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carried his notebook, blank death certificates and medical instruments. He peered through the window towards Terry’s squad car where Ray was sitting. Osborne noticed he was wearing a helmet-like ski cap of the type worn by cross-country racers. Odd.
    “Nah, you’ll be fine. But speaking of helmets, what’s with Ray? Last time I saw him he was wearing more lights than a Christmas tree. Tonight he looks, well, normal.”
    “No trout hat, huh?” Osborne was surprised, too.
    Ray’s hat was ubiquitous. Some people swore he slept in it. Even Osborne rarely saw him without the old leather aviator cap resting on his head, the furred flaps pulled down over his ears against the winter wind. Perched on top and hard to miss was a fourteen-inch stuffed brook trout. Draped across the breast of the fish was a double string of multi-colored blinking LED lights.
    “Maybe he’s trying to avoid hat hair,” said Osborne. “He’s auditioning for a TV show in the morning.”
    “No wonder he’s so serious. Seems a little out of sorts, Doc. Got everything,” said Terry, checking his watch as Osborne locked his car. “Sorry, but we gotta hurry. I gave the EMTs directions to that access road and I don’t want them going in ahead of us.”
    “I’m set.” Climbing into the back seat of the cruiser, Osborne looked over at Ray who was sitting with a camera case on his lap. Not only was he hatless but his beard looked recently trimmed. Then it dawned on Osborne: he’d bet anything Ray thought the local TV news crews might cover the story tonight. Any publicity is great publicity—and Ray was determined to land the role on ICE MEN.
    “How did you get here so fast?” said Osborne, “Last we talked you were just getting out of bed.”
    “Took the back way on Jack Pine Drive,” said his neighbor. “You know that shortcut, don’t you?”
    “I would not drive it in this weather. Hard enough to see on the main highway.” Even as Osborne spoke he remembered that Ray had the eyes of a great horned owl: he could find his way anywhere—even in the dark.
    Ray Pradt’s quirky talents were a frequent subject of discussion by the early morning McDonald’s coffee crowd—the daily gathering of old guys who would chew over the Loon Lake Daily News’ police report to see if any of their relatives—or wives’ relatives—were listed. This might be followed by speculation as to where one of their missing buddies was fishing that morning. Since not a one of them ever told the truth as to where they put their boat in—the latter was an enjoyable waste of time.
    When those subjects had been exhausted, they would turn to local gossip. On average about once a week—and assuming he was not present—that would include an update on the whereabouts and legal status of Ray Pradt.
    Any recent misdemeanors? The guy might be on the straight and narrow when it came to booze but he had a weakness for mood enhancement induced by locally grown cannabis. One thing they were sure of: if anyone could find locally grown cannabis, it would be that rascal. At least he was wise enough not to grow it himself, as that was a sure ticket to jail time.
    Then there was the tantalizing question of Ray’s sex life. It wasn’t that Ray had a weakness for women so much as the other way around. Of course it didn’t help that he gave his girlfriends nicknames like Snowflake, Tornado and Firecracker. The McDonald’s crew never could figure out what ladies found so attractive in a guy who wore a fish on his head. Shouldn’t that be warning enough?
    Lately, however, the coffee talk had been admiring: The Loon Lake Chamber of Commerce Annual Calendar had just been published and was arriving on doorsteps courtesy of the local Lions Club. Along with dates of local fishing events, church socials and holidays, each page featured eight-by-ten photos of outdoor photography captured by the coffee crowd’s youngest member.
    “Yep,” Dick Zwolanek had said with a grudging