Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

  The two groups began to mumble and talk among each other and eventually one man stepped forward from each group. “We organized the hunts and we did the shooting,” one of the men said. Service doubted this was the truth, but he admired the effort at leadership.

  “Okay, you two step aside.” To the others he said, “Leave the horse and truck and the rest of you get out of here. There better not be any more trouble.”

  It took fifteen minutes for the groups to disperse. By then there was fairly good light and the ambulance had arrived to transport the injured man.

  The dead horse was still hitched to a black buggy.

  The two men glared at each other.

  “Hunting licenses,” Service said. The two men handed their licenses to him. “We’re writing both of you up for the incompetent discharge of a firearm. We could also charge you for shooting early and not wearing hunter orange, not to mention reckless discharge and not exercising safety, but we’ll overlook most of this. I would think that God would expect you both to settle this peacefully. To forgive is divine, right?”

  The men nodded.

  Jefferies pulled Service aside and asked, “What the hell is ‘incompetent discharge’?”

  “I’m making this up as we go along. Just flow with it,” Service said, returning his attention to the men.

  “Who owns the truck?” Service asked.

  “My brother,” one of the men said.

  “Give your keys to Officer Jefferies. Bryan, see if you can start it.”

  Jefferies got into the truck and began trying to turn over the motor.

  “Did you shoot the vehicle?” Service asked the other man.

  “I didn’t intend to,” the Amish man said.

  “But you hit it.”

  The man nodded.

  “Who owns the horse?”

  “My nephew,” the Amish elder said.

  “Who shot the horse?” he asked the Mennonite, who confirmed culpability with a peremptory nod.

  Jefferies called over to them, “The truck’s kaputsky.”

  “Is the truck your primary transportation?”

  “It is,” the Mennonite said.

  “Is the horse your nephew’s primary transportation?” Service asked the other man.

  “Yes,” the Amish man said.

  “Okay,” Service said, “three shots, two accidents, two primary means of transport equally out of commission. You’re both being cited for incompetent discharge, the damages look equal to me and that’s it, end of discussion and dispute. Ask God to tell you what he thinks about your behavior today.”

  The men stared at Service.

  “Officer Jefferies will bring your citations to you and you pay the fines in Newberry.”

  The men didn’t move. Service stepped toward them and waved his hands at them. “Shoo!”

  The men trudged down the road, one on each side, not looking at each other.

  Jefferies leaned against his truck and started laughing. “Incompetent discharge?”

  “Visit them tonight and tell them the charges are dropped. God intervened. I’ll explain to McKower what went down.”

  “Yes, Your Detectiveness,” the CO said with a grin. “What a job, eh?”

  This time they were lucky. Sometimes things like this resulted in loss of life and then there was no joke. He’d seen enough dead recently.

  Service arrived at District 4 Headquarters as Lieutenant Lisette Mc-Kower was climbing out of her vehicle. “Just back from Star-Range Golf Course,” she said wearily. “The manager called to complain about trespassers and shots fired. I drove out there and found two bozoids in camo ghillie outfits lying on a dead doe in a damn sand trap! The county hauled them in. God, every year the opener draws out the magnum morons. I thought you went to the Soo?” she concluded.

  “I’m on my way.”

  They got coffee from a pot in a small conference room and went into McKower’s office. Service told her about the near religious war and by the time he finished, she had spit coffee on her blotter, laughing.

  Recovering, she said, “We can’t ignore a shooting.”

  “Leave it be, Lis,” he said.

  Suddenly she looked at him harshly. “What were you doing out there with Bryan?”

  “He called for backup and I was closest. Am I supposed to ignore calls like that?”

  “Of course not,” she said.

  “Lis, tell me about Captain Grant.”

  She looked alarmed. “Is there a problem?”

  “No problem. I like working for him, but I never know what he’s thinking.”

  “Sort of like working with you?” she said, hinting at a smile.

  “Did you know he was going to move me to Marquette?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Grady, he’s a reserved gentleman. I think he feels deeply but he seldom shows it. Maybe he can’t show his emotions, but I know one thing: He won’t accept incompetence and he’ll never back off supporting those who can do the job.”

  “Can he handle the politics?”

  She squinted inquisitively in his direction and he told her about Vermillion, some of which she knew and most of which she didn’t.

  “Grady, if the Feebs—or any other agency—try a power play that the captain thinks compromises his people or our mission, he will cut their balls off.”

  Service wondered. He finished his coffee and began to edge toward the door. “Thanks for backing me for this job,” he said.

  She smiled. “You like it?”

  “The old job was better,” he said. “I knew what I was doing. But this—”

  She stopped him short. “Good,” she said. “Keeping you off balance might just keep you out of trouble.”

  “I’m not complaining but when I got this job the plan was for me to report to you and the captain. What happened?”

  “His call.”

  “One more thing?”

  She shrugged.

  “Sheena Grinda. What’s her story?”

  “The ice queen,” McKower said. “Damn good officer. She was up for the job you got, but the captain selected you.”

  Up for the same job? This could explain some of her attitude. “I got the job thanks to you,” he said.

  McKower shook her head. “The captain came to me, Grady. It was his idea. All I did was agree. He wanted you.”

  This was news and he wasn’t sure how to take it. If the captain had handpicked him, he had to have had a good reason. Now he would worry about letting the captain down. Life had been a lot simpler as a CO in a plain brown wrapper.

  17

  Service had his second shower of the day in the locker room at the Sault Ste. Marie Troop post, put on the fresh uniform he kept in the truck, and was ready for the meeting five minutes before it was scheduled to begin. The same cast as last time filed in. Judge Vengstrom from Marquette, Sheriff Freddy Bear Lee, Barry Davey, the two Feebs, the hulking Lieutenant Ivanhoe from the MSP, the same two guys in dark suits slouched in chairs in back. No sign of the county prosecutor. Cassie Nevelev was last to arrive, sweeping in with an air of being so busy she could barely squeeze in the meeting. She wore a chic black suit and high heels that sounded like she was pounding the tile floor with a ballpeen hammer.

  “We’ve missed you, Detective Service,” she said, looking over at him. “Have you interviewed Ms. Genova?”

  “If she’s under surveillance, you already know the answer.” He was in no mood for games.

  “Yes,” Nevelev said. “Of course we know you were there, but we have been patiently awaiting your presence to receive your report. I’m asking specifically about the content of that discussion. An oral report will suffice for now.”

  “She’s not part of this . . . thing,” he said, g
roping for a noun.

  Nevelev rubbed an eyebrow with her finger. “Would you care to enlighten us with regard to how you reached this conclusion?”

  “No,” Service said. “I wouldn’t. What I would like to know is why it took a CO to find four of the five wolves at Vermillion—with three of the four still inside the compound. I also want to know why you didn’t disclose this to my captain, and why FBI personnel at Vermillion told Officer Ketchum it was not in the DNR’s jurisdiction. These are just for starters,” he said, pushing his chair back. Freddy Bear Lee tapped his leg and grinned supportively.

  Nevelev looked amused, enjoying the leverage her position gave her. “You were at Vermillion the night of the explosion, Detective. Why didn’t you find the wolves? The animals were your only reason for being there. You have not answered the question about the suspect, Detective.”

  She had hit him in a tender place. Service leaned forward and stared at the woman. “Hey, if you’re going to withhold information, why not me? We all know the steps to that dance.”

  Judge Vengstrom coughed, suggesting he might speak, but he kept quiet.

  It was Lieutenant Ivanhoe who jumped in. “This is unprofessional,” he said indignantly.

  Service knew from experience that when rank started attacking and jawing about professionalism, they were feeling discomfort, and he was not about to let up.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That’s precisely the point I’m trying to make. If this is a team, fine, but the concept of sharing cuts all directions. If not, then maybe we should forget all this window dressing and save the taxpayers their money.”

  “I’m for that,” the sheriff said, siding with Service. “We’re not getting a bloody thing from you people. Homicides in my county are my business.”

  Service watched Ivanhoe and the others looking nervously at each other and trying to do it inconspicuously.

  “When there is relevant information to share, I can assure you it will be shared,” Nevelev said.

  Service said, “Genova was never part of the AFL. She was used as a conduit. She got anonymous warnings, which she passed on to government agencies. She saved lives.”

  Peterson, the FBI counterterrorism expert, rolled his eyes. “You believe her?”

  “Give me evidence to show me differently,” Service snapped, tapping the table for emphasis. “It’s innocent until proven guilty, or is that rule down the toilet?”

  Peterson reddened, but made no comeback. Nevelev audibly sucked in a breath.

  “What the hell is going on at Vermillion?” Service asked. “What’s the status of autopsies, where is the crime scene report? Do we have a cause of death? Where are the wolves now? And again, why was one of my colleagues told that Vermillion is outside our jurisdiction?”

  Nevelev looked at Barry Davey, who said calmly, “The animals have been relocated to a secure location.”

  “Where?”

  “To a safe place,” Davey said evasively.

  “What about the fifth animal?”

  “It will be recovered,” Davey said.

  “How, by whom?”

  “We have resources,” the USF&WS man said.

  For the next hour Service and the sheriff pressed the others for information, getting nothing but evasive and general responses. It took a great deal of willpower not to storm out of the room.

  Freddy Bear Lee intercepted Service in the parking lot after the meeting. “This is bullshit, but we’ve put those assholes on notice,” the sheriff said.

  “I should have found those animals,” Service said.

  “Never mind the mea culpa. How much do you know about what they were doing at Vermillion?”

  “Not much. I went there once to meet the director.”

  “Did you see the animals?”

  “No.” It had struck him as odd then, but the director had explained they were shy and couldn’t be approached by strangers because it upset them.

  “What did they tell you they were doing?”

  “Wolf research.” He clearly remembered that the director had not been specific and that he had not pressed him because the meeting was strictly a fill-the-square visit at the behest of his captain.

  “Did you see all the facilities?”

  “I saw the main office and laboratory.”

  “I mean all the facilities.”

  There were more? “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it’s something different than they say it is, eh?”

  Service looked at his friend and thought about it. “What do you know, Fred?”

  “I know when they built that sonuvabitch that it was classified. Usually the feds have to file a plan so the state and county can look at the general design. Even the feds have to abide by local building codes and ordinances, eh? All we got was a plan that showed the outline of the area—no buildings, no nothing. The county raised hell, but the feds talked to the state, who said that’s just how she is—national security. Now what in the hell do wolves have to do with national security? Makes ya wonder, eh?”

  This just added to his questions. “What about the autopsies?”

  “The feds brought in their own people and closed the proceedings and the records.”

  “They can’t do that,” Service said.

  “We’ve got a federal judge and prosecutor on our so-called team. I think they can bloody well do what they want. You know the old saw, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.” The sheriff paused. “Look, Grady, one of my people heard from somebody who heard the crime scene team picked up footprints in the dust near the bodies and the footprints don’t fit either of the vicks or the techies.”

  “Somebody went inside after the explosion?”

  “That’s the way the feds see it.”

  The conversation with Freddy Bear Lee haunted Service during the short drive to Bay Mills.

  DaWayne Kota was not in his office. Service was directed again to his house, and when he arrived the tribal CO was outside, standing on his driveway.

  “Been looking for you, DaWayne.”

  “I heard,” the tribal CO said.

  “What were you doing at Vermillion that night?”

  “I already said.”

  “You didn’t say shit. Nind apenindimin, we will trust each other. We have to.”

  Kota chewed his bottom lip for a moment and nodded. “Geget, truly. You want to drive?”

  They drove to Vermillion but were stopped a half mile short of the security gate by men wearing FBI windbreakers. Both men presented their badges but were told it was a federal security area; they were not authorized to enter.

  “They’ve sealed ’er off,” DaWayne Kota said as they drove back down Vermillion Road. “Stop here.”

  Service stopped and Kota pulled out a piece of paper. The crude drawing showed the oval wolf compound, the lab building, the small security gate, and two other small buildings, both of them located near the area designated as protected for piping plovers.

  Kota took a pencil and made some marks inside the oval. “I don’t know this for sure, but when I was in the army I worked with dogs and it looks to me like that compound is equipped for that kind of training.”

  Service let the man’s words sink in. “They told me it was there to let the wolves get adjusted before they’re released.” Although Yogi Zambonet insisted the state would never allow such a release.

  “Could be,” Kota said, his tone implying he didn’t believe it.

  “Goddammit, DaWayne. What the hell were you doing out there?”

  “Kids,” Kota said, shaking his head. “I heard some of our kids from Bay Mills were planning some pranks, going to shake up white hunters coming north.”

  “A bomb? That’s your idea of a prank?”

/>   “No kids did that, especially these kids. They can’t put air in the tires of their bikes and pickups, but I heard there was a problem out here and I thought I’d better have a look just in case. You never know, right?”

  Service didn’t respond. A cop’s gut was his compass.

  Kota said, “After we met that night I looked through the compound. It looked to me like they were training animals in there. I don’t know for what. I also looked in the lab. Those people were shot, Service. There was a bomb, but they were also shot.”

  The detective stared at his colleague. Something Freddy Bear Lee had told him suddenly registered.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “I walked in while the rest of you were jabbering, and before the crime scene people got set up. They were around, not paying attention. They’re used to dealing with the dead, not the rest of us. It was easy.”

  “You left footprints,” Service said.

  Kota shrugged.

  “There were two security camera mounts inside the lab,” Service said.

  “Yah, one camera was blown all to hell.”

  “And the second one?”

  “I wanted to have a look, make sure it wasn’t them kids.”

  “You took it?”

  Kota nodded.

  “What did it show?”

  “Not kids,” Kota said, evading the question.

  “Where’s the camera now?”

  “I have the tape.”

  “Jesus, DaWayne.”

  “Things happened so fast. I have it and I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “You could’ve dumped it.”

  Kota shook his head. “Couldn’t do that. It shows something.”

  Service let him simmer. “You could give it to the FBI.”

  “Don’t trust feds, and then I’d have to explain why I was out there. I could give it to you.”

  Service felt a chill. “We’re withholding evidence.”

  “Givin’ it to you makes it your call what you do with it,” Kota said.

  “Where is it?”

  “Safe,” Kota said.

  “Keep it that way.”