Death Stalks Door County (2 page)

Dressed in his brown ranger uniform, he drank again and headed for the wide walnut staircase at the front of the house. In the vestibule, his rubber soles squeaked on the black-and-white tile floor. Cubiak glanced up at the noise and caught his reflection in the ornate leaded-glass mirror on the wall, the only piece of original furniture left in the defrocked building. The image was startling. His face was gaunt and lined, his coarse dark hair dusted with flecks of gray. Cubiak had always enjoyed a boyish appearance, but like so much else his youthful good looks had eroded, lost to grief and alcohol.

The radio room was a converted closet behind the stairs, quarters so tight that Cubiak instinctively hunched as he dialed the CB to the emergency channel. He remained in that position, pitched forward, as he waited for the sheriff 's office to patch him through to Leo Halverson.

“What? What?” the sheriff yelled over the buzz saw that screeched in the background. “I got a goddamn tree down on Town Line Drive. What are ya calling about?”

The saw stopped abruptly. Cubiak ran through the particulars.

“I'll tell Beck,” Halverson said and signed off.

The note on the index card taped to the wall instructed Cubiak to say “Roger and out.” He scowled and flicked the switch to Off. Next door, in Johnson's office, he finger-walked through the superintendent's Rolodex to the coroner's home number.

The connection went through on the fourth ring. “Hello. You have reached the Bathard residence . . .” The recorded greeting was concise, formal. Cubiak left a message.

At the Emergency Services Department, a woman with a scratchy voice told him that both Sister Bay ambulances were out but that she'd send one up from Sturgeon Bay. “Fine. No hurry.” Cubiak dropped the receiver into the cradle and stared out the window at a stand of white pines.

The trees took him back to his first visit to Door County. He'd been a scrawny, ten-year-old city kid, a charity-case Boy Scout stunned by the immensity of the forest. Set free in a world of woods and water, the young Cubiak had imagined himself in paradise. Later, as an adult, after he'd lost everything, it was those childhood memories as much as the urging of his former police partner that drew him back again.

He hadn't expected to find death among the trees. He hadn't anticipated the condo communities and full-service resorts that had spread like a rash on the land. Even the scout camp had been sold to developers who tore down the heavy canvas tents and erected three-story townhouses in their place. The ranger job wasn't what Cubiak had bargained for either. He'd been hired as Johnson's assistant and assured that his duties would keep him outdoors and behind the scenes. Equipment maintenance and grounds keeping were to be his purview.

From the start, however, Johnson made it clear he didn't want or need any help caring for the park. “My park,” he'd called it. He installed Cubiak in the front office with orders to handle reservations and to draft a backlog of reports for the Department of Natural Resources. Mostly, the stubborn older man ignored his new employee, barely exchanging a civil word. If it weren't for his promise to Malcolm, Cubiak would have quit after the first few weeks. When he came north, he agreed to try the job and the new location for one year. At the very least, he would keep his word to his friend.

F
rom Jensen Station, Cubiak took the long way back, following the route that carried him past the Nature Center and the meadow where wild lady's slippers had erupted in bright yellow earlier that spring, past the lowland marsh favored by deer and the grove of quaking aspen near the entrance to Turtle Bay Campground. He noticed none of it, and was aware only of the hum of the tires on the pitted roadway and the need to keep his eyes from shuttering, even for a second.

Door County was a spur of land that jutted at a northeast angle between Lake Michigan and Green Bay. If the state was like a mitten, the peninsula was the thumb and the state park a swollen knuckle that bulged out into the turbulent, cold waters of the bay. Like much of Door County, the nearly four-thousand-acre park sat atop the Niagara Cuesta, a horseshoe-shaped bluff that originated in upper New York State where it gave rise to the famous falls. Extending west from there, it skimmed the upper rim of the Great Lakes basin and then arched downward into Wisconsin on a ridge of cliffs that in some spots reached heights of one hundred and fifty feet.

Along the highest rise, Cubiak pulled into a scenic overlook, lit a cigarette, and stared out at the mist-shrouded water. The dead man may have lived nearby, in the direction of his gaze even. Was he a frequent tourist or a first-time visitor? Somewhere out there his family was going about its usual business. Reading the morning paper. Reaching for another doughnut to enjoy with a second cup of coffee. Cubiak imagined them getting the call. Their initial response would be stunned and protesting. No, there must be a mistake! Dull acceptance would come slowly and in its own time, seeping into their collective consciousness. Like him, they would spend the rest of their lives wishing they could undo the day's events, wishing they were God.

C
ubiak chain-smoked through the pack. When he finished, he collected the butts and swung the truck onto the pavement. At the tall wooden tower, he steered onto the narrow shoulder and coasted to the front bumper of a black Volvo station wagon.

For a moment he regarded the trio on the other side of the road. They were lined up like fence posts.

Farthest from the tower, in the adjacent clearing, superintendent Johnson inspected a jumble of upturned picnic tables.

Next was Leo Halverson in jeans and a red-plaid shirt. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, the sheriff stood alongside a mud-spattered jeep on the spit of gravel between the picnic area and the tower and inspected a handful of small items spread across the hood, probably the victim's personal effects.

A gray-haired man knelt over the body. Cubiak assumed he was the coroner, Evelyn Bathard, whom he'd not yet met.

Each of them, park super, sheriff, and coroner, claimed a long family legacy on the peninsula. Unsure of his role as the newcomer, Cubiak slid from the truck and trudged across the road, completing the tableau of four tall men at Falcon Tower.

Johnson ignored him. The sheriff gave a quiet snort of recognition. Prior to that morning, Cubiak had encountered Halverson twice but only briefly. Both times the sheriff exuded a jovial, easy-going air, but today he came across as a scared kid dumped inside grown-up skin.

The ranger continued past him toward the man at the tower. “Doctor Bathard? Dave Cubiak. I phoned for the ambulance.”

“Good.” The coroner's voice was heavy. He glanced up. His face was etched with fatigue. His creased khakis were caked with dirt. He rose with effort and patted his right-hand pocket. “I've taken quite a number of photos. Sufficient, I believe, for the circumstances. Would you mind?” Bathard pulled a pair of latex gloves from his left pocket and held them out to the assistant park superintendent. “I'd like to turn him over.”

Cubiak stiffened.

“What's the matter, Dave? Ya must've seen worse than this,” Halverson taunted from behind.

“Leave him alone,” Bathard snapped. Then, quietly, he added, “Truth is you never get used to it.” Cubiak took the gloves.

The dead man's jeans were slit at both knees and his quilted nylon jacket was torn above the left elbow. It was hard to avoid looking at his face. The eyes were wide with terror and the thin lips distorted by fright. Gravel had scraped his nose and cheeks but beneath the bloody gouges, the skin was clear and unlined. He was a young man. Too young to die.

“Well?” Halverson said.

Bathard took a step back. “I don't believe I've ever seen him before.”

As he pocketed the gloves, Cubiak walked past the sheriff. “Not roping off the area?” he said without thinking.

“Nah, that's just TV stuff,” Halverson drawled, then, on second thought, looked around puzzled. “Should we?”

Cubiak reached the road. “Only if you're on TV.”

Halverson colored. “Otto!” he called. “Questions. You found him, making your rounds. So you were first out this morning?”

“No. He was.” The park superintendent pointed at Cubiak.

The sheriff whirled around. “What were ya doing out here so early?”

“I run.”

“Oh. See anything?”

“No.”

“Hear anything?”

“A sound.” He didn't want to talk about seagulls. “Someone singing maybe.”

“Singing?”

Cubiak looked past the sheriff into the trees. What kind were they? He knew so little about the forest. “Could have been a boat radio. Or the wind,” he said.

“Right. Sound travels far out here.” Halverson hiked up his pants. “Well, looks like a sure case of suicide to me.”

“Or an accident. Wet wood can be treacherous,” Bathard said.

Cubiak waited for one of them to suggest homicide. But neither did, and he wondered if murder was considered too unseemly for Door County.

Halverson brandished the victim's wallet in the air. “Anybody know this guy? Name's
Wisby. Lawrence Wisby
. He's from Illinois.” The sheriff pronounced it
Ill-a-noise
.

Despite the damp cold, a layer of sweat crystallized on Cubiak's neck. Nausea roiled his gut. He imagined the others watching him, but when he looked, the coroner was again kneeling next to the body and the sheriff was grilling Johnson for details of the gruesome discovery.

Church bells pealed, drowning out what they were saying. The bright blaze of noise ricocheted through the trees, prompting the four men to stare in the direction of Ephraim. It was Sunday and clear from their shared look of surprise that each of them had forgotten. The clarion sound persisted for several minutes and then diminished in slow, measured steps.

In the uneasy lull, Cubiak spoke.

“I recognize the name. Wisby. Lawrence Wisby.” He swallowed hard and when he went on, the words came fast, as if they were toxic and had to be spat out quickly. “His brother killed my wife and daughter.”

A stunned silence followed. They hadn't known, Cubiak realized, not even Johnson.

The story hadn't made its way across the state line, though it was major news throughout the Chicago metro area. William Wisby, a convicted felon with an arrest record for robbery and assault as long as the devil's tail, had been out on parole less than ten days when he stole a car and went on a drunken joy ride that ended in the deaths of the beautiful wife and impish daughter of one of the city's top police detectives. For more than a week, reporters and even a few persistent paparazzi dogged Cubiak day and night, eager to mine his pain for their gain. “How does it feel?” one of them had asked. Cubiak remembered taking a swing at the guy.

In the shadow of Falcon Tower, Halverson broke the spell. “I'll be dammed. Ya knew him. What do ya think he was doing here?” he said, scratching his chin.

Before Cubiak could reply, Bathard spoke up. “Dave did not say he knew the dead man, Sheriff. It's important to keep the facts straight.”

“The fact is, there's a connection.”

“Tentative,” the coroner insisted.

“Yeah, well, we'll see.”

The sheriff frowned in a look of smug concentration. Cubiak pictured him connecting the dots, making a case out of conjecture.

Whatever conclusions Halverson drew, he kept to himself. Suddenly animated, he scooped up the victim's wallet and ID and began barking out orders. “You, stay where I can find ya,” he said, pointing at Cubiak. “You wait for the evidence technicians and ambulance,” he told Bathard. Then to Johnson, “You ride back to the station with me. I need a statement, and a piece of Ruta's pie.”

The sheriff 's taillights pulled away down the hill, leaving Bathard and Cubiak alone. Despite himself, Cubiak turned back toward the body. “
He's
not the one who should be dead,” he said.

“You didn't recognize him?”

“No. He must have been in the courtroom at the trial, but . . . no.” Cubiak looked away. “Do you have a blanket? We should cover him.”

They used a patched, gray throw from Bathard's trunk.

“I forgot to thank you, before for . . . ,” Cubiak said as they moved back toward the road.

The coroner put up a hand to stop him. “I was only doing my civic duty. Our esteemed sheriff has been known to shortcut his way to conclusions.” He paused. “Not the best circumstances under which to meet, I'm afraid.” Bathard glanced at the tower. “This thing's been here some fifty years; I doubt there's been more than a cut lip from a slip on the stairs all that time. It was built as a forest fire observation post originally.” Rain glistened on Bathard's hair; his anorak was soaked at the shoulders. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and tapped the bowl on the heel of his hand. “By the way, what do you think happened to the jacket?”