by Jeff Nania
He took out a small book and began to read. I could not hear the words, but he seemed to be reading aloud. He closed the book and stood up, walked back inside, and stayed there for the next several hours. I couldn’t see through the windows because they were covered with curtains. Around noon he reappeared dressed in a heavy flannel, plaid shirt, work jeans, and lace-up boots. He was carrying an AK-47, the most common war rifle in use today. He bent down to pick something up in the doorway and then walked down a two-track that ran behind the cabin. A few minutes later he came driving back in a beat-up older model pickup truck. While the truck looked like it was on its last legs, it didn’t sound like it. The motor was loud, not like an exhaust system that was falling off, but like a well-tuned high performance engine. He drove slowly away down the forest road.
I had no way of knowing when he would return, but opportunities must be seized upon or missed. I made my way down the hill to the cabin. I am not a Daniel Boone sort of guy, but I knew enough to cover my tracks. I looked around and then tried the cabin door. It was unlocked.
I entered with the Walther in my hand. No one was inside. The cabin was a simple affair with one large room with a kitchen on one side and living and sleeping area on the other. The word spartan came to mind when I looked around. The furniture consisted of a roughhewn kitchen table and two chairs and a rocker next to an end table. On the table sat a radio and a laptop computer. I looked inside a cloth storage bag that hung down from the rocker’s arm. It contained nothing other than a Russian Makarov pistol and several extra magazines. The rest of the room held a large bed, which appeared to be a simple wooden frame with a mattress thrown on top.
Under the bed there was a short-barreled Remington pump shotgun. The gun had an extended magazine tube that changed its capacity from five to eight. The shoulder stock had been changed to a pistol grip—a deadly, short-range weapon. If someone were to break into the cabin while the guy was sleeping, they would be met with withering fire from a shotgun most likely loaded with 00 buckshot, the favorite charge of law enforcement agencies across the country. Depending on the individual cartridge used, the load would send nine or twelve .33 caliber pellets each time it was fired. The pattern of the shot would cover an area commensurate with the distance to the target. The further the distance, the larger the spread of shot, the better chance for a hit. In this case the pattern would only spread a few inches if discharged to the front door. Someone taking a full charge would be unlikely to survive.
His clothing was in a military style foot locker with neatly folded shirts on one side and pants on the other. Two coats, a heavy winter parka and a lightweight rain jacket, hung from nails driven into the wall. A shelf next to the coats held several well-used books, including one that appeared quite old and one framed black and white photograph. It was a photo of a young girl likely in her preteens. She had dark, short hair and was smiling at the camera. A meadow full of wildflowers filled the background. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt as well as lace-up hiking boots. As I turned to leave, I noticed a brightly colored object in the kitchen. It was a beautiful enameled tea pot with two matching cups. They were newly washed and set aside. It was this teapot he had with him at the campfire out front.
I closed the door, and I thought I had left everything undisturbed. Then I noticed a small piece of clear fishing line hanging from the doorway. It had been secured to the door frame by a tack. When you opened the door the line would break, alerting the resident to the fact that someone had come snooping. I had broken the line. Retying it was no good, so I went back into the cabin and found some 2# fly line tippet—light, thin, and almost invisible. It looked like that was what he used for his door. I stripped off a piece and replaced the one I had broken.
The two-track that led down to where he went to get the truck was about fifty yards long. It wound through heavy tree cover and ended at a metal building about the size of a two-car garage. The overhead door was wide open. I could see where the truck had been parked. A newer model ATV occupied the stall next to it. There were several gas cans along one wall along with a portable generator and a Stihl chainsaw. Tools like you’d see in any backwoods garage were leaning in each corner. They looked well used but not recently and had a patina of rust with two exceptions: a splitting maul and a double bit axe. The maul looked as if it had been used often and frequently, likely to make firewood to feed the little cabin’s fireplace. The axe, too, looked like it had been recently used. Maybe he chopped his firewood instead of using the chainsaw. It would definitely keep a guy in shape.
I glanced back at the two-track and noticed that the truck tracks led out but did not seem to have crossed a small patch of sand the width of the road. A closer look showed me that this was another one of his security devices. An old spring rake was hidden in the woods right off the trail. The patch of sand had been raked smooth after the truck had passed. Any intruder would leave tracks in the sand, just like I had. I smoothed them out and went back to my jeep and was soon back on the highway.
I was relieved. There is a nervousness that accompanies surveillance. It’s not about what happens if you get caught as much as it’s the act of getting caught that makes you nervous. I didn’t turn off on the road toward home but kept on going all the way to Musky Falls. It was late afternoon, and I wanted to catch Chief Bork before he left for the day. I pulled up to the police department and was in luck. Len was standing outside talking on his cell phone. I waited far enough away from him so it didn’t appear as though I was eavesdropping. When he closed the phone, he looked at me with tired eyes.
“Cabrelli, I hope that your coming to see me means you’ve had an epiphany that is going to guide me to a solution.”
“No epiphanies, Chief, sorry. I do have a couple of things we should discuss.”
“Let’s discuss, then.”
“We need to go someplace private, Chief. Too many eyes and ears around here.”
“It’s pretty safe to say that everyone in town knows me, and everyone in town knows who you are. So, I don’t know where we’d go. But if it makes you feel better, hop in my squad and let’s go for a ride.”
“Works for me,” I replied.
The chief drove north out of town following the course of the Namekagon River to a spot where we could talk. He turned west off the highway toward the river. At the end of the road was a picnic table and a canoe launch. The river ran swift and clear past the landing. A huge boulder blocked the flow for a few feet next to the shore, providing a spot for a trouble-free launch of a kayak or canoe. It was unlikely that anyone would be using the landing since there was a big sign attached to a post that said “Closed” in big red letters. At the bottom of the sign was a picture of a bear.
“Bear problem here, Chief?”
“Yeah, I guess. A couple of city slickers came up for a day of paddling. They parked under that tree over there, locked the car, and cracked the windows a bit before going out on the river. When they got back, they found their Prius trashed. All their camping gear was in the car, including marshmallows and donuts. They had bacon and hamburger in a cooler. I am guessing some bear came walking through and got a whiff of those goodies. After he smashed out the window and pulled the door mostly off, he had himself a good ol’ time. Not much of the car’s interior was left untouched. It looked like the bear even took a dump on the driver’s seat.
“Well, anywho, when the paddlers got back, they called it in, and a deputy was sent out. They told the deputy that they had locked the car securely, but vandals had broken the window out and torn it to shreds. They had even taken the canned goods out of their food supplies and shot holes in them. The man was outraged. He said that he and his girlfriend had come up from the city to get away from this kind of crime and demanded to know what the deputy was going to do about it. It was then the female paddler noticed the big pile of bear poop on the seat and started looking more closely at the damage. She held up one of the cans and said that she used to go plinking with her dad. The bull
et always dented in where it went in and out where it exited. These holes all faced inwards.
“The deputy couldn’t take it and burst out laughing. The male paddler got right in his face and wanted to know what was so damn funny. The girl answered for him. ‘Vandals didn’t do this. It was a bear. Those are puncture holes from the bear’s canine teeth. We left food in the car and the windows down far enough for the bear to get a whiff. I don’t know firsthand, but I’ve heard that bears are incredibly strong, and it doesn’t look like the car door presented much of a challenge.’
“Well, they scooped the crap off the seat, cleaned up the trash, and tied their boats back on. The deputy helped them tie the door back in place, and they hightailed it to town. He must have gone straight to the DNR office and wanted to file a claim against the state. The wildlife manager said he’d have to sue the bear. But he made so much noise they closed the landing and set up that tube trap over yonder. No luck yet. Anyway, we won’t be bothered here,” the chief finished.
“So, what do you want to talk about, John?”
“Chief, when you showed me those pictures, what exactly did you expect me to do?”
“Can’t honestly say because I don’t know. This thing is weighing heavy on me. I thought maybe you could give me some good ideas about how to go forward. To be honest, I’m just a small-town cop who spent his career in the Northwoods. Major crimes up here are rare and mostly involve cabin fever murders—people known to each other. Actually, what you got messed up in sent a shock through the whole damn town. Nothing like that has ever happened. Now I see it’s not over, and it’s got to be. You’ve worked in a big city, and you’ve seen it all—or more than me for sure. I need help with this, and I don’t know who to trust. But the fact is I trust you, and I’m asking you to help me.”
“Chief, I found the guy from the picture. I know where he lives and think he is the guy who clobbered me. I believe this guy is a very, very bad man.”
“Let’s get a warrant and bring him in, John. Charge him with aggravated battery. That will keep him in jail for a while. Maybe he’ll talk. What do you think about that?” the chief asked.
“Sounds like a good idea, and it’s one way we can handle this, but it may not be the best strategy.”
“What are you thinking?”
“First, if we do go after him, we are going to need the SWAT team. He carries around a short AK-47. Next to his chair in the house is a loaded Makarov pistol, and under his bed is a short-barreled pump shotgun with a magazine extension. I found those in a quick search, but I’m sure there are more.”
“Jumpin’ Josie, you burglarized the guy’s house? That’s against the law, John. You can’t do that.”
“Well, Chief, I thought we were past that point. So let’s clarify: I think withholding evidence from the Feds is at least as troublesome as a little trespassing. It wasn’t burglary by the way, because I didn’t take anything and did not intend to commit a crime. Sometimes the lines are unclear between what is right for an individual and what is needed for justice. If you can’t live with it, you go your way, and I’ll pretend I never met you.”
Len Bork was an honest man. The idea of breaking the law never occurred to him. He wasn’t breaking the law by withholding evidence. In his mind he was saving his community.
The chief didn’t walk back to his car. Instead, he stood on the edge of the canoe landing staring out at the water. I gave him his space, and then he called me over.
“John, I love this river. I love everything about it. The way it flows, the rapids and the pools, the rocks that have been here for millions of years, the fish and other critters that depend on it. God put this river here for me and others to enjoy without expecting anything in return. In my retirement I hoped to come here every day, throw a few casts, and just watch. Sometimes things change. I don’t know if you are much of a Bible man, and that’s your business. Me, I’m a Bible reader and a Bible believer. In God’s book there are a lot of normal people that had to rise to a higher calling, forsake all for the good of mankind. It was never easy and often painful and sometimes deadly, but they did it anyway. I am no better than the most common of them, and probably not as good, but I’m no coward. I guess what I’m saying is, let’s get those sonsofbitches. Whatever, however, let’s get them and put this evil to rest.”
So began my partnership with a damn good man.
Len dropped me in town, and we agreed to meet the following morning at my place and start from there.
8
I stopped at Crossroads for a cup of coffee. Shelley was working behind the counter and made sure to wait on me, telling one of the other girls, “I’ll take care of this one.”
She smiled and we talked a little, then she got personal. “John, can I ask you something?”
My immediate gut response to that question was no.
“Sure,” I replied.
“So, I know that you live out on Spider Lake and that the charter school teacher, Julie Carlson, lives with you in the same house. But a little birdie told me that your relationship is strictly platonic, just good friends, nothing else going on. Is that true?”
I had no response. No one had ever outright asked me that question. I had not even asked myself that question. The truth was, I felt like I was cheating on Julie by even having this conversation. But we were just friends, and she had walked away from that friendship and slammed the door in my face. The chance that anything would ever happen between Julie and me was remote at best. It was not going to happen.
“John, is that true?” she asked again.
“It is,” I answered.
“Well, that is the answer I was hoping for,” she said with a grin. “Next Saturday there’s a good band coming to the Road House up in Little Creek. They play all over the country. It sold out weeks ago, but it just so happens I have two tickets.”
She picked up a pen and starting writing on a notepad. “Here is my address and phone number. Pick me up at six-thirty on Saturday. I promise we are going to have fun. I have to get back to work right now, but I will see you then.”
She turned and went into the back room, leaving me with her address and my cup of coffee. I was a little confused by what had gone on. I don’t remember telling her I would go. I also don’t remember telling her I wouldn’t. What I did know was that she expected me to pick her up next Saturday. I felt a little sick to my stomach.
The ride back to the lake was as beautiful as always. I found it strangely calming, like I was traveling a trail that would take me to a peaceful place. When I pulled in, Julie’s car was conspicuous by its absence. She would have normally been home by now. I walked in and the first thing I noticed was that her normal pile of schoolwork that sat on the end table by her chair was gone. It was never gone. It changed in content all the time, but it was never gone. I looked around some more and realized that some of her other stuff was gone too. Then I saw the note on the table.
John, I have moved into town. Bud will be out to get the rest of my things in the morning if it’s okay with you. If not, call him and let him know what would be more convenient. Julie
I had hoped that she would have waited before she did anything so we could talk. Talking, however, usually requires two or more people and some willingness to participate. When Julie Carlson made her mind up, it was not easy to change, partly because she had this uncanny and irritating habit of being right. Not thinking she was right, but actually being right. She was right this time, too. I was no good for her. She had sat by my bed after I was shot, then turned her life upside down and nursed me back to health—never complaining, always encouraging, always caring. Now healed, I was ready to jump into the fray again. No sane person would ever embrace a life with me. Her moving on was clearly the best thing for everyone.
I had arranged for Len Bork to come out and meet me in the morning before sunup. I wanted to introduce him to Scarface. I called Bud and he answered right away.
“Hey, John, what are you doing?” Bud a
sked a little too cheerily.
“Julie left me a note that said you were coming out to get her things tomorrow. What time were you thinking?”
“I have to stop and do a little work at the Jacobson’s house. It’ll probably take an hour or so. I guess I would be there by ten o’clock. Would that work?”
I thought for a second. “Look, Bud, I am not going to be around tomorrow, but you’ve got a key. Come when you can and take what you want. Anything heavy that you might need help with?”
“The only heavy thing is her sweater chest. I can get that by myself, though. Nope, nothin’ else. I was kind of hoping we could talk for a minute or two. When do you think you might be back?”
“I don’t know. I would think early afternoon.”
“Why don’t you give me a jingle when you get home. It won’t matter to Julie as long as I have her stuff here before she gets home from school.”
“Okay, Bud, that works. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yup. I’ll wait until you call me.”
I needed to decompress. I could feel the tension building in my neck and in the scar tissue in my back. I grabbed a fishing rod and walked out to the dock. Much to my surprise, Jack Wheeler was again plying the waters around the little bay with his fly rod. I was glad to see him.
“Hey there, Counselor. How goes the war?”
“Hi, John. I’m sure my intrusion on your privacy is getting a little tiresome, but I had to try this new rig I got from the Musky Falls Fly Shop. The rod is a little stiffer with a different kind of line. Flexible and light, but strong. I’m hoping to tangle with that musky again, and I’ll be ready for him this time.”
