Bough Cutter

by Jeff Nania

  19

  Thanksgiving morning dawned with six inches of fresh snow and sunshine. Julie had us up and at the school cafeteria early. There we met a crew of wonderful people busy preparing a dinner for everyone who walked in the door. They were also preparing to-go meals to distribute to members of the community by the local FFA chapter. Jack Wheeler and Bud had beat us there, and they were both assigned to the dinner roll making department. Jack had flour from the tips of his fingers to the top of his head. Bud was using his massive hands to knead a huge pile of dough. Next to them, Lois from the sheriff’s office was placing shaped pieces of dough on a tray ready for the oven.

  Julie and I were assigned to putting out tables and chairs, covering them with white tablecloths, and putting decorations made by the grade-schoolers in the center of each table. The Lockridges showed up with Amber and Crystal, who looked clear-eyed but tired. Once Amber saw Julie, she pitched right in. Ed, Stella, and Crystal began working on their own project. For as long as anyone could remember, they made a huge batch of fry bread for the Thanksgiving feast.

  A happy crowd poured in and was greeted by turkey, ham, roasted Canada goose, three different wild rice dishes, mashed potatoes, garlic reds, stuffing, fry bread, dinner rolls, vegetables, assorted pies and cakes, along with coolers filled with ice cream from the dairy.

  The crowd exemplified the breadth of this Northwoods community, from an infant in her mother’s arms to a man in a wheelchair wearing a cap that decreed his service in World War II. Those who needed help got it willingly, along with a liberal helping of goodness, laughter, joy, and celebration. No one was turned away. All were welcome to join in the feast. As I looked out at the crowd, I thanked heaven that there were places like this, communities like this, that still embraced togetherness and celebration.

  I filled my plate with wild goose, turkey, wild rice stuffing, and two big pieces of fry bread, for starters. I was in line behind Bud, who complained in his good-natured way that the plates were too small. As people finished their second helpings, the chatter and laughter in the room began to die down—the post-Thanksgiving feast coma. Coffee was served, along with cranberry juice, apple cider, and milk. After a fifteen-minute breather, someone called out, “Who wants pie?”

  The entire serving crew filled a long cafeteria table with cranberry, blueberry, apple, pumpkin, banana cream, and cherry pies. Ron Carver and Judge Kritzer were in charge of dishing up the pieces, and I was recruited to add a scoop of ice cream if requested.

  When everyone was again seated, two people carrying guitars came to sit among us. The woman had shining black hair to the middle of her back with feathers woven in. The man was dressed in overalls and a beat-up old felt hat. The crowd knew who they were and quieted in anticipation.

  They started to play in perfect string harmony, and then the woman broke out in a beautifully haunting voice, “On the wings of a snow-white dove, He sends His pure sweet love, a sign from above on the wings of a dove.” The old song penned by Grandpappy Eli Possumtrot was made famous when recorded by Ferlin Husky. The crowd, sitting side by side, sang quietly along. When the song was over, they changed it up with “Five Little Turkeys,” which set all the kids in the room and some adults to dancing. Little kids all loved Bud, the gentle giant, and they made him join hands with them as they danced in a circle.

  While the music played, the kitchen crew and a few other volunteers washed up dishes, pots, and pans. Two people prepared extra meals and pie slices on heavy-duty paper plates and secured plastic wrap across the top. Then Julie came over to me.

  “John, that food they just put together goes to the jail. How many guests do you currently have?”

  “Two.”

  “How many deputies on duty?”

  “Just one,” I replied.

  “Each year Jim Rawsom would take a plate of Thanksgiving dinner over to dispatchers, the jail deputy on duty, and the inmates. That falls to you now.”

  “Sounds like a good tradition. I will take it over right now.”

  I loaded up the box of food and drove over to the jail. The deputy was glad to see me and had clearly been anticipating the meal. I secured my weapons in the lockers in the reception area, and he buzzed me in. I set the food on a table, and the deputy took out his metal detecting wand and carefully scanned all the food and plates. He separated the servings and put a jail-approved spork with each one.

  “Sheriff, do you want to do the honors?”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  The two inmates were housed together in a six-cell block. They were minimum security, one serving time for misdemeanor theft and another for a drunk driving conviction. The deputy unlocked the door, and I put the meals on the table in the common area.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, guys,” I said.

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” they replied.

  “Thanks for your help, Deputy. I am going to run down to dispatch and check in before I head back to the school and finish cleaning up. I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

  “I am looking forward to it,” he replied.

  The dispatchers were happy to get their Thanksgiving plates. They confirmed what I figured. The county was quiet. We backed up the city on a family squabble in town and escorted a rowdy patron from a local tavern to the Namekagon Express transit.

  Holidays are often a mixed situation for law enforcement. In most cases, family and friends get together and enjoy good food. They may drink a little too much, but things usually stay under control. Then there are those families who haven’t seen one another all year long. Not only do they not see one another, but they also avoid contact. Then they get together once or twice a year and after an hour or two remember why they didn’t like each other. A few too many beers later, they are slugging it out on the front lawn or throwing dishes at each other. It usually doesn’t amount to much, but there is always a distinct possibility that someone will end up cooling their heels in jail that night.

  When I got back to the cafeteria, most of the crowd had gone home. The Namekagon Transit bus was loading up the WWII veteran and other diners in need of wheelchair transport. The cafeteria was spotless, with two boys I recognized from Julie’s school sweeping the floor.

  Once everything was put away, the custodian began locking things up. There were plenty of leftovers. Most of the food was packed up and taken over to the Birchwood Nursing Home. Each of the workers also scored a snack or two for later.

  “What do you have going the rest of the weekend, Bud?” I asked.

  “I thought I would get up early tomorrow and walk the ridge behind your cabin to see if there are any deer around if that’s still okay with you.”

  “Of course. I hope you see something,” I replied.

  “What about you and Julie?”

  “I am working the patrol shift tomorrow. One of the younger guys has got family in town and put in for the day off, so I’m taking the shift. Probably won’t be much going on. I hope I’ll be able to catch up on some paperwork.”

  “Have fun with that,” Bud replied. •

  20

  I slept like a rock that night. Julie had the day off from school, and even though I had the best intentions the day before, I didn’t feel all that motivated to run down to the office and start finding out how behind I was on my administrative duties. Julie and I lingered over our coffee and pie leftovers we absconded with.

  “John, I do think that pie may be one of the best all-around foods. It is as good for breakfast as it is for dessert.”

  Julie was eating a piece of blueberry pie while I was savoring banana cream, my favorite.

  “Wasn’t that a wonderful get-together yesterday?” Julie asked.

  “It was. I loved every minute of it. I can’t recall ever attending something like it. I have worked at St. Vinnie’s, dishing up food to the homeless and those down on their luck before, but there was something different about this. Everyone was just together. No pretense, nothing other than goodwill.”

  “It is on
e of the treasures of living in a small town in the north country. Over the years, the fabric of the community has been woven so tightly that even if it starts to come unraveled, we can quickly stitch it back in place. This is home to most of the folks who came yesterday. It is their family, and our family too. When Bud and I were younger and fell on hard times, it was those people who reached out to us and made us feel welcome. Sure, they came to eat good food, but mostly they came to be together. I don’t think I would ever want to have Thanksgiving anywhere else. Is that okay with you?” Julie asked.

  “Are you kidding me? I had a great time. It was the best Thanksgiving I can ever recall. Did my aunt and uncle participate?”

  “Honey, your aunt Rose was one of the founders of the event. When you were scooping ice cream yesterday, you reminded me so much of your uncle Nick. It was sweet. What was your favorite food?”

  “Tough question, but Stella’s fry bread was outstanding, and by the looks of it, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. People’s plates were stacked high.”

  “Stella says it is an old family recipe. Her grandmother taught her how to make it in a waginogan over on Moose Lake. One of the secrets is that the oil they fry it in is rendered bear fat. Usually, Ed gets a bear every year. Sometimes though he doesn’t and puts out the word that he needs the fat, and other hunters always come through.”

  “How are things going with Amber and her mom? They seemed to be okay at dinner.”

  “Amber is doing well, and she seems happy. I don’t know about her mom. What did you think when you saw her, John?”

  “I thought she looked tired but not high, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Just then, a car pulled into the driveway and drove up to the front of the house. I recognized the Dodge Charger. Anthony Ricardo walked up to the door, and I met him before he could knock.

  “Good morning. I’m sorry to bother you, Sheriff. I need to talk to you. Would you mind if I come in for a minute?”

  “Nope, come on in. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, Sheriff, I really would.”

  I introduced him to Julie.

  “Anthony Ricardo, this my ah—” I never knew what to say. I hated saying “significant other,” and “my girlfriend” sounded like high school. “My wife” would be the best choice, but it was one she hadn’t made yet. Instead, I said, “This is Julie Carlson.”

  He reached out his hand, and she shook it. Julie had a firm grip, and I could see Ricardo was surprised.

  “Why don’t you guys sit by the fire, and I will bring you both fresh cups of coffee. I have some things to do upstairs, so I will leave you alone.”

  “Actually, Ms. Carlson, I would appreciate it if you’d stay.”

  “Call me Julie. I am glad to stay as long as it’s okay with the sheriff here.”

  “Fine by me,” I answered. “So, what’s up, Agent Ricardo?”

  “I have continued detecting and have a couple of operatives working the area,” he replied.

  “I hope they found something,” I interjected, hoping he would get to the point.

  “They sure did, and that something was absolutely nothing. We have not yet been able to identify another drug gang working the area. Bits and pieces are floating around, but it all goes back months ago. There is nothing current. My people have been able to score both meth and heroin, but they had to work for it, and it was pricey, meaning there is not much competition. We got IDs on a couple of local dealers, but no one who is part of a big gang trying to move in from the Twin Cities.”

  “Do you have any leads at all?” I asked.

  “If you’ll allow me to repeat some of what you already know, it will help me give you my perspective on things.”

  “Go ahead,” I replied.

  “Here goes. We have a fairly major dealer dead and probably two of his associates blown to smithereens. Other than a bit of junkie gossip, there is no real talk about it on the street, ’cuz the dopers are scared. They know that Gunther will hit back. He needs to, or he won’t be in business long. They don’t want to get caught in the crossfire,” Ricardo stated.

  “Maybe the people who took out these three guys are really bad actors. Maybe they ran the other gang out,” I suggested.

  “You know, Sheriff, that could be true, except that if they ran out the competition, why haven’t they set up shop yet? All they want to do is sell drugs to innocent children unhindered. Looks like the coast is clear, so why are my people scratching to find anything on the street?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have any theories?” I asked.

  “I do, but they might not hold any water. I am still working on it. It’s not actually why I came by. I want to talk to you two about someone.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” I said.

  Ricardo addressed Julie. “I am sorry to bring you in, Julie, but I need to ask you a favor.” Julie didn’t reply. She simply stared at Ricardo.

  Finally, she said, “What is it that you need?”

  “Do you know Crystal Lockridge?”

  “Yes, I know her fairly well, Agent Ricardo. John and I just served Thanksgiving dinner with her and her family yesterday. Why are you asking?” Julie said, strongly defensive already.

  “She was Devin Martin’s up north girlfriend,” Ricardo said as a matter of fact.

  “Are you certain of this?” Julie demanded.

  “I’m sure. We got an ID off of several pictures Joe Thomas found of her with Martin at the casino. Do you know her well enough to get her to talk to me?” Ricardo answered.

  “I don’t know,” Julie said tersely.

  “Here’s the deal. Sheriff, you figured out the suicide of Devin Martin was a homicide. I read the report. Someone—probably the shooter—was at some point in the passenger side of the vehicle. The only link we might have to what went down there is Martin’s girlfriend, Crystal Lockridge. We need to know what she knows. Sheriff, technically, this is your case, and I have got to say that you’ve done a great job with it, but Lockridge is the first solid lead we have had. We need to talk to her.”

  Julie looked at us and said, “She won’t talk to you guys. She doesn’t trust the police. She thinks that they are always trying to trick her into saying something she doesn’t want to say.”

  “She’s mostly right about that; they probably are,” said Ricardo. “But we need to talk to her anyway. Any suggestions about how we get this done would be welcome. Just so we are clear, I am going to talk to her no matter what. I would like to do it in the least threatening way possible, but she will decide how that goes.”

  “Agent Ricardo, she is fragile, a recovering addict. She has made progress, but it’s been a tough haul. She is trying to clean herself up and raise her daughter,” said Julie.

  “I am sorry she’s had a tough life, Julie. A lot of people have. My job is to put these guys out of business before they get started. Sometimes that requires that I do unpleasant things, I don’t want to, but that’s the way it is. She was running around with a convicted felon and known drug dealer, who got himself killed. So now her life is my business. I know where she lives. I plan to go out there and pay her a visit. Sheriff, if you want to go along, that would be great. Julie, you can come too. Maybe it would easier for her. But I am going to drive out of your driveway and over to her house now,” said Ricardo.

  “Give us a minute, will you, Anthony?” I asked.

  “Sure, take all the time you need. I will be outside,” he replied and stepped out the front door.

  “Julie, I know this stinks, but it is something that is not going to go away. Partial prints lifted from the passenger area of Devin Martin’s vehicle will probably match up with Crystal. Ricardo has evidence that links the two together. Martin was a drug dealer, and he is also a murder victim, and that requires we try to reconstruct the days, weeks, months, or even years leading up to his death. Crystal’s involvement cannot be ignored. If we don’t talk to her, someone else will, and I guarantee they won’t be as
considerate as we will be. Ricardo came out here because I am the sheriff, and he needs to keep me in the loop and on his side, and because he knows about the connection between you and me and the Lockridges. He is trying to be a little thoughtful,” I explained.

  “He doesn’t sound thoughtful to me,” Julie retorted.

  “He’s a hard man who has gotten an up-close look at the underbelly of our world. He means it when he says that his job is to ‘put these guys out of business,’ and he is good at his job. That requires a certain kind of person. Tell me how you think we can best handle this, and we’ll see if it’s something we can work with,” I offered.

  “My God, John. It is the day after Thanksgiving. Can’t this wait for a couple of days?”

  “Unfortunately, investigations don’t and can’t follow the holiday calendar. Ricardo doesn’t do this the day after Thanksgiving to be cruel or insensitive. He does it because it’s what he has to do. Sometimes, if you wait a day, you have waited a day too long. Sometimes it can be the difference between life and death,” I replied.

  “Life or death, John? I think maybe you are stretching things a little far, don’t you? She is just a young single mom trying to get herself straightened out. Putting her in a corner and making her talk won’t save anybody. It will probably set her back months, maybe even years,” Julie countered. Anger was visible behind Julie’s eyes.

  “Yeah, Julie, life and death. Right here in Namekagon County, life and death.”

  Julie stood with her arms crossed and faced me. Defiance radiated off her. “Fine, but I’m going with you, and I am going to call her to get her a little ready for what’s coming,” she said.

  “You can go with us, but you can’t call her. When we get there, you can tell her we want to talk to her, but you can’t tell her why.”

  Julie was furious. “You want me to go with you so you can ambush her? Twist her words, try to get everything you can out of her. Destroy her and move on to your next victim?” she challenged.