Dead Renegade (3 page)

“Yeah, Dad, don’t hold back,” said Erin. She tipped her head to look at him, “Dad,
what
is eating your shorts today?”

Osborne gave her the dim eye. She winked back. Pursing his lips and saying nothing, Osborne pointed the two women in the direction of the cabinet. Following behind, he said, “I don’t mean to be unkind, Catherine, but you know what they call the guy who graduates at the bottom of his class in med school, don’t you? M.D.”

“I understand,” said Catherine, “Dr. Pecore is not your favorite person.”

“This is true. Drives me nuts taxpayers have to pay for his incompetence.” Dumping on Pecore boosted Osborne’s spirits enough that in spite of what he knew would make him a better person, he decided to deliver a full dose: “You heard about the dogs, right?”

“The dogs?” asked Catherine, stopping to turn a puzzled look his way. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Well, that razzbonya was letting his golden retrievers hang out in the autopsy lab. Think about that for a minute. Think how families of the dearly departed like to hear someone they love has been nuzzled by canines.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Catherine.

“Darn right it is,” said Osborne, letting the rant relieve even more of his frustration.

Erin, who had heard the story numerous times, listened with a grin on her face. “Don’t stop now, Dad,” she said.

“I’ve said enough,” said Osborne, catching himself from saying more with a sheepish smile.

“What Dad hasn’t said is that Pecore got the job and keeps the job because he’s married to our mayor’s wife’s sister. Local politics trumps taxpayer rights every time.

“On the other hand, if Pecore weren’t such a screw-up, Dad wouldn’t be the dental forensics go-to guy for Chief Ferris—and for the Wausau boys. Right, Dad? It’s in your best interest that Pecore Velcroes his butt to a bar stool. Means you get a second career as a part time odontologist—and a girlfriend to boot. Right?”

“Now the girlfriend part I
have
heard,” Catherine said, with a chuckle that proved that even at the age of eighty-six one is never too old for good gossip.

“All right, Erin,” said Osborne, “enough of this or I won’t help you ladies get your furniture out of here.” He stared down at the oak instrument chest before glancing up at his daughter. “Think you and I can manage to move this ourselves?”

Picking up one end of the cabinet, Osborne was surprised to find it lighter than he expected. Erin grasped the other end and together they lifted it easily. “Okay,” said Osborne, “but set it down for a minute. One thing I have to do before we move it—do you have your cell phone with you?”

“Sure, Dad, but where’s yours?”

“Out in the car.”

“Dad, are you kidding me? You’re supposed to have it with you all the time—isn’t that why the Loon Lake Police Department pays the bill?”

“Erin,” said Osborne, adopting the tone he used when she was a youngster who had to be reminded to brush her teeth, “I’m wearing my pager. That’s enough electronics for one man.”

“Not if he’s a deputy police officer. D-a-a-d, you need to carry that phone. This is an excellent example why. Right now, right here.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right,” said Osborne, the crankiness of the morning descending again. He had deliberately not worn the phone so that he wouldn’t be tempted to call Lew and pester her with questions that were none of his business. Questions like ‘Does this homebuilder jabone have all of his own teeth? Has he any concept of a fly rod? Maybe he’s allergic to fresh air. Maybe he’s too out of shape to wade …’ Questions that were none of his business for sure.

“Now—can I make the call?” He held out one hand.

With a shake of her head and a grimace of exasperation, Erin reached for her cell phone, which she wore attached to her belt. She tossed it to Osborne.

CHAPTER
5

M
arlene, on the switchboard in the Loon Lake Police Department, answered his call. She listened then said, “Doc, Chief Ferris is in meetings with probation officers until one p.m. I can patch you through if this is an emergency.”

“Use your judgment, Marlene. The victim isn’t going anywhere fast, believe me. But this is a skeletal remain, it is human, it is in a place of business and I do need direction on what to do next.”

Seconds later, the voice that lifted his heart no matter the frustrations of their relationship came on the line: “Yeah, Doc, Marlene said you found a body at Nystrom’s shop? An accident? What’s the story?” Lew’s tone was clipped and urgent.

“Not a body, a human skull—but it’s been here a while. Years from the look of it, Lew, so no reason to leave your meeting and rush over. I just need to know how to handle the situation with Bart Nystrom. And, Lew, this may be nothing. Could be part of a cadaver from a medical school—”

“But it is human, right?”

Oh, yes, I am sure of that.”

“Okay, Doc. Tell Bart to close up shop and not let anyone in until I can get there, which won’t be until around two or a little later. Make it clear that order includes Bart as well.”

“Last question, Lew. Erin’s client found a cabinet that belongs to her and she wants it back. It’s in a section of the storeroom a good distance from the skull. Is there a problem if I help the ladies move that?”

“If moving it doesn’t damage the chain of custody for any evidence related to the other finding, I see no reason why you shouldn’t. Are you available to meet me out there later?”

“Certainly.” Now came the familiar rush of guilt tempered with a light heart. Crime scenes might be sad scenes for most people, but not for Dr. Paul Osborne. Not only did they give him an excuse to stay current with forensic dentistry and the profession he had loved—but they promised more time with a woman he wished he could see every day.

Osborne handed the phone back to Erin, saying, “Thank you, hon. Let’s you and me move that cabinet and then I have bad news for Bart.”

Bart’s face morphed into a crimson moon when Osborne told him to close up shop. Without saying a word, he spun around and headed for the door to the basement. Storming down the stairs, he paused to hit a light switch that illuminated the storeroom quite nicely.

“Wonder where
that
was for the last two hours,” mused Osborne as he hurried after Bart who was bumping and shoving his way through dust-burdened, rickety stacks of chairs, headboards, dressers and tables.

“Where the hell is that thing?” said Bart, his big head swinging back and forth as his eyes scanned the back of the storeroom. “That rug in the corner—that it?”

“I wouldn’t go there, Bart,” said Osborne. “I relayed Chief Ferris’s instructions: do not touch anything until she gets here. This may be a crime scene.”

“The hell it is,” said Bart, pushing the tall armoire so hard it tipped sideways onto a nearby desk. He stared down at the rolled up rug and the skull on the floor. “Goddamn bear skull is what you’re lookin’ at. My old man had some taxidermy crap that he couldn’t get rid of so he stored it back here.”

Osborne understood Bart’s reasoning: the skeleton of a bear so closely resembles that of a human being that local game wardens and law enforcement officials anticipate several calls a month from hikers or hunters convinced they’ve stumbled onto a dead body. Ninety-nine percent of the time the bones are bear, not human.

Before Osborne could stop him, Bart had yanked at the rug, rolling it back to expose a jumble of skeletal remains.

“Bart!” Osborne reached for the man’s arm, which he held tight, “don’t move another inch or you’ll find yourself under arrest.”

The two men stared in silence at the contents of the rug. Whoever it was did not appear to have arrived in one piece. The interior of the old rag rug was stained black in the areas surrounding the bones. Time had not erased traces of decomposition.

Ohmygod—what the hell
is
this?” said Bart, backing away from the grisly display, nausea knotting his face.

Relieved that the antique dealer was willing to step back and not disturb anything further, Osborne didn’t answer. He had his own questions: Had a human being been dismembered? Body parts shoved into this rag rug to decompose?

He spotted a tag on one end of the rug and bent to read it.

“Hey, Bart,” he said, “this may help—looks like the tags got the name of the person who gave your father the rug to sell.” As Bart reached for the tag, Osborne grabbed his arm for a second time, “please don’t touch that. Could have fingerprints.”

“Doc,” said Bart, straightening up and shoving his face into Osborne’s, “what is it with you? You’re not a cop—you’re a retired dentist. So just keep your nose the hell out of my business. You hear me? And forget closing my shop. This is tourist season—I have people stopping in …”

“I hear you, Bart. But if you’ll take a minute to listen to me, I’ll explain things. No, I am not a police officer, but I am deputized by the Loon Lake Police Department to assist with the forensic investigations on any unnatural deaths.”

“Whaddya talking about? That’s Pecore’s job.”

Osborne resisted the urge to punch the guy in the nose. He took a deep breath before answering.

“I do the dental exams.”

“So—” said Bart, planting both hands on his hips before waving an arm at Osborne, “Go off and do a goddamn dental exam and leave me alone, will ya?”

“Bart …” Osborne kept his voice firm, “before helping the ladies move their cabinet, I took a good look at this skull.”

“And …?” Bart challenged.

“Bears do not have gold fillings, son. Doors closed until two this afternoon.”

CHAPTER
6

H
uman confetti dotted the steps of Erin’s front porch: a vivid blur of yellows, blues, greens and orange-reds scattered among the t-shirts, shorts, blue jeans, baseball caps, sneakers and shorts. If Osborne hadn’t known it was time for lunch, he would have thought it was already the Fourth of July—with his grandchildren and the neighbor kids waiting for the parade to begin. As it was, they were just waiting for their mom and peanut butter sandwiches.

On the bottom step, tossing a neon green beach ball back and forth with his best friend Ben, was Cody, the youngest of Osborne’s grandchildren. Nearly four and the only boy in the family, Cody was as blond as his mother, as slender as both his parents, and already one of the tallest boys in his class.

Two steps above Cody sat Beth, age twelve, and as fair-haired and fair-skinned as her brother—except for the lavender eye shadow, darkened lashes and scarlet cell phone glued to one ear—hints of teendom already vexing her parents. Two neighbor boys, Ben’s older brothers, were hunkered off to one side of the porch intent on a handheld video game when they weren’t stealing glances at Beth.

Nearly hidden behind Beth was a figure unfamiliar to Osborne: a young woman with a peach fresh face and shoulder-length blond hair pulled tight into a ponytail. Dressed like a runner in a tank top, shorts and sneakers, she sat on the porch step with her knees bent, one arm cradling the shoulders of eight-year-old Mason.

As Osborne got closer to the crowd on the porch he could see that his youngest granddaughter had been crying.