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shake of his head, “guy might be irritating as hell but he sure can shoot a sunset.”
    “He’s okay,” said Bert Kadubek, “I like Ansel Adams myself. Black and white beats color for me.” Known as “the answer man” behind his back, the McDonald’s crowd suffered Bert’s presence in spite of his pronouncements.
    “Sour grapes, Bert?” Osborne had said.
    “Now, Doc,” said Bert, backpedaling, “I thought he did a nice job with that photo of the newborn fawn hiding under the ferns—all those shades of green. Timed the light just right—probably has a real good light meter.”
    “My favorite’s the snapping turtle,” said Herm Dickson, butting in to demonstrate with a swoop of his arm that knocked over Bert’s coffee. “That sucker looks like he’s coming right at you. Shooom! Jumps right off the page.”
    “It’s a zoom lens, Herm,” said Bert, implying Herm was an idiot and he, Bert, could be just as good a photographer if he had the right equipment.
    “Then why don’t you goddamn do it?” Osborne wanted to say but didn’t. You look worse arguing with Bert Kadubek than if you just roll your eyes.
    But if Ray excelled at his outdoor photography—thanks to years of making a buck wherever, whenever and however he could (the Lions Club paid him five hundred bucks for all twelve photos)—he was equally good at shooting crime scenes. Significantly better than Pecore, whose eyes were often bloodshot, if not fogged over.
    After the second time that Ray and Osborne were deputized to cover for Pecore, Osborne had joked to his neighbor that they had somehow managed to morph into a strange but effective ‘dynamic duo.’
    Lew agreed on that score: she got accurate reports from Osborne, which were respected both by the local pathologist as well as the Wausau Crime Lab. And she got excellent quality in the color and black and white photos from Ray’s cameras. Plus, he was agile and able to shoot from the angles needed. More than once his photos had exposed surprises the eye couldn’t catch at a crime scene.
    The cruiser turned onto the access road, a narrow lane used by loggers. Enough activity had been taking place in recent months that random plowings by the loggers kept it passable. Terry parked next to the largest ATV that Osborne had ever seen.
    “What the heck is this?” said Osborne, walking around the vehicle while Ray pulled an armload of tripods, lights and a battery pack from the trunk of the police cruiser. The ATV held four seats plus a small rear storage area. The seats and the storage were protected with side nets. Not as wide as a car, the ATV would be able to travel the snowmobile, ski and snowshoe trails easily. The fat, grooved tires might mess up the groomed trails but that was the least of worries if a life was at risk.
    “Pretty cool, huh,” said Terry. “The sheriff’s office got the county to approve this four-wheeler—it’s a Polaris Ranger RXR4—because of all the snowmobile crashes last year. Tough to get to those locations any other way. You sure can’t drive a car down a snowmobile trail. You have an accident victim who needs to be airlifted to a hospital? You are flat out of luck with a two-seater snowmobile. This ATV can scramble up a snow bank like you wouldn’t believe.”
    As he spoke, a large white ambulance with the St. Mary’s Hospital logo on the sides pulled up behind the cruiser. Osborne recognized Mike Wittenberg at the wheel and was relieved. Mike was an experienced EMT who had assisted the Loon Lake Police more than once with homicide victims. He knew the drill.
    “Dr. Osborne, good to see you as always,” said Mike, opening his door and climbing out. “Chief Ferris said you have a possible homicide victim so I’ve got a fella following us with a three-wheeler in the back of his truck. My colleague, Jeanine here, and myself should be able to retrieve the body—”
    “Hey, Mike,” said Terry, walking over to the ambulance, “do you mind moving