by Jeff Nania
He smiled and said, “Quack, Chuck the Duck here.”
I had forgotten that he was coming out with some of his students to do a bird survey, hoping to spot a rare warbler. He could see he startled me.
“Sorry about sneaking up on you, John, but headlights will often spook birds off their roosts, so we wanted to come in slow and dark.”
I appeared to recover much more quickly than my racing pulse. “No problem, Charlie. Glad to see you.”
His students, all with binoculars around their necks and carrying field notebooks, quietly disembarked from the van.
“Students, this is our host Mr. John Cabrelli. His uncle Nick first documented the bird we are looking for. It has been observed now on several occasions, and we are trying to establish if, in fact, this has become a nesting population. The closest nesting Kirtland’s are several hundred miles south of here, but historically they likely nested here,” Professor Charlie took over. “It is important that you document each species that you encounter within your grid. Attempt to get a count, and if you are unsure if it’s a repeat sighting of the same bird, count it. We must note all birds to determine if there are competitive or incompatible species in the area. While the warblers can certainly adjust to the neighborhood, they may not be as willing to do that when setting up a nesting colony. Please also note any evidence of potential predators—sightings, scat, or other signs. We need to identify animals that may prey on the birds. Feral cats are the worst, but in the Northwoods, everything must eat when given the opportunity to survive. You all have your GPS coordinates and data sheets, so it is time to get going. Remember, quiet and limited use of light will increase your chances of success.”
Then Charlie turned to me and addressed one of the students, “Angela, bring your electronic call over here please.” She handed Charlie a small black box.
“John, this is something new we are going to try. These black boxes are electronic bird calls, and they have an array of Kirtland’s welcoming songs and calls. Once the students are at their locations, they will deploy and activate the call. It is our hope that this will help attract some warblers we may not have otherwise seen. It has worked with other species, so we don’t see why it wouldn’t work here. We will soon know. Now, students, it’s time to get to your positions.”
The group dutifully went on their way and were soon lost from sight as they entered the forest. I asked Charlie if he wanted a cup of coffee, and he followed me in.
“How have you been, Charlie?” I asked.
“Just ducky. The grant you helped us get to study the warbler has been a godsend. The many interesting things we’ve already discovered would fill volumes. That is, if filling volumes was our goal, but it’s not. Filling the woods with warblers is. Habitat diversity always plays a critical role in the health and welfare of any species. Some species are more adaptable than others. For example, the lowly ‘shoot on site coyote’ has expanded its range to forty-nine of our fifty states as well as Mexico and Canada. It’s a remarkable example of adaptability. Even in the face of attempted eradication, it still thrives. Many urban areas also hold significant populations of coyotes. The ‘watch nature on TV’ crowd found them to be quite interesting when they first started showing up in their backyards, that is, until they began to snack on Fifi the poodle and Whiskers the cat. Again, they find themselves unwanted visitors. However, it’s more likely that we are the visitors. Anyway, what were we talking about?”
“I asked you about how your work on the Kirtland’s warbler was going, and you said something about habitat.”
“Right, right. Well, what we have discovered is that these small habitat areas provide stable, suitable locations for the birds to nest and rear their broods. Generally, we think about habitat in the context of more is better, but when doing that we tend to overlook our fragmented landscape and the value of the remnant native communities. Your land here and the adjoining national forest provide several mostly undisturbed areas. Our theory is that if we can determine the location and significance of these individual habitats by surveying them, we may be able to create or restore small habitats along the migratory route that will help sustain the birds. This, by the way, not only applies to Kirtland’s but also many other species. In the case of the Kirtland’s, we have found it prefers the aftermath of an intense logging operation or forest fire where we see sparse communities of jack pines. Of course, prior to logging, that circumstance would have often been caused by forest fires. You know, John, they were a natural event that had a huge impact on our landscape and flora as well as fauna and have burned for eons. They would go until they burned themselves out or a good soaking rain extinguished them. Naturally, with all the building and development, we can’t let fires burn. Sophisticated firefighting techniques are deployed and implemented quickly, which is good. I love wildlife but I am not confused about the value of human life. Some of my colleagues would like to see the fires burn on and eradicate all possible evidence of settlement. Houses burned to the ground, lives possibly lost all in a misplaced idea of how to save the environment. I have noticed that they usually refer to other people’s lives and homes, not their own. We choose to work with what we have, and I am convinced we need to look at the small picture in order to solve the big one.”
Over the short time I had known him, I recognized that Charlie Newlin was a brilliant man who had devoted his life to the exhausting efforts of teaching others, using the real world as the context. He was clearly more at home in field boots and a canvas supply vest than loafers and a sports coat.
When he was pitching his grant proposal to me, he had explained his methods. “We could spend weeks in class trying to accurately describe Kirtland’s habitat. The same could be easily accomplished by one day in the field. I choose to use the outdoors as my classroom whenever possible. I have trouble teaching about the outdoors indoors, and that rubs some of my ‘classroom colleagues’ the wrong way, so they often balk at my requests for transportation funding, but I persevere undaunted. Unfortunately, this requires funds to cover basic costs, and while I contribute personally all I can, I am afraid my meager resources fall quite short.”
That conversation led to establishing the Nick and Rose Cabrelli Grant. It was structured to continue for a long time and to allow other grantors to take advantage of matching funds. This was the first year, and the results of the initial awards looked promising.
“Charlie, I’d like to visit longer, but I have got to get on the road,” I excused myself.
“Of course. I should get out there and see how my students are doing. One of them is from Chicago and very concerned about bears, a situation not helped by two of my local students who have entertained her with stories of bears attacking and eating hikers. She showed up this morning with a quart of bear spray strapped to her hip, so I need to work closely with her. I’d better get out there, and John, let me thank you again for your support.”
“Glad to help, Charlie. I’ll catch you later.”
“Remember the magic words, John. Please, thank you, honk, honk, and quack, quack, quack. I will keep you apprised of our developments.”
Charlie walked off and I went back to the cabin to get my gear. I grabbed all my rifle magazines and checked the one in the gun, making sure a round was chambered. I secured my Walther in the holster. I had put together a field bag of things I might need. Even though this was to be largely a strategy session, the situation could change in a blink, and I would not be caught unprepared again.
Arriving at the police department an hour early, I started to walk over to Crossroads Coffee but stopped myself before I went in. I did not feel like running into Shelley today. I detoured to the parking lot and was going to cross the road to the co-op for a cup when I ran smack-dab into none other than Julie Carlson coming out the side door of the coffee shop. I was so shocked I almost took off running.
“Hi, John,” Julie said with a smile.
“Hi, Julie,” I managed.
“It’s good I
ran into you. I have been asking Bud to get the rest of my things out of your house, but he has been uncharacteristically unhelpful. So if I have to come and get them I will. Of course, I will call ahead. You know, I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything by showing up at an inopportune moment.”
Jesus, what the hell was she talking about? Inopportune moment. Then it dawned on me— coffee shop and Shelley DuBois.
As I played it over and over again in my mind afterward, I realize that my response likely sounded like segmented babble. I said something like, “There is no inopportune, I mean there could be but there is not. I guess you can get your stuff anytime.” And I continued in the same way for at least a minute.
Julie stopped me by saying, “I have to get to school, John, but Shelley is working, and she just finished telling me how excited she is for your date Saturday. You should run in and get your coffee. I am sure she would love to see you. She thinks you are quite the catch. Lucky her. Or is it lucky me?”
Then she stomped off and would have left shoe prints on my chest had I not moved. An enigma wrapped in a mystery. I couldn’t help thinking that I was facing some dangerous characters, not the least of which was Julie Carlson.
12
I skipped coffee altogether and walked back to the department. Len was in the office, and by the looks of things, he had been there a while.
“Hey, John. I was going to walk over to the bank. Want to go with me?”
“Sure, I’ll tag along.”
We walked two blocks and got to the door as they were opening for business. The bank president himself greeted us both and asked Len if he’d been doing any fishing.
“Len, I heard from a couple of people that they’re catching bluegills the size of your hand by the bucketload over on the Big Chip. I’m hoping to sneak out of here today to see if I can catch a few. My wife and I love a good pan of fresh bluegills. She fries them up coated with a cornmeal, beer, and Bisquick batter. Man, they are good. Anyway, what can I do for you today?”
“I need to get into my safe deposit box.”
“No problem. I’ll take you in myself.”
I waited for Len in the lobby. He came out in no more than a couple minutes carrying a green canvas zipper case that said “Bucket Boss” across the side.
Rawsom was waiting for us when we got back to the PD, and Len took us into the conference room. On the way, he told the woman at the front desk that he did not want to be bothered unless it was an emergency.
Len put the photos and other evidence on the table. “Look at whatever you need to look at boys. Ask me any questions you want, and I will try and answer them, but you know everything I know.”
The sheriff looked over the photos slowly, like he was committing each one to memory. Then he asked for a narrative on each set. Len explained that the woman in the photos was the missing federal agent. The gravity of the situation registered on the sheriff’s face.
The photo of Agent Chandler was flat on the table in front of three craning necks. There was little doubt it was the guy from the cabin who shot at us. It was also probably the same guy who killed those two people on the docks in Superior. I told them about the scars on his back and his ritual by the fire. No one said much; we didn’t have to. We needed to find him. He was a person of interest in at least three killings and arson—a menace to society. Scenarios of the possible encounters played out in each of our minds based on our experiences.
The photos of the cash transfer were somewhat unremarkable until I asked the sheriff if he knew anyone who wore a pinky ring like the one in the picture.
The sheriff said slowly, “I do know that Lance Brolan wore a pinky ring. He bought a ring like that from Ron Carver and showed it off. I’m not sure it’s the same one, but it looks similar.”
I spoke up, “The only reason someone would take pictures like this would be to use them to their advantage, to record this for future leverage, maybe future protection. I’m kind of confused. All the photos we have here are surveillance type pictures. They were all in possession of the former chief. Where did they come from? Who set this up?”
“I might have part of an answer to that,” Len said.
He hefted a heavy-duty metal-edged suitcase onto the table. Len flipped two latches and then opened the case. Inside tucked in holes cut out of the foam liner were several different forms of top-end surveillance electronic gear that cost a bundle.
“Where the heck did this come from?” the sheriff asked.
“A couple of years ago, DEA was updating their electronics gear. The chief put in a request to get some of their castoffs. It was meant for jurisdictions busier than ours, but he stretched the truth a little and put in the application that drug gangs were setting up business on the reservation. While it was somewhat true, he made it sound worse than it was, and he ended up getting the stuff. None of us even know how to use it or have seen the need.”
There were several cameras and listening devices, some no bigger than a match head and nothing bigger than a deck of cards. Two of the slots were empty.
“Any idea what went in here?” I asked.
Len reached into his Bucket Boss briefcase and pulled out a small black box with an almost invisible clear wire sticking out and what appeared to be some kind of camera.
“I found these in the chief’s safe along with the other stuff,” Len said.
Rawsom turned the camera over in his hands and asked, “Is there a memory card in here?”
“There is, Jim. I tried to see what was on it, but to be honest, I couldn’t figure out how to do it. I didn’t want to do something that deleted any pictures,” Len responded.
“Probably a good move, Len. This thing is more complex than the trail cam I use for deer hunting. We need to see what’s on it, though, and we need to see it as soon as possible,” Jim said.
“I know someone who may be able to help us on two fronts,” I said.
“Who?” Len asked.
“Ron Carver. First, let’s see if he can identify the ring and whose finger it’s on. Second, he worked with my uncle Nick designing a fairly sophisticated surveillance system to catch would-be thieves causing him problems at his jewelry store. I’d bet he has a bunch of knowledge in this area, but who knows. We won’t know if we don’t ask.”
“It would add another member to our group. Is that the way we want to go?” Jim asked.
“Well, I don’t see much of a choice. We need some help and have limited places we can go that won’t send up red flags and bring the wrath of the world down on us. Ron’s a good man,” I responded.
“Call him and see if he can come over,” Len said.
Ron answered on the first ring. “Johnny boy, how the hell are you? I’ve been meaning to jump on the bike and take a ride out to see you, but you know how it is. Jesus, I hear you’ve got a date with Shelley DuBois. Better strap on your seatbelt for that one, Johnny boy. You calling me for a little dating advice?”
“No, Ron. Could you come over to the PD for a minute?”
“They gonna lock you up? You need me to bring bail?”
“No, nothing like that. We need your help with something.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Sheriff Jim Rawsom, Chief Len Bork, and me.”
Ron was quiet for a minute. “What you got yourself into now? No matter, I’m on my way.”
Minutes later the rumble of a full-dress Harley announced the arrival of Ron Carver. He strolled into the building with the gait of an old-time gunfighter, smiled at the woman at the desk, and announced he was in the building and who he needed to see.
The chief brought him into the room, and the look on his face was soon matched with ours. This was serious business, and we all wore it like a thorny crown.
“You all look like hell, so I won’t bother to ask the details. What do you need from me?” Ron asked.
“Two things, Ron. We have a picture that includes a ring that may have come from your shop, and we have a surveillance camera tha
t may contain some important photos in the memory that we need to retrieve. The camera is a pretty sophisticated piece of gear, and our tech skills are somewhat lacking. We thought maybe you could help us. We also hope you will keep this meeting confidential. This is serious business and likely dangerous,” the chief explained.
Ron cackled a laugh. “Dangerous, you say? Why, I love dangerous. We spend too much time hiding out from whatever. A little danger is always good—wakes your ass up.”
“Like your little motorcycle stunt a couple of weeks ago?” the sheriff asked.
“That was barely starting to get dangerous when your deputy interrupted it. If I had wanted to, I could have beat him back to town and been having a beer by the time he caught up.”
“Ron, he got you on radar at 113 mph and accelerating,” the sheriff said.
“Of course I was accelerating. I was trying to clean the carbon out of the old girl. Christ, I had another inch of throttle. Anyway, I paid the ticket, so let’s forget it. Now show me what you need to show me.”
The chief slid the photo of the hand with the ring on it across the table. “Any chance you recognize that ring?”
It didn’t take him long. “Well, it’s not the best picture, but I’m pretty sure I recognize that ring. If it’s the one I think it is, I made it myself.”
“Do you remember who you made it for?” asked the sheriff.
“Absolutely,” he replied, “a slick fellow named Lance Brolan. He wanted a showy, powerful piece but not gaudy. That center stone is a rough-cut canary diamond, about two carats. It had been in the vault for at least ten years. When we were looking over stones, I hadn’t intended to show him that one, but it was on the small gem tray, and he made up his mind on the spot. He liked the rugged cut of the stone. Took me about two weeks to make the ring. When he came to pick it up, he was happy. I was too. He paid me a nice-looking stack of hundred-dollar bills. Cash has always been my favorite form of payment. Only saw him once after that. He came in the store with a flashy looking woman and dumped a grand on a pair of earrings for her. Never saw him again.”
