The Mackinac Incident

by Len McDougall

She turned to look at him blankly. Then a fog seemed to lift from her eyes, and she focused on his face.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I’m going to be okay. It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like this before. This is just so horrible. . . .”

  Colyer smiled dryly. “Ya wanna know somethin’? Neither have I. This is as bad as I’ve ever seen.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “I still need your help, Shannon. I need to know where these people were headed. I was hoping to impose on you for a few hours more.”

  Headlights shone from over the hill on the two-track, and they heard the low growl of a powerful engine straining in four-wheel drive. A dark-blue Ford, four-wheel-drive pickup appeared.

  Several feet from where they stood, it stopped with a squeal of brakes that struck Colyer like fingernails on a blackboard. A uniformed deputy and a man in blue jeans and a T-shirt got out.

  “I’m Jim Thorsen,” the man in jeans said, extending his right hand to Colyer. “I’m the acting coroner for Chippewa and Luce counties. This is Deputy Frank Sawyer.”

  Colyer shook his hand. “I’ve heard of you, Doctor Thorsen. Glad to make your acquaintance.” He nodded to the deputy in recognition, “I’ve met Frank before.”

  Thorsen stretched a pair of blue nitrile surgical gloves over his hands as he surveyed the carnage around him. His trained eye took in the dark stains on the sand, recognizing them as blood even by the illumination of artificial light. He noted the fragments of skull and brain tissue near the dead campfire.

  “Show me the locations of the bodies,” Thorsen said.

  “You’d better wait here, Shannon,” Colyer told her. “I’ll show him where they’re at.”

  Shannon nodded, glad to be left out.

  Colyer led Thorsen and Sawyer to where each of the corpses lay. As much as possible, the FBI agent had taken pains to leave the scene just as he’d found it. Wearing a pair of nitrile gloves that he carried in his jacket pocket, he’d removed the wallets from the two men’s pockets. The woman carried no identification, but he found a color photo of her and a man posing with three children in Bill Morgan’s wallet. On the back of the photo, written in ink, were the names Bill, Sue, Bill Jr., Sarah, and James. The man who’d been nearly decapitated had no form of identification at all. Each of the survival students’ wallets had contained credit and debit cards, and several hundred dollars in cash. The motive in these killings hadn’t been robbery.

  Colyer watched critically as Deputy Sawyer cordoned the area with yellow police line tape. As Shannon had so vividly demonstrated, even someone with formal training in forensic investigation didn’t read sign like a skilled tracker. The deputy might be walking over critical information.

  When they were out of earshot of Shannon, Sawyer joined Thorsen and Colyer. Leaning close to Colyer’s ear, he whispered, “I know that woman’s husband. He’s got a record; served three years in the joint for dealing drugs.” Colyer just looked at the deputy as he continued, “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he wasn’t the one who did it.”

  Thorsen nodded. “His wife already told you that he isn’t among the victims here, and this is his survival class—so where did he go?”

  Even though Colyer had to admit that circumstantial evidence made Rod Elliot a suspect, he had to ask, “What do you think happened with the guy who was shot in the chest with two different calibers?”

  They’d found two cartridge casings so far, one from a 50-caliber pistol round, and one from a 9-millimeter Parabellum. Both were ejected from automatic pistols, judging by extractor marks on their rims. The 50-caliber matched up with the large-bore wound in Bill Morgan’s back. One wound in Hennesy’s chest had come from a noticeably smaller caliber, probably a 9-millimeter or a 38, but one round had exited with considerably more hydrostatic shock, leaving a larger hole than the other. The entrance hole in the woman’s head looked to be mid-caliber, but the bullet’s exit was explosive, denoting considerable power—maybe a 38 Police Positive or a 357.

  Sawyer shrugged. “Maybe he had an accomplice?”

  They had pieces of the puzzle, but they hadn’t fitted them together yet. There had been at least three pistols, and one of them had probably been a revolver. Shannon had told Colyer that none of her husband’s students had been carrying a handgun that she knew of. And she said her husband never carried a gun because the laws of this state were almost fascist when it came to ex-cons and any type of gun—even air rifles were illegal. He believed her; she struck him as a good person who didn’t lie easily. Nor did she seem to be one of the bad-boy victims he’d seen so many times; he doubted she’d be a woman who took being slapped around or mistreated.

  “Motive?” Colyer asked.

  “Who knows?” Sawyer said, sounding a little defensive. “Does an ex-con need a motive?”

  “Yes,” Colyer said, his blood pressure rising, “In this country, a man is supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.”

  Sawyer’s face flushed with anger. Who was this DC, college-boy fed to dispute anything he said? But he knew better than to get into a pissing match with this Boy Scout, so he kept silent.

  Colyer was getting a little hot under the collar himself. This beer-bellied idiot of a deputy only confirmed his low opinion of county cops in general. Colyer didn’t know what was going on, to be sure, but the whole thing smacked of something far more complex than just these murders. They were only peripheral to a larger crime. Something very big was going to happen very soon—but what?

  Another four-wheel-drive came over the hill, a white Lincoln Navigator this time. The sheriff and one of his deputies got out. It was fully dark now, so they lighted the area with their high-beam headlights and a light bar with a row of off-road lamps on the vehicle’s roof. Colyer held a hand to his eyes to mute the sudden glare.

  The sheriff, a middle-aged man with a full head of graying, brown hair, had been a probation officer when he’d been elected to that position. The sheriff introduced himself to Colyer, but there was no friendliness in his handshake. This was his county, his private domain, and he didn’t like federal agents mucking about on his turf. He followed Sawyer and Thorsen to the locations of each of the corpses with his thumbs hooked into his Sam Browne belt, trying to look official. Colyer could see that he was making an effort to hold down his supper as he surveyed the grisly scene.

  “Mrs. Elliot,” Colyer said, hoping that his display of respect might help to deter disrespect for her from the deputies when they inevitably questioned her, “I’d like to go back to my car now. Would you give me a ride?”

  “Sure,” she said simply. They climbed into her truck. She started the engine and jockeyed the big pickup between the two police vehicles.

  Once he was sure they couldn’t be overheard, he said, “Shannon, these deputies think that your husband might have killed those people.”

  “I know,” she said sadly, “I didn’t have to hear what they were whispering to figure that out.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Rod wouldn’t do that,” she said simply. “He has a temper, but he’s incapable of committing cold-blooded murder.”

  “What about the man who was nearly decapitated? That was done with a machete, and survival instructors carry machetes.” He stated it as a fact, but he really didn’t know.

  “Yes, Rod carries a machete for his classes,” she answered honestly. “It’s a tool; he uses it to cut ferns and grasses, to split wood, to dig holes through roots. . . .” She was starting to get angry. “I don’t have to justify his need for a machete to you.”

  “No, you don’t, Shannon. Not unless I find out that he’s using it to cut people’s heads off.”

  “Well then, I don’t have a thing to worry about, do I?” There was fire in her eyes.

  “Look, Shannon,” he said, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder, “I don’t think Rod is a murderer, but the county cops aren’t so sure. It would be best for him if I found him first.”


  “If I know Rod, he’s already concluded that the local cops will probably blame him for this. Having decided that, he’s most likely following the real killers. That’s the only way he’s gonna clear himself.”

  Colyer’s cell phone vibrated for attention from his pocket. It was a text message for him to TX his office in Sault Sainte Marie. He immediately called his office, thinking that it must be urgent for Melanie to contact him here. Oh God, he hoped that everything was all right at home.

  Melanie answered the phone. “Tom, I’m sorry to bother you in the field, but the state police post here has been calling every half-hour for the past three hours to ask if you were back yet. I tried to call you a couple of times, but you must have been out of range of the cell tower.”

  “Sorry, Mel, but I’ve been in the woods for the past several hours. I probably was out of range for a lot of that time. Who called, and was there a message?”

  “It was Lieutenant Perkins, and he just said that he had a lead you might be interested in.”

  “Okay, thanks, Melanie.” He hung up the phone.

  They were where Colyer had parked his car. He turned to Shannon as he opened the door to get out of her truck, and extended his hand.

  “Shannon, I don’t think your husband is a murderer. I want to thank you for the help you’ve given me today. I hope I can call on you again if I need a tracker.”

  She smiled, a little meekly, he thought, and shook the hand he offered. “Yes, Agent Colyer, I’d be glad to help you again. Forgive me for getting a little defensive. The cops have never let Rod forget that he did time in prison.”

  “I promise not to hold his record against him.”

  “You’d be the first cop who didn’t,” she grinned humorlessly.

  Chapter Twenty

  WAITING

  Rod kept the Hyundai at a steady sixty-five miles per hour on the forty-five-mile drive to the Mackinac Bridge. He knew that before he reached the town of Saint Ignace on the bridge’s northern end, every police officer in the UP would be looking for him and this car. He made it through the village of Trout Lake, eleven miles away, without seeing one. With any luck, the patrol cars in this area would take a half hour or so to get to the intersection of M-28 and M-123. Then there would be another fifteen minutes until the responding officer issued an All Points Bulletin. He hoped that it was enough time for him to get within hiking distance of Saint Ignace.

  He reached Castle Rock Road less than twenty minutes later. It was a dirt road that turned south off M-123 into Hiawatha National Forest, and emerged behind Castle Rock, a rocky outcrop turned tourist attraction on the outskirts of Saint Ignace. Ten years ago, the road didn’t even have a name. Today, it was pretty drivable, except when rain turned its clay surface greasy-slick. Many an unsuspecting tourist slid into the woods on one of the road’s curves.

  For Rod, the most attractive feature of this back way into Saint Ignace was the numerous old logging trails that extended from it. It offered a number of places where he could hide the stolen Santa Fe in case he needed it again.

  Rod had no idea where the terrorists had gone, but he knew they wouldn’t have gone far. He’d managed to get out of McBraden that their target was the Mackinac Bridge. After all they’d done to get here, there was no doubt in Rod’s mind that they meant to go through with their plan.

  About a mile from Saint Ignace, he found an old logging road that looked like it hadn’t been traveled in months. He shifted the Hyundai into four-wheel-drive and backed up a few feet to make certain the transfer case had locked, then shifted into drive and pressed the accelerator. There were grass-covered, muddy grooves left from the tires of a multiton log skidder that had passed through years ago. The Santa Fe’s V-6 engine growled, and the vehicle tipped from side to side in the ruts, but its all-terrain tires clawed through, until the SUV was out of sight of the road.

  Rod rifled through the glove box. Most Yoopers carried maps of the Upper Peninsula, in case they had to sort out where some unknown two-track had led them. Sure enough, there were a half dozen road and trail maps in there. There was also a Colt Hammerless 32 automatic in a leather holster. He drew the World War II vintage pistol from its canvas military-style scabbard and pulled its slide back far enough to show the glint of a brass cartridge in the breech; it was loaded. He slid the magazine out of the butt and thumbed out seven rounds; it was now fully loaded, with one in the chamber. It was a good thing that Rod had gotten the drop on Glenn Hueker first when he’d appropriated his vehicle; the Yooper might have tried to shoot it out with him.

  It bothered Rod that he had to presume that the Colt and the Beretta he took from McBraden were already sighted-in. He dared not fire any rounds to confirm that presumption because he didn’t have any more ammunition than what was in the magazines. Gunfire didn’t arouse much curiosity in the Upper Peninsula, where there were more firearms than residents, but he didn’t want to take the chance that someone might get nosy. The fixed, low-profile combat sights on the little Colt weren’t made to deliver long-range accuracy, anyway, but it would be nice to know where a bullet would land.

  The Beretta 9-millimeter he’d appropriated from McBraden held fifteen rounds in each of its three magazines. With a total of fifty-two rounds for both pistols, Rod didn’t think he’d probably live long enough to expend all of his ammunition if it came to a gunfight. The Colt was loaded with plain-Jane, hardball ammo; not especially lethal, particularly in this small a caliber, but it’d kill you if you were hit in a vital organ.

  The 9-millimeter was loaded with Winchester PDX1 Defender bullets. Rod knew the ammunition brand and model from the outdoor magazines he’d read. Although he was legally restricted from owning a firearm, he’d fired a few rounds from other peoples’ guns while sighting-in for them. For a small caliber, this modern expanding-bullet design was devastating. And the 9-millimeter was renowned for accuracy—if the sights were properly adjusted. He’d seen for himself that an awful lot of pistols and rifles that were being used ostensibly to kill had never been sighted-in, because their owners didn’t know how.

  He took the big Power Eagle knife off of his belt and stashed it in his backpack. That knife would surely attract interest in the vicinity of any populated area, even in the UP. The Schrade survival knife went in there with it. He zipped the Colt pistol into an outside pocket of his backpack for now, where he could quickly retrieve it if needed. He tucked the Beretta under his belt in back, directly over the hollow formed by his left butt cheek. He’d packed a gun that way in his drug dealing youth; it was comfortable and secure to carry there, and as quick to draw as if it were in a holster.

  Rod hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. He was tired, and his joints were telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t a kid anymore. But he wasn’t sleepy, and after the events of the past day, he doubted if he could sleep if he tried. He had the pills he’d taken from McBraden, but there was no way he was going to take a tranquilizer. He was too keyed-up and scared for that. Instead, he swallowed two of the Dexedrine tablets, and decided to hike to the bridge in Saint Ignace. It was about three miles from here. He could walk that distance in less than an hour.

  He had no way of knowing on which end of the bridge the two men he was chasing had gone. But he did have the license plate number of the white van tattooed on his brain. They had to come back to set their dirty bombs somewhere along the bridge’s span. It made sense that they wouldn’t place them together, but wide apart to damage as much of the structure as possible, and to maximize casualties. The towers would be ideal, but getting into them undetected would be nigh impossible.

  He pondered the possibilities as he walked toward town. Twice he had to dive into the brush when cars came down Castle Rock Road, but they passed by without seeing him. By the time he’d reached the Castle Rock overpass above Interstate 75, he’d calculated that the most probable bomb locations would be under the roadway. McBraden had doubtless revealed all that he knew about the operation,
but Rod doubted that he was the mastermind, and he probably didn’t have any more information about the plan than he needed to do his part.

  Labor Day was in four days. The state police would clear all maintenance personnel from the span two days before the walk. And for those last two days, the entire length would be under very tight security from the state police and National Guard. The terrorists wouldn’t be likely to set a bomb during the final forty-eight hours, so it would already have to be in place. And it would have to be in a location where it wouldn’t be found. Under the bridge was the most likely place, high up where most people would be too afraid to spend much time checking nooks and crannies. Today or tomorrow were the best days to get the job done.

  If Rod were doing it, he’d exploit the last-minute confusion that naturally went with getting the bridge as good as it could be for the governor’s appearance. Every local politician who drew a paycheck from taxpayer money and had designs on career advancement would be trying to orchestrate something to impress the leader of the state. If Rod were doing it, he’d wait until the last day, the last few hours, before authorities cleared the bridge of maintenance workers, when the chaos would be greatest.

  A pedestrian carrying a backpack didn’t attract much attention in Saint Ignace. The town was a nexus of hiking and recreational vehicle trails, and someone who looked like they’d just come from the woods wasn’t an uncommon sight either. Rod walked the entire length of the village from north to south, where the main street intersected Interstate 75 and became US 2. He did the three-mile trek in good time, feeling extraordinarily energetic because of the Dexedrine tablets he’d taken.

  He passed every motel, hotel, and boardinghouse in town. There were a half-dozen Ford panel vans that fit the description of the vehicle he sought, but none of them matched the license plate number he’d committed to memory. It was possible that they’d changed license plates, or had even changed vehicles, but he had to look. Who knew? He might get lucky.