Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

“But Johns was new to the area, an unknown. Did she buy a weapon from you?”

  “No.”

  “So you hired her without knowing anything about her. She could have been a felon.”

  Gitter looked irritated. “She knew weapons and sales. I didn’t want to risk losing an employee of that caliber.”

  “I bet,” Gus said.

  Service ignored Turnage. “You hired her without knowing anything about her except that she was knowledgeable.”

  “The law doesn’t require background checks for employees selling firearms.”

  “She lived with you,” Service said.

  “As previously stated, not at first,” Gitter said, exasperation beginning to show. “That came later.”

  “She was paying cash to hunters to take trophy deer and she was killing wolves herself.”

  “I don’t know anything about any of that. She was the best employee I ever had.”

  Gus left the office and came back with the fifty-caliber weapon they had taken from Wealthy Johns and placed it on the table in front of Gitter. A DNR evidence tag dangled from the barrel.

  “Recognize this?” Service asked.

  “Harris Gunworks, fifty BMG, bolt-action, one of the early models, 1987 or so. They later came out with a semiautomatic version.”

  “This is yours.”

  “No,” Gitter said firmly. “Not mine.”

  “Johns was carrying this when we confronted her. She killed wolves with it.”

  Gitter looked shaken. “I have no knowledge. Check the serial number. There will be a paper trail. That’s the law.”

  “The serial number’s been obliterated.”

  Special Agent Bernard came in with a folder and placed it on the table in front of Service.

  Service flipped through the pages. “The weapon came from Harris Gunworks. You sold it to a man in Indiana.”

  Gitter sucked in a breath and grabbed at the papers. “I did no such thing.”

  “Let’s go through this again,” Service said.

  Gitter exhaled slowly. “I’ve never had an account with Harris Gunworks. I handle sporting weapons. The stuff they make is special, mostly for military and law enforcement. With specialty weapons manufacturers you have to commit to substantial inventory packages in order to be able to buy single pieces. I can’t afford it. Call the people at Harris, ask them.”

  “We already have,” Service said, tapping the paperwork, “but your own records say the fifty came from Harris.”

  Gitter leaned forward. “I did not buy that weapon from Harris Gunworks. Their records will confirm this.”

  “You’re right,” Service said. “You don’t have an account with them, but your own records show that you had one of their weapons. This weapon.”

  “No!” Gitter said. “My attorney is coming. I will wait for him, as is my right.”

  “Our people were here before, checking on this weapon. Wealthy Johns told them that you had sold the fifty to a man in Indiana and that it had been shipped to him.”

  Gitter’s eyes intensified. “That’s nonsense! Firearms can be mailed only from one licensed dealer to another. A nondealer has to purchase a weapon in person so the proper background checks can be run.”

  “But you hired Johns without a background check.”

  “She wasn’t a customer. I didn’t break any law,” Gitter said angrily.

  Service picked up the paperwork. There was a shipping form attached. It showed that the fifty had been mailed by special carrier to a man named Mayhall. Service put the paper in front of Gitter. “It’s against the law to ship a firearm.”

  Gitter glared at Service. “Listen to me. I did not mail a weapon to a customer. Not to that customer, not to any customer.”

  “You’re right,” Service said. “This man in Indiana never bought a weapon. He doesn’t own any guns. He doesn’t even hunt.”

  The store owner looked relieved.

  “But the paperwork says a firearm was shipped.” He handed the papers to Gus. “Call Red Box Express and have them pull their paperwork.”

  “Can I use your phone book?” Gus asked Gitter, who fumbled in a drawer in the credenza along the wall and slid the book across the table.

  Gus found the number, flipped open his cell phone, and tapped in the number.

  He talked quietly on the phone while Service watched Gitter laboring to keep his composure.

  Gus said, “Okay, thanks,” and put down the phone. “RBE got a call for a pickup but when they got here, the shipment wasn’t ready. They keep notes of such things in case customers bitch later. They were never recontacted.”

  “I don’t break the law,” Gitter said.

  “Your paperwork says differently,” Bernard said.

  “You’re hassling me,” the gun dealer said.

  Service was not about to let up. “Let’s say that your girlfriend made up the story about selling the weapon so that she could keep it, and she made the paperwork look like she had sent it, and violated the law. Let’s ignore the fact that she set you up for a violation. Where did she get the fifty?”

  Gitter’s annoyance was changing to another emotion. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth.”

  “But you knew she had it. It’s not against the law to know something unless you know it to be illegal,” Service said. “It’s perfectly legal to own a bolt-action or semiautomatic fifty.”

  Gitter looked tired. “She had it when I met her,” he said after a long pause. “I figured if she owned it, her record had to be clean. Harris doesn’t sell to people who don’t meet the rules.”

  “A bit blinded by his own gun,” Gus said under his breath.

  Service looked up at the BATF agent. “Eddie?”

  The BATF man smiled at Gitter. “Sir, we took three sets of prints off the weapon, and one of them belongs to you.”

  Service had not been surprised at the print findings. Gitter and Johns had been passing the fifty back and forth. Carmody didn’t know about the third wolf kill and the prints suggested Gitter had done it.

  Gitter said, “I want my lawyer.”

  “Mr. Gitter,” Eddie Bernard said, “we’ll wait for your attorney because we’re going to go through everything here and we are going to take our time doing it.”

  Service said, “While more officers are going through your cabin and one owned by Mr. Mayhall of Fort Wayne. If there’s anything in either place, we’re going to find it, Mr. Gitter. We know Wealthy shot two wolves with the fifty. We also know that another wolf was killed by the same weapon and if you did that, it would help you to tell us about it now.” Service knew that if the man didn’t admit to the third wolf, they would probably never get him for it. Prints on the weapon would not be sufficient.

  Gitter’s shoulders slumped but he said nothing more.

  The conservation officers left Bernard in the store and walked outside.

  “Guy’s an asshole,” Gus said.

  “I guess he hooked up with Haloran to get a little and got a whole lot more,” Service said with a grin.

  “You want to grab lunch?” Gus asked.

  “No thanks.” Service had another visit to make, and this one he wanted to do alone.

  Sandy Tavolacci pulled into the parking lot as Service got to his truck, parked, jumped out, and glared.

  “Howyadoin Sandy?”

  “Up yers,” the lawyer shouted as he stormed toward Gitter’s shop.

  It took more than two hours to reach Limpy’s camp. During the drive Lars Hjalmquist called on the cell phone. They had found three wolf heads in a freezer in Gitter’s cabin, and eight sets of antlers, none of them tagged. At the Mayhall camp they found something else.

  “There’s also a bald eagle,” Hjalmquist said, “mounted big as life,
and a box full of eagle feathers. Gitter’s signature is on the bottom of the mount.”

  “That’s a federal rap,” Service said with a grin. “Let Barry Davey know. I think Mr. Gitter has a lot of explaining to do.”

  The afternoon air was warming again, heading into the high fifties. Grady Service marched into the camp and pounded on the door of Allerdyce’s cabin. Honeypat opened the door, and Service brushed past her to find Limpy in his rocking chair with a cup in his hand.

  Service stood in front of him, his eyes dark and hard.

  “Had youse a time over to da Skeeto, didjas?” the old poacher asked, flashing a crooked grin.

  “You broke our deal.”

  Allerdyce’s eyes narrowed and the pitch in his voice changed. “I din’t operate in da Skeeto. I din’t break nuttin’ an’ youse got no evidence udderwise.”

  “That’s right. The problem is that you know all of our rules and our ways.”

  The old man took umbrage. “I found da blue wolf for youse.”

  “You found him for Wealthy Johns, too.”

  Allerdyce grinned. “Heard dat woman lost her head out dere. Waste of such a pretty face, eh.”

  “Why?” Service asked, not expecting an answer.

  “She was da competition, eh? Hired freelancers for cash. I couldn’t have da bitch messin’ in my business. Mebbe I put her on da blue an’ den put you on ’im and I knew you’d take her oot. Just like yer ole man woulda done. Dere’s nothin’ to show—no money passing, eh? Dis is just ’tween professionals.”

  “She paid you for information,” Service said. “We killed her.”

  “Better a green-suit den a civilian like me,” Limpy said with a shrug. “Dat would be murder. Dis way it’s nice an’ legal. No paper, eh?”

  Service stared at the old man and knew Limpy had used him.

  “Don’t get yourself all flusterpated, Sonny. Da wolf’s alive and in the Skeeto, eh? Limpy’s way, we all get what we wanted.”

  Not quite, Service thought. “Your grandson won’t be coming back,” Service said.

  Honeypat stepped forward. “Is Aldo hurt?”

  Service looked at her. “In a manner of speaking. Your bedmate hit on Aldo’s girlfriend.”

  The fury from Honeypat was instant and violent. She slapped Allerdyce across the side of his head and stormed out the door, slamming it with the effect of a bomb. Allerdyce struggled out of his rocker and tried to pursue her, but Service got to the porch ahead of him and blocked his way.

  “You bitch!” Allerdyce shouted into the dark over Grady Service. “I’ll be findin’ youse and you gonna be gettin’ it but good!”

  Service extended his right hand and Allerdyce stared at it. When the old man stuck his hand out and grinned, Service struck him in the nose with a hard, short left jab that sent Allerdyce sprawling down the steps on his back.

  “What’s dat for!” the old man asked incredulously as he lay there feeling his face.

  “New rules, asshole. New rules.”

  After a short stop at home in Gladstone, Service was on the road early in the morning, this time to the Soo for the wrap-up meeting of the investigation team.

  The only people there were Ivanhoe, Sheriff Lee, Wink Rector, and Nevelev. Barry Davey. As in Marquette, there was no sign of Peterson or Phillips.

  Service had a lot of questions, all of which Nevelev answered the same way.

  “Where’s Doctor Brule?” Service asked. He was still curious about how Bridget Galway and Minnis had come to work for Fish and Wildlife.

  “That’s not your concern,” Nevelev said.

  “Where are the Vermillion wolves?”

  “Also classified.”

  “Where’s Minnis?”

  “Who?”

  “Carmody.”

  “Special Agent Carmody is receiving medical treatment,” she said. “He’s no longer in Marquette.”

  Each time she answered, the federal prosecutor looked pleased.

  Service left the meeting seething. Wink Rector overtook him on the way south and waved him up an exit ramp. They pulled onto M-28 and stopped in front of an electric power company building with an American flag made of painted hay bales propped up on the front lawn. The two men met between their parked vehicles and lit cigarettes. The temperature was in the high forties and the weather acting like winter would never come. Service stared at the lawn. No snow on the ground in December?

  “Why were your people so fixated on Genova?” Service asked angrily.

  Rector held up his hands in a gesture of placation. “I’m a resident agent in a backwater.”

  “Goddammit, Wink. Don’t give me that above-your-pay-grade crap.”

  “You never heard any of this from me. Peterson was in the U.K. when Genova was there. He’s never believed she was innocent.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Look, Grady. Since September eleventh the heat is on all agencies for results against all terrorists, foreign and homegrown. Peterson has been predicting the animal rights lulus to go violent for years in this country. When the ballistics matched Genova’s weapon that convinced him he’d predicted correctly and that she was part of it. I think he saw a promotion in the offing.”

  “But Genova didn’t do it.”

  “She left her place that night and our surveillance lost her. She didn’t come back until daylight. While she was gone someone could have taken her weapon and put it back. There was nobody covering the place to know this.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “The fact is that we fucked up.”

  “Why would Haloran take Genova’s weapon?”

  “All we can do is speculate. I don’t know the details, but Peterson seems to think that Genova had something to do with Haloran in the U.K. When he saw the stills of Haloran, he pulled out of the investigation.”

  “Ostrich time.”

  The FBI agent smiled. “Fuckups will not be tolerated in the Dubya presidency. Peterson will be retiring and Genova is in the clear.”

  “She should have been clear for eight years,” Service said.

  Rector shrugged. “Sometimes big turds clog the toilet of justice. There’s more you need to know,” he added. “Brule was trying to train wolves for facility security and surveillance in hostile territory. The experiment had tanked and the plug was going to be pulled for the next fiscal year. The navy trained dolphins for this purpose and the army wanted something of its own. Brule is done with wolves and is being reassigned to a facility in New Mexico,” he added. “He was on Fish and Wildlife’s rolls, but he took his direction from DoD.”

  Service said nothing.

  “Minnis is headed for a VA rehab hospital in California. He’ll recover, but he’s being retired on a full medical.”

  “He’s a killer, Wink.”

  The affable FBI agent nodded solemnly. “You think he’s the only killer working for the government?”

  “Did Minnis know Haloran?”

  “No, and she disappeared when she left the U.K. Nobody knows how she stumbled onto Larola Brule—or should I say Bridget Galway—but Brule’s husband was a gun stroker and bought several weapons from Skelton Gitter. That’s the only connection we know of, but it’s only a short hop from Brule to his wife. Hell, maybe Brule introduced them. We’ll never know the facts now,” he added with a shrug of resignation.

  Gun stroker was fed jargon for a few-degrees-past-avid gun collector. “What happened to the wolves?”

  “They were disposed of.”

  “You mean the government killed them.”

  Rector pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows.

  “Where?”

  “At an unnamed military installation in Alaska. The animals aren’t ESA up there, Grady, if that’s where you’re head
ed with that question. It’s legal to dispose of problem wolves up there.”

  Service understood. If government officials issued orders to destroy animals protected by the Endangered Species Act, they could be prosecuted, but in Alaska they had free rein.

  “All loose ends snipped clean,” he said. “What about SuRo’s Walther? The ballistics matched.”

  “We can’t explain that, but the photos proved she wasn’t the shooter at Vermillion. The fact that the weapon had been wiped down suggested a setup. The theory is that Haloran took the weapon when our surveillance tanked to chase Genova. Maybe she had a grudge against Genova and there it is,” Rector said. “End of story. We’re at war with terrorists and nobody gives a shit about minor-league crap like this right now.”

  “Thanks for leveling with me.”

  “Hey, when elephants dance it’s the grass that suffers. I figured we blades needed a little boost. Remember what we learned when we were kids, The truth shall set you free?”

  Service nodded and flipped his cigarette down the road. “Does knowing all this make you feel free?” he asked the agent.

  Rector flicked his cigarette away and walked back to his sedan without speaking.

  Service telephoned from the truck and met Summer Rose Genova at her compound. She seemed friendly enough, but uncharacteristically subdued. He put two photographs on the table. One was the still taken from the surveillance video. The other was a glossy from the morgue.

  “You knew her,” he said.

  Genova said, “When are you people going to leave me alone?”

  “I’m here on my own. This is off the record.”

  “I met her at a fund-raiser in London,” Genova said. “She was an actress who had several minor character roles in Irish and Brit films. She was personable, fun, and said she was ‘about animal rights.’ She dropped some names to establish her bona fides, but I didn’t know any of them.”

  “Maybe you knew one,” Service said. An actress? That could explain Haloran’s proficiency with accents.

  Genova’s eyes dropped to the table and she clasped her hands. “Minnis was one of the names. She wanted to meet him and she pushed me hard.”

  “Minnis was the person who tipped you about impending attacks, and you didn’t give her what she wanted.”