by Jeff Nania
A few moments passed before she said anything.
“Sheriff Cabrelli, that is exactly how they do business. They move in, hammer the competition with extraordinary violence, and make sure those left know who is running things. A bombing using timing devices is well within their bag of tricks. Leaving one of the bosses from another outfit to rot in the sun is just standard operating procedure. So, your theory makes complete sense, except for one thing.”
“What’s that, Agent Shell?” I asked.
“It’s not them,” she stated.
“How do you know?”
“Sheriff, this is where we get into the sensitive area. The information I am about to give you is on a need-to-know basis. The SAC advised me that being anything less than completely candid with you was not acceptable. The information I am going to give you must remain confidential. The lives of several of your fellow law enforcement officers could be jeopardized,” Shell warned.
“I understand.”
“Sheriff Cabrelli, as you have suggested, some of them did fall through the cracks. Some did not, and they have found that working with us is a much better alternative to being deported. They feel that way because we have solid information that the first batch we deported did not fare so well on their home ground. They are either being held in a maximum-security hell hole, or they are dead. This criminal gang is somewhat unique. They are tightly knit and share information with each other, yet stab the person next to them in the back without a second thought. They are establishing a drug distribution network, but not in your county and not methamphetamines. They are in the process of developing a heroin pipeline from Mexico to the Twin Cities. They began this process within weeks of the raid on Superior Shipping and Container.”
“How do you know that they aren’t in Namekagon County?” I asked.
The agent chuckled, “That’s the good part. They don’t like you guys and are avoiding you like the virus. They have often expressed that had they not ventured into a little town and instead stayed in the city, they would not have been noticed.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Sheriff, we have people on the inside, and I asked them the same question. They are positive.”
“It’s like good news, bad news. It is good news that they are doing business elsewhere. It is bad news that I am back to zero.”
“Well, Sheriff, maybe not. My colleagues and I discussed your situation at length. We agree the murder of Devin Martin and the bombing of the first meth lab were a world apart from the killing of Marcus Johnson and bombing his trailer lab. That was just the Northwoods version of an urban drive-by—shoot somebody, start a fire, run back to the getaway vehicle, and drive away as fast as you can.
“The other two took patience, planning, and a certain level of skill. We think it is somebody sending a message, maybe payback. It’s hard to know. Maybe the shell casing on the floor of the SUV was left on purpose to make it look like a suicide but left enough evidence to show otherwise. Maybe they wanted to see how smart you were. The cash, guns, and drugs they left in the car? As you stated in your case notes, ‘No way a drug dealer would leave that stuff.’ You covered two possibilities. Maybe the shooter was disturbed by an unexpected passerby, left the stuff, and took off. Or maybe it wasn’t noticed. Then again, maybe the shooter knew it was there but didn’t want it. We think there is a distinct possibility this wasn’t about a drug war. Maybe this was all about the victims. Gunther and his people run with a bad, bad crowd. Devin Martin was as ruthless as Deacon Gunther. They have no doubt made lots of enemies. Some of these guys have long memories. There might be a pattern to all this. If so, find the pattern, and you’ll find your killer. Do you have any more questions for me?”
“No, Agent Shell, not right now.”
“Sheriff, if you do, get in touch.”
“Thanks, I will.”
I went to the jail before I went back out on the road. Muller’s change from trying to kill everyone he could put his hands on to being completely unresponsive was something we needed to pay attention to. It could be a ruse, him waiting for the next chance to get free.
“What’s Muller doing?” I asked the jailer.
“Ever since you brought him back from court, he has just been laying on his bunk, back to us, and hasn’t said a word.”
I walked up to the cell door.
“Randy, it’s me, the sheriff. Can we get you anything?”
Surprisingly, he answered. “I want to take a shower and put on clean clothes.”
“I offered you that before court.”
“I didn’t want to then. I want to now.”
“Fine. I’ll have the jailer bring you back a change of clothes. Ten minutes, no more.”
The jailer, backed up by another deputy, gave Muller clean clothes. Then he instructed Muller to stand in front of the shower room door. He triggered the electronic lock, allowing the door to open, and Muller stepped inside.
I left the building to clear my head. The cold air was bracing and refreshing. I was gone no more than ten minutes when both my radio and pager went off.
It was the dispatcher directing me to respond to a jail emergency. I sprinted back, knowing it had to be Randy Muller. My mind raced about how he had gotten his chance to escape and taken it. I ran up the steps to the jail as EMS screamed in.
I got to Muller’s cell and immediately realized his escape had been successful.
The jailer was over the top of Muller, trying to breathe life into him. A braided long-sleeved jail shirt was wrapped around his neck. The EMTs arrived and jumped in. All attempts at resuscitation were unsuccessful. Randy Muller was dead. •
31
It was a white Christmas. Snow began to fall on Christmas Eve day and did not stop until Christmas Day evening. Bud, Julie, and I celebrated together on Christmas Eve. I made spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread from a recipe I found in one of Aunt Rose’s dog-eared cookbooks. The recipe was handwritten, and at the top, she noted, “Nick and Johnny’s favorite.” It was delicious. Bud announced it was his new second favorite just behind Julie’s pan-fried walleyes.
We had a relaxed, low-key evening, talking together and listening to the radio, which played nonstop holiday oldies. Julie read while Bud and I played a game or two of cribbage. No pages, no calls. The world left us alone. We exchanged gifts that fell under the twenty-five-dollar rule. I gave Julie a pack of special tea and Natural Connections, a book by a local author and naturalist Emily Stone. We gave Bud a book we found in an antique store, Common Sense Building with Timbers. I got a set of Mepps #5, gold spinner bucktails.
The snow was piling up, and we asked Bud if he wanted to stay the night, but he declined. Once in his truck, he plowed the driveway, and we saw his taillights going down the road.
Julie was off from Christmas Eve until the day after New Year’s. We hoped to relax as much as we could and maybe even spend some time together. Perhaps we’d even get snowed in.
We got up Christmas morning, and Julie made coffee and started steeping her Christmas tea. I stoked the woodstove, then brought in another armload of wood from the wood bin outside. We sat quietly together, looking out the picture window. The lake was covered with snow and ice. A wind blew lightly with fits and starts, blowing the snow around. Our home weather station said the temperature was nine degrees with a windchill of five. Across the bay, I saw a half dozen colorful tents and a couple of shacks set up on the ice. Locals and tourists take advantage of the abundant snow and ice between Christmas and the new year. Skiers, snowmobilers, anglers, and snowshoers put the trails through the forest to good use.
I finished my coffee and told Julie I was going out to the shop for a minute. Hanging behind the huge woodstove in the shop were four pairs of snowshoes. Two were made of bent ash strung artfully with rawhide. The others were a long pair of “trappers” and a short round pair of “bear paws.” I took them down and looked them over. They were in perfect shape, but the rawhide was drying out and needed o
iling—a task to put on my list. There were also two pairs of more modern snowshoes made of tubular aluminum and flexible rubber-like material. I took both pairs down. They were ready to go. I carried them out to the porch on the front of the cabin and leaned them against the log wall.
I went inside and called to Julie.
“Hey, honey, do you want to get bundled up and snowshoe across the bay to where they’re ice fishing and see what they’re catching?”
“Not a chance,” she said.
When I found her, I knew why. She was submerged in the upstairs whirlpool tub (installed by my uncle to help my aunt’s arthritis), surrounded by bubbles, reading her new book.
“John, I have earned and fully intend to enjoy every minute of reclining in this wonderful tub. However, if it is not too much trouble, it would be perfect if I could convince you to bring me a cup of the lemon, lavender, and honey tea I have brewed in the kitchen.”
“I would be delighted.”
The tea delivered, I left Julie to her book and bubbles. With my cold-weather gear on, I walked outside and stepped into my snowshoes. I adjusted the binding and began my hike across the bay, cutting across the surface of the same water I swam in only a few months before. I kept a fair pace but didn’t kill myself. As I walked, I realized I had become truly enamored of this landscape regardless of the season. Uncle Nick and I had ice fished one winter in this very bay. He had outfitted me with a set of junior size snowshoes. As we trekked together across the snow and ice, I remember pretending I was an arctic explorer.
Some ice anglers were in shelters, and others sat out on the ice in camp chairs or on buckets. All were dressed in standard Namekagon County winter wear: coveralls, heavy coat, gloves, and an insulated hat with earflaps. I was happy to see several adults accompanied by the next generation. School was out, and instead of sitting home glued to a screen, these kids were in training to become the next generation of conservationists.
Several northern pike lay on the ice, most of them in the twenty-four-inch range, some bigger, some smaller, and a couple of nice walleyes.
One of the fishermen sitting on a white five-gallon bucket called over to me.
“Hey, Sheriff, how’s it going? You checking licenses today? I’ve got mine right here.”
“Nope, just out for a hike, seeing what I can see.”
A man wearing a blaze orange bomber hat piped up, “Well, one thing you can see is that we have caught about ten northerns to every one of any other fish. I have been fishing Spider Lake for over fifty years, best damn musky lake in Wisconsin, never even saw a northern here until just a few years ago. Now they are taking over. You want to arrest somebody? Arrest the clown who put northerns in this lake! Then we’ll hang him.”
I had heard of the controversy regarding northern pike establishing a healthy population in the Spider Lake Chain. As a boy, I fished quite a bit with Uncle Nick, and we never caught a northern in Spider Lake. In recent years, something changed, and northern pike were now abundant. The DNR was trying to lower the population using angler participation. The good news was that northern pike, disliked or not, were good table fare.
While I was visiting with the anglers, a youngster let out a whoop. She hooked a fish, and the battle was on.
“Grandpa, I have got a big one!” she cried excitedly. “Help me with it.”
Her grandfather told her to calm down in a gentle voice and reassured her she was doing just fine. She reeled, and the fish took line. When she thought she was making progress, the fish would make a mad dash. She was using a standard size rod and reel, not a small ice fishing rig. Good thing, or that fish would have been long gone. A small crowd watched the girl’s hole in the ice. They were as excited as she was. The fish finally had enough, and it came to the hole. The girl shrieked with joy as she pulled the big musky’s head through the ice. The other anglers gave her a round of applause. Then people began to move quickly. The fish measured forty-four inches. Photos of the girl and her prize were taken.
The girl and her grandpa quickly carried the fish over to one of the ice shanties. The shanty’s owners removed some plywood covering, revealing a large rectangular hole in the ice. Now, wearing elbow-long rubber gloves, the grandpa eased the fish into the water and held it by the tail, slowly moving it back and forth. After a few precious moments, the fish began to come around and, with a sudden, powerful thrust, it swam back into the depths of the lake. I had no doubt catching that musky through the ice was more fun than any video game.
I said goodbye and started my trek back across the ice. I decided to go the long way around, which would bring me over to Spider Creek. When I got to where the lake flows into the creek, I could see that there was ice, but even as cold as it was, there was a lead of open water. I could easily make out deer tracks that came out of the woods and down to the water but had not crossed. A set of palm-size wolf tracks followed the deer trail. Northern Wisconsin was indeed wild country.
Back at the cabin, I pulled off my snowshoes, walked over to my squad, and sat crossways on the driver’s seat to limit the amount of snow I got inside. I picked up the radio and called in to dispatch to check the status of life in Namekagon County. I would have been notified if there was anything important, but it was good to check in. As I had hoped, Christmas was quiet with few calls, and it remained that way until the new year. •
32
We kept working the case following any potential lead with little to show for it. Randy Muller’s suicide complicated the situation. Jack Wheeler had crafted a solid agreement for Tyler Winslow. Winslow gave a sworn deposition as required and was prepared to testify in open court against Randy Muller. The DA and his lawyer had even gone over his testimony. There was no doubt Muller would have been convicted. Tyler Winslow had kept his end of the bargain and would become a free man. In the meantime, he was brought back to the Namekagon County jail, awaiting some action by the court or DA. We were intentionally stalling.
Deacon Gunther and the rest of the crew did not know whether Tyler Winslow or Randy Muller, for that matter, shared information with us regarding the Marcus Johnson killing. While we knew there were others in the vehicle, unfortunately, Muller had said nothing, and Tyler Winslow didn’t get a good look at them. Our investigation had turned up nothing, and unless someone who knew something flipped, we would stay right where we were.
Randy Muller, operating with Gunther’s gang, was responsible for killing Marcus Johnson and blowing up his meth lab, presumably in retaliation for attacks on Gunther’s people and operation. But retaliation against who? Who killed Devin Martin, Tony Carter, and Jesse Gunther? Who had blown Gunther’s meth lab off the face of the earth?
Several experienced law enforcement officers were convinced attacks were orchestrated by the remnants of a gang of eastern Europeans. We were wrong. The FBI had convinced me it wasn’t them. Our number one suspect was a zero.
The FBI agent said to look for a pattern. Find the pattern, find the killer.
I called Len Bork. “Len, got time to sit down and talk?”
“Sure, John. Where?”
“Your office in an hour?”
“Perfect. I’ll have a cup of Campfire Blend and a blueberry scone.”
I showed up on time with the goods. I explained the situation to Len. I didn’t betray the FBI’s confidence but said I was pretty sure the info was solid.
“John, we have had everybody and their brother helping us out with this, and we still aren’t anywhere. It could very well be about Martin, Carter, and Gunther. Why not? I guarantee they have done some nasty stuff in their lives, stuff that people might not be willing to forgive or forget.”
“What is our next step? Where do we go from here?”
“You are going to think I’m crazy,” Len began. “But I think we ought to go to the horse’s mouth. Let’s go to Outlaws and have a sit-down with Deacon Gunther. As bad as it makes me feel, we are all on the same side, more or less. Let’s ask him face-to-face who he thinks is knocki
ng off his people. We may learn something; we may not.”
“When?” I asked
“How about now?”
“Get in my truck, Len. I’ll drive.”
It was still before noon when we arrived at Outlaws, and I didn’t know if people who partied until dawn would be up yet. I parked in front, and we walked up to the door as boldly as we could be. The front door was locked. I knocked on it. Len didn’t feel I was making enough racket, so he kicked the door several times.
A window next to the door opened. A guy covered with tattoos wearing a headscarf spoke.
“Let me see the warrant.”
“We don’t have one,” I replied.
“Then get off the property now,” he growled.
“We want to talk to Deacon Gunther,” Len said.
“There ain’t nobody here by that name. Now get your asses out of here,” he replied.
“Is that your final word?” I asked.
He started to close the window.
“Just one more minute before you close the window,” I called.
He hesitated.
“We either talk to Gunther, or I am going to call the DA to get a search warrant. We will wait right here until it shows up. When the warrant gets here, my deputies and I will disassemble this shithole board by board.”
“You got nothing on us to get no warrant,” he said defiantly.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll make something up,” I said.
“And I am going to swear to it,” Len added.
“Or you can let us talk to Gunther. You’ve got one minute,” I said.
The front door opened. It was Deacon Gunther himself, looking as evil as ever.
“So talk,” he said.
“Not out here. We’re coming in and are going to sit down at a table like normal people,” Len said.
