Bough Cutter

by Jeff Nania

  “Good luck with that, John. I’ve gotta go. My wife is ready to drive me over to PT.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  “Anytime, Sheriff. Keep up the good work.”

  I called Warden Asmundsen and advised him of the situation. He said he would meet Holmes and the wrecker from Bill and Jack’s at the storage facility. The space was empty except for a bear killed by poachers that was hanging from the ceiling.

  When I arrived at the lab, Charlie was just finishing the last of his goose stew and was clearly quite happy.

  “Hello, John. It is wonderful to see you.”

  “Same here, Charlie.”

  “I suppose Julie told you I am taking her students on several field days this winter. We have acquired several trail cameras. Our plan is to head out on snowshoes and place the trail cameras in areas where we see tracks. We will change out the camera cards the following week, go back to school, and project what we have captured. Each species will be assigned to the students’ field teams, and they will do a research project and present it to the rest of the class. It should be a great deal of fun. Plus, I could stand to get out on snowshoes now and again.”

  “Charlie, I need some information on this plant. I hope you can help me.”

  “Certainly, John. But why, may I ask?”

  “This is evidence in a criminal investigation, and we need to preserve the chain of evidence to protect the evidentiary value of the item. Everyone who examines it or touches it needs to sign off.”

  “My gosh, a stalk of Solidago canadensis is part of a criminal investigation? That has to be a first. What would you like to know?”

  “Whatever you can tell me,” I replied.

  “It is an abundant perennial plant native to this area. Its common name is Canada goldenrod, and it is a member of the Asteraceae family. This particular specimen seems to have been harvested prior to maturity as the flowers appear to be not fully formed. Canada goldenrod grows everywhere in the lower forty-eight states, except for the southeast, I believe. I would have to check on that to be sure. It can grow in wetlands, on the fringe, or in uplands. It is everywhere around Namekagon County.”

  “Charlie, here is my real question. It may be impossible, but I need to ask. That plant started to grow in the spring. It grew and grew, and then the stem was pinched right there. That effectively killed the plant, right?”

  “Right. It would have persisted for a while, but smashing and cutting most of the way through the stem would kill it.”

  “Can you tell me when the plant died?”

  “Well, it died when the stem was crushed.”

  “No, I’ve got that, Charlie. Based on the plant’s development, can you tell me where it was in its life cycle when it was killed? Could you give me an estimate of how that corresponds to the calendar? Meaning, was the plant killed in June or September? Approximately when did it die?”

  “Aah, I see what you are getting at. With a little work, I can come up with a reasonable estimate of when the plant was killed in the growing season. Already I can see that it had not yet completely flowered. Is this plant from the geographic area?”

  “Yup, right here in Namekagon County.”

  “Well, let me take a look at this and put it under the magnification viewer. It is a plant species with which I am very familiar, and an interesting one at that. It has been thought to have broad-spectrum medicinal applications. It is used to treat urinary tract issues, sinus pain and congestion, and a topical wound application. I could do a little research to give you more information on the history and range of the plant if you want me to.”

  “That’s all very interesting, and I would love to hear more about the plant sometime, but now I just want to know when this particular plant died. I would like to know as soon as you can tell me. It’s important.”

  Students began to file into the room and take their spaces at the lab tables.

  “This is my lab class,” Charlie said. “If it is okay, I will engage them in the investigation of the Solidago canadensis sample you brought me.”

  “That’s fine, Charlie. Just keep the circumstances to yourself.”

  “Will do, John. I will need to keep the plant with me, of course, for examination. Will that require we do something, or do you have to come along with me to preserve your evidence?”

  “The truth is, I am not sure that the plant has much evidentiary value. I am most interested in whether it supports a theory I have regarding a case. What you determine will have an impact on how I pursue things. It will help me understand when the event occurred. Just to be on the safe side, I am going to sign the plant off to you to maintain the chain of evidence.”

  I signed over the paperwork and walked toward the door.

  “You know, John, environmental science is a great deal like a police investigation. You gather evidence and anecdotal information. Examining the scene of the crime is like examining habitat. Once we have all the little pieces, we try to put them together. Often the most interesting things we find have nothing to do with what we are looking for. They are, however, interesting just the same. But the big difference between what we do is not lost on me. You are dealing with life and death every day. What you do changes things in real time, minutes or seconds. My research often involves life and death but in a very different setting. For example, the Kirtland’s warbler was on the brink of disappearing from this earth, and all of a sudden, a new breeding population was found, and our hope is renewed. But people like me are very aware that a lot of what we do determines our world’s overall health. Wildlife is often the first indicator of environmental health issues. I will be glad to help you, and I hope we can give you conclusive results. Until then, John, remember the magic words: please, thank you, quack, quack, quack, and honk, honk.” •

  5

  Lois met me as I walked in the door of the office.

  “Here are your messages, Sheriff. Chief Bork wants a call as soon as you get in.”

  I dialed his number.

  “Hey, John. What do you have going out by Ghost Lake?” he asked.

  I filled him in. He reiterated what Rawsom had told me about Devin Martin with a couple of pretty significant additions.

  “We watched for him and made sure he knew that we knew who he was. Gotta be a little careful, you know, not to be profiling. Anyway, we got some information from Milwaukee. They told us Devin Martin was an up-and-comer in a drug gang. The story is that during his last stretch in prison, he hooked up with some new business associates, and they got together when they got out. I don’t feel the world will really mourn the loss,” Len said.

  “Do you remember who gave you the information about him?”

  “I most surely do. It was Agent Anthony Ricardo from the Department of Narcotics Enforcement. I’ve only met him a couple of times. He’s pretty surly, but word on the street is that he is really good at what he does,” Len replied.

  “What is it that he does?” I asked.

  “He puts drug dealers out of business, and from what I’ve heard, he isn’t too picky on how hard he steps on their toes. I know for a fact he’s still around. I’ll send his contact information over to you,” Len replied.

  “Sounds like my kinda guy. Anything else going on, Len?”

  “Nope, most locals are out hunting and trying to put in some fat fall fish. The bear hunters are out now. You’ll probably get some complaints of dogs running loose. Fall is a pretty quiet time, which gives you the chance to wind down after the tourist season.”

  “Not much on our end either, except this suicide.”

  “We keep things quiet, and that’s the way I like ’em,” Len said. “By the way, Martha wants you and Julie to come over for dinner real soon, so give me some dates.”

  “Will do, Len. Talk to you soon.”

  I hung up the phone and was just going to contact Lois to get the number for Devin Martin’s P.O. when it rang again. I answered.

  “Hey, Sheriff. Doc O’Malley.”

&nbs
p; “Hey, Doc, did you get that SUV put away?”

  “Well, yes, I did. I put it in the secure area over by the ranger station. It is locked up tight.”

  “Good. Thanks for your help.”

  “Sheriff, the only thing is that I noticed something about that fancy Cadillac. When I went to write down the VIN for my tow record, I was shining my flashlight on it, and if I held it just right, something looked off. I think the VIN plate has been changed. I looked for the one from the driver’s door, and it was gone. I didn’t look any further because I didn’t want to mess up anything. But I think someone might’ve switched the numbers. It is hard to do so that no one notices, but there are guys who are pretty good at it. I think your fancy Cadillac might be stolen.”

  It wasn’t the least bit far-fetched. The driver was a convicted felon in possession of firearms and drugs. Why wouldn’t he drive a stolen car?

  “Boy, Doc, that is a good find. I appreciate you letting me know.”

  “No problem, Sheriff. I gotta get back to work here. If you need me, give me a call.”

  I went straight to the office and sat down to make some calls regarding Devin Martin.

  My first was to the probation officer who held his paper. Being a probation agent is a thankless but necessary job. The prisons were full, and we needed to keep track of the bad guys and girls as best we could.

  I dialed the number for Greta Williams.

  A rough, smoke-soaked voice answered, “Williams.”

  “Agent Williams, this is Sheriff John Cabrelli from the Namekagon County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Namekagon County, you mean like way up north, just about to Canada?”

  “Well, up north for sure.”

  “What do you want, Sheriff? One of my folks pee on a tree in public?”

  “Nope, not that I know of. But in the morgue, I have a guy assigned to you, Devin Martin.”

  “Devin Martin?”

  “Yes, Devin Martin.”

  “Give me a minute, Sheriff.”

  I waited and heard her clicking away at computer keys in the background.

  “Yeah, Sheriff, here he is. Devin Martin. He was added to my caseload but never showed up for his first meeting, so I violated him in August. Never laid eyes on the boy. Don’t know nothing about him other than what is in the file. You sure he’s dead?”

  “We have got a tentative ID from the wallet and a vehicle registered to him. We are at about ninety percent.”

  “Who killed him?” asked the agent.

  “Looks like he killed himself. We found him dead in a car with a couple of guns, some cash, and a bunch of meth.”

  “Well, you hit the jackpot. Sounds like good riddance to bad rubbish,” she said.

  “Agent Williams, could you please send me his file?”

  “Be glad to, as long as when you are sure on the ID, you let me know so I can cross him off the list. Namekagon County Sheriff’s Office, attention … uh, what was your name again?”

  “Sheriff John Cabrelli,” I replied.

  “I will send the file over to your office, attention Sheriff John Cabrelli.” The phone clicked off.

  My next call was to the Wisconsin State Patrol trooper supervisor for our area.

  “Sergeant Kruger,” he answered.

  “Sergeant, this is John Cabrelli.”

  “Hey, Sheriff, how are you doing? Keeping all the troublemakers in Namekagon County in line?”

  “As much as possible,” I replied. “I need your help with something. We have a body that showed up in a possibly stolen vehicle. Doc O’Malley from Bill and Jack’s Garage was recording the VIN for his tow log and believes that the number has been altered. Do you have an inspector who can help us determine if the vehicle is stolen?”

  “We sure do. An inspector from Madison transferred up here last year. He really knows his stuff. Hidden VINs, altered numbers, you name it. I will send him your way if you let me know when you want to meet.”

  “If he’s got the time, now would be good. It’s kind of a priority.”

  “I will check with him, John, and let you know. Say, how’s Jim Rawsom doing? I have been meaning to get over and see him.”

  “He is making progress every day,” I replied.

  “Well, if you talk to him, tell him hello, and let me know if I can be of any help.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  It was just a few minutes later when I got a call back from the motor vehicle inspector. I filled him in, and he said he would catch up with the warden and get access to the impound lot. The crime scene unit would be done by noon, so it was all his after that. As soon as he could figure things out, he would let me know.

  For the moment, I had things pretty well under control, and I needed a little break. I stopped to get a cup of the Northwoods dark roast, then took off down the highway back to my cabin on Spider Lake.

  I pulled into the yard and felt a chill of happiness. I had come a long way in a short while. I loved this place, and I loved the woman I shared it with. It was my sanctuary, my home. The lake was my tonic. Whether sitting on the dock watching a sunset, paddling our restored cedar strip canoe, swimming in its cold waters, or fishing for muskies, the lake offered endless opportunities for recreation and renewal. As I walked to the cabin, light snowflakes slowly and lazily fell to the ground. The air was cooling off, and winter would be here soon.

  I started a fire in the woodstove, sat in my uncle Nick’s chair and picked up the latest copy of the Wisconsin Outdoor News. On the front page was a series of clear photographs from a trail camera of a cougar taking down a whitetail deer. There had been many reported sightings of cougars in the area, even back when I was a boy. These photos were taken only a few miles from my cabin. It only made sense that these large carnivores would move into the area. Millions of acres of unsettled wilderness, thousands of lakes, rivers and streams, and food provided a great habitat. Healthy wolves were not known to attack humans, but that was not the case with cougars. In other states, cougars had identified humans as slow moving, easy to catch protein sources, and people had been mauled and some killed.

  I pulled off my boots and faced my feet toward the fire. I hadn’t realized how tired I was. I turned my portable radio down low, loud enough that I could hear any important traffic, but not too loud.

  Toward evening, my pager went off. I called in from my landline, and they patched me in to the motor vehicle inspector.

  “Sheriff, you are correct. The VIN has been altered on this vehicle. I was able to locate the hidden VIN on the frame. The vehicle was stolen in Georgia about eight months ago. We are trying to track down the SUV that the phony VIN came from. I will forward you my report. Also, just for your information, it was not a real high-quality number switch. All the adhesive VINs were removed, and the one on the dash and the one in the engine compartment had the tags put over the top of the originals and were held in place by some kind of adhesive, maybe like JB Weld. For the record, I gloved up before I touched the vehicle, and I kept my examination to the minimum. I didn’t want to contaminate anything.”

  “Thanks, Inspector. I appreciate your help.”

  “You’re welcome, Sheriff. At your service anytime.”

  Nothing here was surprising. A drug dealer driving a stolen car isn’t unusual. The cash from the duffle bag had been counted, and it amounted to eighteen thousand dollars. The twelve bags of meth weighed in at several ounces each, and a couple of dozen “eight-balls” or one-eighth-ounce bags. Eight-balls were a common street quantity. It was also an amount a producer might use to let a potential dealer test his product. It was easily thirty thousand dollars’ worth of product.

  I started whittling down the possibilities regarding the circumstances of the drug dealer’s death. Robbery was out simply because no robber is going to leave a pile of cash and drugs. Maybe the guy tried to sample the product, which made him crazy, and he shot himself. We would continue to gather information until there was no more to gather and then decide whe
ther our death investigation turned into a criminal case.

  I added wood to the fire to ward off the fall chill and gazed out the picture window that faced Spider Lake, watching the gentle snow, a harbinger of things yet to come. It wouldn’t be too long before the lake would freeze solid, and snow would come in quantity. But based on recent weather patterns, when that would occur was anyone’s guess.

  I didn’t know when to expect Julie, but I planned to wait up for her even as tired as I was. My police radio squawked, and one of my people on patrol was dispatched to an accident with property damage only, meaning no injuries. Otherwise, things were quiet. •

  6

  A welcome sight pulled up in front of the cabin. I slipped on some boots and went out to help my sweetie carry what I knew would be a huge pile of schoolwork she was unloading from the back seat.

  “Hey there. Can I carry something?”

  She turned toward me with a smile and dropped a twelve-inch-high stack of student folders into my arms. “That’s it for tonight, John.”

  Back in the house, I set them on the table next to Julie’s chair, a chair that had once belonged to my aunt Rose. My uncle Nick had a chair next to hers that was now mine. They were situated so you could get the most benefit from the fire in colder months, the breeze off the lake in the summer, and the lake view out the picture window.

  Julie took off her boots, hung up her coat, plopped down, and let out a sigh.

  “Can I get you anything, Julie?” I asked.

  “I would love a big glass of wine. It has been a long day.”

  I poured her a glass of her favorite, Musky Merlot from a local winery.

  She had her feet on the footstool and her head resting back, looking at the ceiling.

  “How did conferences go?” I asked.

  “There were no real big surprises.” Julie made a practice of keeping up with the kids and their families and knew what to expect.