Page 82 of Stormy Ride

Ted finished up the witness’s statement at the bait shop and walked along the riverbank to find us. He was standing with us having a smoke when Doctor Olson joined the party.

For the first time in days, the sun was out. Day after day the weather had been drizzly, damp, and chilly but today was a welcome change.

While waiting for Doc Olson, Harlan had gone for a run with Max and Sarge, and they hadn’t come back yet.

Ted and I got considerably soaked helping Doctor Olson get the victim freed from the bull rushes and lifted out of the water onto the muddy bank.

Doctor Olson did a preliminary examination of the victim, and the woman had no identification. “If she had a purse, all of her personal information would be in there.”

“Could be in the car,” said Ted.

“Yep. We’re presuming this is the lady whose car went off the Milk River Bridge, but we can’t be absolutely certain until Ted and I go back and get that car out of the water.”

“Let me know when you positively identify her, Travis.”

Doctor Olson left with the drowned woman in the back of his van, and as soon as Harlan came back with the dogs, we headed to the station.

“We need the plate number,” said Ted. “Before we go back to the station, let’s take a detour and go see how much the water has gone down at the bridge.”

“Want to get the tow truck or look at the water level first?”

“Let’s look first,” said Ted. “Might save you some gas if it’s still the same.”

Milk Run Bridge.

The water level was not the same. There had been an improvement since the day the bridge gave way. The river had gone down a few inches since the rain stopped, and the current had slowed.

The car was in the same spot, but with the water being much calmer, Ted managed to read the tag. Standing on the bank and leaning over, he hollered out the letters and numbers to me.

I ran the tag through the Montana motor vehicles database and came up with Evan Bronowski. “You know an Evan Bronowski, Ted?”

“Yep. Lives outside of Ethridge. North a piece on a county road. That woman is his wife, Kala. Didn’t recognize her all bloated up with water like that, but yeah. For sure, that was her.”

Bronowski Residence. Ethridge.

Ted knew exactly where Evan Bronowski lived north of Ethridge, and he gave me directions. There was a ten-year-old gray Ford pickup in the driveway next to a small ranch house. Not a large piece of property—about two or three acres—huge cinderblock workshop behind the house.

“This guy self-employed?” I asked Ted.

“Welder. Has a big shop in that building.”

“Let’s go tell him about his wife.”

The three of us walked up to the door and I pounded my fist against it a couple of times. The door was opened by a big muscular guy who went about two and a quarter. Unshaven, shaggy brown hair, plaid shirt, dead eyes.

I held up my badge. “Mister Bronowski?”

“Yeah, that’s me. What do you want, Sheriff?”

“Can we come in for a minute and talk about your wife, sir? I’m afraid I have some bad news to deliver.”

“What about Kala? I thought she was at her sister’s place in Cut Bank.”

“She is in Cut Bank, sir, but your wife’s body is in the morgue.”

“You telling me that my wife is dead?”

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Your wife’s body was found in the Flathead River along the Lake Elwell Road.”

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