by Jeff Nania
Immediately after Len advised the news media of the press conference, it seemed they were all over town interviewing whoever they could, from the guys at the tavern to the minister at the Spider Lake Church.
Chairperson Stewart called me and chewed me out, accusing me of undermining the Law Enforcement Advisory Committee meeting he had requested by calling the press conference. He told me the public was very concerned about this situation and let me know that he wouldn’t be held responsible for whatever happened at the press conference.
Stewart talked to any media willing to listen. He shared his dire concern for the safety of the citizens of Namekagon County and encouraged everyone who could to attend. Furthermore, even though the event was supposed to be a meeting for the press, he gave his personal guarantee that all citizens who wished to ask questions or speak would be heard.
That night, Julie and I were sitting by the fire. I was reading, and she was grading. We were both lost in our thoughts, the radio playing quietly in the background. The news came on, and the lead story was an interview with Scott Stewart. Julie reached over and turned it off. Then she held my hand.
“Julie, I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Four unsolved homicides anywhere is a big deal, much less a small county like ours. People should be concerned. Add the lodge party fiasco to that, and well, it looks like what it is—a very bad situation. I think we are going to put this thing together, but I have a nagging feeling about this case that won’t go away. The bottom line is that this peaceful, wonderful community is under siege. Drug gangs are trying to move in. If they are successful, the heartaches and funerals will continue. When we get up tomorrow, I am going to go into town and take my lumps. Then I will figure out what to do next, and right now, I honestly don’t have a clue what that is.”
I was shocked by the number of vehicles parked in adjacent stalls next to the building when I arrived at the office the next morning. At least two TV stations had set up, and others there looked like reporters. I got out of my truck, and Bill Presser quickly came over.
“Sheriff, let me know if we can help you out when we run the story. Most of these people are here for a headline. This is my home, so let me know.”
He walked off as three other reporters approached. Two stuck microphones in my face, one a recorder. Questions flew fast and furious. I didn’t even hear them and kept walking into the conference room where my people were unfolding every folding chair we had. Although the press conference didn’t start until ten, most of the chairs were filled by nine. The county board chair held court with some locals and a couple of reporters, clearly enjoying hearing himself talk.
At ten o’clock, Len and I stood up front and called the meeting to order. Scott Stewart came up to the front and stood next to us. It was foolish and awkward on his part, but Len stepped in and handled it well.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Musky Falls Chief of Police Len Bork, and this is Namekagon County Sheriff John Cabrelli. Next to us is county board chair Scott Stewart. The sheriff and I have some important information to share with you, but before we get started, I am guessing Mr. Stewart has something he wants to say.”
Stewart was surprised but rose to the occasion as the epitome of arrogant self-importance. He stepped up to the podium and began to give a fire and brimstone speech about the evils facing our community, and while he was a strong supporter of local law enforcement, they had shown themselves to be very ineffective in resolving the current situation. He wanted everyone in the room to know that he was ordering the sheriff to keep him informed on the status of the investigation. He intended to work tirelessly to keep our community safe.
When he came up for air, Ron Carver, who was sitting in the front row with other Law Enforcement Advisory Committee members, spoke.
“I’m Ron Carver, chair of the Law Enforcement Advisory Committee. I am so glad you are here to help us with this issue, Scott. You sure have a lot to say, criticizing our local law enforcement. I was wondering how you would solve this situation. Give us an idea of how you think we should proceed. This room is packed with people who I am sure would be happy to hear what you think.”
It was too late for Scott Stewart. His big mouth had set him up for a butt whipping, and Ron Carver was just the man to give it to him.
“They need to arrest the people responsible for these crimes. Our community is facing grave danger, and we need someone to stand up to these criminals, and I am going to make certain that Sheriff Cabrelli and Chief Bork do their jobs,” said Stewart.
“Let me get this straight, Mr. Stewart. I didn’t hear you question the courage of Chief Bork or Sheriff Cabrelli, did I? Of course, I didn’t. No one would be that foolish because no one could question the courage these men have shown. Yet I hear what you are saying, so I have a suggestion for you,” Ron said mischievously.
Stewart gave Ron a suspicious look. “What would that be, Mr. Carver?”
Ron looked at me. “Sheriff Cabrelli, it is my recommendation, that is shared unanimously with my fellow board members, that in the fine tradition of Namekagon County, you immediately deputize Scott Stewart and press him into service to help in the arrest of these undeniably vicious criminals. Is that acceptable to you, Sheriff?”
I tried not to smile when I said, “Absolutely. How about right after the press conference is over?”
Scott Stewart stood there like a deer in the headlights. He didn’t have anything else to say and stepped down from the podium, blending himself back into the crowd.
I continued, “Folks, thank you again for coming. We have a real situation in Namekagon County we need to discuss. If you don’t mind, we would like to start by telling you what we know. After that, we would like to take questions from community members and then from the media. If that works for you, we’ll get started.”
Immediately a reporter I didn’t recognize jumped up and fired a question at both Len and me that questioned our competence. I asked him to sit down and be patient. I again addressed the crowd that had now become standing room only.
“People jumping up like that and shouting out questions is what we would like to avoid. We’ll sit here all day and night to answer your questions, however long it takes.”
The reporter jumped up again, this time justifying why his question should be answered before all others.
A burly fellow dressed in Carhartts at the back of the room said it for me. “Shut up and sit down. We want to hear what the sheriff and chief have to say.”
I started again, “Some of what I am going to tell you, you already know, and some you don’t.” Lois projected corresponding images as I shared the details of each case.
I finished up with a request. “We believe there may be other meth labs operating in the area. While we would like to be everywhere, we can’t be. You need to be our extra eyes and ears. When you are out and about, keep a lookout for anything suspicious. We have a special number that will be answered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You don’t need to give your name, and we won’t use caller ID. It is important that if you see something, you say something. Any questions?”
A local building contractor was first up. “Sheriff, Chief, my old man used to say ‘good riddance to bad rubbish,’ and I agree with him. Why should we even care about these bums blowing themselves up?”
Len stepped up for that one. “Bob, it’s hard to disagree with you. The only problem is that it may very well be another drug gang that’s killing these people trying to move in. We want them all gone. We want to make Namekagon County an inhospitable place for them.”
“Are these dead guys the ones who gave the drugs to the kids at the party?” another person asked.
“We can’t prove it, but it’s a strong possibility,” I replied.
“I hope they suffered,” shouted an angry voice from the crowd.
A grizzled seasoned citizen wearing a plaid flannel shirt, overalls, and boots with a Stormy Kromer cap on his head stood up in the front. Every
body quieted down. He was a man who had earned respect.
“Name’s Durwood Sayner, Sheriff. I don’t know that we have met before today, but I sure have been keeping track of you. Len and I go back a long way. How’re doing, Len?”
“Got our plate full, Durwood,” Len replied.
“Sheriff, I’ve spent over forty years as the owner of the Sayner Forestry Company. I took over from my pap when he was killed in a logging accident. We always employed local, good, hard-working folks from the community. We always paid a good wage because they earned it. I am proud to say that Sayner Forestry Company dollars raised a lot of families and put lots of our kids through school. Whenever we had a problem in town that we could help with, our people were always first to step up.
“Hell, I remember some years ago, a motorcycle gang showed up at the Musky Festival. They started raising all sorts of trouble, racing their motorcycles up and down Main Street, scaring the bejesus out of everyone. The old sheriff then and the police chief were tough characters, but they only had a few men. After the bikers took over a bar downtown and beat up the owner, the sheriff got in his car and raced as fast as he could out of town right to our yard. He told us about what was happening and asked for our help. I reckon it took us all of about ten minutes to load two stake bed trucks full of hard-working loggers. All of them had cant hooks, axe handles, and anything else they could grab, and we headed for town. Before we left, the old sheriff got on the hood of one of the trucks and swore us in as deputies. He led us right to town, the big old red light rolling around and the siren a blaring. We got there just in time. Some of our local townsfolk were going at it with the outlaws. Sheriff, I was driving one of those trucks and put my foot to the floor and crashed it into all those fancy motorcycles parked in a line on the street,” the old man recalled and cackled at the memory.
He continued, “They went down like dominos, and I ran the truck right up on top of the pile. Them outlaws poured out of that bar like hornets out of a hive looking for a fight, and that was just what they got. My boys got down off those trucks, joined up with the townsfolk, and we beat the living daylights out of those motorcycle riders. Every last one of those sons a bitches got a major ass-whooping. We taught them a lesson I don’t think they will ever forget. Most importantly, they haven’t been back since. Sounds like maybe the best way to solve these murders is just to run this scum out of the county. We still have a couple of stake bed trucks and the men to fill them. Let ’em go someplace else and start killing each other.”
The crowd gave Durwood Sayner a thundering round of applause.
“Durwood, I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid that’s not the way we handle things anymore,” Len responded.
“Just so you and the sheriff know, we’re behind you guys,” Durwood said.
The floor was now open and the pushy reporter from earlier made sure he was first up. “Sheriff Cabrelli, isn’t it true that you have no suspects?”
“No, that’s not true,” I replied.
“We have received reliable information that you wasted valuable time treating Devin Martin’s murder as a suicide. Is that true, Sheriff? How much time did you waste? Isn’t it true that it took several weeks after Martin was killed before you began to treat this investigation seriously? Come on, Sheriff, even you can’t think that’s reasonable. Doesn’t it make sense that the same person or persons who killed Martin might be the same people who killed Jesse Gunther and Tony Carter?”
I had been there and done that before. A pushy, obnoxious reporter, looking for his byline above the fold. Throwing out rapid-fire questions, having already decided what the answer would be. What he wanted was for me to defend myself and push back in the hopes he could get the right sound bite. I didn’t play.
“I expect that other reporters in the room, as well as community members, heard what I said at the beginning. But I will cover this again for those who may have missed it. Devin Martin’s homicide appeared at first to be consistent with suicide. Martin was killed, and it was a while before two hunters came upon the vehicle containing the body. The body was in a state of decomposition, which made recovery of evidence and a cause of death determination more difficult. We never stopped investigating the case, not for one minute. It was this continued investigation that eventually turned evidence to support homicide. It is possible that the person or persons who killed Martin may very well be the same ones who killed Gunther and Carter,” I reiterated.
“Is an arrest imminent?” another reporter asked.
“We are following every lead and continue to get new information that hopefully will lead us to a suspect and arrest,” I replied.
“Do you have any suspects?”
“Many,” I replied.
Then the obnoxious reporter ended the press conference for everyone by launching an attack that I was certain would be the next day’s headline in the big city.
“Sheriff, why don’t you just be honest with the people. There is a drug war going on in Namekagon County. Killers are running loose, and you don’t have any idea who they are, do you?”
The crowd didn’t like what they heard, and there was a mumbling undercurrent. I thanked everybody for coming, then Len and I walked toward the door.
The next day’s headline in the big city news became the theme of the day: “Namekagon County Drug War: Four Dead, Police Baffled.” •
22
Ricardo called me first thing in the morning.
“Nice headline. The picture is definitely not your good side. Just for the record, Sheriff, did you really recommend that you load up a bunch of lumberjacks in trucks and go hunt down the drug dealers? I am not being critical. I kind of like the idea. I was actually thinking about stopping by the hardware store and picking up an axe handle or two,” he said.
“What’s up, Anthony?”
“I have got something for you. I need to have a sit down with you and Len and maybe bring Malone in on the computer.”
“Where and when?”
“Your cabin, okay?”
“Fine. I’ll call the chief.”
An hour later, we were sitting around my kitchen table.
“Sorry to keep taking advantage of your humble home, but its location works perfectly for our secret meetings, not to mention the woodstove and first-class coffee,” Ricardo said.
“Would you like some coffee, Anthony?” I asked.
“I never thought you’d ask.”
I poured coffee and sat down.
“Let me start at the beginning with what I may or may not know. Martin and his guys are getting set up to peddle meth in the north country. They are able to keep a low profile. They like the area because there’s a market for their poison, and there are plenty of out-of-the-way locations to set up a meth lab or two. Things are moving along for them, but then something changes. Martin gets whacked, and his two buddies and their meth lab are blown to bits. It is not the fact that these dopers got themselves killed; it’s how they got killed. Martin’s murder is set up to look like a suicide, but the sheriff figures out that it was a murder.
“The lab gets blown up along with the two clowns inside. Meth labs blow up all the time. In this case, though, the lab is blown to hell and gone. The state fire marshal and some helpers from Fort McCoy recover evidence at the scene that shows C-4 plastic explosive was used along with an accelerant and a remote detonator and timing device. What I am getting at is that kind of stuff is way too sophisticated for the average doper, at least it is in my experience. They all wish they were that clever and effective, but they’re not. So, we get to the million-dollar question: Who? Who is doing this?”
“Sounds like you may have some thoughts on the matter,” Len said.
“I do. I may not be right, but I have had some thoughts,” Ricardo replied.
“So, what are you thinking?” I asked.
“I think there are two distinct possibilities. The first and most likely is that it is an OMG from the Twin Cities. They have been around fo
r a long time, started in the sixties, mostly by a bunch of disenfranchised Vietnam vets. Over the last ten years, they have gone big time into the drug business and are hooked up with a Mexican cartel. Our counterparts in Minnesota and our people have got all sorts of intel that says they are already doing business around here and are looking to expand their market share. They are no strangers to violence. It’s possible they decided to up their game when they ran up against Gunther and his people.”
“That sounds consistent with what all of us have been thinking. A fight over territory between two gangs,” said Len.
“You said two ‘distinct possibilities.’ What’s the other one?” I asked.
“Remember that you asked because you are not going to like the answer. Here’s the short story: the eastern European outfit running out of Superior Shipping and Container we busted with the feds had a bunch of people on the payroll. We took down a lot of them but not everyone. Some people fell through the cracks, mostly lower-level bosses. They are the ones who make these drug businesses work. This presented them with a golden opportunity to move up to the big leagues. They wouldn’t need too many guys who know the program to put the thing back together. They know there is a ready market, and they want to move quickly before someone else takes over. They start to get things rolling and pretty quickly find that a bunch of hard cases educated in the joint have their own ideas about setting up. So, the eastern Europeans do what they have proven to be so good at—hit Gunther like a ton of bricks. Most of these guys were former military, Serbs, Ukrainians, and Czechs. They could probably put together a bomb in their sleep. They wouldn’t need to send an army to get this done. One or two trained guys would be hard to spot and could handle the job.”
Ricardo’s news hit both Len and me like a sledgehammer blow to the chest. We sat silently. Len and I had done battle with these guys before. We had won but taken casualties.
