Bough Cutter

by Jeff Nania

That got his attention, and his reporter antenna extended to full length.

  “Homicide? Did you find out something new that changed your mind? I mean, obviously you did, or we wouldn’t be sitting here. What changed?” he asked.

  “Before we get rolling here, Bill, I need you to keep a lid on this until after two o’clock. That’s when we are going to brief our people. You know how crabby it makes them when the press hears first.”

  “Got it. Tell me what you want to tell me,” he replied.

  “Off the record, for now, the ballistics came back. Neither one of the guns we found in the victim’s truck was the murder weapon. It appears as if someone convinced him to drive to the location where we found him and shot him. We have reason to believe that there may have been a witness. No one has come forward, but we think someone else might have been there. Their presence might have scared off the perpetrators.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “No, but it is most likely drug related. We found evidence to support that at the scene.”

  “The victim is Devin Martin. Is that correct?” Presser asked.

  “Positive ID. It’s definitely Martin.”

  “When you first released the name, I ran him through CCAP. He had quite a record,” Presser said. “If there is a witness, do you think they might be in danger?”

  I thought for a minute. Is a witness to a homicide ever not in danger? The old rule still applied: the first murder is the big one; they are just added on after that.

  “I don’t know, but I think it is reasonable to assume the bad guys may not want an eyewitness floating around. We have got to stress in the story that all information we get will be kept confidential.”

  I gave Bill all the particulars, a high-resolution photograph of the vehicle, the state corrections photograph of Martin, and several shots of where the vehicle was found. After an hour, he took off back to his office to put the story together.

  “Front page tomorrow, John,” Presser said as he walked out.

  I had to do one more thing before the law enforcement briefing.

  I called Martin’s mother again. She was not happy to hear from me and was definitely under the influence of something. I told her that her son was the victim of a homicide and had not taken his own life. She was silent. I asked if she was still on the phone.

  “I’m here. Drugs and gangs kill everybody sooner or later. The boy never had a chance, never had any chance at all. I raised him the best I could, but he was hard to keep track of. You might not think I am much of a mother, but I took good care of him. He was just too wild for me. Teachers used to call me and tell me he wasn’t at school. I’d go out and find him and haul him back. I drop him at the front door, and he’d run out the back. So what can you do with a kid like that? Nothin’. Absolutely nothin’.”

  “Ms. Martin, any idea who might have done this?”

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Detective. Every one of those pieces of trash he ran with would kill each other for a dollar. They would kill their own mama. Not Devin. He loved his mother. He was always so good to me,” then she hung up.

  It was probably good because her speech had become so slurred that I was having trouble understanding some of what she was saying.

  Five different law enforcement agencies were represented at the briefing. We gave them all the information we had. Devin Martin was murdered. He was a known drug dealer with a lengthy criminal record, and based on what we found in his vehicle, he was in Namekagon County to do business. He was shot in the head and killed in August or early September. It was made to look like a suicide, but evidence recovered at the scene made a homicide more likely. I projected the image of the stolen vehicle and photo of Martin on the screen. Everyone in the room downloaded the photos.

  Several people remembered Martin from his previous activities in the area. A fair number of questions were asked, and people quickly found out we were short on answers at that point.

  We were looking for anyone who thought they might have seen the vehicle or Martin.

  The briefing broke up at three o’clock, and people headed out of the building to find the weather had changed to windy conditions and a mix of sleet and snow. The weather report said to watch for hazardous driving conditions and bad weather.

  When the weather turned bad, people hunkered down, and the further north you lived, the more hunkering you had to do. If you had to go out in inclement weather, chances were you had a four-wheel drive vehicle and had been driving in conditions like this all your life, so you could get where you needed to be.

  I got home and saw that Julie had made it as well. Her suburban, paid for by my uncle Nick’s life insurance, was just the vehicle for this rough weather, with positraction, four-wheel drive, and serious tires. Other than the fact that my squad was packed with equipment, they were almost the same vehicle.

  Julie met me at the door. I took off my parka and hung it on one of the coat hooks. I carefully set my boots next to hers on the rubber mat designed to contain the snow as it melted and hung my equipment belt and vest on some additional hooks Bud had recently installed.

  “Hi, Julie. How was your drive back?”

  “Slow and careful. The plow trucks had the highway pretty clean. I just kept going.”

  I ate my microwaved fries and a leftover Fisherman burger. We crawled in bed, and I could hear the wind had picked up. I don’t believe either of us moved the rest of the night.

  On Saturday morning, we were both up at five. The sleet had turned to heavy, damp snow during the night. It was great for snowmen and snowballs but also hard to move. I wondered about accidents and called the dispatch center.

  The county was quiet. Two cars were in the ditch with light damage, and the Town of School Lake Fire Department had handled a chimney fire. Chimney fires could be a dangerous thing. They usually came from not cleaning your chimney often enough. Creosote builds up, and when there is enough, it will start on fire, burning inside the length of the chimney. The fire burns hot and can cause the house to catch, especially in places where the chimney passes through the building. Flames and embers shoot out the top of the chimney and can land on the roof. Most of the roofs around here are steel so that the snow will slide off. Shingle roofs, though, are another story. In the north country, cleaning your chimney is a dirty but necessary job. Bud had showed me how to clean ours with a brush attached to a long pole. Stand on the roof and scrub the chimney, then remove the cleanout on the bottom of the stovepipe.

  Julie and I had breakfast. She was dressed in sweatpants, her favorite beat-up Northern Lakes sweatshirt and fleece-lined moccasins. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She looked stunning. The little woodstove had kept a few coals overnight, so it sprang to life when I added some new dry wood. I would have loved to stay home with her to enjoy the weather from inside the cabin, but it was not to be. A career in law enforcement rarely took into account the value of downtime.

  I asked Julie to pull up the Namekagon County News on the Internet, but she could not connect. After three tries, she was frustrated and went to pour herself another cup of coffee. She looked out the window and laughed.

  “Hey, John, look at the satellite dish.”

  The snow had stuck to the dish and covered the receiver. I slipped on my knee-high boots and walked out to clear it off. It was just the first taste of winter, which would come to the north country sooner than later. Except for a tricky February thaw almost every year, winter would pretty much stay until it decided to leave.

  Before I even got back in the door Julie had the front page up on the screen. The picture of the Cadillac Escalade was on one side, and Devin Martin was on the other side. The story asked for information from anyone who may have seen this vehicle or subject. There was also a photo and a description of the location where the vehicle was found. The story ended with the fact that all information would be kept confidential. It gave the contact information for the Namekagon County Sheriff’s Office and Musky Falls Police Department. I
was hopeful. Police work is a strange thing. Sometimes what seems like the most insignificant bit of information turns a case. It was always a long shot, but you would never know until you asked.

  I geared up, got in my squad and took off toward town. Driving conditions on the main highway were pretty good. County trucks had plowed and then spread some salt. According to the thermometer in my squad, the air temperature was twenty degrees—perfect for snow.

  Traffic was light, and vehicles were traveling at a reasonable speed. I turned off on Spider Creek Road and took the back way to town. Five miles out, I came upon a familiar white pickup truck. Ed and Stella Lockridge were standing next to it, and Stella was holding a couple of muskrats.

  “Howdy, Sheriff. What brings you out on such a fine fall day?” Ed inquired.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I responded.

  “The law requires that we check our traps at least every four days. It doesn’t say ‘weather permitting.’ We run a pretty long line, so we gotta be out here every day to keep up. Besides that, it’s just the right way to run a trapline,” Ed grinned.

  I bid them a good day and walked to my squad. Then I had a thought and turned back to the couple.

  “You two are out in the backcountry all the time, aren’t you?”

  “Every day, Sheriff.”

  “Here, take a look at these,” I handed them copies of the photographs of the Cadillac and Devin Martin.

  Ed and Stella studied them.

  “Any chance you might have seen this vehicle traveling around?”

  “Boy, that is a fancy-looking rig, that’s for sure. Those tires look like they are almost flat, and the rims look huge. Not the kind of outfit I would think would do much good up here. Maybe it would, I guess, but I wouldn’t think so,” Ed responded.

  “Have you seen anything like it driving around, Ed?”

  “Nope, I haven’t, but then the places I go tend to be a little tough going. You see anything like this, Stella? She pays a lot more attention to things like this than I do,” said Ed.

  “Not out here. I haven’t seen anything like that. I have seen one, though,” she replied.

  “Where?” I pressed.

  “Ed and I watched a movie the other night, and everybody was driving cars like that. Well, not exactly like that, but kind of the same,” Stella explained.

  “You didn’t see anything around here this summer or fall?”

  “Nope, sure didn’t, Sheriff. Sorry we can’t be of more help,” Ed replied.

  “That’s alright, folks. You be careful. I see a little skim of ice on the lake, but I’m guessing it’s awful thin. I don’t want to come and have to fish you out.”

  “We’ll be careful, don’t worry, Sheriff. We’ve only got ten more sets to check, and they are all bank sets. Should be pretty safe. Then we’re back to the shed, fire up the barrel stove, and get to skinning,” Ed said.

  During my drive into town, I got a call from Lois.

  “Lois, what’s up?”

  “We got our first hit on the truck you put in the paper. A boy that works weekends at the Quick Mart over on River Street is sure he saw that truck. His name is Kenny Parson. He should be there when you get there.”

  At the Quick Mart, the young man working behind the counter had on a name tag that said Kenny. Being the clever, trained detective I am, I assumed that I had located the subject I needed to talk to.

  “Hi, Kenny. I’m John Cabrelli. Thanks for giving us a call.”

  “Ah, huh? I don’t think I called you.”

  “Kenny Parson?”

  “No, I’m Kenny Bennet. We go by Kenny P. and Kenny B. around here to keep it straight. You want Kenny P.”

  In law enforcement, I have noticed that sometimes things are what they are until they aren’t.

  “Where’s Kenny P.?”

  “He’s out back, cleaning the snow off the walk to the propane tanks.”

  “Thanks,” I walked out the side door and almost ran right into the flying blade of a scoop shovel.

  “Kenny Parson?” I asked.

  “Yup, that’s me.”

  He was a big kid with a giant gap-toothed smile. His stocking hat was emblazoned with a monster truck.

  “Can we go in and talk about the truck you saw?”

  “Sure, follow me.”

  We walked to the back of the store and took a seat in one of two fiberglass booths.

  “So, you think you might have seen this truck?”

  “Nope, Sheriff, I know I saw this truck, and I remember the guy driving it.”

  “Do you remember when you saw it?”

  “It was the end of August, August 25 to be exact.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup. I even remember what time it was, around three o’clock. I usually work the shift from seven in the morning to three in the afternoon. I was counting the hours because it was the last day of full-time summer work. My dad was picking me up at a quarter after three, and we were leaving for a few days of musky fishing before school started. Anyway, the truck pulled up to the pumps. I am kind of a car guy, and a fancy tuned ride like that is hard not to notice. It had twenty-two-inch Lexani custom wheels. I could tell that the Super chrome exhaust was hooked up to something big when it pulled in. Man, that ride had the deepest black finish I have ever seen. It’s called black chrome. The windows had a dark gray tint. I went out to look at the truck. The driver was just getting the pump going, and I asked if it was okay that I check out his car. He told me to look all I wanted but not to touch anything. You don’t see trucks like that up here.”

  “What did the driver look like?”

  Kenny gave me a passable description of Devin Martin. “He looked like a badass, some ugly tattoos on his arms. Talked like the gang guys you see in the movies.”

  “Was anyone with him?” I asked.

  “Yeah, there was a girl in the passenger seat. I didn’t get much of a look at her. I walked toward her door to look at the paint trim, and the driver told me to stay back and not bother her, so I didn’t. He paid at the pump and took off.”

  “Any idea who the girl might have been?”

  “Nope. With the tint and everything, I couldn’t really see her.”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  “No, never did.”

  “Thanks, Kenny. I appreciate your help.”

  “Anytime, Sheriff,” he replied and headed back out the door to finish shoveling.

  I now knew that on August 25, at about three, Devin Martin was at the Quick Mart in Musky Falls, and he was still alive. He had a girl with him. The big question was, where did he go from there? I needed to find that girl and put a timeline to where he had been. •

  11

  The Watcher

  The man looked at the pictures in the newspaper. He had wondered how long it would take someone to find the car and the body. They figured out the guy didn’t shoot himself pretty quick. Leaving the shell casing was just for the hell of it. Send a warning to others like Martin. He figured that’s what tipped them off. He just wanted to see whether they would care enough about a dead drug dealer to follow up on things. Now that it was a murder investigation, people would be snooping around everywhere. No matter. He had covered his tracks well. In a strange way, time was on his side. •

  12

  I waited until later in the morning and then called Martin’s mother. She was not glad to hear from me for the third time.

  “Ms. Martin, I am sorry to bother you, but I have got a couple more questions.”

  “You don’t care about botherin’ me, so don’t give me that. You should be out trying to find out who killed my boy instead of talkin’ on the phone!” she barked.

  I proceeded anyway. “That’s what I am trying to do, and if you want me to find whoever did this, we are going to need to work together. I need your help. So let me ask you something. Did Devin have a girlfriend?”

  “He had lots of girls. Anybody that he wanted. He was so sm
art and handsome, what girl wouldn’t want to be with him.”

  “Can you give me the name of anyone in particular?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He never brought them by unless they were special.”

  “Anyone that you remember who was special?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea why he might have been way up in northern Wisconsin?”

  “No, but I know he was up north someplace before. He came back from one trip and gave me some cash to buy myself something nice. He said he hit big at the casino.”

  “How much did he give you?”

  “Why do you want to know? So you can turn me in? Call my caseworker and get me in trouble? It was just a present from my boy.”

  “No, just curious.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “That’s fine, Ms. Martin. I’m sorry to bother you. I may have to call you again. Is that okay?”

  “I don’t care,” and she hung up.

  The newspaper photo generated another lead. This one was far more interesting.

  “Sheriff, this is Joe Thomas. I’m the head of security at Flaming Torches Casino. I saw those pictures you guys posted, and I’m pretty sure I know that car and the guy who was driving it. I actually have some surveillance pictures of him.”

  “Any chance we could get together today?” I asked.

  “I am free this morning,” replied Joe.

  “I will leave right now.”

  “Works for me, Sheriff. What’s your ETA?”

  “Probably forty-five minutes to an hour.”

  “I’ll look for you. Pull around back by the offices. It dims our image when a squad car is sitting in front.”

  I made it in forty minutes. Joe greeted me at the door. He was a broad-shouldered giant, and at least six feet six inches tall. He had jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail and a face that looked like it was chiseled from stone. The only thing that saved him from scaring the crap out of everyone he encountered was a big smile from ear to ear.

  “Come on in, Sheriff,” he said as he led me to his office. “Want coffee or something else?”