in order to assume the reins of Great North. Before their arrival, Thomas Cavanaugh built an elaborate home for his son on North Point. A year later, Thomas Cavanaugh died, and less than a year after that his daughter-in-law disappeared.
Cork paused. Judge Robert Parrant had lived on the North Point property so long that everyone called it the Parrant estate. But it had actually belonged to the Cavanaughs first. Cork had forgotten that little piece of history.
He read on.
By all accounts, Monique Cavanaugh had been an extraordinary woman: a wonderful hostess; an accomplished musician; a generous benefactor of numerous social causes, including the Ojibwe of the Iron Lake Reservation; a devout member of the St. Agnes parish; a loving wife; a doting mother.
On the night she disappeared, she’d gone to Duluth to attend a gala fund-raising event for a hospital charity. She’d left the event alone shortly after 10:00 P.M., intending to drive the two hours to Aurora rather than spend the night in a hotel in the port city. She never arrived home. No trace of her or of her automobile had ever been found.
Plenty of photographs of Monique Cavanaugh accompanied the news accounts. Hers was a face the camera loved. Cork found it uncanny how much her daughter, Lauren, resembled her.
His cell phone vibrated, and he picked up the call. It was Sheriff Marsha Dross.
“Are you available to come to my office now?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
NINETEEN
When he arrived at the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department and County Jail, Cork understood what Dross had meant with her cryptic parting comment. The parking lot was full of news vans. Clearly, the story of the bodies discovered in the Vermilion Drift had broken, and, like crows flocking to a carcass, the media had descended. Cork made his way inside and was buzzed through the security door. He found Dross, Larson, and Rutledge in council in the sheriff’s office. Agent Susan Upchurch, the BCA’s forensic anthropologist, was with them.
Cork took the only empty chair. “So,” he said. “They know.”
Dross gave a philosophic shrug. “We’ve been able to keep a lid on things for almost two days. I knew that sooner or later this would happen. I’ve scheduled a news conference for noon. Simon and I will handle it. But before we go in there, I’d like to know exactly where we stand with everything. Ed?”
Larson wore spectacles and was fond of sport coats with leather patches. His hair was neatly cut and just beginning to silver. He spoke in considered tones and had always reminded Cork of a college professor. He removed his spectacles and began cleaning them with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his back pocket.
“Using dental records, we’ve been able to establish the identity of all but one of the older victims,” he said. “They are Monique Cavanaugh, Abigail Stillday, Fawn Grand, and Naomi Stonedeer. We believe, based on what Cork’s found out, that the final victim is Leonora Broom, but we haven’t been able to confirm it yet. The most recent victim has been positively ID’d as Lauren Cavanaugh. The medical examiner has determined her death was the result of a gunshot wound to the chest. We believe her mother, Monique Cavanaugh, was also the victim of a gunshot wound. Simon’s forensic people have told us that the bullets that killed both women were fired by the same weapon. In the case of the daughter, powder tattooing on the skin indicates that the firearm was discharged at nearly point-blank range. We believe the murder took place somewhere else and the body was transported to the Vermilion Drift site, where it was hidden with the others. So far, we’ve been able to find no witnesses to Lauren Cavanaugh’s murder. We can’t find her car. We have no idea where the actual murder might have taken place. Currently, we have no suspects in any of the killings.” He paused, thought a moment, then said, “I guess that’s it for me.”
Dross looked to BCA Agent Rutledge. “Simon?”
“I don’t have anything to add,” he said. “I’ll defer to Susan.”
All eyes settled on the forensic anthropologist.
“I haven’t had time to do anything except a cursory examination of all of the remains,” Upchurch said. She spoke slowly, and her words were drawn out slightly with her Alabama drawl. “With only bone left to us, it’s difficult at this stage to speak with any certainty about cause of death. None of the victims show evidence of blunt trauma, nothing broken. Except for Monique Cavanaugh, all of them show clear evidence of sharp force trauma—bone cuts —that appear to be incised wounds, but the locations vary from victim to victim.”
“Incised wounds?” Dross said.
“These would be from cuts or incisions rather than stab wounds. These marks tend to be longer than they are deep. But we have to be careful, because sometimes the teeth of scavengers leave the same kind of mark.”
“Is there a reason why you believe these are from cuts and not from scavengers?” Dross asked.
“Scavengers large enough to leave marks would probably also have spread the bones around. The skeletons were all intact.”
“Okay, so what would these wounds indicate?”
“If they are, in fact, knife wounds, then torture, perhaps. Or maybe something ritualistic. Two of the victims show cuts consistent with stab wounds on the left side of the thoracic cage, which might indicate a knife thrust to the heart.” She paused and thought a moment. “That’s really all I can say for sure at this time.”
“Thanks, Susan,” Dross said. “Cork?”
He could have told them that his father, the man responsible for the investigation of the Vanishings more than forty years earlier, knew about the hidden entrance to the Vermilion Drift. He could have told them he had an idea about the weapon that had been used to kill both mother and daughter, that there was a very good possibility it had once been his father’s sidearm and had been his, too, but now it was missing. He could have told them that he’d found journals that should have contained a full and personal account of the final days of his father’s investigation but someone had removed the pertinent pages. But how could he explain any of this?
He said, “Nothing to add, I guess.”
“Any speculation on the connection between the Ojibwe women who were the early victims?”
Cork shook his head. “Leonora Broom and Abigail Stillday weren’t identified as victims during the investigation in ’sixty-four, so they wouldn’t necessarily have been missed. Most folks on the rez thought they’d simply run off. The vanishing of Naomi Stonedeer was the first to raise concern. She was a very young woman, well known, whose absence would be quickly noticed. The final Ojibwe victim, Fawn Grand, was a girl of simple mind and simple understanding—these days we’d call her challenged—and was probably way too trusting. She could easily have been enticed by almost anyone. But her disappearance certainly wouldn’t have escaped notice. So, I haven’t seen anything that ties them together, except their heritage.”
“Someone who had a significant prejudice against the Ojibwe?” Larson asked.
“Maybe. But then how do you explain Monique Cavanaugh?”
“Exactly,” Dross said.
“Has anyone looked at the old case files?” Upchurch asked.
“I’d love to,” Larson said. “But we don’t have any. The sheriff’s department used to be housed in the courthouse. Back in ’seventy-seven there was a fire, destroyed a lot of our records. Right after that, the county built this facility.”
“The BCA was involved though, right?” She looked to Rutledge. “You probably have files.”
Rutledge looked a little sheepish. “I’ll see what I can find.”
“Finally,” Dross said, “what’s the connection between Lauren Cavanaugh and the Vanishings in ’sixty- four?”
“Why does there have to be a connection?” Larson asked. “The notes that Haddad’s wife and Genie Kufus and
