Still Waters of Round Lake

Still Waters of Round Lake

K. L. Dempsey

Copyright © 2024 K. L. Dempsey

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead; historical events; or organizations is purely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-89315-034-6 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89315-051-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

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35

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For Nadley, Laurie, Brian

Also by K. L. Dempsey

The Unholy Vengeance

The Vanishing Pharmacist

Beneath the Earth

Secrets of Eden's Dam

Death before Its Time

Evidence of Failure

The Dark Tomb

Swinging Gates

Justice for Elizabeth

Still Waters of Round Lake

Still Waters of Round Lake

July 16, 1986, the gathering

K. L. Dempsey

Your eyes are windows into your body. If you open your eyes wide with wonder and belief, your body fills up with light.

—Matthew 6:22

1

Brad Davis pushed the handgun to the far side of his car passenger seat. It was his favorite handgun, a Walther PPK 9 mm Kurz, or as some liked to call it, the baby 9. It took the standard .380 ammunition and was usually considered a woman's weapon because of its weight. It had caught his interest due in large part to the fact that Walther had promoted its use in several of the James Bond movies. Now laying his jacket over the seat, he pushed open the door of his silver Pontiac and stood on the rough ground well above the city below as he focused his Bushnell seven-by-thirty-five field glasses on what was once called the so-called flat house. Its actual purpose was that it once had been used to store grain until it became empty. Then free of the wheat that it stored, he remembered that it was now used by the kids from the local high school as a place to dance. It wasn't much but a tar-papered building, but it was theirs, away from the prying eyes of adults. Now he moved the field glasses away from looking at the flat house and concentrated on the downtown section of what remained of a town that had become known as Round Lake. In the early 1900s, he had been told that it had eight general stores, each one employing three to five clerks. That was the period when the city of Round Lake had two banks, one lumberyard, one hotel, and one drug store along with a doctor and dentist. It had been a quiet time when people actually spoke to one another and left their homes open for visitors that just stopped by to say hello. It was also the time when strangers passing through the area would file claim to a quarter section of land and then begin to farm that land while raising a family.

Now laying the Bushnell field glasses on the hood of his car, he looked off into the distance, watching the train as it approached Round Lake. Today it probably wouldn't stop as it had done years ago to drop off its freight and pick up a few passengers as it hauled them to the next town seven or eight miles away. Those days were long gone as, were the arrivals of any Greyhound buses coming from the twin cities. In truth, he wouldn't himself be here today except for that goddamn lake, which had become a legend to the area's people. It was a body of water that could only be reached by taking a gravel road for fourteen miles out of town if you weren't afraid of the rocks that would continually bounce off your windshield. In past years visiting his uncle, he had traveled the road on several occasions. He sighed for a moment, thinking about the last time that he had visited the lake and didn't like the memories, with the exception of those times that he and his uncle had gone fishing. Sometimes they would take a lunch along and spend most of the day there with him drinking the bottle of water wrapped in an old gunnysack to keep it cool while his uncle would drink several six-ounce cans of Coors between casting for northern pike and largemouth bass.

There were always things to do out at Round Lake. You could fish, wade, visit with others who had the same idea, or run through the tall grass and do what eventually put Round Lake on the map, which was swim. Brad David was a good swimmer, something that he had learned as a very young boy while growing up in Centerline, Michigan, and spending time at the local YMCA near his mother's three-room frame home. Thus, it had become strange to him that few of the young visitors to Round Lake could actually swim and that their parents appeared to pay little attention to this while allowing them to wade around the lake or go so far out in the water that it came up to their mouths. He remembered how one young girl that he taken a liking to had thought that these efforts were so daring. Now for the first time this morning, he allowed himself to smile from the memories of those years passed. They didn't have bathing suits back then, so the boys wore old cut-off jeans, while the girls wore old short cotton dresses. He recalled building sand castles, getting muddy, as did the rest of his friends, then walking into the water to rinse it all off. Unlike current times when people didn't give a damn, in that period, one would find few, if any, broke bottles or tin cans tossed all over the grounds of Round Lake. It had been the last weekend of his summer stay before returning with his mother to Centerline, Michigan, while Round Lake would become a place that few people would ever forget or want to visit in the future years.

With a population of around 1,500, Round Lake, South Dakota, was what Brad thought of as a boutique town. Compared to the other small towns that surrounded the area, Round Lake had that romantic flare to it. Not too big, not too small. At any rate, he was not going to spend much time recounting memories because there were none that needed revisiting, except the one that had brought him back here, that lake. However, coming down the hill, he did think about the times that he had gone sledding on what everyone called Tower Hill. The name came into being because the city water tower sat on top of that hill still today with its bright painting of two Canadian geese in flight.

He started to slow the speed of his Pontiac as he came to the yellow stop sign and the marker that informed all arriving traffic that they were about to enter the town. Crossing the highway, a lot of pictures that had stuck in his mind over the years now reappeared. He now remembered that the first house that he just passed had at one time belonged to Pastor Robert Wilson, his wife, and their six children. His uncle had told him that Wilson would take his kids to the top of Tower Hill in the winter along with one of the largest sleds he had ever seen and fly down that hill with all the fun of being a kid himself. He was of course now gone, having taken another call to a much larger Lutheran church, and from what Brad could tell, the attached parsonage that still stood must have been rented to another family. Continuing down the asphalt road, he passed the city park, where he once had played and had met the first girl that he had dated at the age of sixteen. He wondered where she was now, though he assumed that she had probably married one of the local farmers, like her father had been. Now he passed what at one time was called the Big Corner. It was where Ruth Mason, Melvin Bellow, Edger Ruth, and Pete Connors had lived. Today from what he had been told, all made their home in the Catholic cemetery just north at the top of Tower Hill. If he had time, he would pay the cemetery a visit because that was where his mother now made her home also. Ahead, he saw the sign that he was looking for, the Blue Berry Café. Pulling in alongside a minivan, he got out and stretched his six feet, six inches frame while removing his sunglasses.

In the café, the three octogenarians put their coffee cups down and watched the stranger take a seat in one of the available booths.

Who's that? whispered Helen Peabody.

Never seen him before, answered Dorothy Fox, but one thing's for sure, he could put his shoes under my bed. She laughed softly.

And they would be calling for the local EMTs, offered Ruth Holden in return.

I'd gladly take the chance if I were thirty years younger, said Dorothy. You know that he does appear somewhat familiar, she continued.

Each one watched as the young sixteen-year-old high school waitress walked over to the stranger's table and poured him a cup of coffee while taking his order. When she finished, she walked past the table with the three older women, with Dorothy Fox being unable to control her interest.

Elisa, she whispered to the waitress. Who is that man? she asked, turning her face away from the table that Brad was sitting at.

He says his name is Brad Davis, the nephew of Elmer Whitehouse, she said, continuing her walk back toward the kitchen.

I just knew that I'd seen him before, said Fox. He's got to be Mildred's kid that once lived in that small one-bedroom house just before you leave town. She used to visit her brother Elmer Whitehouse along with him every summer for about three months before both she and her mother passed away. Elmer, as you might remember, worked at the lumberyard. Good hard worker that everyone liked, especially the kids, whom he loved to tease while their parents shopped.

So what's he doing here? asked Dorothy.

Maybe he told Elisa since I certainly have no idea, replied Fox.

It really doesn't matter, said Helen. He's already leaving, she said, watching him put down a $10.00 bill on the table and walk to the front door.

Moving out the door and getting in his car, Brad turned his eyes back to the large picture window and watched as the three women followed his every move. Fashioning his seat belt, he backed his car up and then turned his vehicle onto the main road. In less than two minutes, he had arrived at the Waldemar Hotel. Getting out of his car, he walked up the steps of the huge brick cement building and entered the once converted home that now served as the only hotel in town. Deer racks hung seemingly from every wall and over the front desk.

Can I help you? came the voice of a man that reminded Brad of a ticket agent that you would find at the Chicago train terminal.

Yes, I need a room for about five days, maybe six, if you have the space.

You're in luck, fellow. This is the off season, so there will always be plenty of room until hunting season begins. Do you have anything special in mind? Standard bed, queen-size, or king-size?

King-size if you have one. You are Mr. Waldemar I assume? asked Brad.

No, that was some time ago, Mr. Davis, when this place had thirty-five rooms and a parlor upstairs. At that time there would have been one-bath, two-toilet facilities. One for the men and one for the women. The guests had to take a turn for bathing. At that time it would vary when you could take your bath. You would have to get a key, which was always locked up. We've come a long way on that subject since the hotel is now owned by the Houser family, although they still kept the old name. Today, instead of the battery-run radio, we even have fifty-five-inch slimline TVs in each room. By the way, my name is Conrad Houser. It will be my pleasure to make your stay a most pleasant one, Mr. Davis, he said, smiling.

Thank you, Mr. Houser. Would you by chance know who now owns the old Elmer Whitehouse home? I hope to visit it before I leave town, said Davis.

After Mr. Whitehouse passed away, I believe the house was purchased by a family member who lives in Oklahoma. Now it's rented only in the fall during hunting season by those looking for a lodge to stay in while they go whitetail deer hunting. If you're trying to visit it for old times' sake, Mr. Davis, the keys today are held by Winter Fairstein, the president of the first Round Lake bank downtown. I'm certain Mr. Fairstein would be glad to give them to you since nothing of value remains in the house with the exception of beds and a small refrigerator and stove. Is there anything else that I could help you with? he asked.

No, I'm good, he replied, taking the key with room number 5 on it. He started to walk away, then suddenly thinking better of it, he turned back to Houser. Oh yes, there is one other little matter that you might be able to help me with.

And what is that? asked Conrad.

I need to talk with someone who might have been around when the Round Lake tragedy took place, said Davis.

I'm not certain exactly what you mean, responded Conrad.

It was back in 1986 when a group of people had gathered on the west side of Round Lake for a celebration. I had been there in the morning as a teenager before leaving to return to Michigan with my mother. That celebration later turned into a tragedy that effected several communities besides Round Lake. My mother, when she was alive, had told me that it rocked the community because it involved four young people who were never found to this day.

Oh, that incident. People still don't like to talk about that day, Mr. Davis, responded Conrad.

Why is that? Because all the missing people were kids or the fact that who took them has never been found?

That part I don't know about, but what I can tell you is that many years have passed, and to this day not many people go out there for swimming or fishing anymore. One man who lives near the lake has been reported to indicate that if even ten people visit that place each year, that's probably eight more than the real truth. Actually, I'm afraid to go out there myself and haven't done it since my senior year in high school. Say, if you don't mind my asking, Mr. Davis, what's your interest in the place anyway?

Well, let me explain it this way. My mother and I would visit this town for a few weeks every year while visiting my uncle Whitehouse and my grandmother before returning back to Centerline, Michigan. In a way, it became my second home except for the fact that few people would even remember me to this day. Later after entering the Army and serving our country for three years, I then received a bachelor's degree in criminal justice and psychology. I later applied and was accepted into the FBI's Behavior Science Unit. They liked my work, so for the next twelve years, I worked as a criminal profiler.

So now you've come back to our little town to revisit that missing children case? asked Conrad.

Partly, but now that I've left the FBI, it gives me more time to pursue my real interest, which is writing novels. As luck would have it, I've been accepted by two publishing firms, which have shown an interest in my completed manuscripts. After my work is completed in Round Lake, I intend to settle down on the old Bob Walters farm and continue my writing.

You've bought the place? asked Conrad.

All 160 acres, including the sand hills and the slough, although I intend to have that drained and replaced by twenty acres of true fishing water, said Davis.

Conrad looked at the man's ring finger before asking, You're still single?

Not by choice. My former wife died twelve years ago while she was helicopter-piloting a car accident victim to a nearby hospital in Pontiac, Michigan. The tail rotator broke off, and the helicopter went straight into the ground, said Davis.

Please accept my apologies for bringing this up, said Conrad.

That's all right. Time has helped heal, said Davis.

You might try Mrs. Rice, said Conrad.

Who? asked Davis.

"Mrs. Bessie Rice. She's our local historian. She and her husband once owned the Round Lake Daily local newspaper. It doesn't of course exist anymore, but if anyone would know the history about this town or anything that has went on in the last fifty years, it would be her. She lives just north of town about eight miles out on a little farm. You can't miss it because her windmill is painted an ugly green color," said Conrad.

Thanks for your help, said Davis, now walking down the hall until he reached his room.

2

The mailbox was the typical type that you would find waiting at the end of any farmer's driveway. Well-worn and rusted, it was supported by what reminded Brad of a disregarded fence post that was on its last days. The name Rice on the mailbox told visitors that they had arrived at the location that they had been looking for should anyone had missed the green windmill. Turning into the gravel driveway, he passed through countless crab apple trees, bringing back memories of the small sour fruit. Several crows leaped from the trees that sheltered the farmhouse from the winds and heavy snow that must certainly prove to be a challenge during the winter months. He continued down the darkened road with its high grass and hidden, old, worn-out farm tractors left over hay haulers and discarded model Ts. Finally reaching the opening, he looked at the house, which surprisingly showed signs of being well-kept up and freshly painted. The house was typically white with a two-car garage and a large attached deck. Brad was more than impressed that the woman had done so well, especially since Conrad had indicated that she lived alone and was approaching ninety years old. Well, as the saying went, you did what you could.

After the death of his wife, he understood that desperate people did desperate things. Those words had become his mantra and his excuse for him to do things that he never thought that he would be able to do or condone doing after that knock on his door informing him that his wife had died. Those were the dark days as he tried to pick up his life during that period of time as he dealt with the outpouring of mail from well-wishers and sympathizers. Now pulling up to the two-car garage, he shut off the engine of his Pontiac and allowed his eyes to travel the full length of the yard. The chicken house, barn, and toolshed were all newly painted with no cars or farm equipment in sight. Opening up his car door, he got out and focused on the kitchen window with the drapes wide-open but saw no one in sight. The garage door being shut failed to answer the question if it contained any car. He walked the ten steps up to the front door and knocked on the pane window glass of the kitchen door and waited. After two minutes and no answer, he knocked again. Still, there was no answer. Then he heard the sound of what appeared to be a small garden cultivator coming from behind the toolshed. Walking toward the shed, he followed the sound until he came to the large seeded garden hidden on the other side of the building and found the woman moving up and down a row of cultivated dirt. Since he didn't want to frighten her, he waited until she had reached the end of her row and turned toward his direction. She waved and shut off the engine, then turned and walked toward him.

Damn, if it isn't Brad Davis! she yelled as if she had known him all her life.

He smiled and walked to greet her. How in the heck did you know that was me, Bessie?

Well, to begin with, Brad, we don't have many people in these parts as tall as you. Then you must also remember that nothing gets by those old bags at the Blue Berry Café. Both Dorothy and Ruth called me soon after you had left the coffee shop. They didn't know you of course, but once they described you, I had little doubt. Anyway, I'm glad you stopped out here today, so let's go inside and grab us something to drink. I can tell you about life on the prairie, and you can tell me what it is that this old gal can help you with.

After he caught Bessie up on the loss of his wife and his college days, Brad got right to the point. Did anything ever come of those missing kids, or is this still a cold case? asked Brad.

For many longtime Round Lake residents, that period of time back in the late eighties was one of the darkest days this town had ever lived through. Now that it's decades later, the killer or killers still remain at large, and no arrests have ever been made or charges filed. But of course, we get the same old story from the law officials in that this could change should they uncover one final piece to the puzzle of this unsolved mystery. The locals still hold each year a memorial service for the victims' families to remember those four girls. One of the biggest problems, Brad, is that these kids were all homebred and from this area. For a while, the authorities had assigned a personal investigator to handle the tips concerning the killings, but that's over now due to budget concerns. How long has it been now, thirty-two years?

Yes, I was just a young teenager then, said Brad. And let's be honest. No one really knows for certain if they were kidnapped, ran away, or were murdered. To my knowledge, no bodies were ever found for any one of them.

That's true, Brad. It's been a total dead end for all these years. So tell me, son. Why, after all this time, have you decided to visit this old lady?

Two reasons, Bessie. One, you are the best historian in this area, and I need you to review your records that go back to the date that this all happened at the lake. Two, you once gave an interview to a local reporter over thirty years ago regarding a drawing that had been circulated, which at the time was considered to be a firm person of interest. You had stated at the time that you thought that the police needed to think out of the box and not assume the obvious feelings in that the kids had just drowned. That statement was never clarified for the press, and I have wondered all these years what you might have meant, said Brad.

If you remember, the young man in the sketch was that of an African American man described between six feet and two inches tall with braided hair and three to five puffy cornrows pulled toward the back of his head and a single braid with four light-green beads on its end dangling down on his right cheek.

It's been a long time, Bessie. What's your point?

My point is they may have been looking for the wrong person over the last two decades, that's my point.

Now you've got me really confused, said Brad.

It's really not that hard when you think about it, she said, handing him an old copy of the initial sketch. Here, look closely at the face, she said.

He took the drawing and looked at it closely. I still don't get it, Brad said.

I've been told that you once worked for the FBI as a criminal profiler and you used the details of a crime, including evidence and witness testimony, to determine a behavior pattern as well as develop a psychological portrait of the subject.

So I'm missing what point, Bessie?

The same point as these investigator fools did when looking at this sketch. They think that they are looking for a man, but I believe that this sketch could be that of a woman, she said. African American women wear cornrows and braids, just like their men. In some cases, they can be tall and muscular and can pass for a man when wearing a hat, which I believe might have been the case at the lake.

So you're saying that the person of interest could be a woman?

Yes, and no. What I'm saying is that criminal profilers review evidence at crime scenes to figure out how a crime took place and who that person might have been. That to my knowledge was never done, said Bessie. Do you think, Brad, that this case will ever be solved? she asked.

Well, this I want you to understand, Bessie. I'm not visiting you for my personal glory or self-satisfaction. What I do, if anything, while I'm here is because these victims and their families no longer have a voice anymore. The sad fact is that the person that took their lives from them could still be out there.

Or the person could be dead, and it wouldn't matter anymore. One must be careful, Brad, not to fall down that damn rabbit hole into some alternate universe, and then nothing would ever be the same again. Today looking for a fresh start in a town with few memories of those days gone by at Round Lake is much like looking for that mythical unicorn, said Bessie.

That's why I'm here today. I want you to provide me with any articles that you have, he said.

"Well, I threw a lot of that stuff away after my husband, Fred, passed. The Pioneer Gazette had a good run for this small town, but you know how these things go. When we first started that paper, everyone in town and the surrounding small communities were willing to shell out thirty-five cents a copy, but paper and ink costs money, so we had to eventually charge seventy-five cents, and that was the beginning of the end. People no longer wanted to pay that money to hear about the Harlow happenings or the epistles from Round Lake reporting that Hudson and Bella Sanders were dinner guests at grandma's house. Besides, the real news was being covered by the South Dakota Star or the Rapid City Herald for $1.00. Funny how these things go, Brad. The Round Lake situation was a case of immense magnitude, where everyone in town and the surrounding area seemed to have some relationship to the victims. They were all local, and the effect at the time was the talk of the area. Fred and I never had been involved in a situation of that magnitude. The degree and the shapes that the investigation first undertook was very challenging, said Bessie. Because you were no longer here, you probably never even learned that a nineteen-year veteran of the Rapid City Police Department was assigned to investigate the circumstances of those missing kids for over two months. He stayed at the Waldemar Hotel the entire time. He and the new owner, Conrad Houser, became such good friends that the town often saw them eating at the Blue Berry Café together."

Do you remember his name, Bessie? asked Brad.

It would be pretty hard to forget. His name was Melvin Wineglass, but if you're thinking about looking him up, it won't do any good. The last word on him was that he took an early retirement and moved to Tampa, Florida.

Did you happen to hear if he had made any progress on the case before he left Round Lake?

What he told some of us was that he had a lot of pieces of the puzzle, and he believed uncovering one more final missing piece could lead to an arrest and close the case. What that elusive piece was and how it fit into the overall investigation wasn't something that Wineglass shared with Conrad or anyone else before he left, said Bessie.

So what happened in the months following him leaving Round Lake? Did the Rapid City Police Department or any other law officials pick up after he left? asked Brad.

No, and that was real strange. It was almost as if we were too small to warrant any further concern. However, we did have some female private investigator from Wing showing some interest, said Bessie.

Interest in how? asked Brad.

From what I picked up, she wanted to run the case through some exclusive crime-solving group formed in recent years. The organization, from what I learned, didn't take any active role in the investigations but just gave their input from the evidence that they might have found. Their members were made up of current and former law enforcement professionals, police detectives, FBI profilers, coroners, forensic scientists, etc. You know, the type of folks interested in solving difficult cases, said Bessie.

And what did they learn if anything? asked Brad.

Like everything else involving this situation, very little to actually nothing.

Brad sat quietly for a few seconds, digesting everything that he had learned from Bessie before suddenly getting up. Thank you for being such a wonderful host, but I need to get going, he said, checking his watch.

Give me a couple days to locate that information that I have on Round Lake. I've got it buried in one of my footlockers, and when I find it, I'll call you. It won't be much, but what I have is certainly yours to look at, she said, getting up to walk him to the door. What do you think of the farm? she asked suddenly.

Your farm is very nice, he answered.

No, not my farm, she said, smiling. The Bob Walters farm. I understand from Dorothy Fox that you bought the place.

I did. The house needs a little fixing up, but overall the farm is perfect for what I have in mind, he said, walking over to his Pontiac. It's private, more land than I'll ever need, and should I ever get married again, it's something to start up with, he said, sliding into the car.

Reaching the end of the farm driveway, Brad stared at a makeshift sign, which he thought was probably erected by Bessie's husband: Town of Round Lake, turn left 11 miles. Lake, boating, and fishing, 8 miles. Over the years, he had been to the recreation location several times but never from this direction. Turning toward the lake, he rolled his windows down and decided to take the drive. It was, after all, one of the reasons for his visit, so why wait any longer, he reasoned.

When Brad arrived at the entrance to Round Lake, the slow-moving clouds and the winds moving across the open wheat fields reminded him of days long gone by when before dark his stringer would be filled with northern pike and a few walleye. The only things missing were the campers that had once filled the shores and the sounds of the high-power Mercury engines moving the boats across the waters. A truck carrying farming supplies could be seen in the distance and had been the first vehicle that he had seen in almost five miles. The noise of the farm truck had startled a flock of Canadian geese, sending them scattering from a nearby field flapping and screaming. Now parked by a rusting, old, fifty-gallon barrel that had once been used for burning trash, Brad ran his hand over the steering wheel of his Pontiac and let his eyes take in the woodlands, the gentle rolling hills, and fertile flood plains that made up part of the mystic of Round Lake. He remembered from history that this location had once suffered a drought in the dry thirties when the population of geese and ducks diminished to the point that hunting had been restricted for three years. His uncle had told him that only through the sale of duck stamps used to purchase nearby refuges did the wildlife return to these parts.

Getting out of his car, he stood and looked the lake over, trying to understand how this little body of water had turned out to be the legend it had become to the area's people. Prior to July 16, 1986, the lake had provided walking and hiking trails to enjoy the area's beauty. There had even been berry picking for the families, while others fished for the great northern pike. If you were so inclined, you could take a leisurely paddle around the lake in your canoe. Photographers would enjoy the abundant flora and fauna around the lake, while others would take their cameras and photograph the dance of the sharp-tailed grouse. Bending down, he removed a section of the grass and tossed it into the air, watching the light wind make it disappear. How in the hell had it come to this now, where no one wanted to visit what had once been a gift from God? Looking at the shoreline, he tried to imagine what had happened to the four girls on that day. The surface area of the water totaled 1,795 acres with a shoreline length that measured over five miles. Taking off his shoes and rolling up his pants, he walked out into the water, finding the average depth no more than two feet, although he knew that certain spots further out would reach up to fifty feet. If the girls had made it that far, there had been no witnesses, and if by chance a drowning had taken all four, not a single girl's body had ever surfaced, and that should have happened. The lake was self-contained and thus no chance of any victim of a water accident, making it beyond the controlled shores.

As he returned to shore, he thought back to what little he had learned over the years. The older two girls—Sissy Jensen, seventeen, and Dorothy Hoag, sixteen—were the first two reported missing. That was followed within a reported thirty minutes of Penny Harper, thirteen, and Ruby Sinclair, fifteen, who were last seen wading on the east side of the lake. All had been close friends, although from different small communities, and each lived within eight to ten miles of each other. The wreaths of flowers that had once been placed all over the grounds as a reminder of the missing girls were now all gone, as were the countless number of boats and visitors that once made Round Lake a recreational playground on the weekends. None of this makes any sense, Brad thought. He was a former FBI criminal profiler dealing with more complicated cases than this one, yet this case was completely cold. Four teenage girls spending time together on the weekend and then suddenly disappearing with no trace evidence of even that a crime having been committed. Was the original idea of their adventure to take them out of their comfort zone? Were they late to their agreed rendezvous point and something happened? It had been a time period when cell phones were just starting to be introduced into society, so it was safe to assume that it was unlikely that anyone had a cell phone, right? Who drove the car bringing them all out to the lake in the first place?

It was starting to get cold outside, and the sun had only emerged once in the last two hours. The trail mix that he had brought along was now gone, so he would soon have to abandon this visit and return to his hotel in Round Lake. Anyway, it was unlikely that he would learn any more today. There were limits to what one could do or see as the afternoon sky was beginning to fade. He walked back to his car still wondering about the girls. Obsession started to fill his mind with nightmare images of what the young girls had probably experienced. Although he didn't like it, he could somehow hear the phantom echoes of dying screams coming from the girls who knew that they had made the wrong choice in coming to Round Lake. Turning the ignition on, Brad eased the car back onto the grass trail that would take him back to the country road.

3

Tami Flynn had read the book several times about the town that she now called home. Wing was a little village where she had started her own small investigative firm after five years of working for a local police department in Hoover, Michigan.

The town was founded in 1899. It was named for George W. Wing, the man whose name now appeared at the entrance to this city and who also had built the first lumberyard for miles around. According to the United States Census bureau, the city had a total area of four square miles. As of the year 2015, there were 852 people, 116 households, and seventy-two families residing in the city. Wing had one hotel, four bars, three gas stations, a hardware store, three grocery stores, a post office, and her investigative firm along with Harriman's Restaurant & Sports Bar, where she was now enjoying her afternoon lunch.

How is business, Tami? asked Gordon Flesher, the owner of the town's Shell gas station, as he now walked past her table.

Just enough to pay the rent but beyond that I could use a few unfaithful husbands or wives to keep me busy, responded Tami.

What you really need, Tami, is someone to spend those lonely nights with. All work and no play, well, you know the rest, pretty woman, he said.

I do. Been there, done that, but most men today are just looking for a meal ticket or at the end of the day just needing to go home to that pretty woman with the three kids and two dogs. Much like you, Gordon, she said with a warm smile.

Rebuke accepted, he said, letting out a chuckle. What have you heard if anything about that guy in Round Lake who is sniffing around town about those former Round Lake missing girls?

Not a thing, and to be honest, you're the first person that I've met that has even commented about him, said Tami.

It's all over town, commented Vergil Harriman, coming from behind the cashier's station.

Well, how about that? replied Tami. The boss not only counts the money, but he's actually got time to meet his customers. You must have picked up on Gordon's comments about the new guy in Round Lake?

I have, and frankly, he's not a new guy according to my conversation with Otto Mills. We were fishing over at Towner Hill the other day, and he mentioned to me that the guy's name is Brad Davis. He used to be some kind of former criminal profiler with the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit before he took his early retirement. From what Otto told me, the guy bought some available farmland in the area and appears to spend his time writing novels along with taking a second look at the Round Lake mystery.

So he's from Round Lake I take it? said Tami.

Sort of, although to me it's more like he had a cup of coffee in the town over the years since he and his mother would visit the town in the summer and then go back to where they lived in Michigan, where she worked and he attended school. The mother always visited her brother and her mother during the summer in Round Lake and brought him along in the early years. He later went into service, then later got a job with the FBI.

So now he's relocated his family to Round Lake? asked Tami.

He's not married. He lost his wife due to a helicopter accident a few years back. She was the pilot flying a patient to a nearby hospital when the chopper went down, according to Otto.

That's horrible, said Tami.

Yes, it was. The only good part of that story is that they had no children. Anyway, word has it he's been spending some time asking questions about the missing girls, said Harriman. If I remember correctly, you also spent a lot of time on that subject yourself and came up empty.

That I did. Times have changed though with all the new technology, so maybe he's picked the right time to take a second look, said Tami. In any event, I'm going to finish my coffee and head back to my office, she said.

If you change your mind about lunch or dinner, I'll be over at the station, said Gordon, giving her a wink.

I won't, but thanks for the offer anyway, she said, smiling once again.

Brad pulled into the Waldermar Hotel driveway and found that Conrad was outside watering the flowers that surrounded the building. Now seeing his new guest, he put the water can down and walked over to the car. Before I forget, Mr. Davis, there's a small package waiting for you on top of the front desk, offered Conrad.

Package? That's unusual. I'm not expecting any mail let alone any package. Probably only a handful of people even know that I would be here, said Brad.

All that I can tell you is that it didn't come by mail from the postal department because in this town you'd have to pick up your letters and packages at the post office downtown. I wasn't here at the time it arrived, so my guess is someone just dropped it off and left. I did notice that it had no return address or even actual stamps on it, said Conrad.

"Sounds like another big mystery, so I better go inside and see what it's