by Jeff Nania
“Well, Scott, we don’t know much yet. A double-wide trailer went up in flames. There were two occupants inside at the time, neither one survived. Once the fire was out, the fire chief started looking over the scene and found the bodies. The ME, the fire marshal, fire personnel, and one of my deputies are still processing the scene, and it’s my guess they will be at it a while.
“Sheriff, does it appear that foul play was involved?” he inquired.
“I don’t know yet,” I replied.
“Sheriff, I have it on good authority that this trailer was probably an illicit drug lab, and that they were likely producing methamphetamines. I have also been informed that some sort of bomb may have been involved.”
“Well, Scott, that’s interesting. I will be anxious to see the investigator’s report.”
“Ah, Sheriff, I feel as though you are somewhat evasive in your answers.”
“Sorry you feel that way. I am tired, and I have got a full plate right now. I am not up for a guessing game. So please just ask me what you want to know.”
“Sheriff, I have heard that this explosion may have been in retaliation for the killing of that drug dealer.”
“Where did you hear that?” I asked.
“Sheriff, this is a small town. Anything like this gets people talking. So, is it true? Is this retaliation?”
“Scott, honestly, I don’t know. The scene belongs to the fire chief and the fire marshal right now. They are going over it with a fine-toothed comb. We will have to wait until these folks are done. I am not jumping to conclusions.”
I had answered his question, but he clearly was not ready to leave.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
“Sheriff, from now on, I want you to keep me advised and up to date on any developments in these cases. I believe it is important to the community. Maybe I can help to avoid any further missteps.”
Fatigue and pressure are not a good combination.
“Missteps, Scott? What missteps would those be?” I asked.
“I am just referring to the fact that you lost valuable time regarding the Devin Martin case pursuing it as a suicide when, in fact, it was a cold-blooded killing. We need to move quickly to get things under control.”
“In the Martin case, we did good police work and determined the facts of the situation. Using those facts, we have developed some theories about how this went down. We have learned a lot about the victim and a lot about the perpetrator. We are continuing to follow up on that case to the best of our ability. Are the two new bodies in some way tied to Devin Martin’s death? I don’t know, but we will continue to do good solid police work and try to figure that out. I will do my best to keep you advised of the status of our investigation. But unless I completely miss my guess, this thing is ramping up pretty fast. There are some parts of an ongoing investigation that can’t be shared because they could compromise the case,” I said.
Stewart reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card.
“Sheriff Cabrelli, that is my cell phone number on that card. I want you to understand that my request to be kept in the loop was not optional. I want to know what is going on, and I mean it. Is that clear?” said Stewart.
I didn’t answer. I just said, “Nice talking to you, Scott.” I got up, turned my back on him, and left.
On my way home, I called Malone and briefed him on what I suspected had gone down.
“Bear, I also have a request from Ricardo. He said his unit has some new faces and wanted me to request that you let him pick a couple of them to send this way.”
“Ricardo must think he’s got something,” said Bear.
“A murder meant to look like a suicide and explosive charges used to blow a meth lab off the face of the earth are not your run-of-the-mill drug war. I think we both feel like there is something here.”
“Okay, John. Ricardo’s not much for wasting time or spinning his wheels. I’ll get a hold of him and see he gets whatever help he needs. Just make sure you guys brief me every once in a while.”
“I’ll do it, Bear.”
“Yeah, right,” and he hung up.
A minute later, I was dispatched back to the scene to meet with the fire marshal who wanted to take me around the fire site.
The ME had just finished loading up.
“Any thoughts, Doc?’ I asked.
“No, Sheriff. These bodies are burned to a crisp. At first look, it appears as if they burned to death, but you never know. I have been in contact with the ME’s office in Dane County, and that’s where I am taking them. Even with their help, it will probably be a while before we even know who they are. I will keep you posted on our progress.”
I walked toward the former location of the double-wide. The fire chief and the fire marshal met me halfway. I could see they had been busy. Several areas were now flagged.
“What did you find?” I asked.
The fire chief spoke first. “Sheriff, there are three distinct depressions in the ground at three separate locations that would have been just under the edge of the trailer. There is a strong possibility that three explosive devices were planted at those locations. Based on what we’re seeing, it appears as if the explosives may have been tied to some secondary incendiary device or substance. The fire burned with great intensity at those three locations.”
Investigator Wolfman then reported. “Based on the description of the explosion by the truck driver, and the fact that we have debris from the detonation over such a large area, a bomb or bombs were likely used. If that turns out to be the case, then it certainly adds another level to this thing. The explosive device used here would not be like a firecracker where you light the fuse and run for cover. There is no way to outrun an explosion like this. So, it is likely that if it does turn out to be a bomb that the bomber used a timer or remote detonator.”
“In other words, this is most likely premeditated murder,” I said.
“Looks that way. I have requested some additional help from the military and other specialists in our group. When we finish the site survey, we should have some better answers,” said the fire marshal.
“I won’t hold you to it, but tell me what you’re thinking,” I asked.
Wolfman thought for a second and replied. “Here’s what I think. This was a meth lab, and someone with knowledge of and experience with bomb-making planted way more explosives than they needed under this trailer, intending to blow it off the face of the earth. To that end, they did a pretty good job, including burning the occupants to a crisp. The person who did this was sending a message.”
I checked in at the office on the way back. Lois filled me in on what was happening. Nothing more than the usual. We had gotten no further help from the community on Devin Martin’s vehicle. I told her bits and pieces of my conversation with the county board chair, Scott Stewart. She listened attentively.
“Sheriff, Scott Stewart is a little whiney twit. I would not pay him any attention.”
“I just don’t want him or anyone else complicating this situation. He had a lot of information about the trailer explosion, most likely got it from one of the firefighters. If he runs his mouth around town, it could cause some complications.”
“His nephew is on the fire department, so I’d bet that is probably who told him. Word travels fast around here. It can be both good and bad.”
“Lois, I am headed home. I’m exhausted. I have my radio and pager on, or you can call me on my landline if you need me.”
“Go get some rest, Sheriff.” •
17
The drive out to Spider Lake was, as always, an enchanted journey. A dusting of snow covered the road’s shoulders. In the coming months, those same shoulders would store mountains of snow. I noticed two mailboxes that had been armored against the snowplow onslaught. One had a shipping pallet attached to one side of the box and post, while another had a piece of scrap plywood in the hope that it would prevent the plowed snow from knocking down the box. It was a miracle
the plow drivers who kept the roads passable in often limited visibility situations didn’t plow them all down. I felt the tension go out of me the closer I got to home. I have lived in many places, but nothing felt so wonderful as this place. It would take death or dynamite to remove me.
I walked into the cabin, took off my boots, and slipped on my new moose hide fleece-lined moccasins, the most recent gift Julie and I had given each other. Boots off by the door, mocs on. I started a fire in the woodstove and settled in. My intention was to continue reading a series of outdoor stories based on Namekagon County’s history written between 1900 and 1905. Best laid plans. I fell sound asleep in the chair within minutes. I did not budge an inch until I was awakened by the front door closing. I looked up at Julie, and I was still so tired it was difficult to focus.
“John, you look exhausted.”
“I probably look worse than I am, but I am tired.”
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“Coffee and a cinnamon roll at Crossroads.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You just sit there and keep that fire going. I will be back in a minute.”
I heard her in the kitchen, busy doing something. No more than ten minutes had passed, and she brought out two plates, each containing a ham and cheese sandwich, a homemade dill pickle, and Jay’s brand potato chips, my favorite kind. We crunched and munched contentedly. When we finished, I took our dishes to the sink and came back to sit with Julie.
“So, how is your investigation going?” Julie asked.
“I am not sure where it’s going, but it’s going.”
Then she listened attentively as I filled her in.
“I get the feeling that you are unsettled regarding this case. Am I reading things wrong, or is that true?” she asked.
“No, you’re right. I don’t have a good handle on this. The basics of these cases appear pretty straightforward. But when you look closely, they just don’t make sense.”
When we got up in the morning, the old adage about Wisconsin came true as it had for generations. If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute, and it will change. The day broke with sunshine and clear skies. A light wind out of the northwest suggested possible trouble later on, but right now, it was beautiful. My phone, pager, and radio remained quiet. I called into the office and found out there was nothing that needed my immediate attention. As the boss, in theory, I control my own schedule. In reality, as the boss, I work for every citizen or person who comes to roost in Namekagon County. People expect the sheriff to be there whenever they decide the sheriff is needed. This morning I was apparently not needed.
It was a day off for Julie’s school but a workday for me. We were finishing our second cups of coffee, looking out the big picture window at Spider Lake. It was a crisp north country fall morning.
Julie jumped up and said, “John, I need to feel the earth beneath my feet. Let’s go for a hike.” I didn’t object.
Boots on, we walked out the cabin’s back door. After climbing a slick, rocky rise, we headed north, walking along on the southern end of the Canadian Shield—a small piece of the largest mass of exposed Precambrian rock on the face of the earth. The glacier created the landscape as it came through and scraped the surface clean. Together we hiked a land of wild, untamed beauty, too tough to be conquered by mortals. Rock hills dropped off to wetlands and lakes. Water ran off the impermeable rock and joined flowing streams and rivers. Tenacious vegetation eked out an existence with widespread roots or by growing in a crevice. We came up to a spot that overlooked a secluded wetland, a combination of shallow open water and wet meadow beauty. There we sat in silence on the top and gazed out. There is nothing like the quiet of the Northwoods. The only sounds were the whisper of the light breeze in the trees and the melodic sound of a tiny running nearby stream. As quiet as we were, our presence was too much for a dozen or so northern mallards hidden in a rice bed by the shore. They launched themselves skyward into the wind and took flight.
“You know, John, I know the lakes and rivers around here are beautiful. But it is this backcountry that I truly love. It is really like no place else. I love that we share this land with so many who came before us. People have tried to change it, to rob it of its riches, yet it remains the same.”
We started back and began by holding hands, and as sweet as that was, the narrow trail would not allow us to walk side by side. Back at the cabin, I got my gear together. My pager remained silent, so I cooked up some bacon and Italian eggs for us. After breakfast, we had cleaned things up, and the last thing I wanted to do was go to work. I really wanted to kick back in an easy chair and take a little nap. Putting wood on the fire did little to change my mind. Then to top it off, Julie came back down from upstairs carrying a wool blanket and the new book she was reading. She sat in her chair, put her feet up on a footstool covered up in the blanket, opened her book, and sighed in contentment.
“Cozy?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she replied.
“Do you plan to sit there all day?” I asked.
“I don’t really know. Eventually, I will probably guilt myself into doing some grading. But for now, where I am is just perfect. Any objections?”
“None whatsoever. My only issue is that I wish I could join you. Since I can’t, I will proceed on my way to patrol the mean streets of Namekagon County.”
Julie smiled up at me. “Be safe, honey. Bear stew for dinner.”
Out on the road, a call came in for possible criminal damage to property in the Old Mill Trail parking lot. I advised the dispatcher I was a mile away and would take it. I pulled in at the trailhead, and there was trash strewn across the parking lot. Also, three fifty-five-gallon barrels that had been hung together in a frame and served as trash cans were now on opposite sides of the lot. One of them looked like it had been run over by a truck. I got out and looked around. There was a bunch of evidence to indicate what had gone on.
The Old Mill Trail is pretty well maintained. It is often used by mushers working their dogs out before there is enough snow to get out on the trail. Hikers and bikers use it too. There was a little-known secret about the Old Mill Trail. If you took the trail north and walked three or four hundred yards, you would come to a little footpath that breaks off the main trail. It was hardly noticeable unless you really looked for it. Len and I had taken this trail a couple of times. It led to a pretty stretch of Old Mill River that was nearly inaccessible except by this footpath. That part of the river had fast running water interspersed between deep holes. The fishing was great, with big, feisty river run smallmouth bass and, of course, the occasional musky. The river’s limit was three fish per person per day, and only one fish could be over fourteen inches.
Among the trash in the lot, it was easy to identify the remains of at least half a dozen fish. It looked like a couple of anglers caught their limit, came back to the parking lot and cleaned them—probably right under the sign that read “no fish cleaning allowed.” It happened fairly often. Then probably the same night, a big old black bear, with a nose better than a bloodhound, catches a whiff of the fish carcasses and, with little effort, tears the trash cans and contents apart to get at the fish remains.
I put on a pair of gloves and started picking up the trash—the glamour of law enforcement.
I was about halfway done when two joggers came off the trail into the parking area.
“Hey, Sheriff,” a woman said between deep breaths. “Can we give you a hand?”
I gave the man and woman each a pair of rubber gloves to wear, and we were done in no time. The debris fit into three trash bags that I put in the back of my squad. We moved the barrels off to the side.
I thanked the joggers and started again for Musky Falls. I asked the dispatcher to send a note to the county highway crew about replacing the damaged barrels.
I parked in a diagonal stall in front of the courthouse. Chief Len Bork was standing there smiling at me.
/> “I heard that criminal damage call you got, Sheriff. Let me see if I can solve the case for you. Some fishermen cleaned their fish in the parking lot and threw the guts in the trash barrel. A bear cruised through and tore the trash barrels apart. And as black bears are not known for being tidy, my guess is he or she left a huge mess.”
“That about sums it up, Len,” I said.
“You know what I do when I catch some fool cleaning their fish in a place like that? I give them a ticket every time and for the maximum fine of two hundred fifty dollars. If they take it to court, they are usually given a choice of whether they want to pay the ticket or complete community service. The community service consists of fixing up stuff in parking areas. Hopefully, they have a new respect for how things should be when they are done.
“One time, I caught this local blowhard, who owned a car dealership north of town, and his buddy cleaning some fish on a picnic table at one of the parking areas. I wrote them both tickets and made them clean up the mess. The court date assigned to their citation came, and the car dealer’s buddy showed up, but the car dealer did not. The buddy agreed to community service and no fine. The judge issued a warrant for the car dealer’s arrest for failure to appear. Jim Rawsom and I went out to the dealership and arrested him. The judge let him sit for three days before he heard the case. The car dealer pleaded guilty. The judge fined him the original two hundred fifty dollars, another thousand dollars for failing to appear, and a week of community service or a week in jail.”
Just then, we heard a voice from one of the courthouse windows. “Chief Bork, Sheriff Cabrelli, come on up to my chambers,” Judge Kritzer yelled down to us. It was hard to tell whether it was a request or a command. We both followed the order.
Len knocked on the door that led to the judge’s inner sanctum—a place better avoided.
“Come in, come in,” the deep voice called.
Judge Kritzer’s office walls were adorned with several mounted fish. An ashtray built into a stand that held different tobacco pipes sat on his desk. An old-fashioned coat stand stood off to the side behind the desk. Hanging from the stand was the judge’s well-known and well-worn red plaid Mackinaw. Another hook held a gun belt. Crafted of fine leather, holding twenty-five or so cartridges in leather loops, the holster held a classic Colt Single Action Army revolver. A set of beautiful staghorn grips adorned the pistol.
