OK, I can’t make this stuff up, even if I tried. It was all too bizarre. But there was more:
The Wendigo is part of the traditional belief system of a number of Algonquin-speaking peoples, most notably the Ojibwa and Saulteaux, the Cree, the Naskapi, and the Innu people. Although descriptions can vary somewhat, common to all these cultures is the view that the Wendigo is a malevolent, cannibalistic, supernatural being. They were strongly associated with the winter, the north, and coldness, as well as with famine and starvation.
Basil Johnston, an Ojibwa teacher and scholar from Ontario, gives a description of a Wendigo:
“The Wendigo was gaunt to the point of emaciation, its desiccated skin pulled tightly over its bones. With its bones pushing out against its skin, its complexion the ash gray of death, and its eyes pushed back deep into their sockets, the Wendigo looked like a gaunt skeleton recently disinterred from the grave. What lips it had were tattered and bloody, unclean and suffering from suppurations of the flesh. The Wendigo gave off a strange and eerie odor of decay and decomposition, of death and corruption. The Wendigo is seen as the embodiment of gluttony, greed, and excess: never satisfied after killing and consuming one person, they are constantly searching for new victims.”
***
I wasn’t sure about anything. I didn’t have even a good hunch or gut feeling to go on at this point. But there was one thing that was patently obvious; ley lines played no role in the deaths whatsoever. Lac du Flambeau was located well outside the Devil’s Triangle as asserted by my new, best friend at the Mendota asylum. They were simply products of his disturbed mind and nothing more.
I thought I had the makings of a sensational story and I continued to tweak it when I could spare the time. So a bear or Wendigo, which was it? Or maybe it was a human with powerful strength? I didn’t have a clue as a Hollywood detective might say. I kept up on the news stories about Gloria’s death, but none had yet made the connection between the two deaths. Some reporters were simply lazy in doing their due diligence. A little checking around with the townsfolk could have led to the discovery of the Rainwater bloodline, just as I had found. That tidbit alone would have made for a good story, but I wasn’t ready to disclose it just yet. I needed more information to flesh out the story and that, I believed, would come in time. And it did, much to my horror.
***
His name turned out to be Fred Caruthers, a driver for Yellow Line Express based in Chicago. According to my police source, Jim Tomlinson, Fred was identified as the trucker who gave Denny St. Germain a lift from the Petro station to the weigh station. He had been with the company for over ten years and was considered by his bosses to be an honest, reliable employee. Fred related that he met Denny at the station while having a late lunch and they struck up a conversation. The conversation led to Denny asking for a ride as far as the I-94/I-38 split some thirty-five miles north. Fred explained he was going on to the Twin Cities via 94 and Denny was heading north on 38 to visit his great grandmother. There was nothing amiss or unusual during the drive that only lasted about forty-five minutes. Fred wished him luck after dropping him at the weigh station. He was shocked to learn of Denny’s death and its circumstances. He said he seemed to be a friendly, polite kid, rare qualities these days among youth, he added to his official statement. His driving logs were examined and no irregularities were noted, but they could have been easily fudged. Regardless, the impression of Fred’s story was favorable. He didn’t exhibit any of the usual tells that a perpetrator inadvertently reveals during a police interrogation.
As far as the cops were concerned, Fred was clean. But they were occasionally tailing him and his truck when he made his trips through Wisconsin just to be certain. Unmarked cars were used to leapfrog Fred’s truck so no particular vehicle would be spotted to raise suspicion. Even if it were, Fred would simply believe that a cop was on the prowl for a speeding trucker and nothing more. It was an ongoing cat and mouse game and a routine part of the trucking business. Now that was due diligence, I thought. Jim mentioned nothing untoward had been observed so far. He shouldn’t have mentioned these things to me, but, of course, cleverly said we were talking off the record. Damn! Double damn! Jim had just cuffed my hands and I wasn’t even under arrest.
***
Every two years, the Indian tribes of northern Wisconsin gathered for a major event. I didn’t say powwow, but that’s what it was: Oneida, Potawatomie, Ho-Chuck, Ojibwa and Menomonee along with smaller, federally recognized tribes in attendance. The Menomonee were hosting the powwow this year on 1,500 acres of land a member owned outside of the small town of Crystal Falls. A different tribe would be selected to host the next one. It was considered an honor to be chosen to hold the five day event and bragging rights were at stake in vying for the largest get-together of its kind in the state. Each tribe would erect teepees in their respective enclaves on the property and then meet in common areas to trade and gossip with their brethren. But it was much more than a social event; it was a political and business one that had serious consequences for these Native Americans.
Politics and business were intertwined on the reservations. Indian Casinos, hotels, gas stations and similar cash cows greatly benefitted when Uncle Sam was forced to recognize the sovereignty of Native American lands. In a unanimous decision, the U.S. Supreme Court held not only that states do not have authority to tax Indians on Indian reservations, but that they also lacked the authority to even regulate those activities on Indian reservations. So, the stage was set for Indian gaming. Within just a few years, enterprising Indians and tribes began to operate Indian bingo operations in numerous, different locations around the country. And from bingo, the gaming quickly expanded to other forms of gambling.
Managing these cows required political savvy and old boy lobbying of state and federal legislators alike. Getting their own elected to congress remained a top priority as well. However, the tribes no longer had a problem hiring the best lawyers, lobbyists and PR firms that money could buy. But a coordinated strategy, a game plan was required among the tribes since they held similar interests, goals and enterprises. The costs associated with this effort were apportioned among the various tribes based on their population, an egalitarian and very Indian solution to a problem. The bottom line of this event was the bottom line on their respective balance sheets. Money was always needed to sustain their ways of life, their cultures and their very existence as America’s first peoples.
***
The managing editor wasn’t keen on the idea, but I persisted in beating his brow. I eventually wore him down and he finally acquiesced to my request. I would cover the meeting in Crystal Falls and not the senior political reporter for the paper, Amy Windsor. She’d be mightily pissed, but she’d get over it in time. Maybe as some point I could throw her a bone in return. I owed her that much and perhaps more. Being October, it was brat fest time and Amy would likely get stuck covering some of the activities. It was an onerous task, especially for a seasoned professional like Amy. Maybe she wouldn’t forgive me after all. No matter, I got what I wanted.
And what I wanted above all else was to interview John Tallgrass, the chief of the Ojibwa, who would be present at the powwow, proudly representing his tribe. Besides being the titular head of a large, prominent tribe, he also owned a prosperous millwork in Vilas County. The tribal council, collectively, held the real power in governance of the tribe and John was mostly just a figurehead, but still a member of the council in his own right. I’d tried to talk to him while in Lac du Flambeau, but he was always too busy or so he claimed. But I believed I’d be able to buttonhole him during the event. My ruse would be a straightforward, simple one: I was covering the event for the Sentinel. However, my true motive was to find out more about the long ago curse, the ongoing feud between the two clans and especially the Wendigo and its possible connection to the murders. I didn’t believe the Wendigo theory of the crimes in the least, but I thought a mythological, gruesome creature beli
eved in by the Ojibwa and others might make a great story on its own merits. Halloween was still several weeks away and I thought my paper might just go for this angle. It turned out I was correct and it was one hell of a story, but not in the way I expected.
***
I booked a room at a small, mom and pop motel about thirty miles from Crystal Falls. I couldn’t find one any closer. The event drew many hundreds of people from the Great Lakes Region, even though most attendees had no direct role in the powwowing or the political/business side of the meeting. Guests were welcomed during the day and could visit the various encampments to buy handmade trinkets and crafts, but had to leave at dusk. The Menominee Tribal Police enforced the rules and there were few problems other than some shooting-off of illegal fireworks and many incidences of drunkenness among both the Indians and Anglos. Despite the serious work to be done, it was like a celebration, a tribute to Native American heritage and one big, raucous party combined.
April Windsong was the first to go, so to speak. She was an Ojibwa councilwoman and this was to be her fourth powwow with the other tribes. She, like her sisters and brothers, looked forward to these five days of fun and work. But she didn’t even make it to the opening ceremonies scheduled for the following morning. Her lifeless body was found hanging by its feet in a small copse of woods directly behind her teepee. She had been gutted like a deer with her internal organs removed and missing. The gutting appeared to be a sloppy, messy job by all accounts. Blood and viscera were congealed on the ground below her head. Her limbs had been pulled out of their sockets and her right arm was missing. The thing or person who’d done this horrible act must have been in a hurry according to the pundits who claimed to be in the know. The authorities speculated she’s gone to the woods to relieve herself because she had an involuntary bowel movement at the time of her death. I filed the story with my boss, but left out the part about the feces. I was certain I was getting closer to whom or what was responsible for the grisly deaths. It would be here, stuck in the middle of nowhere Indian territory, we would confront the thing and/or person that committed the crimes. For some quirky reason, my mind flashed on the old joke: “What do you mean ‘we’, white man?” I should have said “I” instead.
I’d have to check out which clan April belonged to. If my hypothesis was correct, she was Rainwater. If so, there were now three Rainwater murders in a span of three months, each roughly one a month apart. I checked my tablet and confirmed my suspicion: each occurred during a full or near full moon. There were too many coincidences to be ignored. Maybe there was some mythological creature on the prowl after all. Perhaps, it was a werewolf avenging an earlier wrong? The full moon bit certainly played into that scenario. Perhaps I was losing my sanity, because I didn’t believe in such things. Well, maybe when I was a kid reading comic books I believed in them, but certainly not now as a rational adult.
The morning ceremonies went off without a hitch. It was decided they would proceed despite April’s death. After the welcoming comments from the Menominee chief, the parade of tribes began with each one showing off its best war bonnets, animal skins and other regalia of its tribe. Some Indians walked and some rode ponies around the ersatz parade ground. I watched with rapt interest, not so much the parade itself, but searching for John Tallgrass in the crowds. I didn’t spot him. The serious discussions of business and politics would come later in the evening in the teepee of the Menominee chief. Then I might have the opportunity to meet with him.
Everyone at the site was now well aware of what had happened, but the story was embellished with each retelling. Facts easily morphed into fiction, as was usually the case, since they were the first casualties in a story this horrific. I periodically monitored my radio scanner for any information on the murder, yet the cops seemed to be tightlipped about the case. However, I did learn the FBI had been called in to assist the state patrol with the investigation. I thought that it was a great move since the local and state authorities didn’t seem to be making any progress on their own. The FBI just might energize the case and find the culprit or culprits responsible for the murders. I, for one, hoped so since it would put a nice cap on my story: “FBI Solves Wisconsin Serial Killer Murders!” “Ghoulish, Deranged Escapee from Mental Hospital Arrested in Crystal Falls!” Yeah, something like that would work nicely.
Unfortunately, that outcome never happened. Instead, there would be more carnage and bloodshed. Next was Andy Spooner to die at the hands of the monster that tormented the Ojibwa. It wasn’t a pretty sight by all reports of his death. Yes, he was Rainwater, as I later determined. Andy was the chairman of the board of The Torch Casino in Lac du Flambeau and, therefore, a powerful, prominent figure in the community. His casino was responsible for pouring millions of dollars into the Ojibwa tribal council’s coffers each year. He was a rainmaker and the council damn well knew it. He could do no wrong in its eyes, as long as he continued to generate big bucks for the Ojibwa. He was a respected figure in its society and a mentor for many of the tribesmen employed at his casino and adjacent hotel. He regularly attended these powwows and his advice was always welcomed when it came to business matters. That was his forte and most important contribution to the council. And he never seemed to disappoint in his suggestions and recommendations for sound, practical actions to secure the Ojibwa’s place in the larger, white society.
His body, oh my God, his body was a mess. That was the best way I could describe it. There was little left of it and that was what disturbed everyone who learned of his gory demise and desecration. The usual dismembering of limbs had occurred, but there was much more to its destruction that defied comprehension. Yes, his right arm was missing as well. But his body solely consisted of large lumps and puddles of pulp and little more. A generous load of excrement had been directly deposited on his meager remains as if his murderer was marking his spot and mocking his victim. It was a disgusting sight, even when viewed from the crime scene photos.
Andy had been walking a little used path through the woods to reach his car parked in the makeshift lot on the edge of the property. He never made it to his destination because he was ambushed by his attacker before he could do so. At least that much was obvious, but the rest of his murder less so. He was likely taken by total surprise. Whether he was able to put up a fight or not was unknown. In any case, he was dead. More dead than all of the others, if that were possible. For some strange reason, I wasn’t emotionally moved by his death. Maybe I’d been hardened by the deaths of the others and that accounted for my feelings. I didn’t know.
The intertribal rodeo went on as if nothing had happened. It was a major contest of wills that pitted the tribes against one another to prove which one was the best at bull riding, cattle roping, and the other skills learned long ago from cowboys. Everyone enjoyed the show, even me. It went on for two full hours and everyone vigorously clapped at the end of the performance. Other than the murders, it was the highlight of the event, no doubt about it.
***
I’d finally arranged for an interview with John Tallgrass. I’d set it up through one of his fellow council members and I was looking forward to what I believed to be a one-on-one meeting. I’d finally have my chance to ask some probing questions about what was going on. Whether he’d answer them or not was another matter. All of the tribes had sophisticated public relations machines these days and were extremely sensitive to any adverse information. I had to be damn careful in parsing the questions, but still thought I could pull the interview off.
John was an imposing figure, he stood over six feet tall and dominated the teepee we were standing in at the moment. Two of his aides were present and likely would serve as witnesses in court, if my story was factually wrong or misleading or simply unfavorable to the Ojibwa. After introductions, I explained the purpose of interview. I wanted to produce a story, using the powwow as a backdrop, to explain Ojibwa legends and myths as told in the oral tradition of his people. I mentioned the Ojibwa, in part
icular, had a rich, cultural history in storytelling. I thought by juxtaposing the tales with the phenomena of Indian entrepreneurship would make for a great story and told him so. John allowed it was an interesting angle, but insisted he wanted to read it before it went to press. He mentioned his lawyers would scream bloody murder if I’s weren’t dotted and T’s not properly crossed. I found his phrase of ‘bloody murder’ to be an interesting one and apropos in these circumstances. He added, in the old days, a simple handshake would have nicely sufficed.
As nothing more than filler for my story, I asked about Ojibwa enterprises and how the profits were divided among the tribe and the good things that resulted. It was my first pitch and it was a softball, as intended. John spent the next ten minutes or so discussing the new senior’s home in Lac du Flambeau that was at full occupancy. Elderly people could now receive assisted care with minimal, out-of-pocket cost. He noted that many of their tribe lived at a subsistence level and could ill afford expensive health and home care. The senior’s home also had a medical clinic that provided services for free, thanks to the largesse of The Torch Casino. He considered the home to be the jewel in the crown of the council’s philanthropic efforts so far. He then cited plans to build an indoor swimming pool on the property behind the elementary school next year. He mentioned the cold, bleak Wisconsin winters and how the pool would be a great venue for the self imposed shut-ins who had few distractions and even fewer recreational outlets, other than binge drinking while watching TV. He continued talking about other projects on the council’s drawing board that would greatly improve the quality of life for his people.
Macabre Memories Page 3
