Not A Sound. Heather Gudenkauf
man. And then there is their daughter, Lane. She will be devastated when she learns that her mother is never coming back home.
I swallow back my tears, pull my eyes from the body and scan the earth around me. Muddy footprints everywhere. I think I can discern three different shoe treads. Most likely my own and the DNR officer’s, and possibly the killer’s. There are also the imprints of Stitch’s large paws zigzagging the ground chronicling his agitation. Off in the brush is a discarded glass beer bottle. It could have belonged to one of the ever-growing number of weekend warriors who have discovered this length of river due to the opening of Five Mines Outfitters, located right next door to my house. The outfitter offers an array of outdoor services including canoe, kayak, paddleboard and in the winter, snowshoe and ice skate rentals.
Below us Stitch waits, wiggling impatiently while somehow remaining in a seated position. I gesture for him to settle and stay and he complies. Officer Wagner tugs on my sleeve and nods toward the woods below us. Emerging from the trees is a small troupe of four-wheelers. Unable to contain himself, Stitch leaps to his feet and begins to spin around in excitement.
Five of the six people on the ATVs are law enforcement officers, including Jake. The lone civilian I recognize as my new neighbor, the proprietor of Five Mines Outfitters. We’ve never officially met, but I hate him anyway. The day he opened his business he brought a steady stream of unwanted strangers into my backyard, disrupting my solitude. The four-wheelers most likely belong to my neighbor and the Mathias Police Department commandeered them and asked him to lead the way through the woods so they could get to the scene as quickly as possible. Jake and the four other officers slide from their ATVs and begin to move toward us, leaving my neighbor behind.
Stitch knows Jake so he greets him with an enthusiastic wag of his bottle brush tail and attaches himself to Jake’s side. When the officers reach the bottom of the bluff, Jake says something to the group and they remain below as he and Stitch make the short climb to where Officer Wagner and I wait.
Jake still has the same boyish good looks that he did thirty years ago. Seeing him in his detective’s uniform of a suit and tie makes me smile at the incongruity of how I remember him as a kid. He was a constant at our house, preferring ours to his own. His father was volatile, unpredictable, mean. Daily, he’d show up with his mussed sandy-brown hair, smelling of fresh cut grass and bubble gum, dressed in grubby jeans, scuffed tennis shoes and a purple-and-gold Minnesota Vikings T-shirt in search of my brother.
Jake’s normally cheerful face is now set in rigid seriousness and he’s oblivious to the mud that has caked his dress shoes and splattered onto his suit pants. He’s not even out of breath when he reaches us, a testament to the great physical shape he’s in. Instead of first asking where the victim is, he eyes me up and down. He winces at the sight of my bloodstained shirt, extends the index finger of both his hands and brings them toward each other, the right hand twisting one way and the left hand the other, making the ASL sign for hurt.
“I tripped,” I explain, holding up my hands. “It looks worse than it is.” He takes my hands in his and turns them over to examine my cut and scraped palms. His grasp is warm against my chilled fingers and I realize just how cold I am.
“Her name is Gwen Locke. I know her. We worked together. She’s been to my house,” I say. “I’ve been to hers.”
Jake looks surprised but doesn’t ask me if I’m sure of the woman’s identity. He releases my hands, and I immediately miss his warmth. He turns his attention to the DNR officer. Wagner points to the water, and a muscle in Jake’s jaw twitches and once again he becomes all business.
“Go back down by your paddleboard,” he signs. “We have to seal off this area. I’ll be right down to take your statement and Officer Snell will make sure you get home safely.” I nod, and Jake gives me a wisp of a smile as if to let me know that everything will be all right. I want to believe him.
Officer Snell, with his closely cropped hair and smattering of acne across his forehead, looks to be barely out of his teens. He’s waiting, pen and pad already in hand by the time I reach him. Cold has seeped through my pants, still damp from wading through the water and from my tumble to the ground and I begin to shiver.
“Just a few questions, ma’am,” Snell begins, but I quickly lose the thread and stop him.
“Maybe we should wait for Jake. Detective Schroeder,” I amend. “He knows sign.” Officer Snell nods his understanding and we stand around awkwardly until Jake makes his way down to us.
Jake knows how to talk to me. Not only does he know sign, he looks me right in the eye and keeps his sentences short. I answer out loud while Snell writes down my answers. He covers all the expected questions: name, address, phone number, age.
“You say you know her?” Jake signs.
I nod. “Her name is Gwen Locke. She’s a county sexual assault nurse and last I knew was a nurse at Queen of Peace and Mathias Regional.” I try to keep one eye on Stitch who grows bored and wanders away. His attention is on a black squirrel that looks curiously down from a tree branch at the drama unfolding before him.
“Do you have any contact information for her? Know her next of kin?” Jake signs as Snell flips his notebook to an empty page.
I haven’t used the phone number I have for Gwen in almost two years. After my accident she reached out to me, came by the hospital and to the house to visit but I refused to talk to her. To anyone. “Her husband’s name is Marty and she has a daughter named Lane. She grew up here.” I pull out my phone and find Gwen’s number. Snell adds it to his growing list of notes.
Jake has me take him, step by step, through my morning right up until Stitch discovered Gwen in the river. Beyond his shoulder I see Stitch wander toward my neighbor who is waiting next to a four-wheeler, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. He bends down to scratch Stitch’s ear. “Stitch, Ke mne!” I call. Ke mne is Czech for come and pronounced as khemn yea. Stitch leisurely trots back to my side. Stitch’s trainer, Vilem, who is originally from Prague, trained all of his police and rescue dogs using Czech commands, including Stitch and Jake’s K-9.
Jake shifts so that his face is once again in front of mine. “You going to be okay?” he asks. “Do you want me to call someone for you?”
That’s when I realize I’m late for my interview with Dr. Huntley. I’ve forgotten all about it.
“Oh, shit!” I say. I check my watch. It’s close to ten thirty. I’m already a half an hour late. By the time I get home, cleaned up and to the clinic I’ll be well over two hours late. I tell Jake about the interview and that I have to get home.
“Sorry,” he signs. “Officer Snell will get you home as soon as possible. You’ll have to come to the police station at some point and we’ll have you sit down with a certified interpreter to take your official statement. I’ll check in with you later.” Then he moves back up the bluff toward Gwen’s body.
I check my phone and find two texts from Dr. Huntley’s office manager. The first reading, Dr. Huntley is running behind schedule and will be about thirty minutes late for your interview.
For a moment I’m hopeful that I’ll still be able to get to the clinic in time to catch him but then I read the second message and my stomach sinks. Dr. Huntley has to leave for another appointment. He will contact you if he’d like to reschedule. Great. The professional equivalent of “don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
There’s a third text from David. It’s only one word but it speaks volumes.
Typical.
Jake orders me not to share any details about my discovery with anyone so I send a text to Dr. Huntley’s office manager, apologizing for my absence. I explain that I have a good reason for missing the interview and that I will tell her all about it later. My fingers itch to respond to David’s smart-ass text with something equally snarky, but my attorney,