Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

  “This was unsolicited?”

  “Not exactly. Last time I bagged him I told him to watch for a fifty and if he located one, I might owe him a favor.” This was the sort of thing most officers did, using what they had to get more, banking and trading favors. Hjalmquist had fifteen years of experience and knew what he was doing.

  “Where’d he see this?”

  “Up in that rolling country southwest of the Porkies.”

  “You buy what he says?”

  “He’s an old-timer who doesn’t want his knuckles rapped again. His old lady will stick it to him.”

  “You make the trade?”

  “It’s not like I won’t get him again. He can’t help himself. I gave him a warning. He was one very happy old coot. He says there’s a woman named Wealthy Johns. She’s the one he saw using the weapon. She works for Skelton Gitter at Horns. She’s also his housemate, if you get my drift.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Seen her around and heard about her. Good-looking barfly with bittuva rep with the boys. She shoots over to South Superior Gun Club all the time. Supposed to be a helluva shot.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Just her, and old man Cacmaki said it sounded like a howitzer. What do you want me to do?”

  “Gitter’s supposed to be legit.” The man was a well-known taxidermist with a big shop in Ironwood. He sold guns and fishing gear and won awards for his mounts. “How about you go over to the store when she’s working, inquire about the fifty, see what she says.”

  “It’s not illegal to have one.”

  “Unless its been modified to automatic. Just tell her you’re interested and let her take it from there. I want to know how she reacts.”

  “I’ve got a pass-day tomorrow and Joan and I have to do something over in Hurley, but I’ll get over to Gitter’s the next day and give you a buzz afterward. That work for you?”

  “Thanks, Lars. Way to keep your ear to the ground.”

  “Sometimes I think my ear’s glued to the ground.”

  “Think of it as an occupational advantage.”

  “That’s a good one,” Hjalmquist said with a chuckle.

  Service felt good when he got out of the truck. If there was a fifty in the U.P. it had to turn up sooner or later. Maybe this was the break they needed.

  6

  Lars Hjalmquist called back the same afternoon that Jason Nurmanski was arraigned in Crystal Falls.

  “I talked to Wealthy Johns,” Hjalmquist said. “But I wasn’t alone. Brakelight Bois stopped by for coffee and I took him along. I didn’t figure he’d be too threatening.”

  Service laughed. CO Jamie Bois of Bessemer had twenty-three years in the field and long ago had lost whatever fire he’d started with, which had not been much. When younger officers got a call, they tended to accelerate toward the action. By contrast, Bois tended to step on the brake and debate the pros and cons, earning him his nickname. His reluctance to engage meant he wrote few tickets, preferring to spend time in coffee shops and talking to school groups. Alone, information developed by Bois tended to be suspect, but Bois had only tagged along with Hjalmquist and Lars was the kind of professional you could depend on in any circumstance.

  Hjalmquist continued. “I told her I’d heard she had a fifty and I was curious about it, said I’d never seen one. She said Gitter owned one but sold it to a guy from Indiana. She said it was a bolt-action made by Harris Gunworks in Phoenix.”

  “Not her weapon?”

  “She said Gitter owned it until he sold it.”

  “Did you ask for paperwork?”

  “No, she seems pretty sharp and she’d know that we don’t look at records unless there’s a crime under investigation and rarely without a subpoena. I didn’t want to stir her up. I just made a polite inquiry and she answered politely.”

  “No concern on her part?”

  “None. She was calm, friendly, businesslike, like a visit from a couple of woods cops was ho-hum.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Nice, I guess.” Lars was married to Joan and she was the only woman he seemed to see.

  “Describe her.”

  “Okay, let’s see . . . five-two to five-four, severely short black hair, blue eyes, well built, good figure. Do you want me to go back and push her?”

  “No, let’s just keep our eyes and ears open and see if the weapon turns up again. If it’s gone to Indiana we may have to take a look at that angle later.”

  “Why the interest?”

  “A fifty was used to pop a bear over near McMillan in September. The shooter took the gallbladder and left the rest to rot.”

  “I never heard of a woman poacher,” Hjalmquist said thoughtfully, “especially not one shooting a fifty-caliber cannon, but I guess there’s always a first time, eh? If any woman could shoot a fifty, Johns could. The newer commercial models have a kick no worse than a twelve-gauge. Give a shout if you want anything else.”

  Service was pleased and quickly informed the captain, who agreed they should not press the woman unless there was evidence of her doing something illegal with a fifty. If the weapon was sold and gone, there was no point in stirring the pot.

  Late that day he learned of a new wrinkle in the Nurmanski case.

  The young poacher had been arraigned as planned, but contrary to his claim of not wanting a lawyer, he had somehow gotten connected to Severino “Sandy” Tavolacci, who pled him not guilty. Service hadn’t been there, but Simon sat in and called afterward to fill him in. Nurmanski had refused to post bail and seemed to prefer to sit in jail. What the hell was Sandy doing with Jason? Tavolacci was the mouthpiece-of-choice for major poachers across the western Upper Peninsula, but he made a point of keeping on good terms with DNR law enforcement personnel. Service made a note to call Tavolacci at some point and talk to him. Jason Nurmanski wasn’t the sort of client Sandy handled: too small in scope, too young, not enough money. Tavolacci’s involvement didn’t make sense.

  It was just after 7 a.m. and Service was sitting at the table in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to be done. Nantz had called him just after 3 a.m. saying she was having “those feelings” again. She had awakened him from a sound sleep, and her voice immediately turned his thoughts to sex. He had said something dumb and she had snapped at him.

  “Not those feelings, Service! It’s what I felt before September eleventh.”

  She had rambled on about how she hated having premonitions. He had tried to reassure her that most of them didn’t materialize, and she had growled at him, “Mine do.”

  He had tossed and turned the rest of the night. She was alone and un­-happy and there was nothing he could do to help her. He definitely needed to take that trip to Grand Rapids, talk to Kaylin Joquist, and get over to Lansing.

  Despite a lousy night’s sleep, he was out of bed, his morning weight-work done, and determined to get enough caffeine and nicotine into his bloodstream to help get him moving.

  The telephone rang just as he reached for the coffeepot.

  “Service, Joey Pallaviano.” Pallaviano was the sheriff of Iron County. “I just left your buck-whacker Jason Nurmanski. He’s in the mood to talk. You’d better get over here.”

  “Is his lawyer going to be there?” Service had dealt with Tavolacci several times and didn’t like the man. In his mind the lawyer was worse than the criminals he represented.

  “No, the kid dismissed Sandy this morning and the little shit’s been on the phone to me and the prosecutor trying to argue his way back in, but Nurmanski’s adamant. He said he doesn’t want a lawyer, especially Sandy. He’s jacked up pretty good.”

  “Be there in two hours,” Service said. “Thanks, Joey. Can you call del Olmo?”

  “I called him first,” the sheriff said. “He asked
the same questions you asked. Do they make you guys with a cookie cutter?”

  Service was filling a thermos and smoking his second cigarette of the day when the phone rang again.

  It was Captain Grant. “Joquist, that fellow sitting tight in the Kent County Jail, committed suicide late yesterday afternoon under circumstances being described as suspicious. The Kent County people are investigating. I meant to call earlier, but I heard that Fish and Wildlife have been visiting Joquist.”

  “Working on a deal?”

  “I heard they were talking and that’s all I can verify.”

  Service tried to get the new information in perspective. Kaylin Joquist had been a possible link to the poaching operation, and he and his lawyer had done everything in their power to keep him inside. Now he was dead, and suddenly another poacher who seemed equally content inside wanted to talk.

  “I just got off the phone with Joey Pallaviano,” Service told his superior. “Jason Nurmanski wants to talk.”

  There was no need to remind the captain who Nurmanski was.

  “Interesting coincidence,” the captain said.

  “My thought too,” Service said. “I’m headed over there and I’ve asked del Olmo to join me.” Were the two events related? And if Joquist’s death wasn’t a suicide, had his conversations with Fish and Wildlife been a causative factor?

  “Let me know how it goes,” Grant said.

  Service closed his eyes. He should have gotten his ass down to see Joquist and Nantz. He cursed himself for not moving more quickly. It wasn’t speed that killed investigations. It was procrastination.

  Two hours later he pulled into the parking lot behind the Iron County Jail, and Sandy Tavolacci hurried toward him with mincing steps. The lawyer was short and wide, dressed in his usual black trench coat with a turned-up collar.

  “Hey Service.”

  “Sandy.”

  “I got a client here.”

  “Me too,” Service said.

  “I heard my client wants to talk to you fellas. He oughta have the advantage of my expertise, am I right?”

  “Who’re you talking about, Sandy?”

  The lawyer looked befuddled. “Da fuck ya tink? Jason Nurmanski.”

  “You’re the attorney of record?”

  “Yah, on paper. Dis kid, up dere he ain’t got it wired so good, eh?” Tavolacci put his forefinger at his temple, made a swirling motion and shrugged.

  “What’s that supposed to tell me?” Service asked.

  “Just dat he don’t seem ta be tinkin’ too good. He coulda walked on bail. I told ’im if he didn’t have money, no problem-o. I got a cousin who can post bond, eh? But dis kid says he likes it where he is. Who woulda thunk it?” Tavolacci shrugged again. “It’s a pain workin’ wit amateurs, eh?”

  “Where did your client get the money to afford you?”

  “It’s pro bono, I gotta heart. Da law ain’t all money, eh.”

  Service let him talk.

  “I get a pro, we come in, I plead ’im, we post bail, powdee-pow, we’re outta dere and I bill maybe an hour, two tops. A good lawyer don’t gotta cost you both your nuts. I just wanna help this kid, maybe get him going straight.”

  That would be a first, Service thought. Tavolacci was as peculiar as the clients he represented, but despite his dunce act, he had a sharp mind and he had put a lot of people back in the woods who didn’t belong there. But he also had to interact with a lot of woods cops and when he thought something wasn’t quite right, he usually found a way to signal his concern. In this case Service had a pretty good idea what Sandy’s concern was, if not why. Tavolacci handled pros, not amateurs, so how had he gotten hold of Nurmanski, and why?

  Sheriff Pallaviano suddenly appeared in the parking lot and walked directly to them. “He’s waiting,” he told Service. “Simon’s already in there.”

  Tavolacci started to walk with Service, but the sheriff grabbed the lawyer’s sleeve. “Not you, Sandy.”

  “Da kid’s mixed up, Joey. I’m ’is fuckin’ lawyer.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with your former client, but you’ll have to do it later. You’re not on the A-list today.”

  “Hey Service,” the lawyer yelled out. “Yer an asshole, just like yer old man.”

  “Who tipped Sandy?” Service asked when the sheriff joined him inside the building.

  “Loose lips,” Pallaviano said. “The little fuck makes it a point to know county employees. You know how things work up here.”

  Jason Nurmanski looked even more spooked than he had the afternoon Service and del Olmo arrested him. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, his hair still oily and matted. They met in a tiny interrogation room in the jail. Simon stood by the door, while Service sat at the table with the prisoner.

  “You want to talk, we’re here to listen,” Service said. “What’s on your mind, Jason?”

  Nurmanski opened his hands in a gesture Service took as a plea. “Dude, I done wrong. I fucked up and I know I gotta pay, but not here, eh.”

  “Iron County’s accommodations not to your liking?” Service asked.

  The prisoner’s eyes hardened. “I got information. You get me moved, different name when I get out, da whole thing. You dudes can do dat.”

  “Michigan doesn’t have a witness protection program, Jason,” Service said. “That’s federal.”

  “I don’t give no fuck who you gotta talk to,” Nurmanski said. “This ain’t no fuckin’ joke.” The panic in his voice was rising.

  “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “I got my reasons,” the young poacher said.

  “Anything to do with Kent County?”

  The prisoner’s eyes flashed with fear. “Why don’t matter. What I got is what matters.”

  “Well, let’s hear what you have. We don’t buy until we see the merchandise. Where’d you get the Remington?”

  “It was give to me.”

  “It’s stolen.”

  “If you say so, dude.”

  “Receiving stolen goods is a felony.”

  “Do you want to hear what I got or not?”

  Service nodded.

  Nurmanski reached out a hand. “Gotta smoke?”

  Service set a pack and his lighter on the table.

  The prisoner lit up and inhaled deeply. “Couple weeks before I seen you dudes I was up to Wakefield, place called da Copperhead Inn. I met dis chick inna bar. A little older den me, but pretty good, ya know? A player, major babe. We threw down a few and pretty soon she’s yankin’ my snake under the table and I tell her we ought to get outta dere. She drove me to da Mer-can over to Iron River.”

  “The American Inn?”

  “Right, the Mer-can, right, on da left as you go down the hill into town.”

  “We know where it is. What room number?” Simon del Olmo asked.

  Nurmanski shrugged. “How do I know, dude? You don’t pay attention to dat shit when you got a hard-on, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Right,” Service said. “Iron River’s a good hour from Wakefield. Why so far?”

  “She said she’s married, dude, din’t want her old man findin’ out.”

  “Did she already have a room there?”

  “No, I went in an’ got it.”

  “Did you pay?”

  Nurmanski looked embarrassed. “No, dude, she said it was her treat.”

  “So you signed in. Single or double?”

  “Single, no sense wastin’ money, dude.”

  “Did you register in your own name?”

  “Yah.”

  “Whose license plate number did you use, hers?”

  “No man, I made one up. Dey never check dat shit.”

  “Okay, so you checked in.
Where was she?”

  “Out in da truck. She come in tru da back door.”

  “She never went through the lobby?”

  “No, dude. I went out and tolt her da room number and I go in first and open da door and den she slips in.”

  Simon interrupted. “I thought you didn’t remember a room number.”

  “I forgot. It was one forty-three. So, we like scromped all night, dudes—”

  “Scromped?” Service said.

  “Did it, got it on, like that,” Simon said, acting as interpreter.

  “Right on, dude,” Nurmanski said. “Next mornin’ she asks me I wanna earn some cash. How? I ask. She says, ‘Bring me a big buck, ten-point at least, and you get five hundred cash, which is worth twice that if you had to report it to da IRS.’ I told her I don’t pay no taxes and she said, ‘You want da goodies or not?’”

  The poacher took a puff on the cigarette and continued. “I tolt her sure. We go out to her truck and she brings Remington outta case. Says it’s new but clean, it’s da best for poppin’ deer. Shoots straight, not much sound. I thought what da hell, and she said when I got back we’d get it on again. She was so hot, eh? I said yes and right dere in da parkin’ lot in broad daylight she goes down on me. Dudes, it wasn’t da money as much as I’d like ta get down wid dat again.”

  “You got the buck, but you didn’t keep your date.”

  “Right. But she showed up here yesterday morning. She had ID saying she was my sister, only I ain’t got no sister. She told me she heard I’d gotten busted an’ dat when I got out I better keep my mout shut. She said another guy down in da Kent County lockup was about to learn da hard way to keep quiet.” Nurmanski fumbled to light another cigarette. “When I seen her walk in, I was like that.” The poacher held up his forearm and fist. “After she talks to me, I’m like Jell-O. She scared da shit outta me. Dis morning I hear coupla guards talking about a suicide in the Kent County lockup yesterday and I decide I’m not made for dis shit. I called da sheriff.”

  “Who is she?” Service asked.