Gift Horse

Chapter 2

- 2 -

Apparently finding a body is one of the times you should dial 911. Unlike, say, finding a spider in your shoe or reporting that the neighbor’s dog pooped on your lawn.

“What the hell, Gary!” Sheriff Olsen whined. “You didn’t think to mention to Suzanne that there was a damn corpse in that, that—”

Suzanne Williams was the dispatcher at the Peshekee County Sheriff’s Department.

“Grain storage box,” Dad supplied. “Sorry, I mean he—or she was beyond CPR and I thought—”

“Jesus! I thought maybe you were just calling to set up steelhead fishing,” Olsen said.

“I said it was important,” Dad said.

“Fishing is important. A body is a damn EMERGENCY!”

People always said that Dad and Ollie would never be mistaken as brothers. Whereas Dad was tall and cut from a rugged cloth, Ollie Olsen was designed after a fireplug and likely shy of the 5’7” he claimed to be. Dad said Ollie had lost most of his hair after high school and though he claimed he never ate donuts, something had contributed to the noticeable paunch that strained the brass buttons on his uniform jacket.

Sheriff Olsen was pacing around outside the barn while his deputy, Sergeant Tori Haapala, was working to secure the scene. Tori was the first female to be deputized in Peshekee County and had been on the force for almost ten years.

I wondered what the point was of stringing yellow crime scene tape around since there were no gawkers gathering round, threatening to destroy evidence. In fact, there were no close neighbors to intrude. The disreputable Horse Camp Road ran off Little Mountain Road, which was at least paved but not densely populated and mostly led to seasonal camps. Wildwood Stables was about as remote that a place could be and still be on the grid. Nobody could hear you scream, I thought. A shiver ran down my spine, and not from the cold.

“So, what’s next?” Dad said.

“We wait for the state police and the medical examiner,” Olsen said. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company,” Dad said.

I had to agree with the sheriff that a nice cup of joe would have been welcome. Or maybe a good, stiff drink. I had lost all sensation in my hands and feet, and felt one of my special headaches creeping in. Seeing a corpse—and not a nice fixed-up one lying peacefully in a satin-lined casket—had a way of ruining one’s day.

“How long before the troops arrive?” Dad said.

“Well, now, that’s the hundred-dollar question,” Olsen said. “Maybe another half hour.”

I paced and stomped my feet, trying to get some feeling back. Most of all, I was trying to shake that horrid odor, which hung with me like a twenty-four-hour bug.

Dad looked at me. “Kat, if you want to take the truck home, I can catch a ride with Ollie after we’re done here. Right, Ollie?”

“Only if I can put you in handcuffs and lock you in the back seat,” Sheriff Olsen said. “Maybe see if my Taser works.”

“Ha ha,” Dad said. “How are your tax returns coming, by the way? Two days left ol’ buddy. Ready to hand them over?”

“Shut up, Wilde,” said the sheriff. “I just need a few more things, then me and EZee Tax Home Version have a hot date. You CPA dudes will soon go the way of the dodo.” He looked down the driveway. “Where the hell are those guys? Maybe I’ll go sit in the cruiser and start my report.”

“Don’t expect me to get you out of the late fees,” Dad yelled after him. “I’m not a magician. And also, no cute stuff like saying that your hunting gear is a uniform expense.”

I think Sheriff Olsen did the one-finger wave then slammed the door of his police car. Dad and Ollie Olsen had been the nerd duo of high school. The constant bantering started in those early years and had continued well into adulthood. Each had stood up for the other at his wedding. They went to camp every year and bickered about who was the worst cook and the best hunter. Each had saved the other’s life and each claimed superior heroism. It went on and on. My mother and Ollie’s wife, Frieda, just rolled their eyes heavenward when the four of them were together.

The Olsen’s only offspring, Nikko, had been one year ahead of me in high school and was a football jock. Though I had a humungous crush on him, he gave no indication of any mutual feelings. Nikko went to college on a football scholarship while I had to pay my own way, with the help of my parents. Nikko did not exactly follow in his father’s footsteps of law enforcement but came close by becoming a conservation officer for the Department of Natural Resources. He was currently assigned to Ontonagon County and, according to his mother, came home when he needed his laundry done or a home-cooked meal.

Sergeant Haapala came over to Dad and me shaking her head. “Don’t mind him,” she said nodding toward the sheriff’s car. “He’s in a snit over budget stuff. He’s always a bit cranky this time of year.”

“He’s cranky every time of the year,” Dad said. “Even Christmas.”

“Especially Christmas,” the sergeant said. She looked down the driveway where two vehicles minced their way toward us. “Thank God.”

“Okay, well, since I don’t want to see my father treated like a common criminal, I’ll stick around so we can ride home together,” I said.

“You sure?” Dad said. “All that Taser and handcuff stuff was nonsense, you know. At least I think it was.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “I think I will borrow the truck though and take a look at the campground.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Dad said handing me the keys.

While the equestrian campground was within walking distance under fair-weather conditions, the winter residue of slush and mush made driving more appealing. The two-track leading to the campground was fraught with the same bone-jarring potholes and washouts that the main drive offered, but at least it was shorter.

At first I wasn’t sure I had found the right place, but the tin roof of an outhouse glinting through the overgrowth verified that, indeed, this was the rustic horse camp. The sad remains of a few slapdash corrals stood throughout a cleared area. Splintered picnic tables and dilapidated fire rings marked the individual campsites where equestrians and cowboys could pitch their tents or park their truck campers. Horses likely would have been secured on a picket line or put in one of the corrals. I noted a w**d-choked hand pump with no handle. Winter brown ferns and brittle grasses inundated the campground, and sapling trees and brambles taking root sprouted throughout. Dad had been right. It had “gone to seed.”

I got out of the truck and wandered through the campground. In spite of its state of disrepair, one could imagine the peace and serenity of sitting around the campfire at night after an exhilarating day on the trail. Tired horses would doze or munch from their hay bags. Perhaps someone would be playing songs on a guitar that folks knew and could sing along. There might be beer and marshmallows. Maybe it would be a family bonding experience or just a group of adults getting away from it all. There would have been no highway noise or other distractions. Cares would fade and melt into the sunset. Uncle Phil did have a grand idea here. But for reasons only God knows, the stars did not align favorably for him. I wondered if they would for me.

There was, of course, the minor inconvenience of a body in the tack room—a well decomposed one at that. I supposed that along with finding a lot of cheap help and begging for discounted materials, getting Mom onboard, and tilting at the ridiculous windmill of hope, we would need to have the crime—how could it not be murder? —solved or at least fully investigated before things could move forward.

I sighed and walked toward the truck and its toasty-warm cab. As I pulled around the circle drive, something caught my eye in the woods—something seemingly out of place. I wondered if I was seeing the results of illegal dumping. That was a common thing in the Northwoods, where idiots saw no problem with throwing their trash out in the brush.

I pulled the truck over, hopped out and trudged through crusty snow to take a closer look. Indeed, there was an assortment of things indicating that this was not an ordinary makeshift dump. The main item was a nylon tent along with a number of human tracks all over the site. The door of the tent was unzipped and flapped in the breeze, making a snapping noise. The area had once been a campsite tucked away in the woods and still held some stones for a campfire ring along with a partially collapsed picnic table. Charred chunks of wood lay scattered in the ring and a tiny thread of smoke rose from the center. A couple of blackened pots and pans and an old-fashioned enamel coffee pot sat on the picnic table and a metal fire grate leaned against a nearby tree.

My heart began to pulse in my ears as I willed myself to bend over and look inside the tent, praying mightily that it would not contain another body. Well, there was no odor, except maybe a lingering smoky smell that clung to the nylon. A jumble of clothes and blankets were strewn about. I noted in one area—perhaps the designated tent “pantry”—that there was a loaf of bread, a bag of potato chips, some Cup-a-Soup packets, a box of crackers, and a jar of peanut butter along with various canned goods. A coffee can sat off in a different area, perhaps serving as either a storage container or a chamber pot. A more chilling discovery was a very large knife—really a sword of some type— propped against a tent pole in the corner. It appeared free of blood residue, but I didn’t venture inside to check.

I was trying to convince myself that I had simply stumbled upon a squatter’s campsite and not that of a psychotic murderer who stashed bodies in grain storage bins. While the homeless population in big cities slept in doorways and on sidewalks, it wasn’t unusual for a person in the U.P. who lacked a roof over their head to simply set up camp somewhere in the thousands of acres of wilderness, or in this case, an abandoned horse camp, complete with rustic amenities.

I hurried toward the truck, hoping to catch Sheriff Olsen and report my discovery. I gave one last glance toward the squatter’s compound and damned if I didn’t see something move in the woods. In light of the day’s disturbing discoveries, I fairly leapt into the truck and hit the lock button, then tried to focus on the movement in the woods. Perhaps it was the homeless guy—or gal—returning to their humble abode to sharpen his/her machete.

But it clearly wasn’t human. It looked toward me and tossed its head, as if impatient, gossamer mane fluttering. A horse. What was a horse doing roaming the woods? Could it possibly belong to whomever had set up the camp? Unlikely. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them slowly, wanting to believe that my overactive imagination was playing with me. Maybe it was just a deer, but it wasn’t. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement and watched the horse’s hindquarters disappear into the woods. And there was no sound. No sound at all.