Read Misery Bay for Free Online

shipped it all over the world. It all happened right here.
    They built the college and it went through several mining-related names until it finally ended up being known as Michigan Technological University. It’s not about mining anymore, of course. It’s all about science and engineering now. The students come from all over Michigan and besides studying, the one thing they’d better be ready for is snow, because they get a hell of a lot of it. Most years, anyway. I was reminded of that as I drove up into the Keweenaw Peninsula and saw the big sign by the side of the road. It was a measuring stick as tall as a tree, with that winter’s current snowfall amount marked at around twelve feet. On the second day of April, usually they’d have at least twice that by now.
    As I got closer to the city, I passed a huge set of concrete slabs along the shoreline. Even taller than the snowfall stick, they looked like a giant set of dominoes. More relics from the copper mining, I’m sure, but beyond that I had no idea what they were used for. It made the whole place feel even more foreign to me.
    When I got to Houghton itself, that feeling got even stronger. You lose sight of Lake Superior, but as you go inland, you see Portage Lake stretching out across the middle of the Keweenaw. The land rises on either side of the water, and the biggest lift bridge you’ll ever see connects Houghton to Hancock, the city to the north. The middle section of the bridge can rise a hundred feet to let ships pass beneath it.
    Most strange of all is how the city of Houghton is built on an incline, with streets running parallel to each other and climbing in elevation as you get farther away from the water. It looks like a miniature San Francisco, I swear, and you have to remind yourself that you’re still in Michigan.
    I passed Michigan Tech on my way into the center of the city, then I found the Houghton County Sheriff’s office on the fourth street up from the water. Just like back in the Soo, they seemed to have had the same idea when they put up the building. Start with the county courthouse, the tallest, grandest, most beautiful building in town. Connect another building to that, but make sure this one is a gray concrete box, with all the charm of an air raid shelter.
    One of the county plows was touching up the parking lot. I waited for him to finish and gave him a little wave as he left, one plow operator to another. Then I parked the truck and went inside.
    The receptionist asked if she could help me, and I picked up yet another Scandinavian accent. I would have guessed Swedish this time, but I wouldn’t have put much money on it. I bet if you live out here you can pick them out right away.
    “I’d like to talk to the sheriff,” I said. “I’m a private investigator visiting from Chippewa County.”
    I had my license with me, burning a hole in my pocket. It felt strange to refer to myself as a PI.
    “He’s not in the office right now. I believe the undersheriff’s here, if you’d like to speak to him.”
    “I’d appreciate that.”
    A minute later, the undersheriff came out looking for me. He was a big man with a perfect cop’s mustache. He had a hell of a strong grip.
    “Undersheriff Michael Reddy,” he said, looking me up and down. “What can I do for you?”
    “I don’t mean to impose on your time, sir. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”
    “Can you give me a topic?”
    “Charles Razniewski Jr.”
    I didn’t have to say anything else. The undersheriff exchanged a quick look with the receptionist. Then he motioned for me to follow him.
    “Come on back,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
    *   *   *
     
    A few minutes later, I was sitting on the opposite side of his desk. There were piles of paper everywhere. Organization was obviously not his strong suit, but I was holding a good strong cup of coffee and the man had listened carefully when I had told him why I was there. So I had no complaints.
    “How