Spider Lake

by Jeff Nania

  Curiosity and its risks are not only in the feline world. “Let me see what you have, Len,” I said.

  He handed me a photo. The picture was clear. Shock ran through me and jolted my memory. I recognized the face, only the last time I saw it he was standing over me with a broken canoe paddle in his hands.

  Based on my reaction, the chief asked, “Do you recognize this guy, John?”

  “Chief Bork, he is the guy that beat the hell out of me with a canoe paddle. The picture triggered my memory.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  The similarities between the man in these photos and the one I had turned over to the agents were undeniable. He was a big man, older, middle-aged or more, built like a fire hydrant but tall. His face in the photo was defined by a large scar that ran down his jaw, his eyes locked in an impassive glare.

  “Who is this guy?” I asked, my voice tensed.

  “I don’t know, but I think he’s got something to do with your uncle’s death and maybe some other bad things around here. I don’t know where he stays. I don’t know if he’s from around here or not. Early on in the investigation of your uncle’s death, a local gave former Chief Timmy a statement. Even though your uncle was killed in the county, Chief Timmy was there every step of the way. Anyway, this guy described someone who looked like him driving a large white SUV in the area where your uncle was run down—the same kind of car they used to kill Nick. The chief took the report, but I don’t think he ever turned it in. I found it in his special file.”

  “Man, oh, man. Chief, this is hard to take. I’ve got to think. Withholding evidence from the Feds is serious stuff. They will not take this lightly. Why don’t you want to turn this over to them? Get a written deal before you hand it over and walk away. They find out about this and you, and now me, are screwed.”

  “Well, John, I thought long and hard about that. Before you frog jump to judge my actions, you should see this next photo.”

  The picture he handed over was a clear shot of two men in a parking lot or alley. It was Scarface again, half smiling, engaged in conversation with none other than Agent Chandler.

  Len Bork didn’t speak. He simply stared at me. Thirty years on the force and looking forward to retirement, lazy days hunting grouse, fishing walleyes, and sitting by the fire. On his way out the door, the poor guy somehow had a burning hot rock dropped in his lap. Many people in this position would have turned it all over and put in for their pension. Thirty years down the road or not, he was still a cop, and this was still his town. Letting things go was not something he could do. He was counting heavily on the idea that I couldn’t either. No matter what, no matter how smooth things went from this moment on, our lives were going to get complicated.

  “So, what is your plan?”

  “Well, John that’s the problem. I haven’t got a clue what to do next, not a clue.”

  “Have you shared this information with anyone other than me?”

  “Not unless you mean the Almighty, because in church last Sunday I did a bunch of hard prayin’,” he responded.

  “Look, Len, I need to think about this. I’m not a cop anymore; I am a civilian. This is ‘major case’ stuff. If the State Department of Criminal Investigation or the FBI got ahold of this information, they would put together a task force before you could blink. That would be the right way to handle this. Then they can ask Chandler some pointed questions about his social circle. They could have a couple dozen agents on the ground here before supper.”

  “Oh, I am sure they could and would, John. In the process, they’d destroy any shred of dignity this town has left.”

  “That may well happen regardless of what you do. This is a big deal. You can keep the lid on it for awhile, but pretty soon it’s going to explode, and you won’t be able to control that. Holding this stuff out may be the dumbest thing you will ever do.”

  That got his back up, “I may be a small-town cop, but that doesn’t mean I’m dumb, Cabrelli. I get it. You don’t want to help me. I don’t blame you one bit. If the shoe was on the other foot, I can’t say I wouldn’t feel the same way. But deep down inside, I know I’m doing the right thing. I absolutely know it. I’m not turning this stuff over to anybody until I at least get an idea of what in hell is going on. Thanks for your time. Do whatever the hell you think you need to do.”

  Bork stood up and headed to his squad.

  Never let it be said that Mama Cabrelli didn’t birth no fool.

  “Len, wait a minute. Let me make a call.”

  6

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded more like a growl than an actual human voice.

  “Malone.”

  “Hey, Bear, it’s John. How you doing?”

  “As I live and breathe, it is the hero of the Northwoods, taking time to speak to his old friend. To what or whom do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Well, Bear, I need some help with something. Something you gotta keep under wraps.”

  “John, don’t even start. There is nothing you know that is the least bit interesting that starts with, ‘you gotta keep this under wraps.’ Unless, of course, we are talking about a secret fishing spot. That I could listen to, but that would make me happy, and we both know that you really are not concerned with my happiness. So, I am going to hang up, but before I go, I would advise you to contact local law enforcement if you have any information about criminal activity. Unless I am wrong, and this is about a fishing spot. Am I wrong, John? Is this about two old friends going fishing?”

  “No, it’s not about fishing, Bear,” I replied.

  “Well then, thanks for calling, John. I will give Tanya your regards. I look forward to getting together real soon.” Then he hung up the phone.

  “What did your contact say, John. Can he help us out?” asked Len.

  “He said he would do what he can as soon as he gets the information. Until then, we should sit tight,” I said.

  With a sad sigh, Interim Chief Bork got in his car and pulled out. I watched him go until he was out of sight.

  I walked back into the cabin to wait for Bear’s phone call that I was certain was soon to come. If Bear is one thing, it’s reliable. He could no sooner walk away from me than I from him. Too much history, too much of our life lived side by side. Bear would not let me down.

  When he did call me back, what would I tell him? Where would I start? Any investigator worth spit knows that unless they are in hot pursuit, they need to take a minute to put together what they have been presented: what they know, what they think they know, what they would like to know, and what their gut tells them. No jumping to conclusions. Things are either tied together or not.

  So instead of allowing wisdom to prevail, I again launched a ship that would take me to who knows where, hopefully to my uncle Nick’s killer. I am who I am, and good or bad, I will always be me. When all my flaws are paraded in front of Saint Peter on Judgment Day (and I am sure the list will be long), I can proudly say one thing: my belief in justice is unshakable. If I found my way to justice through unconventional means, so be it. Uncle Nick’s killer would be brought to justice.

  The details of all this activity in a small northern Wisconsin town were hard to put together. It is almost impossible that these things were unrelated. Too many bad guys in common. You need to be objective, look at the facts, but one must also not be stupid. Most of the time if it smells bad and looks bad, it is bad—not always, but most of the time.

  Len Bork, interim police chief, straight arrow by all appearances, had risked a thirty-year career to hide some photos and information he found during the search of a now-deceased former chief’s house. The photos are really in three groups. There was a connection to ongoing activities, and it’s likely the photos are tied together. They all appeared to be taken as part of some surveillance. No one was posed, and no one looked at the camera. The first batch were of the missing agent, including several photos of her around town, and three must have been taken
through her window as she was getting ready for bed or changing clothes. If we were able to study the photos closely and get some information about where she stayed when she was here, we might be able to find the window through which the pictures were taken.

  The next couple were pictures of two prominent long-term community members giving or receiving suitcases full of cash, which in my experience is usually tied to some illegal or nefarious activity. According to Chief Bork, both locals, who were easily identified in the pictures, owned area businesses that they sold, and both parties were represented by Derek Anderson, a crooked attorney. The chief had done some checking and found out that the record showed the businesses had sold for less than half of what he figured the value should be. Again, it looked like these shots were taken with some sort of surveillance camera. The images were clear enough to see that in one shot the person holding the case had a ring on his or her left pinkie. The relative size of the hand made it appear to be a man, but I couldn’t be sure. There was a clear connection between all parties involved—greed. Hundreds of years ago a guy named Paul noted for all time, “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” I doubt he knew how right he was.

  The next photo was most likely one of the threads I would have to follow to find my way through this twisting web. In the picture, Agent Chandler appeared to be talking to someone who bore a resemblance to the guy captured in another photo that was taken by Uncle Nick’s trail cam, most likely in the area where he was eventually killed. The interest here was compounded because Agent Chandler and his partner, Agent Street, had come to my house and accused me of withholding evidence in the investigation of a missing agent. I showed them what I had, and the only thing they took was the picture of the unknown subject from the trail cam. When they first saw the picture, even though it was hard to make out, Chandler slipped, and it was clear he knew who the guy was. There was no doubt that was the case because of the picture Len showed me. Then, later the same night of their visit someone came onto my property and tried to break into the shop where my uncle had a safe. I interrupted the subject and was nearly beaten to death with an old broken canoe paddle. The sheriff suggested it was probably a druggie trying for a quick rip-off, but it wasn’t. It was the guy in the picture trying to break into the shop, most likely to find what other information I was holding back. Was Chandler working with this guy? Had he tipped him off that I kept the stuff in the vault in the shop? I am not one to jump to conclusions when it comes to coincidence, but I am not blind to probable collusion.

  Agents Chandler and Street were part of a nationwide task force. They had been detailed to far northern Wisconsin to follow up on leads regarding the missing agent in the photos. These two were A-Team agents, chosen for hard cases because of a history of success. Chandler had physically threatened me and was convinced I was holding out on him. He was a jerk, but crooked federal agents are really few and far between, especially A-Teamers.

  Scarface, Chandler, Street, the missing agent, and suitcases full of cash were all tied to former Chief Don Timmy.

  Back when I was a cop, I caught special overtime detail. I was assigned to pick up an investigator from the IRS from the airport and drive him around the city to aid him in putting together a Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) case. During the next few days, we spent a lot of time together. He was an accountant with an MBA, and although he was authorized, he didn’t carry a gun. He was the guy behind the scenes who put the bad guys away. One thing he told me over and over was that people commit crimes for different reasons—out of passion, stupidity, and so on. The big guys are not stupid. The only way to get them is to follow the money—every nickel, every dime. Find out where it came from and where it went. They’re doing what they’re doing for the money, and it has to be somewhere. The most famous was the story of a big-league bad guy, murderer, thief, extortionist. At one point every fed in the country was trying to take him down. Who got him? An accountant for income tax evasion. Alphonse Capone was sent to prison. Follow the money.

  It would be a couple of hours before Julie got home from work, and I had promised her one of her favorites, Cabrelli’s award-winning Italian cheeseburgers on the grill. Since I had some time, I grabbed my fishing rod and walked down to the dock to think things through and throw a few casts. I saw a dignified looking fellow with gray hair covered by a “Happy Hooker Bait and Tackle” bucket hat standing in the water near the dock, about ten feet from shore. He was casting with a fly rod. His fly was brightly colored with a long green tail. I watched as he put the rod into action, almost like a ballet, the rod and line going back and forth in perfect motion. Each forward cast was putting his fly a little closer to his goal, the end of a tree sticking out of the water. A final cast and the fly landed ever so lightly right in the lee of the log. The fly stayed on the surface, and he let it set for a while. Then he raised his rod tip and gave the fly a short sharp tug resulting in a splash. I realized the fly he was casting was a popper, a floating fly with a dished front that would cause a splash when tugged imitating a frog or grasshopper or something like that. On his fourth tug, he was rewarded by a powerful strike, and the rod immediately bent to the pull of the fish. The angler let go with an excited, “Whoop!” and the battle was on.

  Reeling in fish on a fly rod is much different than cranking one in on a spinning or casting reel. Some use the reel to retrieve the line, while others pull the line in by hand and let it fall on the water. He was a hand liner: rod tip up, steady tension on the line, not rushing anything, playing the fish instead of trying to horse it in. I remembered when I hooked my first big fish with Uncle Nick. It was about a four-pound smallmouth bass. I was so excited that I cranked the reel as fast as humanly possible and dragged the fish to the boat. Uncle Nick said, with a laugh, if I had reeled anymore, I would have reeled the fish right through the rod guides. He said that my technique worked this time, but most often, playing the fish and wearing it down a little is the best choice to successfully land it, especially if that fish is a musky.

  The angler was making progress and chuckling throughout the whole process. I had yet to see the fish, and while I thought it would likely be a bass, it was not jiggling the tip of his rod as much as a bass usually did. When the fish was within fifteen feet of him, it launched itself straight out of the water and danced on its tail. It was no bass—it was a three-foot-long musky. After another jump, the fish hit the water and ran with the line, not away from the fisherman as you might expect. This fish ran at the angler. Try as he might, he could not take up the slack as quickly as he needed to. Slack in the line, one more quick jump, a shake of its head, and the musky was gone. Today the fish’s skill was greater than that of the angler.

  The fisherman stared for a second or two before he reeled in his line. He turned around and walked toward shore, grinning from ear to ear. The excitement of the fishing battle was more important than its outcome. That was when he first noticed me.

  “Hi,” he began. “Did you see that? I was trying to catch a big bass I’ve seen hanging out by that log. Thought I had him, too. Didn’t dream it would be a musky. Did you see how the sneaky devil ran right at me? I couldn’t believe it! I fell for the old push and pull game, and that fish snookered me good. That was fun.”

  “It was darn near as much fun to watch,” I replied.

  “Is this your boat dock?” he asked.

  “It is,” I answered.

  “Do you mind if I sit on it for a minute or two and get my rod and line straightened back up?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He sat down on the edge of the dock.

  “I should introduce myself. I’m Jack Wheeler.”

  “I’m John Cabrelli.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, John. Actually, John is my real first name too, but everybody has called me Jack for as long as I can remember.”

  I looked around and didn’t see a boat or any other means of conveyance. “Did you wade all the way over here from th
e boat landing?” I asked.

  “No, I paddled over in my canoe. It’s stashed in the weeds around the bend. I pretty much paddle where ever I fish. It’s kind of like therapy. I’m trying to learn to slow down a little. I recently retired and haven’t quite got the hang of things. The canoe and fly fishing are all pretty new to me.”

  “You looked like a pro the way you were handling that rod.”

  “Lessons from an expert in town. It took some time, but with his help I finally figured things out. It’s actually funny because I picked fly fishing as a relaxing hobby, but when I was first learning, I got so frustrated that I threw my brand-new rod and reel right in the lake, walked back to my car, and didn’t look back.

  “I was staying at a small resort on the river, and the owner suggested that instead of giving up fly fishing, I call a friend of his and take some lessons. That was a good idea. Now I love it. I don’t even care if I catch any fish. I like the whole exercise. Paddling along, finding a spot, and seeing if I can fool a fish. My casting has gotten pretty good, but I still lose more fish than I catch.”

  I sat down on the dock myself. “What are your retired from?”

  “I hate it when people ask me that,” he replied.

  I looked at him and said nothing.

  “Truth is, I am a retired lawyer. I can tell by that look you are not a big fan of my noble past profession.”

  “I used to be a cop. Probably not too many cops in the lawyer fan club.”

  “No, I’d guess not,” he said.

  “I had a diverse practice. The only real criminal law I ever did was in a situation where one of my regular clients got crossways of the law, or more often, one of the children of my regular clients. Mostly traffic issues, but occasionally something more serious. I have always admired the work that law enforcement officers do, often in the most difficult of situations. That alone would make me mostly unsuitable for the aggressiveness criminal defense requires. Anyway, it was not my cup of tea.”