LAKE FRANCIS PT.1

The outboard trolling motor hummed softly as the medium-sized fishing boat made its way across the glasslike surface of the lake. The deputy kept it in a straight line while two other law enforcement officers huddled in the rear, watching the screen of a state-of-the-art electronic scanner as it revealed the secrets that littered the lake bed. Nothing really harmless, a couple of old tires, what looked like a couple of glass bottles; nothing that could cause a major environmental panic. The depth suddenly increased as the driver maneuvered the launch further away from the shore.

          

“This is quite the gadget,” Sheriff Driscoll praised as he continued to scan the screen, “about the most elaborate fish-finder I ever saw.”

          

“It’ll damn near count the scales on the fish itself,” Sheriff Moffit responded with a grin. “It’s small enough to take in a smaller craft yet it’s dead accurate. I figured we could use it, but with only one sizable lake and a couple of streams, I sort of doubt if the county will go for it.”

          

“Could possibly use something like this over my way.” Driscoll continued to view the screen. “This is almost as clear as my wife’s last Ultrasound.”

          

They were in fifty feet of water by then and the screen, although considerably darker, still showed the irregularities of the lake bed. The depth remained at fifty feet then started to rise then leveled off at forty feet. It first started to appear as a sudden increase in depth but it soon changed to a rectangular object. They both saw it together as it came into view.

          

“What the hell?” Driscoll said. “That looks like a—car.”

          

“It’s a car for sure.” Moffit motioned for the driver to cut the power and allow the craft to stop.

          

Driscoll looked up from the screen and gazed back to the shore. They were a good hundred yards out. He glanced at the boat launching ramp then to the highway beyond that. “Wasn’t the old road closer?”

          

Moffit pointed to the shore. “The road used to form a dogleg that bordered the parking lot. It almost headed straight for the ramp but veered away at the last moment. They straightened the road out and moved it about fifty yards further over to give more room in the parking lot for trailers and towing vehicles and make it a little safer. Of course, it lessened the congestion around the Lighthouse tavern.” He indicated the popular eating and drinking establishment about three hundred yards further east.

          

“How long ago was that?”

          

“Hell, I was a senior in high school; that would’ve been around 1979.”

          

“I can remember the old road,” Driscoll said. “We often took this way down to Teton Pass to ski. We quite often ran out of beer on the way back and bought more at the Lighthouse.”

          

“You could’ve gotten into trouble for that,” Moffit said with a chuckle, “Sheriff could’ve given you a rather large citation.”

          

“Where’s the law enforcement when you need ‘em?”

          

They both looked at the monitor again. “Need to get a closer look at that car,” Moffit said.

Driscoll nodded. “I’ve got scuba gear, but it’s back at my place.”

Moffit indicated the small town a couple of miles away toward the east. “Two firemen in town, they’re both qualified divers.” He nodded toward the launch pilot. “Let’s head in; I’ll get a wrecker coming.”

It was just past noon on that sunny late spring day. The divers, eager to get the opportunity, wasted no time getting their gear together and out to the sizeable lake in the western Montana plains. They were taken out to the site and lowered themselves into the still chilly water.

“Miss diving?” Moffit said to Driscoll.

Driscoll nodded. “Sometimes. Never really went crazy for it; it just went with the job. In the CRT, you did everything; diving was part of it.”

The first diver came to the surface and slid his mask up. “Sheriff Moffit, there’s two cars down there!”

“Two cars!” Both sheriffs shouted in unison.

“Yeah, went down, looks like a long time between. One’s almost buried in silt and sediment and the one you saw has to have been there at least thirty years. Looks like the second car, the one you saw, was going a lot faster; it’s just ahead of the older one.”

“Okay, winch truck’s on its way; I’m going to need you guys for a while."

They eventually needed more than a wrecker; they ended up enlisting the services of a sizeable winch truck, plus a lot of digging on the part of the diving team. It was well into the afternoon when the first car broke the surface and was pulled slowly out of its watery grave, muddy water pouring out from many passages. The crew wasted no time at all going after the second car. While they were doing that the two sheriffs began an examination of the first one.

“Looks like a ’49 Chevy Fleetline,” Driscoll said as he examined the rusted-out hulk in front of them.

“I can see the Fleetline part,” Moffit said as he scanned the long roof as it sloped down from the driver’s area to the rear bumper, “how can you tell the year?”

          

“Grill—bottom section has got vertical bars in it; ’50 model looks very close but the vertical bars are gone.”

          

“You know your old cars.”

          

Driscoll nodded. “For what it’s worth.” He wiped the mud off the front and rear license plates which were mostly legible then took pictures with his cellphone. He promptly sent them in to see if there was a chance at the identification of the registered owner. He then carefully began a systematic examination of the car’s exterior. The body was cratered with holes that were the result of many years underwater. Surprisingly three of the four tires still held air; the left front one was shredded. Mark checked the glass of the car, first the doors and the rear window then the windshield. The windshield itself was spider-webbed with cracks which could have been caused by years of traveling the local graveled roads, or the impact of hitting the lake at speed. He probed at a large spiderweb of cracks, just ahead of the driver’s side then backed away and took a photo with his cellphone.

          

“Bullet hole,” Mark said, “about .30 caliber. I’d guess the shooter was directly in front, or a few degrees off to the left.”

          

Moffit came over to look for himself. “Bullet hole, alright. I agree, about .30 caliber. Going to be a fun game trying to track down a thirty caliber rifle out of the several thousand in this country.”

          

The doors gave way easily on the old Chevy. They all but crumbled when a pry bar was inserted in the latch area. It was a four-door so access to the interior, though difficult, was a lot easier than if it were a two-door. But the years underwater damaged the car far beyond any possibilities of salvage and it had literally begun to collapse as it was drug across the grassy shore to higher ground where it sat streaming brownish liquid. The stench of the sodden, decomposing interior was nauseating so the officers gave it some time to air out before continuing. The inside seemed to be half-filled with trash, which could eventually be identified as tattered upholstery, to articles of clothing, to—Mark tried to dismiss the thought—human remains. One thing that remarkably came out intact was a pair of leather rider’s chaps, the type worn by rodeo cowboys, in the rear seat. “Rodeo cowboy,” Driscoll muttered as he noted the initials, ‘D.B.,’ then set them aside and continued to probe the interior.

With a plastic probe Sheriff Driscoll began to pull at what appeared to be a pile of trash on the front seat. The headliner had long since collapsed on the seat, covering everything that was there. Fortunately, it gave way and could be slid to the side. Another pile of trash slid off to the side revealing a gray-colored dome-shaped object. Driscoll had seen enough of those to know what he was looking at.

“We’ve got a body,” the sheriff said grimly.