The Body Under The Ice: An Up North Mystery

By Douglas Ewan Cameron

Where better to hide a body than at the bottom of a deep lake? A deep lake that is frozen over? The only problem—ice fishermen. Of course, the fishermen expect to catch fish, not parts of a human body. As the saying goes, “The Best Laid Plans Of MIce and Men.” When Zebulah Pyke reels in his fish and finds that he has caught a human finger, the mystery begins. Who is the body in the ice and why was the body put in the lake. And who killed the deceased. Cameron’s best work to date, The Body in the Ice has more intriguing questions than answers and it’s up to Dugal McBruce and his friend, Sheriff Nathanial Jefferson to find the answers. The questions were obvious: was the body male or female? Who did what to whom, why and when? Those answers will lead to the totally unexpected sadistic killer who wanted to keep his victim on ice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W & B Publishers
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311343703

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A light autumn wind blew dry leaves across the vacant parking lot as a pickup truck rolled quietly into the lot and, with its lights off, coasted beside a six-foot tall wooden fence on the far side. A man wearing night vision goggles standing in the pickup’s bed was able to look over the fence and rapped once on the roof when the truck came alongside what looked like several stacks of large packing crates. The truck stopped and the Spotter hopped out of the pickup’s bed carrying a portable drill. He quickly removed screws from both ends of a section of the fence and was joined by the driver who was also wearing night vision goggles. With the screws removed, the Spotter put the drill into the bed of the truck. Then he and the Driver moved the fence section from its spot and carried it down the fence until the opening was clear and they leaned the section against the fence. Both men were big and could easily have been mistaken for NFL defensive linemen but neither of them was or had been.

Moving through the opening, the men surveyed the stacks. What seemed to be large packing crates were boxes of slats about eight feet long by three feet by three feet. They were stacked in four rows, each three boxes high and each row four deep. The last was actually five wide with the last row only two high making a total of fifty boxes. The men moved purposely to the next-to-last row and, grabbing the top box at each end, they moved it and set it out of the way. They did the same with the preceding row and then reached over the first row of crates, all of which had open tops. Securing the second crate in next to the last row, they pulled it out to the edge. Then they picked up the second crate they had removed and put it back. From the ground you couldn’t tell there was a missing crate. They picked up the first crate they had taken out and carried it outside the fenced area and set it behind the pickup. The Spotter lowered the tailgate of the pickup and the two of them picked up the crate and slid it into the extended bed of the truck. The men moved the fence section back into place and the Driver held it while the Spotter got the drill from the truck and proceeded to put the screws back in. Then the two men climbed into the the truck and covered the crate with a tarp and secured it with bungee cords. They got out of the bed, closed the lift gate and got into the truck’s cab. Both men removed their night vision goggles and the driver started the truck and drove quietly out of the parking lot.

Twenty minutes later the truck turned off West Hibbard Pond Path onto a private paved road and passed under an entry sign that read Timber Point. They turned off the main road onto a dirt road and drove until it ended at the lake where a pontoon boat was sitting nudged into the shore. The two men got out of the truck, lowered the lift gate and the Spotter got into the pickup’s bed, removed the tarp and then slid the crate out onto the lift gate where the Driver could grab it and help pull. Joining him on the ground the Spotter helped pull the crate out of the pickup’s bed and set it on the ground. Each grabbing the crate in the middle of a side, they carried the crate to the pontoon, lifted it up and over the rail and, guided by the pontoon’s Helmsman, slid it into the pontoon on an inclined ramp made of two by fours.

The Helmsman, who was virtually indistinguishable from the other two, size-wise, started the pontoon’s engines while the Driver and the Spotter lifted the front end of the pontoon and slid it off the shore before hopping aboard with an agility that their sizes belied. The Helmsman turned the pontoon around and headed out into the lake while the two men removed wooden slats from inside the crate. Then they removed a tarp covering a naked body lying on one of the pontoon’s bench seats, picked the body up and unceremoniously dumped it into the crate. Picking up a six-foot fir that was lying on the deck, the two shoved it into the crate on top of the body. Then they added eight concrete blocks weighing sixty pounds that had been sitting along the sides of the pontoon, four to a side, handling them as though they were papier-mâché. Each grabbed a handful of nails from a coffee can and put them in a pocket of their jackets. The slats that had been removed from the crate earlier were set on the crate’s top. Picking up hammers and getting a few nails from their pockets, each moved to a side of the crate where the Spotter positioned one of the slats and they each fastened it into position with two nails. The worked quickly and effortlessly and soon the top of the crate was covered with slats about two inches apart. Extra nails from their pockets went back into the coffee can and it and the hammers were put out of the way. The two took positions on either side of the crate and stood silently looking ahead of the boat as though on lookout but seeing only the blackness of the dark fall night.

About ten minutes later the Helmsman, who had been watching his depth finder, took the engines out of gear and the pontoon started gliding on a virtually glasslike surface. He walked to the inboard end of the crate and started pushing it up the ramp with the aid of the Driver and the Spotter until about a third of it stuck over the bow. Waiting until the pontoon had virtually stopped the Helmsman grunted and the three pushed the crate up the ramp with relative ease until gravity took over and the crate tilted, wavered, and then with a final shove slid over the side into Hibbard Pond. That final push changed the manner in which the crate went down. It was hard enough that the crate tilted forward and when it hit the bottom, it kept moving and settled on what had been the top before it was pushed off the pontoon boat. That was the second and most consequential mistake the Helmsman had made. The Helmsman went back to the con, slid the throttle from neutral to forward and turned the pontoon back the way it had come, not moving fast so as to minimize noise but this late in the season the lake was empty.

The Driver and the Spotter sat on the bench seat where the body had been and after a few minutes the Spotter broke the silence that had ensued from the time the truck entered the parking lot, What did he do to deserve this?

The Driver shrugged and said, It doesn’t pay to take the Boss’s money or product.

Chapter 1

The wind that had been a light breeze lifting the gently falling snowflakes suddenly became a thirty mile per hour howling storm with gusts to fifty and occasionally sixty miles an hour. The falling snow increased in volume and weight almost simultaneously and within minutes everything on the surface of Hibbard Pond was covered with the snow that was not swept up by the wind. One improperly anchored wooden fishing shanty on skids abruptly moved twenty-two feet further east, taking its occupant with it and severing a line that had a keeper walleye on the end. At least that is what the fisherman would later claim to anyone who wanted to listen.

Zebulah Pyke knew immediately that he was in trouble despite the fact that his portable ice shelter was securely anchored. The storm had been expected but not for another two hours according to the weathermen but, as is always said Up North, it is difficult to predict the weather because the peninsula is surrounded by water. The sides of his shelter rattled violently giving more warning of the impending storm. As soon as the first gust had hit, Zeb (as his friends but not family called him) had started reeling in but his line was stuck. He had guesstimated that he was in twenty to thirty feet of water just off the drop off at the south end of the lake (despite being named Hibbard Pond everyone called it a lake) and had dropped his line down near the bottom and was rewarded with several nice perch. However, now he was stuck after reeling in two or three feel of line and he couldn’t image what he was snagged on. As the ferocity of the storm intensified almost instantaneously, Zeb knew that he was going to have to sacrifice his new line if he couldn’t get it free and lose not only twenty plus feet of the new line but his new jig as well.

One final jerk, he muttered and gave that one tug and the line was free. He reeled frantically and the jig rose from below the surface – attached to it was something white that had not been there when he lowered it ten minutes before. He didn’t take time to take whatever it was off and simply shoved the short rod, jig and all, into the canvas bag where he had put everything else. Then he was out the door of the shanty, actually a tent, into the howling blizzard. Two steps and he was at his snowmobile and quickly secured the bag on the trailer he towed out ice fishing. Battling a sudden gust of wind that almost knock him off his feet, he turned back to the shanty, pry bar in hand to remove the anchoring peg. He stopped and watched in horror as his new red ice canvas shanty lifted several feet into the air and then tumbled across the lake quickly disappearing into the whiteness of the storm.

Cursing his luck, and especially the weathermen who were this time so drastically wrong, he turned back to the sled and put the pry bar into its place. He knew there might be a stake or two remaining in the ice but he didn’t care at this point. All he was thinking about was the South End DNR launch where his truck and trailer were parked and getting away from the lake and into the safety of his home. The snowmobile started on the first try and he waited for it to warm while the GPS he had affixed to it acquired signal. Once the map of the lake was displayed, he zoomed in until he could see his position and the icon marking the DNR launch. He pressed the GOTO button, put the snowmobile into gear and headed for the ramp. It was slow going because he had to watch for fishing shanties and other obstacles but in the middle of the week there were relatively few fishermen who had dared to come out because of the predicted storm. It took him fifteen minutes to reach his vehicle, another ten to safely load his snowmobile and trailer, and five minutes to clear the windows of snow and ice even with the help of the defroster running full blast. Then he was in the truck, seat belt fastened and moving toward home, a ten-minute trip that took him closer to half an hour because he had to go slowly. Again he was thankful for the truck’s GPS system that kept him on the road’s surface. Safely at home, he backed the trailer into the pole barn with the rest of his toys, dropped the hitch and closed the door. Then he pulled his truck into its garage and closed the door momentarily shutting out the violence of the storm. He still had the twenty feet to the house to traverse but, always – well, almost always – prepared for the worst, he had a rope strung so that he could follow it from house to garage and in reverse with his eyes closed and not worry about getting lost. Once inside the house, he shed his outerwear and slipped his feet into fur-lined slippers. He removed the rubber band holding his long hair into a ponytail and shook his head like a dog shaking off water after a rainstorm. Grabbing a small towel, he dried his hair and then hung the towel on a rod to dry. Passing through the kitchen, he dropped the perch into the sink to be cleaned later, grabbed one beer – no, make that two beers – out of the refrigerator and went into his man cave where he kept his computer and television. He thought briefly about sending out a notice to friends that he was safely home but then he realized that for once in his life he had neglected to tell anyone he was going ice fishing. He could be out there stranded and no one would be the wiser. Dumb, he thought, you know better than that, Zeb.

The storm raged for twenty-four hours and it was thirty-six before he remembered that strange whiteness on his jig.

Chapter 2

Dugal McBruce sat in his recliner watching the storm and scratching the head of Samantha, one of two kittens he and Earleen had adopted late in the fall.

Per his usual routine, he had gone out before breakfast to replenish birdseed in the birdfeeders and corn in the squirrel feeders, and had noticed something gray and furry sleeping on one of the deck benches. He thought at first that it was those raccoons again because in the middle of the summer he had gone out early like this and found five baby raccoons all intertwined sleeping in the same place. It had taken some doing to get them all moving and away although a couple had hung around until mid-fall before disappearing. He didn’t know if the disappearance was voluntary or survival of the fittest and didn’t care because they had raised havoc with the feeders they could reach. Now he had put the buckets of birdseed and corn down and was getting ready to toss a small pebble at the interlopers when he stopped.

One of the critters had raised her head (Samantha as it turned out) and was looking at him and he recognized her as feline. So he had moved toward her and Sebastian and she had stood up hissing at him and, as he had moved closer, she had moved away. However another form (Sebastian) remained asleep. The closer he had gotten to Sebastian the further away Samantha had gone until he was right by Sebastian who at that precise moment woke up and tried to escape. But Dugal was too quick and grabbed the kitten and discovered he had a handful. Sebastian was a Maine Coon and at that point weighed eleven and a half pounds when he and Earleen took the two to the vet for a checkup and shots two days later. Sebastian didn’t struggle but simply looked at Dugal and gave a very plaintive mew for a kitten so big. Dugal has advanced toward Samantha but she wanted no part of him so he had turned and gone into the house through the French doors that led off the deck into their bedroom.

The room was dark as Earleen was not yet awake until he had started opening the blinds on the skylights, raised the blinds on the doors, and had sat on her side of the bed. Look at what I found, Dugal said as she blinked and raised herself up. When she saw the kitten she sat bolt upright.

Oh, how adorable, as Dugal handed her Sebastian who accepted the transfer and immediately began purring as Earleen stroked him.

Where … How? Earleen asked and listened while Dugal told her.

Where’s the other?

Outside somewhere, Dugal had said and turned toward the deck to see Samantha looking into the room through one of the French doors with her front paws on the glass.

Oh, Earleen had said handing Sebastian to Dugal as she had gotten out of bed and gone to the doors putting on her housecoat and opening the left hand one. As she did, Samantha had skittered away. Earleen went out onto the deck and as she approached the kitten, it appeared to want to run away again but kept looking past her into the room where Dugal stood at the door holding Sebastian who was purring madly and loudly. Samantha cowered as Earleen bent to pick her up but didn’t run. Earleen held her hand in front of Samantha who sniffed it and then meowed and looked up at Earleen longingly akin to Puss in Boots as she let herself be picked up. So the McBruces adopted two kittens, one Maine Coon and one small tiger being half of Sebastian in both size and weight.

This storm is going to be a beaut, Dugal had said to Earleen, who sat on the sofa reading. Sebastian lay with his head on her lap purring loudly as she gently stroked him. After that first day, the kittens had not been permitted out of the house except for visits to the veterinarian that Sebastian tolerated but Samantha hated, having screamed loudly, scratched MJ, the veterinarian, and urinated on the table when they went for their initial checkup.

That’s what the weatherman said.

Yes, but he said it wouldn’t come until five. Hope it didn’t catch the ice fishermen by surprise.

His statement was interrupted by the phone and he reached over to the table and picked up his cellphone – they had dropped their landline in favor of cellphones because the reception was so good at their place. He looked at the caller ID, It’s Jerry. Jerry Hatchet was Dugal’s best friend at the lake having been with him when Dugal had discovered the skeletal remains of a young girl buried in an earthen works dam in the early spring.

Hey, Jerry, what’s happening?

You don’t know? Jerry said. It’s snowing like hell, that’s what’s happening and the wind is something fierce.

Did you see anyone out ice fishing this afternoon? Dugal asked.

Yeah, one or two. I think Zeb Pyke was out there.

Dugal knew Zeb slightly from the Hibbard Pond Sportsman’s club but had never talked to him.

Did he make it off?

Don’t know, I guess so but I’m not going out to see. Not unless it is a national emergency. Besides, Zeb knows how to take care of himself.

Understood. So what’s happening at the south end?

Not much, but with the weather Liz just wanted you to know that we probably won’t be able to make it up for pinochle tomorrow night.

The McBruces and Hatchets played pinochle on a biweekly basis, alternating homes with the hosts providing a light meal halfway through the session that usually started at four and would rage on into the late evening.

Why?

Look outside, my friend. They’re calling for at least two feet. They won’t have the roads clean and as good as my Explorer is, it won’t be worth the risk. Anyway Liz, and there was a pause as Dugal knew that Jerry was making certain that Liz couldn’t hear because Liz probably hadn’t said what he was going to, said she wanted Earleen to know so she wouldn’t go to a lot of needless trouble.

Okay, we’re just having homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese so it’s no trouble. If you can make it, you can and … .

… if we can’t, we can’t. I know, Jerry said. At least I got my supplies, we went to town this morning. Got a case of beer, big bottle each of Ezra Brooks and Absolut so I can weather any storm.

Jerry was known to drink a lot, carrying a hip flask which always started out full and usually was on empty when whatever they were doing was finished, although Dugal had never known Jerry to drink too much. The difference between a drunk and an alcoholic is that an alcoholic goes to meetings, Jerry always explained.

Well, if you can we’ll be here, Dugal said. We’re not going anywhere until this storm lets up.

Stay warm and dry, and say hello to the bitch for me, was Jerry’s parting shot.

The bitch was Samantha who didn’t like most people always smelling them and then either hissing and striking at them, usually claws in unless feeling really threatened. She had grown accustomed to Liz and Jerry and tolerated them although she had yet to let either of them pet her. Earleen and Dugal agreed that if a thief ever broke into their house, it would be someone Samantha liked; if not, Lord help the thief.

Chapter 3

Zebulah Pyke had worked for GMC in Flint twenty-two years starting the summer he graduated from high school. He had been married and raised two girls who were now both married and a son who was in the military over in the Near East. Where he wouldn’t or couldn’t say, but was in constant computer communication with his dad. In the middle of Zeb’s twenty-second year with GMC, a freak accident on the job had necessitated the fusing of three vertebrae and after that he couldn’t take long periods on his feet and was given disability retirement. After three months of nothing to do, he had announced to his wife that they were moving to Hibbard Pond where they had a summer cottage. She had responded that he was certainly welcome to but she wasn’t and so they parted ways amicably. He had been at the lake for six years, this was his seventh winter. He was an Ichabod Crane look-alike except for the long hair that had come with retirement, but any further resemblance stopped there. He was an athlete, having played football and basketball in high school, but wasn’t good enough in either sport to play in college, at least where he would have wanted to go, so he started working. He loved the outdoors, fishing and hunting, but his favorite pastime was scuba diving. Since the accident he found water’s buoyancy gave him freedom and he enjoyed searching the lake bottom, checking the fish shelters built and sunk by the Hibbard Pond Sportsman Association and looking for evidence of a train that supposedly was hauling logs on a track built on ice during the winter when the ice gave way. He suspected that the story was more fiction than truth.

When the storm finally abated, Zebulah started his cleanup efforts so he could get out. First he laboriously shoveled a path to his garage where he kept a large snow blower although the depth of the snow would make