trout flies did you say would work best? Hey, take a look at my fly line—do I need a new leader? Think my 5-weight fly rod is too light for muskies?” And so it would go, but a dozen queries later Lew would have the forensics done and a pristine chain of custody protecting any evidence.
Bruce might be a nuisance, but as his fishing skills improved so did Lew’s budget for assistance from the Wausau Crime Lab.
Osborne laid the cardboard strip holding a set of full-mouth x-rays labeled “Abner Conjurski” alongside the notes he had written in longhand twelve years ago. Then he and Bruce strolled over to the autopsy table on which rested the skull that had fallen out of the rug at the antique shop. The jaw was intact with its three gold inlays gleaming under the overhead lights. The inlays were undeniably the artistry of Dr. Paul Osborne: he knew it and the chart proved it.
“Abe was one of my few patients willing to pay for gold,” said Osborne, “he was a practical man and believed me when I said the inlays would hold up better than any amalgams—and I was right!”
“Sure makes this easier,” said Bruce, leaning over the skull with calipers out to doublecheck his measurements. A rustling from behind prompted Osborne to look back over his shoulder. Lew had entered the room and stood just inside the door, her arms folded. She motioned for them to continue.
“I think we got it,” said Osborne as much to her as to Bruce.
“This is your man, all right,” said Bruce. “No question about it. Hey, Chief, Doc and I got this done so fast do you think you can cover for me if I scoot north and get in a half day on the Middle Ontonagon River?”
“You tell me what Wausau needs to hear and I’ll make it happen,” said Lew, adding in a semi-stern voice, “so long as it doesn’t cost me.”
“Hell, no, I can fix that. I’ll just finish the paperwork so we can have the remains and the rug sent down to the lab for analysis to determine cause of death and any other anomalies. You know the lab work may take a few weeks, right?”
“Of course,” said Lew, “but we’ve got an ID, which helps us enormously. If you’re confident we’ve got all the evidence we need from the antique store?”
“Let the poor guy reopen. That rug has been there so many years that you’ve got one hell of a compromised crime scene—not to mention that it’s highly unlikely the victim died there.
“Oh, I have a question,” said Bruce, squinting as if he was in pain. “This college buddy of mine swears that nymphing is the only way to fly fish these days. He said everyone he fishes with thinks nymphing is the way to go. But, jeez, I’ve tried it and I hate it. I like dry flies. Is there something wrong with me?”
“Bruce,” said Lew, “not wanting to nymph is hardly a character flaw. I don’t nymph,” she said throwing both hands in the air. “Doc here doesn’t nymph.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Osborne, interrupting. Lew gave him a look indicating he should shut up.
“Your friend is nuts,” said Lew. “There are no hard and firm rules—you choose your trout fly by the hatch and what kind of water you’re fishing. Now, Bruce, you’re a big boy—fish how you want to fish. Don’t listen to bullshit from some pretentious jabone. You know better than that.”
As Bruce’s squint of pain morphed into confidence, Lew chuckled. “Look, you did me a big favor getting down here first thing this morning, so let me give you a Grizzly King that was tied by an old friend of my uncle’s. It’s all my uncle would ever fish with and it can be fished wet or dry. I’ll put two in the box so you’ll still have one after you snag that branch you love. And I’ll add a dry fly I’ve had good luck with this summer—a Size 12 Renegade.”
“Really?” Bruce was so delighted his eyebrows hit the ceiling.
“Yeah, well, now you owe me, kiddo.”
Lew turned to Osborne, “Doc, I drove over because I just
Bruce might be a nuisance, but as his fishing skills improved so did Lew’s budget for assistance from the Wausau Crime Lab.
Osborne laid the cardboard strip holding a set of full-mouth x-rays labeled “Abner Conjurski” alongside the notes he had written in longhand twelve years ago. Then he and Bruce strolled over to the autopsy table on which rested the skull that had fallen out of the rug at the antique shop. The jaw was intact with its three gold inlays gleaming under the overhead lights. The inlays were undeniably the artistry of Dr. Paul Osborne: he knew it and the chart proved it.
“Abe was one of my few patients willing to pay for gold,” said Osborne, “he was a practical man and believed me when I said the inlays would hold up better than any amalgams—and I was right!”
“Sure makes this easier,” said Bruce, leaning over the skull with calipers out to doublecheck his measurements. A rustling from behind prompted Osborne to look back over his shoulder. Lew had entered the room and stood just inside the door, her arms folded. She motioned for them to continue.
“I think we got it,” said Osborne as much to her as to Bruce.
“This is your man, all right,” said Bruce. “No question about it. Hey, Chief, Doc and I got this done so fast do you think you can cover for me if I scoot north and get in a half day on the Middle Ontonagon River?”
“You tell me what Wausau needs to hear and I’ll make it happen,” said Lew, adding in a semi-stern voice, “so long as it doesn’t cost me.”
“Hell, no, I can fix that. I’ll just finish the paperwork so we can have the remains and the rug sent down to the lab for analysis to determine cause of death and any other anomalies. You know the lab work may take a few weeks, right?”
“Of course,” said Lew, “but we’ve got an ID, which helps us enormously. If you’re confident we’ve got all the evidence we need from the antique store?”
“Let the poor guy reopen. That rug has been there so many years that you’ve got one hell of a compromised crime scene—not to mention that it’s highly unlikely the victim died there.
“Oh, I have a question,” said Bruce, squinting as if he was in pain. “This college buddy of mine swears that nymphing is the only way to fly fish these days. He said everyone he fishes with thinks nymphing is the way to go. But, jeez, I’ve tried it and I hate it. I like dry flies. Is there something wrong with me?”
“Bruce,” said Lew, “not wanting to nymph is hardly a character flaw. I don’t nymph,” she said throwing both hands in the air. “Doc here doesn’t nymph.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Osborne, interrupting. Lew gave him a look indicating he should shut up.
“Your friend is nuts,” said Lew. “There are no hard and firm rules—you choose your trout fly by the hatch and what kind of water you’re fishing. Now, Bruce, you’re a big boy—fish how you want to fish. Don’t listen to bullshit from some pretentious jabone. You know better than that.”
As Bruce’s squint of pain morphed into confidence, Lew chuckled. “Look, you did me a big favor getting down here first thing this morning, so let me give you a Grizzly King that was tied by an old friend of my uncle’s. It’s all my uncle would ever fish with and it can be fished wet or dry. I’ll put two in the box so you’ll still have one after you snag that branch you love. And I’ll add a dry fly I’ve had good luck with this summer—a Size 12 Renegade.”
“Really?” Bruce was so delighted his eyebrows hit the ceiling.
“Yeah, well, now you owe me, kiddo.”
Lew turned to Osborne, “Doc, I drove over because I just
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