The Girl in the Net

By Gene Gross

The Iowa Lakes region is home to deep blue lakes, summer resorts, and a respectable community with families going back generations. But this idyllic image is shattered one night when a fisherman draws in a net with the body of local darling Virginia Lawrey. Seasoned prosecutor Michael Cain with his unrelenting thirst for justice soon gets drawn deep into the investigation. Haunted by his own past, Michael is forced to confront his own ghosts and those of his hometown—someone close has aligned themselves with the devil. Can Michael redeem himself and find the culprit before more lives are lost—including his own?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookPress Publishing
• Release date: Apr 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781947305939

Book preview

He needed to stay sharp. No one would notice a snow machine at night, but this late in winter, ice could be treacherous. The recent hard freeze should have firmed things up but to be safe, he rode close to shore. The steady drone of the snow machine was reassuring and the sled, heavy with its load, trailed easily over the ice and recent snow.

But damn, it was cold! He’d rather be back in Arizona. He liked the heat but right now Arizona had become too hot and it had nothing to do with the climate. No, it was safer in Iowa. Besides, business was good—very good, better than they’d planned. Tonight’s accident was inconvenient, but he was good at solving problems.

Earlier that day, at the Sports Shop, he’d witnessed the game warden chewing out Weird Willy for not removing his ice fishing shacks on time. Too bad for Willy but fortunate for him.

He didn’t fish, but knew Lake Okoboji well enough to spot which shack Willy had placed over deep water. As he arrived, he turned off the machine and headlight, dismounted, switched on his headlamp, and stood looking at the ramshackle shelter. He thought aloud, He must’ve raided every dumpster in the area to build this pile of junk. Ignoring the padlock, he slipped his fingers between the door and frame, and with a sharp tug, the hasp gave way.

He paused to listen for any unwanted attention, but the only response was a loud boom echoing through the ice and water. It was harmless, caused by the change in air pressure as a new front moved in, but unnerving, and motivated him to finish the job and get off the lake.

Retrieving the spud bar from the sled, he ducked his head and stepped into the shack. The state of the interior was no improvement over the exterior. He removed a plank covering a hole in the floor, exposing the portal to the dark water below. He chopped away the thin layer of ice that had formed since the last time Willy had dropped a line and expanded the size of the cut.

Returning to the sled he moved some rope and a large piece of broken masonry aside and lifted the small form from the sled. She was light but the throw wrapped about her, though part of his improvisation, made it awkward. He grunted as he bent over to reenter the shack and unceremoniously dumped her wrapped up body on the floor. Retrieving the rope and masonry he folded back the covering, secured the rope around her ankles and tied the other end to the masonry. It was too much rope but at this depth, it wouldn’t be a concern.

Sliding her over to the newly enlarged opening in the ice, he paused to stare at the form made luminescent in the glare of his headlamp. Such a beautiful body. What a waste. Now just meat, fresh meat he noticed, still warm. The angry wound on the side of her head had swollen, looking even larger than when he’d wrapped her in the throw. She wore small gold earrings and a ring mounted with a large red gem on the index finger of her right hand. The throw and her clothes could be scattered among various dumpsters, no problem, but he knew from experience disposing of something as personal as jewelry was more difficult and in this case, it was better left with the dead.

With a shove he pushed the masonry into the icy gap and guided the body to follow. With her legs and torso submerged, he released her. To his horror, there was a sharp gasp and by the light of his headlamp he saw her eyes open wide in terror, mouth agape, fighting for breath against the frigid water. She reached out to him but the weight dragged her down until only her fingertips gripped the ragged edge of the shack floor. One at a time they failed; the last adorned by the blood-red gem. She was gone.

***

Federal Prosecutor Michael Cain awoke with a start—another bad dream. Gabriel had been messing with him. His twin had passed soon after their birth, but visited Michael often during childhood, in pleasant, vibrant dreams of them playing together as brothers. It was long ago but Michael still trusted in the memory. Yet since his return to the family’s lakeside home to recover from what the media characterized as A shootout worthy of the Old Wild West, he dreaded sleep. Gabriel had reappeared as an identical adult, but looked animated, struggling in the midst of an intense tempest filled with unintelligible violence.

Michael threw back the covers, shivered at the room’s coolness, and stepped into his old Nike sandals. Pulling on his father’s ratty robe, he slowly made his way along the dark hall and down the stairs. The bright reflection from moonlit snow lit his way through the family room. Pouring a small Glenfiddich, he stood before the large lakeside window and sipped the amber liquid and the view of a calm winter’s night.

He was only mildly surprised to see a snow machine pass by near the shore below. He considered, Some knucklehead out for a late night ride ripping across thin ice.

Had Michael been truly prescient, as his family thought him to be, he would have discerned that this lone rider could tear mending wounds anew and place Michael and those he loved in mortal danger. He would have been forewarned and with Gabriel by his side, steeled for what he did best. Battle!

He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

He drew me out of deep waters.

2 Samuel 22:17

Willy DeWeerd, Weird Willy to some, was a big man past his prime, who knew the waters of Lake Okoboji well. When young, he had volunteered to assist the Iowa Department of Natural Resources with gillnetting game fish. This spring Willy was volunteering in the form of community service for his failure to remove fishing shacks in a timely manner, as cited by Department of Natural Resources Officer Picky Piccard.

It was the same routine—lay the nets before dark, pull the nets in around midnight, throw back the immature and undesirables, and transport the selected mature fish to the hatchery in Spirit Lake. They eventually would be returned to the lake, but the eggs and milt stripped from the fish at the hatchery would become the fry and fingerlings needed to restock and maintain the high level of sport fishing in the Iowa Great Lakes. Since fishing was an integral part of the area’s economy and he was a commercial and sport fisherman, fishing consumed much of Willy’s time.

It had not been a typical winter for northwest Iowa, nor was this a normal spring. Except for a sharp cold snap that had extended the end of the season, the winter was mild. Now, as if Mother Nature believed in the law of compensation, the work of netting spawning fish was taking place during a late, bitter storm whose snow, freezing temperature, and strong northwest wind coated the workers and equipment in ghostly white.

As he worked, the icy crust on the arms of Willy’s coveralls and insulated rubber gloves cracked and broke off only to be replaced by successive blasts of spray as waves hit the side of the boat. His face was raw and his beard hoary with frost. Even his exhaled breath seemed to hesitate in a momentary state of frigid disbelief.

Willy looked back at his two companions and in the dim light of the lanterns could see their deep fatigue. This was the third consecutive night placing and pulling nets, and all three nights they’d faced harsh conditions. Tonight was the worst. If their misery demanded justification it was coming in the form of nets heavily laden with mature walleyes.

Kneeling near the bow of the flat-bottom boat, Willy pulled and passed the net back to the original cause of his misery, Officer Piccard, who removed fish from the net and passed them to the third man, a DNR hatchery biologist, for sorting. Willy’s back ached, but as tough as it was, he was determined to show Picky he could do his part.

Fish after fish came over the boat’s gunnel. Willy marveled at the large iridescent eyes of the walleyes. The piercing light of his headlamp could pick up their pearl-like luster several feet below the water line. While eager to see the species and number of fish, what excited him was the possibility of handling a record-sized walleye, or maybe even a northern pike or musky.

The weight of the net suggested how many and the size of the fish ensnared, and it was now that Willy felt the hulking resistance of a possible trophy. On the next pull he was surprised, not by the heft, but by the lack of fight in the finny prize. Slow as his fatigue-numbed brain might have been, he became alarmed. The fish could be stressed, or so enmeshed, it was unable to move and pass a sufficient amount of water over its gills to survive. Willy hauled the net back with urgency until finally he could see the pallid form that began to materialize from deep in the water.

With a powerful heave, he pulled the catch near the surface. Expecting to see the massive head of a pike or musky, he was surprised by the appearance of the tail, a tail distinctly separated into limp, thick splayed spines. From one of the spines, something shiny, like a metallic lure, reflected the beam of his headlamp.

What the hell? Bending over the side of the boat, he drew the netted fish to him. Suddenly in a blood-red flash, a pale, grotesque hand broke from the water, grasping for his throat. Reflexively dropping the net, Willy’s body snapped back violently in terror from the apparition. His hoarse primal scream was cut off by the sharp blast of icy air mixed with freezing spray that choked shut his nose and throat.

***

Night dispatcher Duane Fridlay hesitated. There had been something unusual brought up in a DNR netting operation off Pillsbury Point and the excited caller wanted the sheriff’s office to respond immediately. In his experience respond immediately calls in the middle of the night this time of year were usually pranks or a drunk who needed a ride home. Duane waited until the caller caught his breath, then calmly suggested what he should do is contact the lake patrol for assistance with any netting problems.

There was a pause and then a verbal explosion. We are the lake patrol. Who the hell do you think does gillnetting? Send the sheriff! Duane, startled by the fierce outburst of anger, stammered and then tried to recover.

I hear ya! I’ll send one of the deputies. What is the nature of your situation and where exactly are you?

He immediately was subjected to another verbal blast. Don’t send a friggin’ deputy! We need the sheriff! We’ve got the body of a dead female, and it’s not a fish! We’re beached just east of Pillsbury Point, out of the wind, and we need the sheriff NOW! Duane knew Sheriff Conrad wouldn’t like this, but considering he was between a hook and sinker, he made the call.

***

The jangle of the phone on the nightstand was like barbed wire ripping through the sheriff’s slumber. Grabbing the receiver, he spoke in a voice gravelly from sleep. Duane, this had better be important.

Sorry, sheriff, but we just got a call from the DNR that something unusual was brought up in their gillnet.

There was silence on the line and then, for the third time within minutes, Duane suffered more verbal abuse. Gillnet! Is this some sort of joke? What the hell is so important about netting fish that you would call me at 2:00 in the morning? So help me Duane, if you fell asleep again and had one of your so-called night visions!

No, sheriff! No! Please, listen. It’s a body! I didn’t get it at first either but it was a DNR officer and he insisted they needed the sheriff. I told them I couldn’t do that…well sort of, and that I’d send a deputy. The DNR guy had a goddamn meltdown and insisted I call you. They’ve got a dead body. It’s a woman!

Sheriff Conrad sharply sucked in his breath. The report of a body was cause enough, but the goddamn from Duane did it. A bit of a prude, Duane was not one to use profanity, and Sheriff Conrad had never before heard a blasphemous obscenity uttered by his longtime deputy and part-time dispatcher. Okay, Duane. Calm down. Tell me what, where. You know the drill.

***

Sheriff Mark Conrad—Connie to family and friends—was a taut-line, by-the-book, no-nonsense officer of the law. His tall broad-shouldered frame served him well in his chosen career. More than once a violent situation was resolved by the appearance of a sheriff with the stature and look of a tough, seasoned lawman who could have stepped right out of the pages of a Western novel. The animal intensity and focus from his deep, dark, intelligent eyes clearly communicated there would be only one outcome and it would be what Sheriff Conrad expected.

Most of his duties during the off-season involved obvious, even mundane matters. Summer brought the types of problems found in larger communities and with young people in particular, issues more like those encountered on a college campus. Still, the motive and perpetrator tended to be obvious. Random acts often fueled by alcohol or drugs nearly by definition did not reflect great planning or require complicated solutions. If there had to be crime, Sheriff Conrad preferred it that way. What he didn’t like were the muddled cases, the occasional serious crimes not readily explained through standard police procedure and straightforward investigation.

He had the skills, was diligent, and possessed a talented imagination, but he and his well-trained staff knew that unintended consequences touched upon so many when investigating a complicated case. A possible drowning this soon after ice-out was unusual. His experience and the innate qualities that made him good at his job provoked in him the sense that this case would quickly become complicated.

Sheriff Conrad had seen bodies pulled from the lake, victims of boating or swimming accidents. All were tragic, but most were impairment-related or the result of other variations on poor judgment. This was something else.

It was the body of a young woman, nude, stretched out on the bottom of the boat and still entangled in the gillnet. Framed by long hair dampened to fair brown, her face glowed alabaster by the light of the lanterns. For a moment Sheriff Conrad gazed upon what he’d only seen in museums and never in the form of a living soul. She was an angel rendered in marble. The grubby deck, dying fish still in the net, and the rude setting of the old boat were an obscenity to this perfection.

She couldn’t have been in the water long. Even from where he stood beside the boat, Sheriff Conrad could see a darkened area just underneath the hairline on the side of her head. Raw red ligature marks circumvented each ankle, and her arms lay crossed upon her torso. On the index finger of her right hand was a ring with a single large red gem.

The ring! Something stirred in his memory. Connie carefully climbed into the boat and aimed the beam of his flashlight directly at the victim’s face. Stooping over for a closer view, Connie confirmed what his recall of the ring had suggested.

Oh, damn!

Connie paused and took a deep breath to find his professional place, but there would be no easy separation of professional and personal about this. In a gruff voice, without looking up, he addressed the three men. Other than pulling her into the boat, did you do anything that might have compromised the situation?

The three looked at one another and each shook his head. It was Willy who spoke.

No sir. We lifted her into the boat, recovered the net, and came ashore.

Connie gave them a hard look. Stay here. We’re going to treat this as a crime scene. Don’t do anything that might compromise what we have. Give me your phones. I’ll return them before you leave.

***

Sheriff Mark Conrad stood out of the wind at the top of a low bluff on the eastern side of Pillsbury Point overlooking Smith’s Bay. The lake was shrouded in darkness. The storm had passed and the Moon had set. As the sky cleared, the few remaining stars were fading as if trying to flee the anguish below. He drew out his phone and hit the speed dial for dispatch. On the first ring he heard Duane’s voice. 911—what is your emergency?

Duane, this is Connie. Contact the Arnolds Park Police Department and our night patrol deputies, and send them to this location. Then I need you to wake some people up. Tell them it’s urgent. Tell them we have a body, and tell them where they’re to meet me. Do not—and I mean this—do not give them any other information. Put a lid on this and keep it there. Any questions come into the office, direct them to me. And Duane, if you stop for breakfast on the way home, not a word. Do you read me? Not a word!

Yes sir. Not a word. Who do I call?

In addition to the local police and night deputies, Connie requested the hospital EMTs, the county medical examiner and part-time pathologist, the Dickinson County Sheriff’s Deputy most skilled in crime scene investigation and photography, and one of the department’s two homicide detectives. Duane, one more person. Call Father Barney over at St. Theresa’s. Tell him to bring his Gates of Heaven kit. He’ll know what I mean. Make sure it’s Father Barney and not the new guy.

There remained one more call to be made, and the sheriff needed to do this personally. Duane, I need you to look up a number for me.

Standing there in the dark listening to the signal ringing in his ear, it all seemed surreal. The wind was subsiding, but snow still swirled about in eerie contrast to the black below. Connie felt that one misstep at the edge of the bluff, and he’d fall forever into a bottomless ebony pit. A shiver shot down his back when on the fourth ring a small, thin voice answered.

Hello?

Miss Lawery? This is Sheriff Conrad. I apologize for calling like this, but I know that you would expect to be contacted immediately. Drawing a deep chill breath, Connie paused then pressed on. Miss Lawery, can you hear me?

A few seconds passed with some indecipherable words filling the gap, then a stronger voice came on the line. It’s OK, Hoepe, I’ve got it. Hello, Connie. This is Faethe.

Miss Lawery, I’m sorry to be calling you in the middle of the night.

Before he could say another word, Faethe interrupted, Connie, we’ve known each other for over thirty years. Call me Faethe. That was Faethe Lawery, who insisted upon her version of decorum.

Yes, Miss…yes, Hoepe…I mean Faethe. I’m sorry, but I have the worst kind of news. It’s your niece.

***

It was daybreak, the sun’s arrival announced by the glow on setting clouds and exalted by the brilliant sparkle on water. The recent snowfall and heavily frosted trees provided a pure white crown to the deep blue water of Okoboji. Such joyous beauty lifted the spirits of Father Barney. It was a dawn like this one that affirmed his faith in the promise of rebirth for the souls of those he shepherded.

Though he still preferred to be addressed as Father Barney, he was now Monsignor O’Brian, an honorific title granted by the Pope in respect for Barney’s many years of valuable service to the church. During his fifty years as a priest and pastor, Father Barney was assigned to various Midwestern parishes. But for his final posting, the Monsignor requested and was reappointed to St. Theresa’s, his former parish that served the Lakes area. It may have been unusual for a priest to return to a congregation served so many years before, but technically he was semi-retired and acting as mentor to Father Jim, a recently ordained priest. The parishioners were responding well to a combination of wisdom born of experience and the enthusiasm of the newly minted.

For any priest the performance of what was once known as Last Rites was common, but the call from the dispatch officer that specifically asked for Father Barney and his Gates of Heaven kit meant this case was different. He was directed to meet Sheriff Conrad on Pillsbury Point, and as he turned off Highway 71 onto the narrow residential street leading to the point, he could see a police car with lights silently flashing and further on, an ambulance. An officer stood near the police car.

Ahead of Father Barney, an old sedan came to a stop and, after a brief check of the occupants, was allowed through. As he drove past, the Father waved at the young police officer who simply nodded. Parking his car, he was surprised to see two of his elderly parishioners, the Lawery sisters, getting out of the sedan. Beyond, he could make out the sheriff, another policeman, and the EMTs.

Collecting his kit, Father Barney stepped out and followed quietly behind the sisters. As he approached the bluff’s rim he could see lights below that illuminated a boat and several figures. A large man was in the bow, and even at this distance Barney recognized him to be Dr. Matthew Hunter, county ME and a respected area physician.

Sheriff Conrad greeted the Lawerys and Father Barney, then took Barney by the arm to draw him aside. Father, we need to talk first. Connie’s face was drawn and the red of the morning’s early light emphasized the deep lines in his face carved over time by his dedication to duty. This is a bad one, Barney. It’s Virginia Lawery.

Father Barney started, stepping back and nearly stumbling. No, no, no, please! It can’t be.

I’m sorry Father, but there’s no doubt.

Father Barney’s aged body sagged. Bowing his head, he spoke softly, God help us. Please, Lord be with us.

We’ll need all the help we can get, Father. That’s why I had Duane call you and not the newbie.

Ah, yes. I understand. It’s because of her Aunties. But is it wise they should be here at this time?

Father, of all people, you know better.

Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.

Sheriff Mark Conrad had known Father Barney since childhood. Some of his earliest recollections were of a younger Father Barney at the church altar and in the parochial elementary school.

Barely an adolescent, Connie was present when the Rites of the Sick were performed for his mother, Anne. The rite may have helped spiritually, but physically, the medical doctor’s diagnosis prevailed, and his mother had passed on quietly from the cancer that had suddenly devastated her body and his life.

Personally skeptical about the veracity, he understood from experience the importance the ritual held for some, especially for family members. It provided them a semblance of order when thrust into a state over which they had no control. And while Last Rites were intended for the faithful’s final stage of living, Connie knew there were Prayers After Death to accompany the souls of the deceased on their journey.

The small ensemble followed Sheriff Conrad down the steep path, and, as if finding comfort in proximity, clustered together on the shore. It was surprising how well the elderly sisters managed the rocky trail. There was a grim resolve to their efforts as they assisted each other.

The ice that coated the boat’s gunnel and ribs reflected the light from the lanterns and gave the appearance of a frozen crib. The body remained on the floor of the boat but had been sheltered by a section of rough white canvas used to cover gear. Only her face, framed by hair now dried to its true golden color, was exposed.

The medical examiner finished the preliminary tasks, stepped out of the boat, and joined the assembly. With the sheriff’s assistance, the priest took his place, and Connie handed him the kit.

Father Barney slowly knelt, placed the implements of the ritual on the seat, kissed then placed the stole over his shoulders, and quietly began to speak the words of passing for such a prematurely released soul.

Without any sign or word, the lanterns on the bow and stern were extinguished. The subdued glow of the boat’s running lights reflected off the surface of the dark water like a halo surrounding Father Barney and the body of Virginia Lawery. The solemnity of the rite, the humility of the elderly priest, and the reverential tableau on the shore bore witness to the sanctity that consigned an incongruent dignity to a heartrending scene.

Is that me?

Yes, or rather, it was you.

I don’t look so good.

It is what you left behind.

If that’s what I left, shouldn’t the rest of me be somewhere else?

Yes.

Then why am I here?

What you were is finished. What you become is yet to be.

I don’t understand.

Nor do they. That is why you remain.

Can I help?

No.

What should I do?

Wait.

How will they understand?

I am with you.

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

Romans 12:21

Sheriff Conrad was off duty when he pulled into the drive of the family home of his longtime friend, Michael Cain. He loved the old place. The warm memories of living with Michael and his family were strong and important to him. His younger life had been troubled, and his success as a man, husband, father, and even officer of the law, was due in no small part to Michael’s family.

Old Judge Cain was not known for coddling law-breaking delinquents, as he put it. But when his son, Michael’s father, represented Connie and expressed a willingness to take him into his own home and to foster him, the elder Cain agreed to modify the severe sentence he had intended to hand Connie.

Michael had his sixteen-foot Lund Pro Angler in the driveway and was busy hosing out the inside of the boat. It was a cool day but with no breeze, and the afternoon sun in a cloudless sky gave a sense of warmth. It was one of those glorious spring days that blessed those who lived in the Lakes region.

Michael wore tattered cutoffs, water shoes, and a bright yellow T-shirt with a green parrot printed on the front and My Therapist is Jimmy Buffet on the back. ZZ Top’s Sharp Dressed Man blasted from an ancient CD player, and a Finland Beer koozie massaged a bottle of Corona. Michael was deep into mellow, and Connie regretted that this visit was