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Authors: Mardi Oakley Medawar

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BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
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“She's just … gone, David,” Melvin whined. “When she didn't answer the doorbell, we broke in.”
“Just on the off chance that whoever shot her husband had gotten her, too, right?”
“Yeah!” Mel agreed, taking his cue from David as to why he had broken down the Boiseneaus' front door. A bit more confident now, Mel went on with his account. “The station wagon she drives wasn't in the driveway, but that didn't mean anything. She coulda been laying on the living room floor just as dead as her husband, and the killer coulda stole her car. So we put our shoulders to the door, and after we were inside, we had a good look around.” Melvin shook his head. “You wouldn't believe that place. Everything's so damn … neat. Kinda like folks didn't really
live there, ya know? The beds were all made, no kids' stuff laying around, no dishes in the sink.” Mel went quiet as he recalled the eat-off-the-floor quality of the Boiseneau home. Then he remembered the one thing out of keeping with the rest of the house.
Snapping his fingers, he blurted, “Hey, there was a covered plate of food on the kitchen table. Looked like Jud's supper. Kinda funny it wasn't in the oven. My mom always puts plates like that in the oven. So's the food'll stay warm.”
As interesting as this was, David was more interested in the preservation of any and all scenes and evidence. “Did you leave everything just like you found it?”
“Yeah. Except for the door, we sure did, boss.”
David turned his head away, thinking out loud. “If we can't locate the widow in an hour, I'll go over there and have a look at the house myself.” As if coming back to himself David turned toward Joey Du Bey.
Joey was his most reliable officer, which meant he could depend on him to think on his own instead of calling in for further instructions. Now there was a handy attribute. The pity was, David and Joey disliked each other. Their animosity was strictly personal and both did their best to leave it outside the office, but too often it just cropped up.
“Benny's missing too?”
“Oh, you know it,” Joey scoffed. “When I couldn't raise anyone inside his trailer house, I went over to Willard's.” Joey didn't need to elaborate further on the reasoning behind this move. Benny was a fisherman, the boat he worked off belonging to his cousin Willard. “I talked to Debbie,” Joey continued, meaning Willard's wife. “According to her, Willard's pretty pissed because he's got two gangs of nets
out and Benny didn't show up to help with the lifting.
“The next thing I did was take a drive to the high school. I took Benny's son and daughter out of their classes and drove them home. Ben's daughter Pearl used her
key.”
Joey emphasized the last word, intentionally pointing up the fact that he'd taken the preferred route of legal entry. “Pearl couldn't tell if anything was missing. Said she couldn't say if her dad had been home during the night or not. She did admit that she and her brother Darren had fixed their own supper and that their dad wasn't home when they went to bed about eleven. Pearl and Darren did insist that even though Benny's bedroom door was closed when they were getting dressed for school, they could hear him snoring. Then I asked if they thought he was sleeping regular or passed out drunk. The kids wouldn't answer me.”
David's eyes narrowed. “Benny's not a hard drinker.”
“He has been lately,” Joey countered. “I saw him in the Lanes a couple of nights ago. He helped close the place. And he was hammered, David. I'm talkin'
real
hammered.”
David leaned in, hollering at Joey. “And you let him drive!”
Joey answered just as loudly, his quick temper rising. “Your niece Tootie took his keys off him and drove him home in his truck while her boyfriend Mark followed in Tootie's car. It was all under control, David. I made sure of it.”
David at once regretted his outburst. Throwing a tantrum in front of his other officers was a sure sign of weakness or jealousy. Once upon a time, Joey Du Bey had been a friend. In fact, David used to tease Joey about looking so much like Johnny Depp. But during the last year, it was all David could do not to drastically rearrange Joey's moviestar
face. His tone flinty, he said, “What else do you have to tell me?”
Looking smug, Joey crossed his arms against his chest. “Just that I thought it would be better if Benny's kids stayed out of school for the rest of the day, so I left Rodney to keep an eye on them and to wait in case Benny turned up.” Joey canted his head, his eyes narrowing. “This is lookin' kinda bad for old Ben, eh?”
Both men were separately walking the same trail, remembering not only the gossip concerning Benny and Imogen Boiseneau, but also those occasions when concerned neighbors had reported sounds of violence coming from the Boiseneau home. There hadn't been much the police who responded to the calls could do because Mrs. Boiseneau had always flatly refused to say anything beyond “I fell.”
David remembered all of those pesky rumors linking Mrs. Boiseneau to Benny Peliquin. In the beginning, about a year ago, he'd treated the rumors as nothing more than good old rez gossip. Who wouldn't? Mrs. Boiseneau was half Benny's age and an attractive, university-educated lady. Benny Peliquin was as plain as Red Cliff dirt, a commercial fisherman and a widower with two half-grown kids. But the rumors had persisted, even intensified. And if Benny had been doing some hard drinking lately …
David stopped the thought cold. Sounding annoyed, he replied, “It's not looking that damn good.”
“Uh-oh,” Mel said. “They're here.”
All heads turned as a blue-gray car turned into the Council Office parking lot. Almost forty minutes past their stated ETA, the Bayfield County sheriff and deputies were finally on the scene.
“Five bucks says they got lost,” Mel offered.
No one covered his bet.
 
Michael wheeled into a vacant parking slot. The technicians piled out and were at the back of the car retrieving their work kits from the trunk before Michael had even killed the engine. Turning off the ignition, he looked toward the group of Indian policemen. Four wore navy blue shirts and trousers, gun belts, and regulation black boots. They were not wearing hats. Neatly trimmed dark hair glinted blue streaks everywhere the sunlight touched. The odd man out was the officer standing head and shoulders taller than the rest. He was wearing a policeman's shirt tucked into faded jeans, brown cowboy boots, and a navy blue Dukes baseball cap.
Go, northern bush leaguers,
Michael thought with a sneer.
“Looks like the gang's a-waitin',” Bothwell said. He opened the car door, preparing to heave his bulk out of the passenger side. “Yep, we got an ambulance, which means the M.E.'s on site, and over there stands our red brother cops, every one of them eagerly awaiting our wisdom.” Bothwell looked back over his sizable shoulder to Michael. His round face broke into a smile. “And if you believe that for a minute, I've got a mint-condition used car with your name ready to go on the registration.”
Michael placed a restraining hand on the other man's shoulder. “I took the call, so this is officially my investigation.”
“Oooh, I wouldn't forget that for a minute, son. In fact, just the heady anticipation of watching you play big-city
sleuth has me more excited than I've been in years. If I didn't know better, I'd have said I was damn near all atwit.” Bothwell exited the car, tree-trunk-thick legs transporting him toward the waiting Indians.
 
Generally, all the Bayfield County guys looked alike. Same height and build and uniform, same vapid expression. During his first month as police chief, David had quickly realized that Sheriff Bothwell broke the mold—maybe due to his sheer volume. It had come as a bit of a relief that Bothwell was basically friendly. That certainly made it easier for David to work hand in glove with the Bayfield County department. So as Bothwell, hand extended, lumbered toward him, a smile on his wide face, David stepped away from his officers, smiled, and accepted the outstretched hand. Then his attention was diverted by the blond deputy hurrying to join them.
David's first impression was that the newcomer was a Wisconsin Swede, the kind likely to begin each sentence with
Ya sure
or
You betcha.
The clencher was the deputy's smile. The guy had three dimples, two dead center in the cheeks and a third just below the curve of his mouth.
A Viking son, by golly.
The blond shook David's hand. “Good morning, Chief.”
“Police chief,” David replied coolly, retrieving his hand. “I answer to David or, if you prefer, Police Chief Lameraux.”
“A Frenchy in the woodpile, eh?” Michael was now unsure of what to do with his hand after the Indian had roughly extracted his own. He allowed it to drift slowly down, settle at his side.
David knew the guy was just trying to make a friendly
joke, but a man's ancestors were off-limits. Mentally David counted to five, then said casually, “Guess we're all a little Froggy around here.” David turned to Bothwell. “Doc Ricky's been waiting for you to show up. I think he's smoked about a pack and a half by now.”
Bothwell laughed, blithely ignoring the jibe that it had taken his department almost two hours to put in an appearance. “Hey, the doc's always at his best when he's stressed.” Bothwell turned to Michael and explained. “Doc Ricky runs the rez hospital. He's also the best M.E. in four counties. The only fly in the ointment is, the doc hates dead people.”
Michael's eyes were as blank as a cud-chewing cow's, but he nodded as if this information was useful.
Pushing the jacket of his suit back with his elbows, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, Bothwell asked of David, “Is Gracie La Rue still cooking over at the Lanes?”
“Last time I looked.”
Bothwell removed one hand from his pocket and patted the rounded belly straining the buttons of his regulation shirt. “Woman whips up the best breakfast in the world.”
David grinned. “Yeah. Order one egg, you get three.”
“Order an omelet, you get an even dozen.” Bothwell issued a rolling laugh.
David laughed with him, knowing that Sheriff Bothwell was more than able to handle two of Gracie's whoppersized omelets. “Talk to Doc Ricky first, then we'll get you fed.”
Bothwell turned to Michael, clapping a hand on Michael's shoulder as he spoke to David. “This here's Deputy Bjorke.”
Okay
, David thought.
He's not a Swede, he's a Norskie
(Norwegian).
“He's the man who'll be handling the investigation. I'm only the ride along on this one.”
Bothwell, watching the police chief's dark eyes, caught the snap of disapproval. The Shinnabe police chief now blamed Michael for Bayfield County's tardiness. And Lameraux was the kind of guy who would make certain a report on that tardiness was filed with the state.
Cool
.
Bothwell's smile widened. Despite the fact that he was famished, eager to sit down to one of Gracie La Rue's legendary omelets, the sudden prospect of watching the Indian cop lock antlers with the lieutenant governor's nephew promised to be terrific comic theater. The omelet could wait.
With a cheery cry of “Lead on MacLameraux,” Bothwell, with Michael beside him, began following David toward the courthouse. Bothwell nudged Michael. “Ya know, judging from the way the introductions went, I'd say you two young fellas are gonna get along just great.”
 
“You mean that crap Bothwell spouted was true?” Michael cried. “The M.E. really does have a phobia about dead bodies?”
David chewed the side of his cheek as he stared fixedly at the corridor's pine paneling. “What I'm trying to tell you,” he said, enunciating carefully, “is that Dr. Blankenship doesn't normally deal with violent deaths, but he does know forensics, so you're damn lucky to have him. My advice is, try very hard not to piss him off.”
Michael Bjorke wasn't very good at taking advice. Kneeling on the floor, his head less than an inch from Doc Ricky's, Michael examined the fatal wound to the victim's
forehead. The Ex-Tribal Attorney's entire head was covered with a clear plastic bag secured to the neck with tape. The doctor's gloved hands were pressing the plastic against the head wound, so Michael had an unobstructed view of it.
“The barrel was against the skin,” the doctor said.
Michael glanced at the M.E. “That close?”
Dr. Ricky nodded. “Oh, yeah. I need the microscope to place the barrel's depression for the purposes of technical evidence, but just with the naked eye you can see the gas spray.”
The blond man nodded as still on their knees they moved back from the body and each other. Doc Ricky began talking about types of gunshot wounds, bullet entrances and exits, shots at close range and long shots. Despite himself, Michael was enthralled. Never before had an M.E. actually talked to him. The M.E. in Madison had gone about his grim business, revealing little or nothing at all to the uniformed cops on the crime scene. A week later, the medical examiner made his final report to the detectives. And that was that. But this M.E. was a real motormouth, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke.
BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
12.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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