Spider Lake

by Jeff Nania

  “You too, John.”

  I got in my truck and drove toward the edge of town. There was a sign with an arrow that pointed off the main highway. It said “Jerry’s Gun Shop,” and that was exactly what I needed.

  It was a small shop much like the little community stores of a generation ago. A guy was sitting on a stool behind the counter and looked busy mounting a scope on a rifle. On his hip in plain view he had a holstered pistol. It appeared to be a full-size Glock. A woman was sitting at a desk going through a pile of papers that looked like bills and receipts. The fellow looked up as I walked in and greeted me with a smile.

  “Welcome. What can I do for you today?”

  “I want to buy a rifle.”

  “Well that’s a big category. Let’s start with what you’re going to use it for to help narrow it down.”

  “Varmints. I’m going varmint hunting.”

  After laying down some cash, filling out paperwork, and passing a background check, I walked out of the store with a Smith & Wesson M&P .223 rifle, two ten round and two thirty round magazines, along with a hundred rounds of ammunition. The rifle was matte black with a collapsible stock. It was compact and lightweight. The durable aperture sights allowed easy and quick target acquisition. I got back on the highway and, after another mile, pulled into a wayside. No one else was there. I loaded all the magazines, stuck a thirty in the gun, and racked a round into the chamber. I put the rifle behind the seat in the extra cab area. Easy to grab but not easy to see by a casual observer. I felt better already.

  I was lost in my thoughts and about ten miles out of town when I heard a blaring horn behind me. A look in the rearview showed a bright green fire truck sitting on my bumper. I pulled over, and it and two other trucks passed me, roaring off to an emergency. Emergency responders, cops, firefighters, EMTs, and the like, willingly drive as fast as possible to put themselves in harm’s way. Trouble comes, and most people with any sense go the other way. Not folks like this. They charge on. What makes us that way, who knows? We are what and who we are.

  The trucks were soon out of view. I continued down the road toward the cabin. The guy was a professional, but I might find something. Anything would be good. A used unwashed glass for prints or DNA, hair left in the sink or shower drain, notes, papers, candy wrappers, whatever. It all might mean something. As I approached the turnoff, I realized that my search would turn up nothing. The firetrucks had also taken the turnoff, and I guessed that the thick column of smoke they were attending to was formerly the cabin. I pulled off out of the way and hiked into the lookout I had used before. The cabin was a fully engulfed roaring inferno, and any evidence I had hoped to acquire was not long for this world.

  Whoever this guy was, he was a man who covered his backtrail with harsh and direct means. You want someone to stop following you, shoot up their car. Want to get rid of any evidence, burn it to ash.

  I called Len on my way back to town. He had interesting information. It seems that a company out of St. Paul, Minnesota, in fact owned the property. But the first tax bill had been sent to a local address—the palatial estate belonging to David Stone, the multi-millionaire who was always in the background when things went down, the man who always had plausible deniability, the man I was sure was the root of much of the evil that plagued the north country.

  Len and I met at the office, and I filled him in on the cabin fire. He took it all in, nodding his head. He didn’t say anything right away, then said, “Whoever this guy is, he’s got to go, the sooner the better.”

  Len had made copies of everything regarding the piece of land and cabin. It was spread all across his desk—the changes in ownership, post office boxes. Again, it was clear that this was a purchase whose ownership was intended to be hidden from the casual observer. Only one thing popped up—one address, one time on a tax bill five years before. Proof of anything? No. A connection between Stone and our mystery man? Absolutely.

  “What do you think our next move is, Len?” I asked.

  That question was answered by an imposing figure standing in the doorway who said, “I’m your next move, so keep your butts glued to those chairs.”

  10

  The imposing figure that filled the doorway walked into the room and shut the door. Len and I were so taken by surprise that we didn’t budge. Sheriff Jim Rawsom ran unopposed in a special election after the sitting sheriff stepped down following a severe heart attack. Jim was a veteran lawman who had begun his career with the Namekagon County Sheriff’s Department right out of school. My dealings with him had been limited, but he seemed to be alright. Apparently, the voters of Namekagon County also thought so.

  “What can I do for you, Jim?”

  “Len, cut the crap. I’m one step away from going to the attorney general and asking for an investigation into some of the activities around here including yours and your buddy Cabrelli’s. If that’s what you want me to do, tell me to get out. I will get in my squad and drive down to Madison. Then I will sit in the waiting area at the AG’s office until he agrees to see me, and I won’t leave there until he promises to initiate an investigation. Don’t think for one second that this is an empty threat. It is not. I am pissed and I am going to get some answers one way or the other. So, what will it be?”

  “What is it you want to know?” I asked.

  “Cabrelli, you’re sitting here, but I am talking to the chief, not you. Len, what is going on, and why are you trying to hide it from me?”

  “Settle down, Jim. Give me a clue about what you think I am hiding, you know, someplace to start.”

  “Well let’s start here. I get a call from Bob Robinson who lives out in the county off the school road. It seems that he witnessed an interesting event a couple of days ago. He described it as an ambush. A fancy classic jeep driving down the road and someone opened fire on it. The two occupants barely kept control. Then these same two occupants jump out of the jeep. One of them is you, Len, and I am guessing you’re the other, Cabrelli. The jeep was apparently not drivable because a little bit later a flatbed truck showed up that had “Bill and Jack’s Garage and Guide Service” plastered across the side. The wrecker driver was recognized by Bob as Doc O’Malley. They load up the jeep, and these two knuckleheads get in his truck and drive away. However, the jeep never gets back to O’Malley’s garage. Well, old Bob told me that he heard at least four shots. He thought they sounded like rifle shots. Now, him being a Vietnam War vet, he would probably know. Maybe because I’m a new sheriff and all, but people with guns shooting up my county and not telling me about it worries me, so I felt compelled to investigate. Now I knew where there was a jeep that matched the description, so I wanted to rule that out first before I put out a BOLO (be on the lookout). I went out to your place, Cabrelli, and guess what I found in the storage building? A jeep matching the description of the one Bob saw, right down to the bullet holes.”

  “That search is illegal, Rawsom. You had no right to search my property.”

  “You might think so, Cabrelli, but with exigent circumstances and all, I could have busted the lock and searched without a warrant and been fine. But it wasn’t necessary.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Well see, when I pulled in and began walking around, I saw the door to the storage building standing wide open. I look a little closer and see a pair of legs sticking out from under the jeep, and I hear someone talking to himself. So, I gave the feet a little kick and who hauls himself out but Doc O’Malley. I will admit he looked a little peaked when he first saw me. I asked him what he was doing. He said, ‘Trying to figure out what I need to fix John’s jeep. I want to get the parts on tomorrow’s order to Minneapolis.’ So, I asked him what was wrong with the jeep. He said, ‘I’m not sure but it looks like somebody shot it.’

  “I pushed him a little more, but it was no use. He didn’t know who shot the jeep. He wasn’t there. He was only doing his job as a mechanic—fixing what’s broke. When I asked him why he hauled the jeep to the sh
ed, he said, ‘Because it wouldn’t run.’ Now I know O’Malley to be a good and honest citizen. I know that if he had become involved, it was likely because he was coerced. Anyway, I sent him on his way for now. I confirmed old Bob’s guess that the jeep had taken some fire. I counted four bullet holes, but I’m guessing the crime lab will be able to do a better job. That hit to the windshield must have tickled the ears of whoever was riding and driving. Did your ears get tickled, Len?”

  We sat quietly for a minute before Len asked, “Is that what you want to know about?”

  “At first yes, but now I have a couple more questions. These are a little more of a problem, Len. Before I go any further, I’m going to need to advise John Cabrelli here of his rights.”

  “About the jeep?” I asked.

  “No, John, this is about arson. It seems that a cabin out in the forest just burned to the ground. The fire department says it looks like arson and that a pile of accelerant was used. The state fire marshal has been called in, and he will be going over the place with a fine-toothed comb. But here is the interesting part. The fire department got a grant a couple of years ago for truck cams. They are heavy duty heat resistant cameras mounted on the trucks. They can swivel 360 degrees, and they always aim one at the road to record gawkers and one at the fire scene. Anyway, the fire chief calls me and asks where I am. Turns out I’m not too far from the fire scene, so I drive over. One of the first things they do once the fire is under control is review the gawker tape because many arsonists will return to the fire scene to take a look at their handy work. Quick identification of possible suspects is important. Guess who the first person of interest to arrive at the scene was? No, I’ll tell you, I can’t wait. It is none other than John Cabrelli who drives in behind the trucks. Gawker or firebug? Hard to say, but seeing how no one uses that road, it looks kind of suspicious to me.

  “So let me recap: We have a likely positive ID of John Cabrelli at the scene of two potential felonies in as many days. Now, normally that would make me jump to all sorts of conclusions and probably take some rash action like put out an ‘attempt to locate’ on John here and have him hauled into the sheriff’s office and have a little conversation. So, why not do what I have always done?”

  We both looked at him and didn’t speak, nor were we inclined to do so.

  “Cat got your tongue boys? That’s what my grandma always used to say when we wouldn’t speak. A cat getting your tongue would have to hurt. Probably almost as much as me having your ass because that’s sure as shit what I’m going to have if you don’t speak up mighty quick. The only reason there’s no BOLO is because of you, Len. We go back a long way, and I have never known you to do anything that wasn’t on the up and up. I think that may be the case this time too, so take your time and explain to me what the hell is going on and why haven’t you told me.”

  Len told him everything. The sheriff didn’t take notes or ask questions. He listened. It was over an hour before he spoke.

  “Can I see the photographs?” he asked.

  Len said, “They aren’t here.”

  “Where are they?” Jim inquired.

  “Safe deposit box at the bank,” Len replied. “It’s too late to get them today, but we can when they open first thing in the morning.”

  “Why didn’t you put them in your evidence vault?”

  “I’m sorry to say this, Jim. After all that’s happened around here, I don’t know who to trust. Wait until you see the pictures—one of them is the guy who probably shot at us seen talking to a federal agent. I needed to do something, but I didn’t know who to trust.”

  “Does that include me?” the sheriff asked.

  “I am sorry, Jim. It includes just about everyone. I didn’t know what to do, so I did what I thought was right—not by the book, but right all the same. I confided in John here because he is new to the area and has as much of a stake in this thing as I have. Plus, he was a cop, and a good one I’ve heard, so he knows what he’s doing. I needed someone to help me. Now things have gotten a bit out of hand. I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I am not walking away from it.”

  “Jesus, Len. How in the hell does something like this happen in the backwoods of Wisconsin?”

  “May I speak?” I asked.

  “Go ahead, John,” Len responded.

  “This all may have happened because this is the backwoods of Wisconsin. I think that the location of all these events is the key to putting this thing together,” I said. “This is not coincidental; it couldn’t be. There are too many moving pieces that had to come together for whoever is doing this to make any money. We’ve got to follow the money. I think this is a highly developed criminal enterprise that ran into some bumps in the road. They may have been operating here for years, who knows. The suitcases full of money that you’ll see in the pictures, Jim, are likely part of a money-laundering scheme that’s often used by drug cartels. Who around here has a suitcase full of cash they need to get rid of? Just about no one. This is an operation that’s being run from the outside. There’s got to be some local players handling things here, but I’d bet the money is not being generated locally.”

  “You mean like the Twin Cities or Milwaukee?” Len asked.

  “Could be, but it also could be from Chicago, Florida, or Mexico for that matter.” I answered. “We only know about the two cases with the Joneses and Turner. There has got to be more.”

  The room became silent. No one wanted to ask the question. When the question was asked, no one wanted to answer it. What next?

  It was Jim who spoke up, “This is the most incredible thing I have ever heard—drug cartels, money laundering, murder, arson, fraud all in Namekagon County, Wisconsin. Christ, people don’t even lock their doors here. How can this be?”

  “I told you all I know, Jim. You can doubt me if you want,” Chief Bork said.

  “Hell no, I’m not doubting you. It is hard to believe. It seems impossible. This is a real mess.”

  “So, what are you going to do, Sheriff? You got me dead to rights. I withheld evidence, failed to report a felony. I’m sure if you worked hard enough, you could come up with quite a list. Cabrelli, by the way, is guilty of nothing. I suckered him in and used his uncle Nick’s murder as the bait. I took complete advantage of him. He was acting at my direction, and I will swear to that in court if that is where we’re headed.”

  Sheriff Rawsom looked at Len Bork and me. His gaze had lost the intensity it had at the beginning of the encounter. Then he spoke, “The first thing we need to do is cover your highly exposed asses before we go one step further. If those federal agents find out what you two have been up to, there will be holy hell to pay.”

  “How do you suggest we do that?” Len asked.

  “I’ve got an idea. But first we have to make some decisions. Based on the facts you’ve presented, it’s clear to me that you acted in a reasonable manner. Continuing the investigation to determine the credibility of the evidence was reasonable due diligence. Keeping it secured or in your possession since it came out of Chief Timmy’s safe protects the chain of custody. Then calling me in here to give me a full report on all that went down was exactly what you should have done. Now I think we can all agree that that is a fair representation of what went down here. Can we agree on that?”

  I could see by the look on Len’s face he was as confused as I was. Where was the sheriff going with this?

  “Jim, let’s clear the air. I am too tired and stressed out to play any games. What is it that you are going to do? Are you turning us in or what? I am ready for whatever.”

  “No, Len, I am not turning you or Cabrelli in. I’ve been keeping a few things to myself as well. Let me tell you what I know. Remember, this is my home too, and whatever is going on has to be stopped. So, let’s get to it.

  “About a year ago, I got a mutual aid request from Douglas County. They needed any and all available deputies as fast as possible for a manhunt. The sheriff, because of his health, sent me to take his place. We
have a small department, but we were able to have a dozen men and women on the road within an hour. They switched us all over to the state emergency network and directed us to a shipping dock on Lake Superior.”

  “Yeah, I sure remember that whole thing,” Len said. “I stayed back and helped cover any calls until you guys got back. That was really something. Almost creepy in a way.”

  Jim continued, “The place was completely cordoned off.

  Officers had set up a tight perimeter around a couple hundred shipping containers and two huge warehouses. Everyone was armed to the teeth. My deputies and I met with the Superior chief of police and Douglas County sheriff. An impromptu command post had been set up on the hood of the sheriff’s squad. What had gone down was ugly. A dockworker had come upon a large man bent over something on the ground among the shipping containers. When the big man heard him, he took off. A man and woman were on the ground. They were both dead. The man’s head had been twisted completely around. It was later revealed the woman had died from a crushed trachea. The dockworker pulled an emergency alarm that resulted in security immediately closing the only entrance. The area where this occurred is kind of like an island with docks for loading ships on all sides and only one road going across the water for access. Nobody left through the gate, so they thought there was a good chance the perp was still there. The only other way off is to swim, and Lake Superior’s water temperature of forty degrees would make it tough. The only easy access point for a swimmer was several hundred yards away—an emergency ladder that went from a loading dock down to the water.

  “The chief and sheriff had snipers covering the perimeter of the island. We started a methodical search. We only checked the unlocked containers, which were few, but we covered the rest of the area like a deer drive. A canine unit from Duluth showed up, and we set up a perimeter inside the area. The dog started working and alerted on a corridor that ran between two stacks of shipping containers. The corridor was really narrow, so the canine officer sent the dog first, and he and his backup followed. The dog went into full alert and took off around a blind corner. There was a growl, then a yelp, followed by silence. When the handler got to his dog a minute later, he found the dog dead. It had been stabbed in the chest with a double-edged knife. The perp was nowhere in sight. We searched that place. The National Guard even put up a chopper. Nothing. About an hour after the dog was killed, Superior PD got a report of a carjacking. A woman, who was the last employee at a small printing business in the industrial park by the docks, had locked up the building and gotten into her SUV when a man walked up, opened the door, and dragged her out by the hair. He threw her down on the ground and told her not to move or he’d kill her. He got in the SUV and started to drive out. He stopped for a second, put down the window, and threw her purse out. Then he drove away. The victim says the guy was huge, soaking wet, and spoke with a foreign accent, maybe Russian. She said he dragged her out of the car like she weighed nothing and actually threw her a fair distance. When he was long gone, she got up and grabbed her purse. Her cell phone was missing, but everything else was there, including her wallet and office keys. She went inside and called the police. Her description matches the guy the dockworker saw. The woman’s SUV, as far as I know, has never been recovered.”