BLOOD RIVER (A Trask Brothers Murder Mystery) Read online

  The heat of the day wouldn’t seem to back off with the fading light, both brothers’ shirts now stained with perspiration. Both men stood back and looked up at the aboriginal drawings on the rock, barely visible in the fading light. Neither had been to this spot before but they had seen similar drawings at other locations and on trips to giant Lake of the Woods. Dave often wondered if there wasn’t some purpose for the drawings that was completely missed by historians while Don seemed unimpressed.

  “Brother, you could have yourself a real mess here,” said Don in a steady tone as they both returned their attention to the body. “The lodge owners aren’t any too happy about the Native American netting rights and, from what I’ve heard, the Native Americans aren’t too keen about how they’ve been treated for about the last 150 years. Something like this isn’t going to go over too well.”

  Dave knew his brother was right. Word of this would spread quickly and was likely to bring newshounds from the Twin Cities looking for a sensational story. That would only make things worse.

  “I hear the boat,” said Dave. “Hang here for a couple of minutes until I can get one of these yahoos back here to relieve you. Try not to get eaten by any wolves – or get your throat cut. I still need some help back at the cabin.”

  Dave walked off to meet the boat and explain to his new staff what was to be done – essentially keeping the birds and animals away from the bodies while not disturbing anything themselves. Deputies Tony Clark and Kyle Bauman accompanied Danny, who was again driving the boat. None of the three men looked too happy to be there, especially not after hearing it confirmed that they would be there overnight and that wolves and the killer could still be in the area. Danny reported the medical examiner’s office would not be able to send someone today but he had lined up someone to bring the coroner out in the morning.

  Dave searched the victims’ boat while he waited for his brother, who came from the woods after trading places with Clark. No sign of any wallets in the tackle boxes or elsewhere. He pulled up the stringer hanging off the back of the boat to find only fish heads with crayfish attached. Some snapping turtle had had a good meal.

  “No wallets or ID’s in the boat,” shouted Dave to his brother to be heard over the noise of the motor as they backed away from the shore. “Maybe one of them forgot their license but not likely that both did. I think the wallets were just a bonus for the killer.” The look on Don’s face said he was in agreement.

  Chapter Five

  Al “Smokey” Mason owned the small camp tucked away behind a long curling point on the northeast side of Big Pine, one of three camps he owned in the area, but his only one on Big Pine. The camp consisted of six log-sided cabins with green metal roofs and a matching lodge where guests could get meals made for them if they liked, open a beer or two after dinner, and purchase tackle and bait. Each cabin was equipped with a small kitchen and living area in the center and a bedroom with two single beds on either side. The cabins sat side-by-side not more than fifty feet from a sandy beach, boats pulled up neatly in front of each.

  Dave beached the sheriff’s boat in front of the lodge and jumped out, followed by his brother. Word of the killings had gotten back to the camp and the guests either sat or stood on the cabin decks watching as the Trasks pulled in. The lodge owner helped the men pull the boat farther on shore.

  “Evening Sheriff. Congratulations,” said Al holding out his hand to Dave. “Looks like you get to start your job a little early.” Al had not supported Dave when he ran for office, convinced that the county needed someone local. “If it wasn’t for the badge hanging on your belt I would have had a hard time deciding whose hand to shake.”

  “Smokey, this is my twin brother Don. Don works for the BCA and is lending me a hand.”

  Don and Mason shook hands and then the brothers followed Mason into the lodge in silence.

  “Get you something to drink? I know I started a while ago,” said Mason as he stopped by the bar. From the looks of Mason’s bloodshot eyes it wasn’t hard to see that he had had a few beers, or probably something stronger he kept in his office. His complexion said it had been a regular occurrence for quite some time.

  “No thanks Smokey,” replied Dave. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, then talk to your other guests and look at the cabin where the men were staying.”

  “Sure, fire away.”

  “How did you find the men?”

  The camp owner explained that when the men didn’t show for supper he went looking for them in his boat. Each year there were guests who had motor trouble or got lost and so Al had each boat equipped with a chip so he could see where their boat was on his global positioning system.

  “What time did you find them?”

  “It was a little after eight. I could see they were both dead so I didn’t touch anything. I called Danny as soon as I got back here.”

  “How long had the men been with you?”

  “They came in with a group of eight from Minneapolis at the beginning of the week. I picked them up at the landing on Tuesday. They really had some shitty weather until yesterday.”

  “How many others are there in camp?” asked Dave.

  “I got one other group of six and another group of four. Almost full.”

  “And how long have those groups been here?”

  “Well, the six in Olson group arrived day before yesterday and the Peters group the day before. Both of them are repeats, probably four years or more.”

  Dave confirmed that they were all still in camp.

  “What about the group that came with the men that were killed?’ asked Don. “Had they been here before?”

  “No, I signed them on at the Minneapolis Sport Show in January.” The show brought anglers in the upper Midwest out of hibernation to look at the newest boats, motors, and fishing tackle. It also served as a venue for resort owners to lure anglers eager for open-water fishing to bite on a trip for the upcoming season.

  “They all seem to get along?”

  “They seemed fine to me. Everybody was getting a little cranky with the weather we’ve had but I can’t say there was much more than that.”

  “What do you mean ‘more than that’?” asked Dave. “Did something happen?”

  “A couple of them mixed it up a little in here night before last night. I’d been allowing a few extra beers each because of the weather. They probably just had a few too many.”

  Dave didn’t doubt that Mason had joined them. “Who were the ones fighting?”

  “I wouldn’t really call it fighting. There was mostly just a little shoving and then the others in the group broke it up before I even had to step in. It was one of the guys that was killed, Lau, and Ben…I think his last name is Hoffman. Big guy with red hair. Lau was the one who had booked the trip for the group and Hoffman was not too happy with him because they had hardly been able to do any fishing. Nothing anybody could have done about that.” The owner swirled the golden liquid in his glass and took another sip.

  Dave listened to the ice cubes clink off the glass and his tongue went to the roof of his mouth. “Have you got contact information for all of your guests?”

  “Sure. I’ll make a copy for you.”

  Dave extended his hand to Mason. “Thanks Smokey. We’ll go talk to the others and take a look at the cabin. I assume the men that were killed were roommates. What cabin were they in?”

  The camp owner told them the men had been in cabin three and followed the Trask brothers out on the deck. “It’s just down there,” he said pointing to the right. “It’s the one with the big guy with the red hair in front of it, the guy I told you about.”

  Don stared at the man on the porch of cabin three and then turned back to Mason. “He was in the same cabin as the men who were killed?”

  “Yeah. Must have been kind of tense in there night before last.”

  Dave and Don looked sideways at each other and then stepped in time, side-by-side, off the porch and toward cabin three, like they
were marching. They could feel the eyes of the other guests on them as they neared the cabin.

  “Gentlemen,” said Dave to Ben Hoffman and another man standing to Hoffman’s right. “I’m Dave Trask the Lake County sheriff and this is agent Trask of the BCA.” Don held out his identification. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Hoffman was stoic; arm crossed in front of his chest while the other man took a swig of his beer and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He looked like he had been drinking longer than Al Mason. “Sure, come on in,” said Hoffman.

  The men moved into the cabin, the smaller man sitting on the couch while the others stood. “We’re sorry about your friends. We’ll try to keep this as brief as possible,” explained Dave. “I’ll need your names and where you’re from?” Dave took a small notebook from his back pocket while Don unpacked his camera.

  “I’m Ben Hoffman,” said the redhead. “I’m from Bloomington.”

  “You have some ID I can see?”

  Hoffman pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed his driver’s license.

  The license said he was six foot four and 250 pounds that Dave guessed was about right. “And how long had you known the deceased?” questioned Dave, looking up from the license as he handed it back.

  “I only met them on this trip. Ray here knew them and he invited me along. Wish I’d never come. What a waste.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Are you kidding me? Eight hundred bucks to sit and watch the rain for a week. Never again.”

  Dave eyed Hoffman as he talked. He was in his early thirties, muscular, with big calloused hands that indicated he was a laborer of some type. Dave guessed he had a temper and was likely a bully. The world centered on him and what he wanted. “I see. I understand that you and Mr. Lau got into a fight night before last?”

  Hoffman showed surprise in his eyes at the comment but was quick with his reply. “Hmm. That wasn’t any fight. If I had wanted to fight him I would have busted his butt!” he replied in a tone that told Dave he was ready to show anyone who wanted to challenge him how tough he was.

  “Which bedroom belonged to the deceased?” asked Don.

  “They bunked in there,” said Hoffman pointing to the doorway on the opposite side of the room. “Ray and me were in the other room.”

  Don Trask picked up his bag and headed off while Dave continued to question the men. “And your name sir?” he said to the man hunched over on the edge of the couch, staring at the beer he held between his knees.

  “Ray, Ray Tuttle.” Ray Tuttle was three inches under six feet and skinny, maybe 160 pounds. He had longer brown hair that had been under a hat for most of the day and a red face that had seen the sun without much protection for at least a few hours.

  “And how long had you known Mr. Lau?”

  “I’ve known Mark since high school. We’ve been doing these trips for fifteen years. I just can’t believe he’s dead,” he said as he hung his head and tried to fight back his emotions.

  “I’m sorry about your friend Mr. Tuttle. How long had you known the other man?”

  “Um, about five or six years I guess. He works with Mark.”

  Dave looked over to see Hoffman staring down at his fishing partner. Was there compassion in his eyes? For Tuttle’s sake he hoped that was the case or what he guessed would be a very long ride back to Minneapolis would be even worse. He stood in silence a moment more before collecting Tuttle’s license.

  “Where were you two yesterday?” asked Dave as he turned back to Tuttle.

  “Fishing. We fished all day. Ben and I didn’t get back ‘til almost six. Ain’t that right Ben?”

  Dave turned back to Hoffman who nodded.

  Tuttle looked up at Dave with tear-filled eyes. “Who did this? Why?”

  “I don’t know yet but we’ll find out.”

  “Probably them damn Indians!” spit out Hoffman.

  Dave had little doubt this would be the popular theory among a large portion of the non-Native American population. “Why do you say that Mr. Hoffman?”

  “Everybody knows they hate us white men. Think we took their land. Hell, they’re the ones doing all the netting and killing way more fish than they need. Plus they’re all getting rich from the casinos off my money!” he protested pointing at his chest.

  More than a few Minnesotans resented the payments that tribal members received from casino operations on tribal land - the only place gambling was legal in the state - thinking all were getting rich. The fact was that a few were receiving generous checks, but they were a small minority. That didn’t matter to a man like Hoffman who used it to feed his prejudice.

  At that point Don returned to the room carrying his bag. Dave tucked his notebook away and walked over and stood in the open doorway of the room his brother had just left. He trusted no one more than Don to evaluate a crime scene but something drew Dave in. Sleeping bags were laying open on the bunks, a raincoat and pants draped over a chair, a few lures and a spool of line on the table next to the chair. It looked like every other bunkroom Dave had seen at the camps he and his brother had visited on their frequent trips, only the occupants of this room were never returning. Dave turned and glanced at his brother and then back at the men. “Thanks for your time and again we’re sorry for your loss. We may be in touch.”

  Neither fisherman responded and the brothers left the cabin, stopping on the porch. “No wallets in their room,” said Don. “A nearly empty fifth of vodka on the floor by one of the beds, but otherwise nothing.”

  They split up to question the other men in the camp; getting statements for the next hour and half before pushing off in their boat. They drifted slowly away from shore thinking about a silent killer that had opened rivers of blood on the island. The northwest sky was an explosion of orange, yellow, and red that the twins watched fade before Dave started the motor.

  Chapter Six

  By the time the brothers returned to Dave’s cabin the sun was long gone and the mosquitoes were making sure that anyone who dared to venture outside donated blood. They spooked a deer on the road to the cabin and a skunk waddled in front of their headlights towards the woods as they parked. “Looks like you got a new neighbor brother,” kidded Don.

  “Just so he doesn’t think he can live under my porch,” replied Dave as he slammed his door and made his way to the cabin. He was in no mood for anything else to be added to his plate this day.

  Once inside, Dave pulled two beers from the refrigerator, handing one to his brother who sat at the kitchen table. There was nothing remarkable about the table but Don ran his hand across its smooth top as if caressing a lover. It was a round oak table, stained very dark, with a hard, glossy finish. The brothers had moved it out of their parent’s house and into their detached garage ten years ago so their parents could refinish the floor in the kitchen. Somehow the chemicals that their parents had purchased to strip the floors had ignited later that night, burning down the house and killing them both.

  Neither man went a day without thinking about that night. Their father had loved his cigars and his whiskey, many times falling asleep in his worn recliner in the family room just off the kitchen, but he never drank or smoked in the bedroom. When they were informed of the fire, both brothers had thought that an ash from a cigar had been the igniter. But when both of their parents were found in their bedroom, dead from smoke inhalation, they became suspicious there may be more to it. Fire investigators were never sure of the cause other than to say it started in the kitchen.

  The brothers’ suspicions were fueled by the fact that the front door was found unlocked when the firefighters tried to enter. Their mother would never have left any door unlocked at night, a reason that teenage Trask boys coming home too late had learned to hide a key outside.

  Don had lead a drug bust that had taken down a large operation only days before the fire and thought there may have been a connection, but found no leads. Then, a year after the fire, a meth dealer Don arrest
ed after a fire in the dealer’s apartment in Minneapolis had made a comment about the Trask fire when Don had said the dealer was lucky not to have burned down the whole block. Don had beaten the man severely trying to find out what he knew, but got nothing more, the dealer claiming he had just heard it on the news. Don didn’t buy it. The dealer knew more but he was more afraid of saying something than he was of Don. The man died of a gunshot to the head two days after making parole.

  “What’d you find in the bedroom Don?” asked Dave as he opened a cupboard next to the refrigerator.

  “Not much. I took their phones and I’ll track down the numbers and names, but right now I’d say that’s a dead end,” he replied after lowering his beer. “I don’t think their roommates are the answer either. I don’t care for Mr. Hoffman, but he’s not much different than half the assholes with attitudes in the Cities. Still, he’s probably worth checking out.”

  Don finished his beer as he watched his brother cook. Don lived on fast food and takeout but Dave could spend the entire day cooking. Don was certain his brother was happiest when he was cooking, and he was also certain that he loved to eat what Dave cooked.

  There was no doubt that Dave knew his way around a kitchen but he was magic when it came to the grill. Dave’s marinated grilled pork chops had to be Don’s favorite and there was a grilled salmon that Don had dreams about. More than once he told Dave he should be a chef somewhere but Dave would just blow it off. By the time the creamy pasta with fish and fresh asparagus sat on the table, Don was finishing his third beer.

  The brothers talked fishing over dinner, cleaned up afterwards, and then went to bed. Don was out in moments but Dave stared at the ceiling fan above his bed going over the murder scene in his head. There was viciousness to these killings, something primal. As a policeman in the suburbs his exposure to murders had been limited – much more so than his brother. Still, he had seen his share of killings and killers, but nothing like this. This had been personal to the killer, perhaps revenge? But for what? The men’s wallets had gone with the killer, but was it a motive? And did he have help?