After picking up our room keys at the motel’s front desk, Jake and I agreed to meet tomorrow morning in the lobby at 8:00, when it would finally be light enough to view Tomahawk Lake. Natasha, who would also be staying at the motel, told us that she was returning to the Pickron house in the morning but would meet up with us later in the day.
In my room, I stowed my suitcase in the closet and gave Torres, the SWAT Team Leader, a call. He told me they hadn’t found Reiser. “Don’t worry, Pat. We’re on this. We found blood on two of his knives. We checked the DNA. Matched that of two missing persons-one in Milwaukee, one in DC. The DC victim was female, but the one from Milwaukee was male. Doesn’t fit the pattern. And no prints on the knife. He must have wiped it clean.”
DC? He brought the knife in the knife block back here from DC?
“I’ll be back down there as soon as I can,” I told him.
“I know,” he replied. “What are you thinking about the case up there? Double domestic homicide? The husband the shooter?”
“It’s too early to tell,” I said honestly.
After hanging up, I realized that I was becoming more and more concerned about the approaching snowstorm. I tried Tessa’s number again but only reached her voicemail.
Not a fan of texting, I left another vm for her to call me first thing in the morning: “It’s supposed to start snowing in the early afternoon so I need you to leave the winter session early, by 8:30 or so. Either that or I’ll reserve a room for you at a hotel there… Okay, so talk to you in the morning.” Out of habit I found myself calling her by the nickname I’d given her a year ago, a small way of acknowledging her independent spirit and her insatiable interest in Edgar Allan Poe: “I love you, Raven.”
I said nothing about hoping she would sleep well.
It was a topic best left untouched.
Ever since the day last summer when her father had been accidentally killed and I shot a man who was threatening Tessa’s life-was in fact about to shoot her-she understandably hadn’t been able to sleep well, rarely making it through the night.
I’d suggested a counselor, but that didn’t go over so well. She’d scoffed at the relaxation exercises I looked up online and tried yoga once but hated it.
Being a vegan and not wanting to use any drugs that had ever been tested on animals, she’d tried all the natural and homeopathic cures she could find. Then practical, commonsense things: no caffeine or food within four hours of bedtime, calming music, different ambient lighting combinations in her bedroom, candles and incense, getting up and doing something else rather than lying there dwelling on the fact that she couldn’t fall asleep. Nothing had really helped, at least not in the long-term.
Obviously, it’s not healthy for a high school senior to be unable to get more than four or five hours of sleep a night, and her GPA had taken a dive. In just one semester her cumulative 4.0 slipped to 3.65-pretty traumatic for a girl who’d never gotten a B on a report card in her life.
Her resultant testiness had also eroded her budding relationship with a new guy friend. He stuck with her for a while, but as she became more and more moody he finally broke things off just before Thanksgiving, which only made matters worse.
It seemed like the more I tried to find something to help her sleep, or the more I asked her how she’d slept, the more upset she became, so last month I stopped bringing it up. As long as she wouldn’t take medication or see a therapist, I wasn’t sure what else I could do for her.
Now, I set down the phone, but I left the ringer on just in case she called back.
After cranking up my room’s heater, I sent Cybercrime the emails and web history I’d downloaded from Donnie Pickron’s computer, searched through our online files for other instances of three shots through a window at a crime scene to see if that was the signature of any known criminal, but came up blank. Then I took some time to familiarize myself with the online maps of the miles and miles of snowmobile trails that intersect Tomahawk Lake and weave through the surrounding forests.
I found out that nearly all of the national forest service staff are seasonal and the ranger’s office closes down most of the roads once winter hits. It didn’t take me long to realize that, based on the location of the sawmill in relation to the Pickron residence and the long, looping county roads that wound around the marsh, it would have saved Donnie time and money if he rode his snowmobile to work through the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest rather than driving his car.
I committed the trails to memory.
Finally, emotionally drained from the events of the day, especially from seeing the four-year-old girl Lizzie’s body, I put my laptop away and headed to bed, unsure, with all of this on my mind, if I would be able to sleep any better than my stepdaughter.