Bough Cutter

by Jeff Nania

  “No, no, I’m sorry. It just dawned on me that in the city where I used to work, if somebody was walking around carrying a rifle, we would shut down the neighborhood and call out the Emergency Response Team. Here we don’t think anything of it,” I replied.

  “Sounds like a pretty uncivilized place, that place where you used to work.”

  Uncivilized is one of those things that is in the eye of the beholder. I am sure urban dwellers would find the north’s bush country about as uncivilized as any place could be. It was also likely the two people in front of me would feel the same way about the land of endless pavement and traffic jams.

  “It sure could be at times,” I replied.

  The man got out a pouch marked long cut tobacco, dumped some into cigarette paper and expertly rolled himself a smoke. He lit it, sucked the smoke in, and let go of a couple of harsh coughs.

  “Gotta stop buying the cheap stuff,” he said. “If we are blocking the road, Deputy, we will pack up and get out of your way so you can get going,” the man offered.

  “No, there’s plenty of room to get by. I was just checking the backroads and wanted to make sure no one broke down out here.”

  “Nope, we are as good as we can be. This old truck runs like a railroad watch and hasn’t let us down yet. We were just harvesting our early balsam boughs, the first ones after the second hard frost are what some of our customers want. Once we get a truckload, we take them to a buyer in Musky Falls. He ships them out, and folks somewhere turn them into Christmas wreaths and other decorations. Other people use these early boughs for traditional things. This is one of our secret spots. Balsam branches cut just right bring the best money. My wife’s people call balsam Nimissé or ‘elder sister.’ They are an important part of tribal tradition. Half of this first load goes to the elders.”

  The woman spoke for the first time. “Ed, where are your manners? Introduce us to this lawman.”

  “Gee, sorry, she’s right. I am Ed Lockridge, and this is my wife, Stella. We live out on Spider Creek a dozen or so miles from here.”

  “Glad to meet you, folks. My name is John Cabrelli. For better or worse, I am the new sheriff of Namekagon County, and according to what I have heard, a neighbor of yours.”

  “Sure, you moved into Nick and Rose’s old place. They were good friends of ours. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you, Sheriff, but we know all about what happened. I mean, I guess we know what happened according to the newspaper. That Jim Rawsom is a hell of a good man, I hope he heals up as good as new. Old Len Bork gave that sonofabitch just what he deserved. At least in my book. A forty-five seventy bullet was just the right medicine.”

  That was not an uncommon sentiment that had been shared with me frequently by citizens in our community. I had no cause to disagree with them.

  Stella walked closer to me and smiled. She wore a green and black checked heavy wool shirt over an old sweatshirt and jeans tucked into winter lace-up boots with rubber bottoms. Her gray hair was in a thick braid down the middle of her back.

  “By God, let me take a look at you, John Cabrelli. Do you mind turning around in a circle?”

  “Stella, try to behave yourself,” pleaded Ed.

  Because I couldn’t wait to find out what would come next, I did as she asked and turned in a circle.

  “I am sorry, Sheriff, but I just had to get a good look at the guy who turned Julie Carlson’s head. When I heard she had somebody, I thought two things. First, good for her. It’s about time. Second, this guy must be something, like a movie star or something. I knew about you saving those kids, but I have never laid eyes on you. Not no movie star for sure, but not too bad. I mean, I am guessing you have other qualities,” and she let out a loud cackle-like laugh accompanied by eyes that smiled right along with her round face.

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Sheriff, just ignore my wife. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Too much time in the bush. I need to take her to town for a couple of days, stay in a hotel to get her civilized again,” said Ed.

  Stella cackled again, louder this time.

  I helped the Lockridges load the balsam boughs into the truck. They turned the sled upside down over the branches along with the plywood and spare tire to keep them from blowing out.

  As they drove away, Stella rolled down her window.

  “Hey, Sheriff, you bring that cute little Julie Carlson over some time for supper. You don’t even need to call. We always have plenty.”

  I laughed as the old truck rounded the corner and was soon out of sight. I couldn’t help taking a liking to the Lockridges. They were salt of the earth, as Len had said.

  In urban America, a hunter-gatherer mentality entails heading to Costco to stock up or stopping by the farmer’s market. The spirit may still be alive, but the opportunities to live off the land are certainly diminished. In rural America, especially the north country, hunting and gathering is still a way of life.

  The fur market had suffered some financial woes as of late, primarily due to politics. But people like the Lockridges were active trappers. As soon as the ice was solid and the fur prime, they would set their traps in strategic locations and catch mostly mink, beavers, and muskrats. They would take the animals home, skin them out, and prepare the hides. Not so much with muskrats or mink, but beaver meat was very tasty, and that went into the freezer. The castor glands by the base of the tail are harvested and sold for flavoring and in the manufacture of perfume. Uncle Nick had taken me to visit a backwoods friend of his years ago. The old fellow had made beaver tail and beans for lunch. At first, I wouldn’t take a bite, but with Uncle Nick’s encouragement, I did, and it was delicious. We washed it down with homemade apple cider.

  The upcoming deer season was as much about tradition as putting meat in the freezer. While local butchers provided expert deer processing, lots of people just processed and wrapped their own deer. The prime cuts were usually saved for the grill or special recipes. The remaining meat was trimmed and saved. And it was this meat that had become the heart of the wild game processing business. Venison summer sausage, brats, ring bologna, bacon. Each processor had their secret recipes and their following. Where you got your summer sausage made was akin to where you went to church. Each day when Uncle Nick headed off to work, he packed his lunch with two giant sausage sandwiches. I liked the garlic smoked the best.

  Things seemed to be simpler up here, although not free from the ills of society from which we all suffer. Things just felt cleaner.

  I drove down the road following a good distance behind the Lockridges, which was challenging because they were only doing about ten miles an hour. My phone indicated that I now had service, so I checked my messages.

  That evening Julie and I sat by the fire and listened to the Voice of the North radio. It was one of our favorite things to do. At one time, there were small local radio stations everywhere across the landscape. Now, most of them had gone by the wayside. If they served a big enough market, they were purchased and absorbed by bigger stations. If they didn’t, economic issues would lead to shutting off their airwaves, but not so with WOLF. The station manager had been in the radio business for over forty years. He took great pride in the operation of his station.

  Each morning he would start with the local weather and give updates every hour. If you live in the north country, there is likely no more important news than the weather. Three different winters, Namekagon County had gotten more than one hundred inches of snow and had temperatures as cold as fifty degrees below zero. News followed the weather, which brought in some items of national interest but mainly focused on local issues. They often featured guests with expertise spanning various topics, and they took phone calls from the public.

  At noon they had the outdoor report, checking in with local hunters, anglers, and trappers as well as the proprietors of Happy Hooker Bait and Tackle and Jerry’s Sporting Goods. An up-to-date weather forecast followed, along with a call-in show.

  But two nights a week, it was the Voice of the Nort
h. It started with a mix of old-time folk and real country music, the type of music that told stories. After that, when everyone was huddled at home around the radio, a baritone voice announced the continued reading of a book. Tonight it was chapter three of Jack London’s Call of the Wild. It was like reliving childhood memories of a bedtime story.

  Morning came with a stunning sunrise. It was like the colorful leaves on the trees drank in the sunlight and were more brilliant than ever. Warmer temperatures had melted the light dusting of snow we had gotten. Although I was anxious to see the crime lab report, Julie convinced me to take a little walk down the shoreline. As we walked, I told her about meeting the Lockridges.

  “They seemed like real nice folks. Amber’s lucky to have them,” I said.

  “Yes, she is. Crystal is not the most reliable parent, so Ed and Stella fill that void. They have two rooms at their cabin that they keep made up for Amber and Crystal. If they get a call in the middle of the night, they are ready. A few months ago, when Ed and Stella filled in as school volunteers, they told me that when they get a call, they never ask any questions other than ‘Where are you?’ and ‘Are you okay?’ Then they head off in their truck and pick one or the other or both up and bring them back to their house. Most often, it’s just Amber, but sometimes it’s both.”

  I was surprised when just a few days later I received an email from the crime lab. They had tested several items.

  The first was a Smith & Wesson 5906 nine millimeter semiautomatic handgun, serial number 77402. The gun contained one magazine, loaded with ten rounds of Winchester brass-cased 115 grain nine millimeter jacketed hollow point ammunition, and a single cartridge which had been removed the chamber.

  Next was a Cobray nine millimeter semiautomatic handgun, serial number 10037. The gun contained one magazine, loaded with nineteen rounds of Winchester brass-cased 115 grain nine millimeter jacketed hollow point ammunition. The weapon was in the open bolt position, ready to fire.

  The Namekagon County medical examiner retrieved a single bullet from the victim.

  A single brass shell casing was included.

  Tests were done using both guns, firing single rounds into a water trap.

  Examination of the bullet recovered from the victim and comparison to the test bullet fired from the Smith & Wesson were conclusive. The bullets in the cartridges contained in the magazine and chamber of the Smith & Wesson were a different design than the bullet recovered from the deceased. Examination of the shell casing found on the floor of the vehicle and comparison to the shell casing recovered during testing was conclusive. The shell casing found in the vehicle was not from a round fired from the Smith & Wesson 5906.

  Examination of the bullet recovered from the victim and comparison to the test bullet fired from the Cobray M11, serial number 10037, were conclusive. The bullets contained in the cartridges in the chamber and the magazine of the Cobray were a different design than the bullet removed from the deceased. Examination of the shell casing found on the floor of the vehicle and comparison to the shell casing recovered during testing was conclusive. The shell casing found in the vehicle was not fired from the Cobray M11.

  The shell casing found on the floor of the vehicle was from a different manufacturer than those in the Smith & Wesson, the Cobray, and magazines. Those cartridge cases were headstamp marked WCC for Western Cartridge Company. The casing found on the floor of the vehicle was headstamp marked PMC for Precision Made Cartridge Company.

  It was not a suicide; it was a homicide.

  Fingerprints had been retrieved from both guns and magazines, as well as partial prints from shells that had been inserted into the magazines. Several prints were found that matched the victim. Several other prints with unidentifiable smudges were found.

  I called the folks in Eau Claire County and advised them of the firearms lab’s findings. They pulled the visual up while I was talking to them. They had attempted to recover latent fingerprints from the vehicle. They found several from the victim and some that appeared to be from a smaller hand from the area of the passenger’s seat, likely a woman. They recovered several partials from the door handle and window glass on the passenger side. Also, there were smudges consistent with someone wearing gloves.

  I called Chief Bork. “Len, any chance you could come by for a minute? I got the stuff from the lab.”

  “I’m on my way,” he replied. •

  10

  Len arrived with two steaming cups of coffee. He sat his lanky form across from me. “What did you end up with, John?”

  “Do you want to hear my whole theory or just the basic lab results?” I asked.

  “Your theory would be nice,” he replied.

  “Well, here it is. I think Devin Martin came up to the Northwoods to do business. He collected several thousand dollars from his dealers and brought fresh methamphetamines to resupply them. He ended up driving his fancy urban SUV out to the middle of nowhere on a two-track forest road. He stopped when his car was out of sight from passersby. Maybe that’s where he encountered the shooter. Maybe the shooter was in the passenger seat all along and coerced Martin to drive to that location by pulling a gun. He dies there from a single bullet wound to his head. The shooter exits the passenger’s door and walks away. A Smith & Wesson semi-auto and a cheap semi-auto Cobray were recovered from the vehicle. Neither gun was used to shoot Martin. The Cobray was tucked under the back seat in proximity to a duffle bag with cash and meth. So here we are. Our death investigation is now an active homicide. What do you think, Len? Who killed him?”

  In his slow, thoughtful manner, the chief took his time before replying.

  “Rival drug gang, probably. We have pretty much avoided battles between drug dealers, but Lord knows drugs have been the root of a lot of violence up here. Plus, we have gotten intel from the state that dealers are moving into our area. I hate to say it, but I was reading our arrest reports that go out to the Namekagon County News a few days ago, and of all the arrests for the last week, more than half of them were drug related. Maybe this is what it looks like when it all gets started. I don’t know. What do you think, John?”

  “A rival gang makes sense. They were trying to cash in on the territory and figured it out when Martin made his delivery. They intercept him, force him to drive out into the forest, and they pop him. The shooter jumps in with someone else that followed them in, and away they go. They hid the body well enough that it wasn’t found for weeks. The only thing I got here that doesn’t work for me is the duffle bag. Maybe the shooter didn’t open it to look inside. Maybe he or she was rattled and, for some reason, took off. I will tell you one thing for sure. No gang member or drug dealer would leave behind a pile of cash, a pile of drugs, and two guns. No way, no how.”

  “Unless they got disturbed. Maybe someone came along and saw them, and they spooked,” Len speculated.

  “That’s what I was thinking. Maybe we have got a witness out there somewhere—someone who was traveling the backcountry around Ghost Lake in late August or September. There are several trout streams in that area. Maybe they were hiking in or taking their dog for a walk. You come upon something like that, and you can’t blame them for turning tail,” I said.

  “Let’s get our folks together for a joint briefing and let them know the new developments. They might be able to shake something loose,” suggested Len.

  “Then we’ll talk to the press. This week’s Namekagon County News is due out tomorrow. That ABC affiliate from Superior has always been good to work with, along with local radio. Should we activate the reward fund for information?” I asked.

  “That’s an okay idea. I am guessing the community isn’t going to get too interested when they find out that a convicted felon who was likely delivering drugs to our kids was the guy who was killed. They have a real streak of frontier justice around here and a real short memory when it suits them.”

  “While Devin Martin is not the model citizen, a homicide is a homicide. It’s not the victim we are
looking for; it’s the perpetrator. A killer is on the loose somewhere, maybe still in our county. We need to find him or her and put them away,” I said.

  “I don’t disagree at all. I just know how the people of our community think. Drug dealers getting themselves killed is way down on their ‘I care about that’ list,” Len countered.

  “How much information are we going to give the press?” I asked.

  “The truck, the driver, the location, and the time period. For the paper and TV, pictures of each,” Len replied.

  “Pictures of the truck and where we found it are no problem, but we only have a booking photo of Martin. In it, he looks like a bad guy, which I guess he is. So that’s what we have. I’ll give Presser a call first so he can get working on this,” I said.

  “I’ll get the briefing together and get it out. Let’s set up in the conference room at two,” Len stated.

  Bill Presser was the head reporter for the Namekagon County News. He had written a story for me about my life and how I ended up living in God’s country. It made national news, and Presser won the Academy of American Journalists Award for the story. He did two follow-up pieces that also received national recognition. The job offers poured in, but they only turned his head for a moment. He was a man comfortable in his own skin. After the big story broke and the hubbub settled down, Bill Presser realized that he loved writing about the Lion’s Club Fishing Contest and the Musky Queen Pageant. He wrote about the thousands of people that came each winter to ski thirty miles over wilderness terrain. He loved to tell the story of his community, his people, and he loved to fish muskies.

  I called Bill and told him I needed his help. He showed up ten minutes later.

  “What can I do for you, John?” Bill asked

  “You remember the dead body we found out in the county a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Sure, the suicide?” he asked.

  “The suicide is now a homicide,” I answered.