Death Stalks Door County (11 page)

Cubiak lingered at the window, his back toward the others. The top of Falcon Tower was directly in his line of sight. One week earlier Larry Wisby had tumbled off the observation deck, making him the first of six people to die in seven days. One murder and two deaths were officially ruled accidents. That morning, three tourists were killed under gruesome circumstances. Cubiak focused on the different greens of the forest to avoid seeing the red of blood. He assumed most of the assembled officials would be unwilling to recognize the crisis they faced and instead would favor interpreting the recent events as a continuation of bad luck. From their perspective, that was the only option that made sense, and without any hard evidence to the contrary, who was he to argue? He was an outsider and if he disagreed with their assessment, he'd be dismissed as a troublemaker.

Door County was known for charm, not murder. Fifty thousand visitors were expected over the next couple of days; this first batch would be followed by waves of tourists right up until school started. Some came to sample the wondrous place they'd heard so much about. For others, a Door County summer vacation was an annual tradition. Year after year, generations of families rented the same cottages or campsites, hiked familiar trails, and told their well-worn stories. Spring and fall and even winter drew people to the area but summer was the season that defined the peninsula, and summer would proceed normally if the people gathered in the library didn't overreact.

The meeting was scheduled for four. At a quarter past, Beck blew into the room. Reaching past Ruby, he poured a cup of coffee and grabbed a cookie. “I've given the situation considerable thought,” he said as he moved to the head of the table. He set the mug down in front of the empty chair but remained standing, forcing the others to look up at him.

“We proceed as planned,” the civic leader announced brusquely. His eyes on his audience, Beck paced the room and tested the waters, striving for a conciliatory but controlling tone. “If we curtail activities or cancel, people will panic. We don't just destroy this year's festival, we threaten the entire season and put a black mark on the peninsula that will endure for years. We can't afford that.” Beck's voice tightened, emulating the economic noose closing around their necks.

“I know this morning's tragic events are hard to reconcile. But we must act responsibly. The hiker's death was accidental. Horrific, but an accident nonetheless. Who would shoot an arrow through a human being, for God's sake? It was probably some stupid tourist aiming at a deer. We all know about the deer problem in the park.” The comment fell flat.

“The bikers, well, it's harder to see but it had to have been the result of a prank gone awry. Nothing else makes sense . . .”

“Frederick Delacroix, Timothy Anders, Suzanne Pithy,” Bathard spoke, interrupting Beck. “The victims have names. Let us at least have the decency to acknowledge them as individuals rather than identify them with labels.”

The group squirmed and several of those at the table exchanged anxious glances. Beck listened politely and glanced in the coroner's direction. Then he continued blathering on, his manner growing increasingly folksy. “We all know that people come up here and put their brains in their back pockets. Nothing against tourists, but they do pull some pretty crazy antics. I remember the time those kids from UW paddled through the canal in barrels. They could've all been drowned. Stupid piss-ant stunt like that. They did it on a dare. Floyd, that's before your time. But Les, you remember?”

Caruthers bobbed obligingly, a minnow gumming the bait.

“It's probably the same kind of thing that killed those two,” Beck went on. “Someone's idea of a practical joke. Only it went tragically wrong.”

“That's a big assumption,” Bathard interjected.

“But a legitimate one nonetheless.” Beck pulled at his cuffs. When he spoke again his tone was deliberately light. “Like I said before, people go on vacation, they put their brains on hold, don't think things through. Leo's got several men combing the campgrounds now, asking questions. This'll all be cleared up by evening. Tomorrow at the latest.”

There was a strained silence.

Beck looked directly at Bathard. “Well? Do you agree or disagree?”

The coroner stood. He had the advantage of age, height, and dignity and brought all to bear in his response. “I will say for the record that I disagree. I would even go so far as to suggest we consider calling in the FBI if it seems necessary.” At the mention of the agency, panicked looks flew back and forth across the table. Bathard went on unperturbed. “I also acknowledge that, unfortunately, my suggestions most likely will not make any difference.”

Beck smiled. “Of course, if it seems necessary we will consider all options, no matter how extreme they might be.”

“I say we stay the course.” Caruthers cast his vote with his usual smug bravado.

“Yes. We have many other guests. We must not forget our obligation to them,” the gentleman from Fish Creek said.

Ephraim's administrator concurred. “The best approach is to continue as usual.”

The Sturgeon Bay mayor, a man handpicked for the office by Beck, voiced his assent.

As Bathard sat down again, Ruby Schumacher raised a hand. “I vote with the majority but only with the understanding that adequate steps are being taken to ensure the safety of both guests and residents alike. You have taken precautions?” she said to Beck.

“Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “Leo's deputized twelve extra men to monitor festival activities, and I've got a half-dozen private security guards coming in from Milwaukee. They'll be in plainclothes with orders to blend in with the crowds and keep a careful watch on things.”

“Good,” Ruby said and sat back in her chair.

“And you? What's your take on all this?” The chief cheerleader bounced the ball across the room to Cubiak, turning all heads in his direction.

The ranger raised both hands in a mock gesture of helplessness. He would not be drawn in to their argument.

“Floyd?”

“Never give in to terrorists,” the newsman blurted. Beck hesitated only as long as it took for Touhy's meaning to sink in. He wasn't going to argue with a non sequitur that bolstered the tally in his favor.

“Leo?”

To Cubiak's surprise, the sheriff didn't seem eager for the spotlight.

“I'm not real sure about the nature of the deaths,” Halverson said, directing his attention to a picture of Sitting Bull. A row of perspiration formed across his brow. He cracked his knuckles. “I mean, I'm sure you're right about keeping the park open. Just not the reason.” The sheriff grimaced and chanced a fleeting glance at the kingpin of Door County. “I mean, I think there's another explanation and that we can get at it probably by the end of the day.”

“Go on.” Beck's voice was barbed ice.

“I think it's more of Petey's buddies. Reinforcements, like. I spotted a gang of them this morning on their bikes—big fucking Harleys and such—maybe ten or twelve guys roaring toward the park. I know how these punks think. They figure if someone gets killed while Petey's in jail, then he's in the clear. So they do this to help their friend out.”

Beck feigned interest. The adolescent theory played into his hands, and had other advantages as well.

Halverson pulled his shoulders back smartly. “I think I ought to go out to Kingovich's again with my men and poke around. No telling what I'd find.”

“And the park?” Beck led him on.

“Ain't nothing more going to happen here now. The park stays open.”

“No.” Johnson lumbered to his feet. “It's not your decision.”

“Hell it's not!” Beck shot back.

“You have no jurisdiction over the park.”

“The fuck I don't. I run the damn advisory board.”

“The park should be closed immediately.” Johnson took a deep rattling breath and looked around, settling his gaze on the sheriff. “I have the authority to order you to vacate the grounds,” he said.

Halverson shifted uneasily but Beck came to his rescue. “You do that and folks will be mighty unhappy.”

“This is not a popularity contest,” Johnson boomed.

Beck gripped the back of his chair. “Everything's a popularity contest! The park, the festival—everything.” He gestured at Cubiak. “Ask your junior ranger over there about politics in the big city. Ask Les. Ask the fucking town reps.” Beck stabbed his finger toward Johnson. “You don't understand anything, do you? Never did. Never will. You fucking mess with this park, you tell the sheriff to close it up, and I'll be on the phone to the governor so fast it'll make your head spin. And then you see what happens.”

So it came to this, Cubiak thought. A standoff between established enemies. A power play with the outcome obvious from the start. And another public humiliation for the park superintendent.

His hands curled into tight fists, Johnson lurched toward Beck. Although the forester was taller and on his own turf, Beck was more fierce, more adept at getting his way. After a moment's silent confrontation, Johnson crumpled. Stifling a sound that was half sob and half groan, he dropped his arms helplessly to his sides and fled from the room.

Beck quickly dispensed with the remaining business. Halverson was to check out his theory about Petey's friends. Touhy would see to it that the
Herald
would print a minimum of information about the deaths, attributing all three to accidents. Caruthers would issue a terse statement to the same effect to the merchants. Cubiak would initiate no announcements to park visitors. Nothing on Twitter or Facebook. Should anyone press for details, the official line was regret over the unfortunate events. The bottom line: no comment pending further investigation.

“I'll ask the state medical examiner to assist with the autopsies. With the holiday that buys us enough extra time until—bingo, festival's over. No problemo.” Beck gave a snappy salute. The meeting was adjourned.

B
athard trailed Cubiak into his office. “What are you going to do?” the coroner demanded.

Cubiak didn't answer.

“Something must be done. Surely you realize that with your experience, you can be of tremendous assistance.”

“I can't do anything,” Cubiak said.

“Can't or won't? You have a responsibility.”

“I have my own problems. I have nothing to offer anyone here!” Cubiak slammed his bandaged fist on the desk. “What's it matter anyhow?” he said, blanching as he turned away. He'd meant the response to sound inconsequential but in the abrupt silence, it rang harsh and forlorn.

“What's it matter?” Bathard rose to his full height. Though his voice was strained thin with despair, it remained rich in authority. “More often than we think, a great deal.”

C
ubiak woke with a bad feeling and an even worse hangover. Dragging himself from bed, he tried to burn away both afflictions with a punishing hot shower. He knew Bathard was disappointed with him. Wasn't everyone? He'd fallen far short of his mother's expectations, failed his wife and daughter in the worst possible way, and walked out on his partner. Malcolm had meant well, sending him to Door County, not realizing that it was Cubiak's fate to be a major fuck-up.

Toweling off, the ranger caught his blurred image in the clouded mirror. He'd become slovenly and dissolute. A broken man, like his father. If failure was destiny, then Cubiak had fulfilled his.

Engulfed in gloom, he descended to the kitchen. Johnson's upturned mug was already in the drainer, a stern, silent affront. Ruta frowned and slapped a ball of dough on the counter. After brushing flour from her hands, she shoved a steaming mug at him.

“You drink,” she said. Her comment was either a directive or a bitter critique of his behavior.

“Yes, I drink,” Cubiak said and swallowed a mouthful of scalding coffee.

L
ate for rounds, he skipped eating and chain-smoked three cigarettes. Driving through Peninsula Park was like playing dodge ball with human targets. Enthusiastic day visitors streamed in through the entrance, their vehicles piled with picnic supplies and weighted down with bikes and kayaks. Happy campers thronged the park's overnight facilities. Their tents and awnings and tarps fluttered open and transformed the forest into a sparkling kaleidoscope of shape and color. The park as playground. Precisely what Johnson loathed.

Eight days earlier Larry Wisby had died at Falcon Tower. Terrible as his death was, it had been eclipsed by more recent events. Ultimately all six deaths were overshadowed by Beck's single-minded determination to save the festival and the summer, a decision the other officials embraced with little hesitation. A mistake? Surely. And yet, Cubiak grudgingly admitted, the county depended on the tourist economy; hysteria served no good purpose.