Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler by Victoria Houston

will you?”
    No one moved. A grasshopper shrilled. The river burbled. Tears coursed down the father’s face. Finally he said, “Is that… is that a bullet wound on the side of his head?”
    “I’m standing too far away to say for sure,” said Osborne though he was darn sure he was looking at damage that could only be done by a rifle. “I’ll take a closer look when Chief Ferris gives the okay.”
    “Jake,” said Lew, “please, I can only imagine how you must be feeling right now but we’ll have to have the crime lab experts examine your son’s body in order to know exactly what has happened here.”
    Jake nodded and stumbled back.
    Lew beckoned to Ray. “Photos please.”
    “Doc,” said Lew after Ray had waded into the shallows to take photos from all angles, “no question the victim took a bullet in the head. Would you agree with me the entrance wound is behind the left ear?”
    “Yes,” said Osborne, “but you’ll want Bruce to confirm. I’m recording cause of death as homicide.”
    “Jake,” said Lew, “if it helps at all, I’m sure your son died instantly. He never…”
    As she spoke, she and Doc turned to look at Jake. He was crouched over his knees, arms folded tight over his head. A look passed between Lew and Osborne: They both knew despair. After a long while, Jake raised his head and stood up. He wiped at his face and stepped forward.
    “May I now?” he asked Lew.
    She nodded.
    As Jake bent to lay a comforting arm over his son’s body, Osborne tugged at Lew’s sleeve. Eight feet away on the sandy river bank and nearly hidden from view by grasses was a fly rod Osborne guessed to be about fourteen feet long. Tied at one end was a bright pink fluorocarbon fishing line, which bobbed in the water along the shoreline.
    Pulling on a pair of Nitrile gloves, Lew reached for the rod. At the end of the pink line was tied three feet of tippet and at the end of that was one of the few trout flies Osborne could recognize: a Royal Wulff. Rod in one hand, Lew moved along the riverbank, bending to search through the grasses.
    “The reel should be here somewhere…”
    “No reel used on a tenkara rod,” said Jake. “Chief Ferris, is it okay for me to check the pockets on Liam’s vest? He kept his trout flies in a little wooden box. I’d hate for that to be lost.”
    “Go right ahead,” said Lew. “I’m about to call Bruce Peters who is the Wausau Crime Lab’s top investigator. I’ll arrange for Bruce to take your son’s body down to the crime lab for an autopsy. Required when death is from unnatural causes.”
    “I understand,” said Jake. “I have been preparing myself for this. I guess—I would hope his body could be returned to me in Illinois. Actually, no. I would like him returned to Loon Lake and maybe you folks can recommend a funeral home. I want him cremated. That way I can take his ashes to one of the rivers we fished in Wyoming. Liam would like that.”
    “Bruce?” Lew had walked away from the riverbank, hoping she might get a cell signal. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to make the call until after hiking the mile back to the squad car. But Bruce answered.
    “Yeah, Chief Ferris, no news on those remains yet—”
    “That’s not why I’m calling. I have a new victim and crime scene—you’re going to have a long day I’m afraid.”
    After giving him the details, Lew said, “I’m staying here with the victim’s father. Doc will hike back to my squad car, meet you at the Pine Tree Diner, and bring you here. I’m pretty sure it’s a head wound from a rifle and the body has not been in water so that may help. Ray Pradt is here, too. I’m asking him to check the perimeters for any tracks or signs of the shooter. He’s taken photos, too.”
    “Okay, Chief. One thing on that snowmobiler I think you would appreciate knowing. Remember how the skull is caved in on one side?”
    “Yes.”
    “I checked it against the damaged helmet—the patterns match. That victim was