Vermilion Drift

The last vanishing was different. It was a white woman. A rich white woman. A woman who attended Mass at St. Agnes. Who volunteered her time on the library board. Who saw to it that her husband contributed lavishly to the campaign to build a new community hospital in Aurora. Who walked down the streets of town recognized, admired, and envied.

  She disappeared on Labor Day weekend, when the sumac in Tamarack County had turned blood red and gold was beginning to drive out green along the branches of the aspen trees, and the air of late evening and early morning carried a chill bite. That Monday morning her husband reported to the sheriff’s office that she was missing. She’d been missing nearly two days by then. Her husband said she’d driven to Duluth for a fund-raiser. She’d intended to come home directly, but she’d been gone two nights. This wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she got it in her head to drive places, a kind of wanderlust, but he hadn’t heard from her, and he’d grown worried. The search went on until almost October, but no trace of her could be found, not even her car. Like the other women, she seemed to have been swallowed by the air itself.

  Her name was Monique Cavanaugh. She was the mother of the woman who, forty years later, lay decomposing on the cool stone floor of the Vermilion Drift.

  When Cork finished his story, Dross said, “But if these are the women who vanished in nineteen sixty-four, that would account for only three of the older victims. What about the other two here?”

  “I don’t know,” Cork said. He looked to Upchurch. “How soon can you tell the age of the bones?”

  “Not until after I get them into the lab to examine them.”

  “Will you be able to tell if they’re white or Ojibwe?” he asked.

  “Once I’ve done scans of the skulls, my computer ought to give me pretty accurate facial reconstructions. But I’ll tell you this right now. I’m pretty sure they’re all female.”

  Larson asked, “How do you know?”

  “The pelvis. Much larger in the female. Also some of the cranial features. The ridge above the brow, for example. It’s much larger in males. Same with the jawbone. Sometimes race can make a sexual determination difficult; from what I’m seeing, that’s not a problem.”

  “Ed, do you think it’s possible whoever put the other bodies here also dumped Lauren Cavanaugh’s?” Dross asked.

  Larson shrugged. “Anything’s possible. We’ll know a lot more after we’ve processed the scene.”

  “Then we should get started,” Rutledge said.

  Cork stepped back. He’d forced himself to return to that wretched place, and he’d stood it as long as he could, and now he felt desperate to get out. “This will take you a while,” he said. “I’m headed up top.”

  Dross said, “I’ll go with you. Ed, keep me informed.”

  “Will do,” Larson replied.

  Dross and Cork walked back to the sink and crawled their way up the passage to the clearing. As they approached the top, Cork heard a loud, familiar voice, clearly in the midst of an argument. When he pulled himself out of the sink, there stood Isaiah Broom looming like an angry bear over Guy Simpson, one of Dross’s smaller deputies. As soon as Broom saw Dross emerge from the hole in the ground, he stormed in her direction.

  “I want to know what you’re doing on our land,” he said.

  Dross planted herself between Broom and the sink and gave him an iron reply. “We’re here conducting a lawful investigation, Mr. Broom.”

  “You’re on Ojibwe land.”

  “This is a crime scene, and we’re the law, even on the rez.”

  Which was true. Public Law 280, passed in 1953, gave all reservations in the United States the right to choose the agency that would provide them with law enforcement regarding major crimes. Many reservations had gone with federal law enforcement. The Iron Lake Ojibwe had chosen the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department.

  Broom pointed toward the sink. “Whatever that is, it’s on our land. I have the right to go down there.”

  “When it’s no longer a crime scene, you may do so. I don’t know when that will be.”

  “The People have a right to know what’s going on.”

  “They will. In due time.”

  He glared at Cork. “Chimook,” he said, as if he was spitting phlegm. He turned and stormed away across the clearing.

  Dross said to Cork, “I think we’ll need a twenty-four-hour watch on this scene until we’re finished processing it.”

  Cork stared at the huge retreating form of Broom and said, “I think what you’ll need is a bazooka.”

  NINE

  Marsha Dross offered Cork a ride to his Land Rover, which was still parked in the lot at the mine office. The traffic from all the official vehicles had broken a clear path through the underbrush, which Dross followed to the perimeter fence. She drove the fence line to a gate that opened onto an old mining road on the west side of the complex and that was guarded by one of the Vermilion One security guys, who gave a two-finger salute as they passed through.

  When they reached the Land Rover, Dross killed the engine of her pickup and sat a moment staring through her windshield.

  “We’ll need a positive ID of the body,” she said without looking at him.

  “Max Cavanaugh,” Cork said. “I was supposed to see him tonight, have him sign an agreement for my investigation.”

  “Where?”

  “His place.”

  “What time?”

  “Six.”

  She looked at her watch. “It’s almost six now.”

  “Guess I won’t make it.”

  “I hate this part of the job.”

  “What? Talking to me?”

  She smiled. Finally.

  “Have one of your deputies do it,” he suggested.

  “Is that how you handled things?”

  “No.” He stared through the windshield, too. “So I guess you don’t want me talking to Max until after you’re finished with him?”

  “Yeah,” she said. Then: “Have you ever dealt with anything like this?”

  “Possible multiple homicides spread over nearly half a century? Hell, probably nobody has.”

  “Five women and now a sixth.”

  “If it is the Vanishings, only four are female for sure.”

  “Agent Upchurch seemed pretty certain they’re all women, Cork. I’m sure she’s right.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Instead of answering, she said, “That sink you found is on Ojibwe land.” She swung her gaze toward him, and he knew without her saying a word what she wanted and why she’d offered him the lift. “I’ll need to talk to folks on the reservation,” she said. “I could use your help.”

  Although he’d helped with investigations in the past, had done so ever since leaving the department, this time he balked, and for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate. There was something about the situation beyond its complete bizarreness that dug at him, and he wasn’t sure at all what that was.

  “I’ll think about it and give you a call. Right now, I need to get something to eat.”

  “Two of those women were Ojibwe,” she said.

  “Probably more,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  He pulled the door handle and let himself out. “We’ll talk,” he said.

  He drove home to Gooseberry Lane. His house was a simple two-story place that, with his wife and the kids and the dog, had always felt comfortably full. Now there was only him and the dog. Trixie had spent the day in the backyard, tethered to a line that was connected to her own little doghouse and that let her roam without running loose. When she saw Cork, she greeted him with barking and eager leaps and a tail that beat like a metronome gone wild.

  “Hey, girl,” he said, “bet you’re famished. Makes two of us. Let’s see what we can rustle up.”

  He poured dry dog food into a bowl, and Trixie plunged her muzzle in and chomped away greedily. Cork opened a can of tuna taken from the pantry shelf, mixed in some mayo and pickle relish. He sliced a tomato an
d washed a large leaf of lettuce. He pulled a slice of Swiss cheese from a package in the refrigerator and layered all the ingredients between a couple of pieces of wheat bread. A handful of potato chips and a cold bottle of Leinenkugel’s finished the preparations. He sat on the patio as evening settled over Aurora, and he ate alone and tasted nothing.

  It was twilight when he finished, and he took Trixie for a walk. He passed houses he was almost as familiar with as his own, where people lived whom he’d known his whole life. He walked to the business district of Aurora, two square blocks of storefronts and enterprises. Gerten’s Travel, Bonnie’s Salon, The Enigmatic Gnome, the Tamarack County Courthouse, Pflugleman’s Rexall Drugs, Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler. It was early summer, and the town was full of tourists. Unlike that of Gresham, Aurora’s economy was solid, booming even. Five decades he’d walked these streets. Now they felt different to him. With Jo gone and the kids away, what held him to this place was history. And what was history but memory? And of what value, in the end, was a memory? A man’s life needed to be made of stuff more immediate and substantial. Cork wondered what that was for him now.

  “Mr. O.C.!”

  He turned and found Ophelia Stillday limping toward him from the door of Pflugleman’s drugstore. In the blue light of dusk, her face was dark and serious.

  “What’s wrong?” Cork said.

  “I’m glad I caught you.” She petted Trixie, who danced all over the sidewalk at the attention. “I’ve been thinking about Lauren,” she said. “I know I gave you a hard time this morning, but I’m worried about her. Have you found out anything?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Really? What?”

  He nodded toward the steps of the courthouse half a block away. “Let’s sit down.” When they had, he said, “I’m going to tell you something, but you need to promise me that you’ll keep it to yourself for a while.”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean this absolutely.”

  “Cross my heart,” she said, and did.

  He told her what he’d found that day in the Vermilion Drift. He didn’t describe the state of Lauren Cavanaugh’s body, but Ophelia looked stricken nonetheless. Her mouth hung open in a silent O of surprise and shock. Her eyes were full of horror.

  “I’m sure the body we found is Lauren Cavanaugh’s, but it hasn’t been officially identified yet, and that’s why it’s imperative that you keep this to yourself. Do you understand, Ophelia?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Absolutely.” Then she said, “Oh, Jesus,” and buried her face in her palms. “Oh, Christ.” She dropped her hands and looked at him, confused but also, he thought, angry. “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know. And the reason I’ve told you about this is that I’m hoping you might have an idea who.”

  “Me? No. Why would I?”

  “Someone from the investigation will interview you and ask that same question. So take a while to think about it. Is there anything important you know that might help?”

  “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “No.” But even as she said it, Cork saw a light come into those brown Ojibwe eyes.

  “What?” he said.

  She frowned and struggled a moment with her conscience. “We’re in trouble financially.”

  “The center?”

  She nodded. “Since Lauren’s been gone, I’ve had to tackle some areas that typically she handles. Mr. O.C., we owe a lot of money to people. Money that, as nearly as I can tell, we don’t have.”

  “Her brother tells me that he’s been picking up the bills for the center.”

  She looked down, troubled. “Not for a while. Lauren was supposed to find her own support for the center. She hasn’t been successful. Some of the correspondence I’ve gone through in the last couple of days has been from creditors. Some pretty threatening letters.”

  “That’s important, but I’m not sure it’s enough to kill for.”

  “What would be?” she asked. She was serious.

  “Murder, generally speaking, is a crime of passion. It can be about money, but not usually about money owed. Unless the mob’s involved. If it’s money, it’s usually about greed. If it’s not money, then it’s love or anger or revenge. Do any of those fit?”

  She thought for a while, shaking her head the whole time. “She was so loved by everyone. She was such a remarkable person. I don’t know why anyone would want her dead.”

  “Probably there’s a lot about her you didn’t know. People hide things. Think for a minute. Anything come to mind? Derek, for example.”

  “Derek?”

  “That handsome young artist at the center.”

  “I know who Derek is.”

  “I got strange vibes from him today. Is it possible there was something between him and Lauren?”

  The features of her face squeezed up, as if Cork had offered her something foul. “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it?” Cork asked. “Lauren was a beautiful woman, unattached, as nearly as I can tell. Derek’s a nice looking kid. And he didn’t strike me as the shy type.”

  Ophelia shook her head adamantly. “What happened to Lauren definitely has nothing to do with Derek.”

  There was no reason for Cork to convince her otherwise, so he said, “All right, let’s try something else. She has her own wing at the Parrant estate. Sorry, the center. It has an entrance of its own?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s created that little getaway for herself in the boathouse. Have you ever seen anyone come or go using her private entrance, or visit her at the boathouse, particularly at night?”

  “No.” She raised an eyebrow. “But I’m not usually there at night.”

  “Which is when someone who didn’t want to be seen visiting would probably visit. Who is there at night?”

  “Joyce, our housekeeper. She has a room down the hall from my office, but she’s never at the center on weekends.”

  “Still, someone should talk to her.”

  “Why not you?”

  “Because I’m not part of the official investigation.”

  Although he could be, if he wanted. All he had to do was accept the sheriff’s offer. The idea was beginning to have its attractions.

  Ophelia said, “Jenny told me once that her mom hated you being sheriff.”

  “With good reason.”

  “But you could help out this one time, couldn’t you? I mean, this is in a good cause, right?”

  “That’s exactly what I used to tell Jo,” Cork said. “And her response was always that, when the bullets start flying, a good cause is a poor shield.”

  “You think there could be flying bullets?” She seemed caught by surprise.

  “That’s the problem with business like this, Ophelia. You never know.” Cork pointed to the courthouse behind them. “The clock on that tower. The hands are stuck.”

  “I know this story,” she said.

  Hell, everyone in Aurora probably knew the story, but Cork repeated it anyway.

  “That clock was hit by bullets during an exchange of gunfire between my father and some men who’d just robbed the bank. My dad was fatally shot during that exchange. The hands of the clock haven’t moved since. People around here think of it as a kind of fitting memorial. For me, it’s a reminder that, when guns are involved, people you love can be lost forever.”

  “Jenny told me you stopped carrying a gun. So, if bullets start flying, what do you do?”

  “Duck and run, Ophelia. Duck and run.”

  TEN

  A few minutes before ten, Cork headed to Sam’s Place to give a hand with closing. Judy Madsen was a terrific manager, but she never closed. She didn’t like being out after dark, so Cork usually made sure he was there to supervise.

  It was a Monday night, not particularly busy. Judy had put Kate Buker and Jodi Bollendorf, two great kids, on the schedule. They were Anne’s friends, who’d worked for Cork during their high school years and who, home from college for the summer, were p
utting in time again. They both wanted to be lawyers. Just what the world needs, Cork thought dismally, more lawyers. But everyone had to have a dream, no matter how misguided.

  He’d parked his Land Rover and was just about to head inside when Max Cavanaugh pulled up in his Escalade and got out.

  “Got a minute, Cork?” he said.

  “Sure, Max.”

  Mounted on a tall pole above the parking lot was a yard light so bright it made the gravel look like dirty snow. Cavanaugh stood in the glare, clearly troubled. He glanced toward Sam’s Place, then at the dark along the shoreline of Iron Lake.

  “Over there,” he said.

  Cork followed to the old dock he maintained for boaters who wanted to come off the lake for a burger and needed a place to tie up. Cavanaugh strolled to the end. Another step and he would have been in the water. He stood looking down the shoreline toward the lights of town. In the right mood, he might have understood, as Cork did, how lovely it was: the black surface where the lights danced; the sky above salted with stars and hung with a crescent moon thin as a clipped fingernail; the quiet in which, if Cork listened closely, he was sure he could hear the earth breathe.

  “I just came from Nelson’s Funeral Home,” Cavanaugh said, his back to Cork.

  Nelson’s was where the autopsies for Tamarack County were performed. For a long time, Sigurd Nelson had been the coroner and did the job himself. In one of his last battles as sheriff, Cork had convinced the county commissioners to hire a certified medical examiner. Now Dr. Tom Conklin, a retired surgeon, handled the function. But the funeral home was still where the job was done.

  Cork said, “I’m sorry, Max.”

  Cavanaugh hunched his shoulders, dark against the broader dark of the water. “The sheriff wanted me to identify my sister’s body. How could I identify that? Christ, how could anyone?”

  There wasn’t much to say to that. Rhetorical, Cork figured. Frustrated, angry, devastated, and rhetorical.

  Cavanaugh turned back to Cork. “You found her.” It sounded a little like an accusation.

  “Lou Haddad and I.”

  “The authorities don’t know anything. Or wouldn’t tell me. Which is it?”