Dead Rapunzel (2 page)

“Uh-oh,” said Lew, pushing back her chair, “I knew the day was going too well. Marlaine, Officer Roger Adamczak is on duty this morning. Will you please call him and tell him to meet me there? I'll need the coroner, too. Pecore's wife will answer, so try to find out if he's still sober. It is before noon, isn't it?”

“I know the drill,” said Marlaine.

Following the dispatcher out the door, Lew paused. “Dani—you get anything, call my cell ASAP, and don't say a word to Butch until you talk to me.”

“Will do, Chief.”

Osborne was slipping the last tax document into a manila folder when the cordless phone in his kitchen rang. He checked caller ID before picking up. This was one morning when he would rather talk to his accountant than listen to some politician plaguing the line with “robo” calls. But the name on his phone was familiar.

“Mallory,” he said, “if it's not critical can I call you back? I have a ten-thirty appointment with my accountant—”

“Sure, Dad,” said his oldest daughter. “We can catch up later. Just wanted to let you know I've taken a new job up north and hope you don't mind that I'm moving in with you until I get my own place. So, my old room, okay?” And she hung up.

Osborne looked down at the phone in his hand, stunned.
Mallory moving home?

That changes my life, he thought. And just when he and Lew had settled into a cozy rhythm of spending nights at one another's homes. Hmm. He loved his daughter, but . . .

As he drove into town, Osborne puzzled over Mallory's news. How on earth could any company in the Northwoods (sometimes referred to by people from the cities as “the backwoods”) of Wisconsin possibly pay his daughter the kind of money she was making as a senior vice president for a Chicago marketing firm? Could there be a man involved? Divorced over a year now, his daughter had lonely moments, he knew.

As he neared the intersection by the hospital, Osborne's cell phone rang. “Doc?” It was Lew, sounding peeved. “Pecore and his wife decided to take a spring break early and he forgot to leave word, of course. They're in Fort Myers with their daughter, who just had a baby, and I have a poor soul who has just been flattened by a logging truck in the middle of town. How soon can you get here?”

“A fatality?”

“Let's just say injuries too severe to survive. Hope you haven't just eaten.”

“I'll swing back to the house for my instrument bag and see you shortly.”

After executing a U-turn, Osborne called the accountant's office to apologize for cancelling at the last minute. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but I just got a call from Chief Ferris, who needs me to help with a fatal traffic accident. I'll drop off the documents and call later to reschedule, if that's all right.”

“Certainly, Dr. Osborne. Dennis will understand,” said the secretary.

Osborne knew he would. Dennis, like many of his fishing buddies who had not yet retired, envied Osborne a lifestyle where every day could be a great day for fishing. They were also impressed that his interest in forensic dentistry had opened the door to helping the Loon Lake Police as a deputy coroner whenever Pecore was indisposed, which was often given Pecore's favorite pastime: being over-served.

But they were more impressed with Osborne's familiarity with the chief of the Loon Lake Police. At least he hoped they didn't know everything.

Osborne pulled into the parking lot beside the Grizzly Bear Café. An ambulance and two police cars were blocking the street. Grabbing his instrument bag, he hurried over to where Lew was huddled on the curb in front of the café entrance. Even in her heavy winter parka, lined deerskin mitts, and insulated boots, she looked cold.

“This won't be easy, Doc,” was all Lew said, pointing ahead and to the left, her breath a cloud in the bitter air. Osborne looked in the direction she was pointing, then away. He caught the eye of an EMT waiting nearby, who nodded in understanding. What was left of the individual who had been hit was difficult for even the most experienced of first responders to stomach.

“Do we have any identification of this . . . woman?” asked Osborne. The wheels of the truck had crushed the head, masking any identifying features. Not even the jaw remained intact and Osborne was sure a dental ID might be difficult if not impossible.

It was the clothing—a shearling coat, a bright blue scarf, traces of a wool sweater, and burgundy fleece leggings on the only extremities not damaged—that made it obvious the victim was female.

“The only positive news, at least for our work, is that on impact the victim's purse flew a good forty feet into the snow bank up a ways, so we have her driver's license,” said Lew, “and her cell phone.

“Name is Rudd Tomlinson. One of the waitresses knows her. Said she had breakfast at the Grizzly Bear Café every morning—same time, seven days a week. Said she was married to the late Philip Tomlinson. I'm not familiar with anyone named Tomlinson, so I'm not sure whom to notify, but I'll get started on it as soon as you finish, Doc. Then the EMTs can move the remains to the morgue.”

She turned away and lowered her voice. “The driver of the logging truck is in bad shape. I had Roger take him into the café to stay warm and get some fluids in him before he goes into shock.”

“Poor guy,” said Osborne. “I can't imagine how he must feel. Not sure how helpful this will be, Lew, but I knew Philip and his first wife. I was not aware he had remarried. He died about two years ago, and I know that only because it was in the alumni newsletter that I get from Campion, the Catholic boarding school where we both went. Philip was at least five years ahead of me. He was not a young man when he passed away, so his children must be in their thirties.”

“Do you know whom we should notify?” asked Lew. “Children, other relatives?”

“Not sure,” said Osborne. “I do know that Philip and Caroline were summer residents for many years. They had a family compound up on Thunder Lake, just this side of the boundary between Loon Lake Township and Newbold. Generations ago the Tomlinson family made a fortune in barbed wire.”

“I appreciate the history, Doc, but I need names and phone numbers. I've made a quick search of her wallet, which I found in the purse, but there's nothing in it except charge cards and cash. I need next of kin.”

“I realize that,” said Osborne, closing his eyes to think. “Bear with me. I'm trying my best to remember . . . Okay, I treated one of the Tomlinson daughters for a broken tooth and she had an unusual name like Sybil or Sinclair or . . . Look, I'm sure I have the family records at home, so I can check for those as soon as we are finished here.”

“That may be the best we can do for the moment, but it will help,” said Lew. “One more reason to be nice to you.” She touched him lightly with her left elbow, so lightly no one else observing the scene of the accident would have noticed but enough that Osborne's day brightened in spite of the grim business ahead.

“If it's okay with you, Chief Ferris,” he said, stepping into his role as deputy coroner and talking loudly enough for the half dozen bystanders to hear, “I'll take that driver's license and initiate completing the death certificate so the body can be moved. Damn cold standing out here.”

Looking down at the information on the driver's license for the victim, Osborne was surprised to see how young she was: only forty-seven? Maybe he was wrong about Philip Tomlinson. If he were still alive, that guy would have been in his late sixties. Could it be that she was married to a Philip, Jr.?

As he recorded the details that an insurance company would need—location, estimated time of death—he could feel his fingers freezing in the stiff wind. He would leave it for a pathologist to make an official confirmation of the cause of death, which would be attached to the police report of the accident. Given the weather, he was thankful that the condition of the victim required only a visual exam.

Minutes later he was able to join Lew and Roger in the warmth of the Grizzly Bear Café. Roger Adamczak was the older of Lew's two full-time Loon Lake Police officers and not a man given to subtle observations.

A struggling insurance salesman, Roger had been in his early forties when he decided law enforcement was the way to simplify his life. He made the mistake of assuming the toughest duty in a tiny town like Loon Lake might be writing tickets for expired parking meters: a no-stress guarantee of a nice pension.

Then Lewellyn Ferris was promoted to chief and Roger got assigned to patrolling for drunk drivers. Too often the drunken motorists were former clients who did not appreciate Roger's new role: raising instead of lowering their insurance premiums.

But once an insurance salesman, always one. Whenever there was an accident—whether traffic, construction, or boating—Roger could be heard expounding on liability issues, which was what he was doing as Osborne walked up to the café counter. Like an excited grouse eager to attract the ladies, the officer had fluffed his feathers and was making loud noises.

“Ah baloney, that driver is lying,” said Roger, his voice easy to hear throughout the small café. “He's just saying that to avoid the logging company getting sued, Chief. Jeez, his family probably owns the operation, y'know. He's got to—this could mean a million-dollar lawsuit. And it'll take years to settle. You just watch.”

“Roger's questioning the driver's story,” said Lew with one eyebrow up. Having inherited Roger from her late predecessor, it was only because she had a good heart and knew how critical the pension was to him that she hadn't booted him from the force years earlier.

She held a finger to her lips as a man emerged from the restroom and approached them. The driver was in his late twenties and wearing soiled, rust-colored Carhartt overalls under a beat-up, olive-green parka, with bulky driving gloves jammed into ripped pockets. His color was ashen, and Osborne could see his hands trembling.

“Bob, would you please tell Dr. Osborne what you saw this morning—before the accident. He's our deputy coroner and will need your information to complete the death certificate.”

Osborne got the message: Lew wanted his take on what the young man would say. Previous collaborations had taught them that each listened to people with a different ear. Osborne's years of practicing dentistry had trained him to listen for hints that a patient's problems might originate somewhere other than their teeth. Lew listened with a woman's intuition: a knack for recognizing the emotions underlying statements—or withheld to hide a truth.

When they compared what each had heard—or thought they'd heard—the results could be startling.

“Of course,” said the driver, his body sagging into a chair at a nearby table. He ran his fingers through his hair and heaved a sigh as he said, “Dr. Osborne, I'm Robert Sittell but I go by ‘Bob.' I've been driving for my father's logging operation for ten years. Never had anything like this happen before. Never. We have our vehicles inspected annually, brakes are good—”

His voice shook as badly as his hands. “I was coming down Main Street here, just like yesterday. Not going too fast 'cause it's icy, w-a-a-y icy out there. I saw the woman standing on the curb just fine, y'know. Fact is, she's been standing there every morning these past few weeks. I come through on the way to Wausau five days a week.

“So this morning I'm like almost to her when this old guy comes from behind the building—on the south side by the driveway—and pushes her out in front of me. No way I could stop. Well, I
could've
hit the brakes, but I'd still never have been able to stop without hitting her. You know how long it takes to stop one of these mothers?”

He gestured toward the front windows at the truck, which was now parked nearly half a block down from where he had hit the woman. “I pulled over as soon as I could without jackknifing and taking out the whole goddamn block.”

“You saw someone push her?” asked Osborne.

“I swear.” Off to one side, Roger gave a disbelieving shrug.

“Officer?” A teenage boy wearing an apron who had been standing behind the café counter, listening to the driver's story, raised a hand so Lew could see he wanted to say something.

“Yes?” she asked, turning toward him.

“He's right. I saw an old man running in that direction right before the accident. Saw him out the window here. When I heard that truck's brakes, I was sure it was the old guy got hit.”

Lew sat quietly for a long moment. She turned to Osborne. “Doc, go stop the EMTs, would you please? Tell them no moving the body yet. Roger, you call the highway department. I want the road closed two blocks in both directions. They'll have to reroute the traffic.” She punched a number into her cell phone.

“Marlaine, please call Officer Donovan and tell him I'm sorry but he'll have to come in now. We have a crime scene to work.”

Lew was savoring a final sip of hot coffee when her pager buzzed. She reached for her walkie-talkie. “Yes?”

“Chief, Officer Donovan just arrived. Okay for me to head out now?”

Sitting beside Lew at the café counter, Osborne could hear the anxiety in Roger's voice and he sympathized. Tasked with keeping cars away from the four-block stretch that Lew wanted cordoned off, Roger had to be freezing: Roadblocks do not come with space heaters.

“If the DOT boys have the ‘detour' signs up, you're free to go, Roger. But before you do that, ask Todd to meet me here in the café, would you please? And thanks for putting in the extra time this morning.”

A grudging “yep” could be heard.

Within minutes, Todd Donovan, thirty years Roger's junior and a dedicated marathon runner, appeared in the doorway of the café. In spite of his youth and health, and even though the walk to the café was only a block from where he had parked his squad car, the officer's cheeks were bright red above his buttoned-up parka. Lew beckoned for him to pull over a chair. “Need something warm to drink?” Todd nodded with appreciation as a cup of hot coffee appeared.