opened the door a crack and came nose to nose with a golden retriever with frost on its muzzle and pain in its glazed-over brown eyes. The dog whimpered again, and Chip opened the door to let it into the kitchen.

The dog, along with a cloud of snow, fell on to the kitchen floor accompanied by a loud clanging. Attached to a metal collar was a heavy iron chain and at the end the spike that had once anchored the dog to something. Its coat was matted and clumped with frozen snow and ice. It lay motionless except for his heaving chest.

“That’s okay, fella, you’re safe now.” Chip stoked its head trying to say calming, soothing words. “Poor guy.” Chip shed his terry robe and draped it over the dog, gently rubbing at the snow and ice. The dog winced. He tried unsuccessfully to remove the collar and chain. The necessary tool might be in the shed, but he wasn’t eager to face the elements. It made him feel sick to think of what kind of person would mistreat a dog like this or any animal for that matter. He felt trapped and helpless, aware that he couldn’t do anything more for the dog until morning. He laid down on the floor next to the dog and went to sleep, but he was haunted by disturbing dreams of bodies of men and animals in the snow.

At daybreak Chip heard a distant rumbling, and struggling to wake up, he tried to identify the sound …
snowplow!
His eyes shot open, and he turned from his position to check the dog’s breathing. Less labored, still alive. He grabbed his parka, slipped into his snow boots and ran out the front door heading for the driveway. With each step he sunk into drifts of snow up to his crotch, finding it difficult to stay upright. Part way down the drive he saw the plow approaching and began to wildly wave his arms and shout.

The plow slowed, idled at the end of the drive and turned in, stopping just short of Chip. The driver stuck his head out the window to catch Chip’s words.

“Injured stray dog … got to get him to a vet.”

“Hop in the cab.”

As the plow cleared a path to the back door, Chip took the driver’s measure. The guy was huge, tall and solid with a reddish beard. He was wearing bib snow pants over a red-and-black wool shirt with thermal underwear visible at the neck and cuffs. No jacket, no hat, no gloves.

Once inside the house, Chip and the plow guy knelt by the dog and removed the robe. The driver ran his hands over the dog, checking each leg and the belly, all the while murmuring reassuring sounds.

“Name’s Iver,” the driver said.

“The dog?” Chip said, amazed.

The guy smirked. “Naw, I’m Iver. Don’t know this hound. Anyways, not a ‘he’ dog. This is a ‘she’ dog, a female, a female carrying a litter, if I ain’t mistaken. I don’t much like folks who treat dogs like this. You need to get her to Doc Swanson pronto. You got a vehicle in that shed?”

“Yes, a Volvo sedan.”

Iver stared at Chip and slowly shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Buster, you ain’t goin’ nowhere in a Volvo today. Take my advice and get yourself a decent half-ton with four-wheel drive if you’re gunna live around these parts. Let’s load her into the back of my cab, and I’ll take the two of you to the vet in town.”

Soon the three of them … man, dog, and giant … were barreling down the highway toward town, snow flying, engine roaring. Chip had never met anyone like Iver, much less conversed with him. For a long time he rode shotgun at a loss for words. Finally he made an attempt.

“Name’s Chip. I’m fairly new to Turners Bend,” he yelled.

“Yep, heard folks talkin’ about you over at the Bun.”

“The Bun?”

“The Cinnamon Bun Café. Some are sayin’ you’re some kind of a writer from out East. Others are suspicious, think you might be an undercover union organizer. Those guys are usually big thugs, so I’d say writer, right?”

He still had a hard time thinking of himself as a writer. It made him uneasy to think about what the people of Turners Bend were saying about him. Did they think he was as alien as he felt himself to be? Were they joking about him or ridiculing him?

“Well, I’m definitely not a union organizer. I’m surprised though that anyone would have even noticed me. I’ve been keeping to myself. But then I suppose you don’t get new residents in this town every day.”

A wry smile appeared on Iver’s face, and he glanced over at Chip. “We don’t get a newcomer every year, much less every day. You’re a rare bird.”

Chip liked to think of himself as fit and “deceivingly strong,” but next to Iver he felt puny. His rimless glasses and longish hair made him feel out of place in Turners Bend. “Rare bird” felt like an all-too-apt description. Wanting to avoid further probing and to change the topic, Chip asked, “This vet in town any good with dogs?”

“Best damn vet in Boone County, even if she is a woman. Born and bred right here in Turners Bend. Dad was a vet before her. Gal knows dogs, cows, horses, and chickens, even cats and birds, I’d guess. She’ll do right by your dog.”

“She’s not my dog. She just came to my door last night.”

“That’s what you think now. Just wait.”

Before Chip could argue the point further, the plow pulled up to a building at the end of Main Street. A small sign read: Veterinary Clinic. They entered and Chip surveyed the waiting room. The floor was covered with brown-speckled tiles. Around the walls were blue fiberglass molded chairs. Incongruously, Georgia O’Keefe prints decorated the walls. The phrase “decorator’s nightmare” came to Chip’s mind.

Iver carried the dog to the exam room, laid her on the table and called out, “Mabel, you got a patient here.”

“Hi, Iver. Church is over, so Dr. Swanson’ll be down at the Bun. I’ll phone her. She should be here in a jiffy,” said Mabel, the sturdy-looking woman of indeterminate age with a warm smile who emerged from a room at the back of the clinic. “Don’t worry, she’ll take good care of your dog,” she said with a nod to Chip.

“Got to get back to the plow,” said Iver as he departed.

The exam room gleamed with stainless steel … exam table, counter tops, instruments. The pungent smell of antiseptics made the hair in Chip’s nose tingle. On the walls were anatomical posters for large animals… a cow’s GI tract, the skeleton of a horse, a pig’s inner ear.

Chip’s preconceived notions of an Iowa farm vet were dashed when Dr. Jane Swanson entered the exam room. She looked to be a few years younger than his forty-six years. Her coppery-red hair was pulled back into a long pony tail, and her green eyes sparkled with energy. He was surprised by her size, five-foot-three at the most and probably less than 115 pounds. Her attractiveness stunned him and put him off balance for a few moments.

“I’m Dr. Swanson. Nice to meet you. Let’s take a look at your dog.” Her handshake was firm and strong.

As she approached the exam table, she saw the chain and spike. Her face turned toward Chip with fire in her eyes, and her mouth clamped tightly. Chip talked rapidly, explaining the circumstances and repeatedly stressing the “not my dog” part of the story. He watched as she lovingly, but thoroughly examined the dog.

“She’s had a rough go of it. We’ll start an IV with fluids and antibiotics and keep her here so we can watch her closely. I’d say the puppies aren’t due for a couple of weeks yet. Let’s check her for a microchip.”

“A what?”

“Many owners have a small, rice-sized microchip implanted in their dog’s shoulder under the skin. I have a scanner that can read the ID number off the chip. The number allows me to access owner identification data.”

The vet moved a handheld scanner over the dog’s shoulders. “Sorry, no chip. Truthfully though, I would not want to return a dog to anyone who chains it up like this. I’ll have my assistant Mabel call you with daily updates. If she pulls through and has the puppies, we’ll let you know when you can pick them up.”

“Them?” Chip croaked. “But she’s
not
my dog.”

“We’ll see. In the meantime, Mabel will radio Iver in the plow to swing back and take you home. I assume you’re the newcomer to Turners Bend.”

“Yes, I’m Chip Collingsworth. Thanks for all your help Dr. Swanson. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday.”

“Dr. Swanson was my father. Folks here call me Dr. Jane and you’re most welcome Mr. Collingsworth.”

Back in his kitchen Chip made a pot of coffee and sat in front of his laptop. He checked his email and found a response from Lucinda. It might be Sunday, but Lucinda was never far from her Blackberry.

Sunday, November 14, 12:32 p.m.

Chip,

Brilliant first chapter. All is forgiven this time, but I expect the full draft completed no later than May 1, so get humping, farm boy. I like the Brain Freeze title. BTW, Dr. Goodman is in need of some good sex, and don’t skimp on the details.

Lucinda

Chip opened his
Brain Freeze
file. He read the description of the body found in the snow and thought about brain traumas. What could have happened to this guy? His mind switched to the story’s location as he dredged up images and details about Duluth and Two Harbors from his memory of summer visits to his Uncle Edward. Ed had owned an iron ore barge company there at one time. He remembered the sensational murders at Glensheen; maybe he could work that into his story.

He couldn’t focus. The past twelve hours kept replaying in his head … the dog, Iver, the microchip scan, Dr. Jane Swanson … especially her. He wrote a list of words to describe Jane: professional, compassionate, clearly competent, stunning. Story ideas about a female character, a woman who would capture Dr. Goodman the way Dr. Jane had entranced him, began to form, then to percolate and finally to appear on the first page of the next chapter of
Brain Freeze
.

Chapter Four

Brain Freeze

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Dr. John Goodman shifted in his seat. Airplane seats were not built with his six-foot-three frame in mind. He set aside the file he was reviewing on the pull-down tray and looked out the window. His mind wandered as his eyes took in the cloud cover below the aircraft.

He had been surprised to hear about another case from his old friend, Mark Tinsdale. He and Mark had been college roommates and had stayed in touch, in spite of the different paths their lives had taken. John had gone on to med school and became a neurosurgeon. Mark had joined the FBI and married his college sweetheart. He had called John in to work on the Cranium Killer case last year, but John had thought that was a one-time thing. Now Mark needed his help again.

John smiled at the memory of Mark’s phone call, “We have a new case that I think you’ll be interested in. God knows we could use your help. And John? Grab your parka, my friend. You’re headed to the North Country.”

Mark made it clear that he wouldn’t be working with him on this case, however. Another agent, Joe Schwann, would be his contact person. Agent Schwann was based in Minneapolis, which had jurisdiction in Duluth, the location of the crime. Mark didn’t go into a lot of detail about the case, but had told him it concerned unusual brain trauma. Since John’s specialty was neurosurgery, Mark said that his insight would be invaluable.

John was intrigued. Truth be told, the timing couldn’t have been better. He needed a change. The last couple of weeks had been tough. One of his favorite patients, an eight-year-old girl with a dimpled smile, big blue eyes, and, unfortunately, a brain tumor had died the previous Tuesday. In spite of all his expertise, his degrees, his credentials, John was unable to save her. He felt responsible. Everyone lost patients now and then, but sometimes the loss hit him especially hard.

Doctors were always warned not to get emotionally involved with their patients. But, friends and colleagues insisted that it was his compassion that made John so good at his job. But damn if it didn’t feel personal sometimes.

On top of losing the little girl, his private life was a train wreck. Tanya, his girlfriend of the last two years had finally given up on him and moved out. John frowned at the memory of their last conversation.