Bough Cutter

by Jeff Nania

  “Three months? You’re kidding. Dr. Benson, is there any way you could help me out with this? Maybe just the bullet and case comparison—the short version.”

  “I am sorry, Sheriff. We are all frustrated by the process. Unfortunately, we can’t help. We are too backed up. I was appointed to this position, and my first charge was to prioritize our activities, starting with the backlog of sexual assault kits that remain untested. We need to take as many predators off the street as we can.”

  Every cop in the state knew about the fiasco regarding processing sexual assault kits for potential evidence. At last count, over six thousand had yet to be processed. These kits contain potential evidence that will identify predators and help bring them to justice. It had all been tied up as part of politics. Now things were rolling forward. A new attorney general was pushing the issue hard with poignant comments about not putting politics ahead of victims. The very first kits tested resulted in several arrests. Arrests in sexual assault cases are a big deal, especially when something like DNA evidence comes into play. The issue is that most people who commit sexual assaults are likely repeat offenders, but that is not how it presents itself. A law enforcement officer takes a sexual assault complaint, and most cops take this stuff very seriously, and they do a thorough investigation.

  Depending on the circumstances, the reported assault is then sent over to people trained in investigating sensitive crimes. Everybody is working hard to ID the perp to get him or her off the street as soon as possible. Nobody likes sexual predators. Even in prison, they occupy space somewhere below the lowest rung on the ladder. The thing is, many of these pieces of human excrement are habitual offenders. So a cop takes a report of an assault one day. He does everything he can to identify the suspect. A month goes by. A cop in another area catches another sexual assault. He does his best. Then another six weeks later, same deal. Unless there are distinct definable characteristics, these all go down as separate incidents. Suddenly, they start testing for DNA from the evidence they recovered and compare it to other samples. They start getting a bunch of matches from other sexual assaults. Pretty soon, you find out that the perpetrator in all the cases is the same person. What everyone thought was a series of separate crimes turns out to be the work of a habitual predator. Now everybody is looking hard for him.

  “Yeah, I understand. If you would, transfer my stuff as soon as you can. Don’t let it get away on you, okay?”

  “Sheriff Cabrelli, I can assure you that we will get the firearms, casing, and bullet down to Milwaukee as soon as we get the opportunity.”

  “What if I take the stuff to Milwaukee? Could you make a call for me to help with that?”

  “Sheriff, everyone is busy, Milwaukee included. I don’t want to be insulting, but your death investigation is probably what it looks like. I know good cops want to make sure they cover all the bases. Sometimes we have to prioritize. We haven’t got the time to chase after something that’s not there. Sorry, Sheriff, but that’s the way it is.”

  “I get it, Dr. Benson. Let’s do this: pack up my evidence, prepare the transfer forms, and I will be down at your office first thing in the morning to pick it up.”

  “Sheriff, that is neither necessary nor warranted.”

  “Pack up my evidence, prepare the transfer forms, and I will be by in the morning. Let’s say, around nine. That work for you?”

  “Sheriff Cabrelli, you are trying my patience. I said I would get to your evidence when I can.”

  “One thing I have noted about myself: I have some recognized expertise in trying people’s patience. I am trying to get better, but no real luck yet. I will see you in the morning.”

  I began to hang up.

  “Sheriff, wait a second. We have some tools that need to be examined from a home invasion that resulted in two homicides. It is going out first thing tomorrow to Milwaukee. I will send your stuff along with it. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Yes, Dr. Benson, it does. Thank you very much.”

  “You are welcome, Sheriff. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to get back to work,” and she hung up.

  I understand the pressure the lab people are under, the good work they do, and the challenges they face. Unfortunately, my world just keeps on spinning even if theirs stops.

  I called Dr. Chali to advise him of the new situation with the evidence.

  “Good move Sheriff, I think your suspicions have merit. I am absolutely open to looking at any new information that may impact the Martin death investigation. Oh by the way the Milwaukee ME’s office has attempted personal contact with Tina Martin three times with no success. They believe she may have moved.”

  I thought for a minute.

  “Mike I know it’s not the way things are done normally, but can I try to make the contact?”

  Dr. Chali thought for a second.

  “I guess I don’t have any problem with that, but I can’t help but wonder whether or not driving to her house in Milwaukee is going to get you anywhere.”

  “Well we’ve tried personal contact, with no success. What if I call her on the phone?” I asked.

  “Personal notification of a death is the really an important part of our responsibilities. A phone call just doesn’t cut it,” he replied.

  “Better a phone call than nothing. I am the lead on the case, she may have questions for me. She probably won’t even answer the phone.”

  “Go ahead, Sheriff. Give it a try,” Dr. Chali said.

  I closed my office door and called the number I had. After half a dozen rings, a rough voice with slurred speech answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Tina Martin?”

  “Who wants to know?” she replied.

  “My name is John Cabrelli. I am the sheriff of Namekagon County. Is this Tina Martin?”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “I am calling about your son, Devin. Is Devin your son?”

  “What did he do now? Is he in prison again?”

  “Ms. Martin, do you have a son named Devin?”

  “Yeah, he’s my kid. For better or worse,” she replied. Then she chuckled, “No, that’s what they say for marriage, isn’t it? I wouldn’t know; his father never bothered to marry me. So, what did he do?”

  “Ms. Martin, I’m sorry I have some bad news. Devin is dead.”

  There was silence at the end of the line. Then I heard a mournful sob.

  “My boy is dead? You sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am sure. The medical examiner has made a positive identification.”

  “Did he OD? Is that what he died from?”

  “I am sorry, Ms. Martin. He died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  “He killed himself? Are you trying to tell me he killed himself?”

  “We are waiting for some tests to come back, but they are just a formality. Everything indicates suicide.”

  Wracking uncontrolled sobs came from the other end of the line, the kind that come whether you want them or not.

  I gave her some time. The sobbing stopped.

  “Ms. Martin, the body can be released in the next couple of days. Do you have any thoughts on how you might like to handle that?”

  “I don’t know right now. I would like to bring him home if I could. You have any idea how much that might cost?”

  “No I don’t. You are going to have to contact a funeral director in Milwaukee help you with that. They will be able to help you figure things out.”

  “Yeah, that would be good.” Then the sobs came again, and she said she needed to go.

  Devin Martin was a convicted criminal, a drug dealer, and probably guilty of any number of crimes he was never held accountable for. A hard man, no doubt. Today he wasn’t any of that; today, he was his mother’s little boy.

  I got ready to get out on the road, but before I did, I checked in with everyone in the office and communications center. The world was quiet. The weatherman predicted intermittent light snow would stop midday, and the sun
would come out. The temperature would rise to the mid-thirties.

  The streets of town were not hustling and bustling, and the crowds had thinned considerably. I pulled up and parked in front of the local jewelry store. When I walked in, the person I was looking for was sitting behind the counter, peering at a ring through a single lens squinted in place.

  “Well, Miss, I am sorry to tell you that this ring is worth very little,” he said to a girl on the other side of the counter.

  “He told me he paid over a thousand dollars for it!” exclaimed the young woman, clearly agitated.

  “I don’t know what he paid for it. I can only tell you what I value it at. The truth is, I don’t want the ring. It’s not the kind of thing my customers expect from me.”

  “The diamond in the center is huge. It has got to be worth something!” she pleaded.

  “That’s the problem. The diamond in the center is not a diamond. It looks like a diamond, but it is a fake called cubic zirconia. To me, the center stone has no value. The ring itself is sterling silver and is worth something. Silver is selling for about eighteen dollars an ounce. The ring weighs about a third of an ounce. I could give you twenty-five dollars for the ring.”

  “But he said he paid a thousand dollars for it,” she said and then started to sob quietly. “I should have known it all along. I paid for my bus ticket to get here. He said he would pay me back, but he didn’t. I am so stupid, packing up and coming up here to hook up with some guy I only met on the Internet. I am so stupid.”

  Ron Carver, the master goldsmith and jeweler behind the counter, had been there and done that—at least twice. He was a successful businessman and did not become that way by making foolish purchases. He was not someone that would be classified as a soft touch, except when it came to a sobbing woman.

  “Miss, how much do you need for the ring?”

  “I just want enough to pay for a bus ticket home.”

  “Will a hundred dollars do it?”

  “No,” she sobbed. “The ticket is one hundred forty dollars.”

  Ron opened his wallet and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and gave them to her. Then he turned to look at me.

  “The sheriff here will be glad to give you a ride to the bus stop. Won’t you, Sheriff?”

  “I would be glad to. I’ll be right back, Ron.”

  As soon as we got in my squad, I called the dispatcher and had them record that I was making transport of a single person to the bus depot. I arrived four minutes later, and she got out. I advised dispatch that I had concluded transport.

  I stopped back at the jewelry store. Ron was already back at his workbench.

  “Come on back here, Johnny boy. I have got a real deal for you,” he said.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked.

  “I just took in this ring, sterling silver with a beautiful center stone. It would look perfect on that sweet little Julie Carlson’s finger. Yes, it surely would. I can let you have it for a real bargain. Let’s say two hundred dollars, and at that, I am not making a nickel on it. So what do you think? I can even put it in a fancy box.”

  “You mean the ring that you just told that poor girl was worthless? That’s what you want to sell me?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I thought you said it was worthless?”

  “It’s not worthless. It’s probably worth twenty bucks or so.”

  “Thanks, Ron. I think I will pass.”

  “You can’t blame a guy for trying.” Then he opened a drawer under his bench and threw the ring in with at least a couple dozen others. “A lot of broken hearts come through that door. What can I do for you, Sheriff Cabrelli? I am at your service.”

  “Nothing, really. I thought I would stop and check in with you.”

  “Things are slow, but it will pick up in a few weeks when deer season gets here. Plenty of guys come in to pick something up for their wives. Mostly guilt-driven after having spent a week or so drinking and carousing in the great north. I even set up a deer hunters’ special display—nice stuff but moderately priced.”

  One of Wisconsin’s great traditions is the annual nine-day deer gun season, during which over six hundred thousand deer hunters take to the woods. Oftentimes, several generations hunt together, cook good food over an open fire, and share stories of hunts past while making memories for next year.

  “I remember my first deer hunt. I was twelve years old. Uncle Nick and I had taken a hunter safety course together. He taught me how to shoot a rifle. He believed that you needed to understand every facet of shooting. I used an old 721 Remington bolt action rifle, chambered in 30−06, America’s most popular caliber. In his shop, we used brass shell casings, gun powder, primers, and bullets to assemble our ammunition. Uncle Nick was convinced that our handloads were superior to anything you could buy at a sporting goods store. We practiced at the range and made sure the rifle was sighted in perfectly. Based on our loads, if we sighted in two inches high at one hundred yards, that would work well for where we would hunt. Opening morning, we woke well before the sun, and Aunt Rose cooked us a huge breakfast. She packed food and thermoses filled with hot chocolate and coffee in our day pack. We trekked across the ice on Spider Lake to the opposite shore and climbed to a ridgetop. Once on the top, we could see the lake below us from both sides. If a deer came out, and it was in range, I could shoot it, but not unless I wanted to. That year the only deer we saw were several hundred yards down the lake.”

  “I remember that old rifle of his. The action was as smooth as could be, and the trigger was perfect. Your uncle Nick was quite a gunsmith,” Ron said. “By the way, what’s the scoop on the body those hunters found?”

  Ron Carver was the chair of our Law Enforcement Advisory Committee. He also kept his ear to the ground and was a wealth of information regarding both the community’s good and bad parts.

  “No determination yet. Everything points to a suicide, but there are some unanswered questions,” I replied.

  “I heard it was some dope dealer that did himself in. Too bad he didn’t take some of his buddies with him. I’ve heard rumors that these clowns have moved into the area and have got a meth lab out in the national forest.”

  “It’s not just Namekagon County. Everybody up north is seeing an increase in drug use and the crimes that come along with it.

  “Well, it’s a real problem for people with stores like ours. Every day, we get shady-looking characters who come in here and try to sell jewelry—the guy over at the pawnshop too. I won’t buy anything unless I know the seller. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Good idea, Ron.”

  “Well, Sheriff, I have got to get back to it. Say hello to Julie.” •

  9

  I got in my squad car and took the highway north out of town. The radio traffic was light. After a few minutes, I turned off the blacktop onto one of the seemingly endless two-tracks and backroads that go across the north country. All these roads at some time were developed with a purpose. Many were used for logging operations, while some were just shortcuts between paved highways. Others were fire breaks designed to slow forest fires. Some were just trails cut into a remote lake. I decided to travel the backroads whenever practical for a couple of reasons. First, it’s a more scenic drive and takes you to places you would never see. Second, it’s part of my job to know the country. Len Bork and others like him had lived their whole lives traipsing around northern Wisconsin hunting and fishing. Lots of the backcountry roads and trails had unofficial names like “Skunk Lake Trail” and “Buck Saw Crossing,” and local people, as well as my deputies, would use the names when describing the location. None had road signs.

  Additionally, these roads were commonly used and not well maintained. In areas like this, with spotty cell service, if someone broke down, they may be there for a while. Most folks in that kind of spot just hitched up their pants and started walking. Sometimes tourists, mostly from the cities, decided to take their family van on a backroad adventure, oft
en learning the importance of four-wheel drive and ground clearance the hard way. They might have to wait a while for someone to come by.

  The road I was driving on had tire tracks on two sides with grass in the center. If two trucks met, it would take some pretty careful maneuvering to pass each other. I crested a small hill and descended into a low spot with wetlands on both sides. Someone had laid what looked like railroad ties across the wet spot in the road. I got out and looked them over. They appeared to be pretty good. On the other side of the ties were several mature trees. If I got stuck, my winch line attached to one of those trees would likely pull me out. I locked in the four-wheel drive and crept across. The timbers were solid, and I made it with no problem.

  I drove for a couple of miles before I came upon an older model white four-door Ford pickup truck. It was pulled as far as possible off the road, and I could have passed easily. But I decided to stop and check it out. The back of the truck was stacked about two-thirds full with some kind of evergreen branches. A piece of plywood with a spare tire on top held them down. In the corner of the truck bed were two five-gallon plastic buckets filled with traps of different dimensions, a chain saw, and a gas can. There was a shovel, a cant hook, and a high lift jack strapped in place on the headache rack behind the cab. The cab was empty, except for what appeared to be some more outdoor gear and two pairs of snowshoes in the back seat.

  It wasn’t a minute or two later that I heard someone or something approaching through the woods. A man and woman stepped out onto the road. The man was hauling a black plastic sled heaped with more branches tied in place. The woman carried an axe in one hand and a lever-action rifle in the other.

  They did not seem to be the least bit surprised to see me. I greeted them and couldn’t help to let out a chuckle.

  The man smiled, “Something funny there, Deputy?”