by Dave Balcom
She had gotten up early this morning and typed all of her notes into readable and understandable format, and became convinced that there was no connection.
“All the property that Mickey Buchanan had purchased included full mineral rights, so big deal. The prices he paid for the land seem fair to surprisingly low, but they were consistent with other transactions where the mineral rights had already been sold.”
“Do you have any idea how much land in your neighborhood has its mineral rights intact today?” I was dredging my reporter memory about who would know that and who might share it.
“I bet I could call the Department of Natural Resources oil and gas division,” she said.
“They might be reluctant to tell you and they might not even know. They’re pretty focused on state land, I believe.” Then I remembered his name. Hugh Holt was a guy I had gone to college with. He had been editor of a petroleum industry trade magazine in Mount Pleasant for years, and then he’d bought the sheet. I wondered if he was still there.
I gave Jan his name and suggested she call him.
“Should I drop your name?”
“I’m not sure he’d remember it, but we did go fishing together once. No harm, but I think he’ll either know or he’ll be able to tell you how to find out.”
“Great, I’ll call him right now. You might look at the email and see if you see anything there. I’ll let you know what Hugh tells me.”
I felt like I used to feel when I first went to the news desk and wasn’t out chasing breaking news any longer.
It’s axiomatic that if you want to build a team of reporters, you have to avoid stealing all the good stories or “big footing” them on important work.
Knowing that, it was still difficult to sit with a reporter, brainstorm the coverage and then, while they went out and lived it first hand, you churned out pages filled with tired copy, waiting for them to come back and let you know what happened.
Here I sat on my mountain, as fully engaged in this story as you could be while only talking on the phone, while Jan, her staff, and the police lived the moment.
I was three-quarters of the way into a complete mope when Edmonds returned my call.
“Are you scared yet?” He started the conversation. He had this husky conversational voice that to me always sounded full of good cheer. He had always been a happy guy.
“No, should I be?”
“Just kidding. You come up with any idea of what Reese meant when he said that?”
“Rick, it goes back to an incident years ago, and it ties back to Raymond Means.”
“You ran around with Ray? I never knew that.”
“No, we didn’t run around together. He was part of a group that went steelhead fishing. There was an incident…”
“Oh, Mickey told me about that. I had forgotten, Jesus! You really caused a stir that day. I don’t think we saw each other between then and when you left so I never asked you about it, but Mickey was just, ‘Ohmigod, Rick,’” He had put on a solid impression of Buchanan’s voice and speech pattern. “‘You shoulda seen him. He just busted those fuckers. Quick as a snake, some kinda martial arts bullshit, and he just wasted ’em.’” He dropped the Mickey voice, “You know how he could go on.”
“It was nothing. He was just building legend. You know how he did that all the time.”
“So what did Means say?”
I dodged the question; I didn’t want to go there. “I never knew Means that well. How well do you know him?”
They had been friends since right after high school. Rick graduated from Millerstown while Means had grown up down south, St. Johns or Grand Ledge, or maybe Battle Creek, Rick couldn’t remember. He just knew that Means’ family had had a cottage in Lake Lucy.
They met working together at a tool and die shop near Edmore. They were both thinking they’d apprentice, but neither of them was serious enough for the journeymen in that shop.
And neither of them liked the math which in those days before computers required a mastery of fractions. “Like, shit, who thinks in thirteen sixty-fourths,” Rick liked to say about those times. They hung out together after work, and they made a real Mutt and Jeff image with the gangly Means and the short, compact Edmonds.
I remembered Rick as a young guy, a few years behind me, but he ran around with brothers of my friends. He had been happy then, too, but quiet, like he would be as an adult.
After leaving the shop, they both started pounding nails for a construction outfit, but in real short order Means bailed on that work and went north.
“He really loved the outdoors. Not just the hunting and fishing, just the being there. He couldn’t express it the way you might, but he liked it a lot.”
It was about then, when they were about 22 that Means’ coordination finally caught up with his height, Rick recalled. While Ray had been careful not to expose his awkwardness throughout high school and after, Rick said it was at times obvious. “He tried to cover it by walking and talking slowly and carefully. He built a reputation as being a cautious, quiet man.”
Then it seemed like all of sudden he could move quickly without stumbling. He could run and he could jump. “It really changed him. Gave him a new confidence, you know?” Rick said. “He was always angry that he had all that height in school, but he couldn’t walk and chew at the same time. He really felt cheated.”
When he went up north, in 1971, he caught on with a Shell Oil exploration team. He was a grunt for the geologists and seismic technicians.
“He drilled holes for them, cleaned up after them and generally watched and learned.”
As Rick remembered it, by 1976 Means had been promoted to a supervisory position that put him out in front of the actual blasting and mapping. He found he had a knack for talking to landowners that overcame their skepticism for setting off charges on their land.
In 1981 he had actually formed a small wildcat team of his own on the side, and they drilled two successful wells. Shell accused him of stealing proprietary information, and while he denied it, the charge scared away any financial backers and his little operation folded.
“He was two for two and struck out,” Rick said. “He was pretty angry about that.”
His two little wells kept him, but he found himself without any real future in that tight world of extraction. He went to work on one of the farms where he had negotiated a lease. He made friends with the two brothers who owned the farming operation. They rented him a home in the woods and he worked the farm for the next 20 years.
“Then he shows up one day and tells me he’s retired; working a nice part-time job with some real estate outfit. When I asked him what he did for them, he was pretty vague, ‘This and that.’”
I remembered seeing him from time to time in the old Lake Lucy days. He was always around, listening and hanging out, but never very animated and despite his size, really forgettable. I had categorized him as a fringe player, and I mentioned that to Rick. “Oh, yeah, I can see how you might have thought that. He was really into the good times about then. He was thinking he was going to be the next oil baron of Michigan. He had a lot of money, and he spent it.”
Then his tone changed. “The thing most people missed was just how smart that guy is. He’s nobody’s fool, but he talked so slowly and said so little, many people who didn’t know him would have had no idea.”
I remembered that he was always quiet, but that he had a reputation for being a real bad ass.
“You know, I never knew him to be in a fight. But, shit, if I had been born tall as a tree and had that Ichabod Crane look – Hell, man, he’d just scowl at people and they’d leave him alone – If I’d a had that, I’d a never busted a knuckle.”
“So, was he bad?”
“Jim, I really don’t know. He never showed it to me if he was, but he’s sure equipped to be if he had the stomach for it.”
We went on talking about the old days, and finally Rick said, “Did you really call to shoot the shit about the old d
ays?”
“Well, my visit has me into this real nostalgia trip. You know those pictures you had Jennifer taking at Mickey’s party? Is there any chance you could send me copies?”
“You’re in luck. I had Jenny put them on a DVD and I sent your copy Friday. You should have it today if mail comes up there on a regular basis.”
“That’s a great idea, Rick. I really mean that. Did you have to edit much?”
“No, we just cropped out a few middle fingers; actually, more than a few. That took some doing. Especially as the afternoon wore on, you know? It became pretty drunk out after you left.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry I missed it. I’m a lot older now.”
We traded some more stories before signing off. The mailman was due around 4. I had almost five hours to stew and work on my mope.
41
The DVD was full of photos from the party. I quickly downloaded into my Photo Album. There were 68 shots. I scanned the thumbnails until I found a shot with both Ron and Ray.
They were huddled together, both looking across the lawn at something or somebody. The shot clearly showed their faces. It was a perfect ID photo.
I saved it with a caption and then opened a new email ready to send it. I called Lawton’s office and let him know that I had the photos he wanted and he should call me with an email address.
Jan called minutes later and told me that Hugh, at Oil and Gas News, had put her onto the perfect source on our question, and she had an appointment to see him that evening.
I sat around the rest of the day, waiting like a deskbound editor, wondering how Jan and Lawton would handle the face-to-face work. Wondering how I’d play it.
I was tied to my desk, eating my heart out, missing my dog and hating this feeling of uselessness. My whole outlook was the stuff of country-western music.
As the afternoon wore on, I filled up and put a cherry on top of a full mope.
And nobody called me.
42
The phone rang again the next morning, but this time it was just after 5, and even though it was the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, I’d been awake for a while.
“Jim, you wouldn’t believe what I found out, you just wouldn’t believe it.”
“Good morning, Jan. I’m fine on this beautiful spring morning in Eastern Oregon. How’s everything with you?” I did my best radio voice.
“Other than dealing with a wise ass? It’s great here! But listen to this. You are a genius editor; by the way, in all of Garfield Township there are only sixteen private parcels that still have their mineral rights attached to them.”
“Fascinating. Just sixteen?”
“You’re not getting it, slick. Did I just wake you up?
“No, not actually,” I said, shifting myself so I was on one elbow, more or less sitting up. “But I don’t track the significance of the number sixteen unless…”
“You’re getting it, there are twenty-seven parcel IDs on that list I sent you, but all sixteen of the ones holding the mineral rights are on there.”
I thought for a minute. Something was tickling my itch, but I couldn’t quite put it together, then Jan picked up the pace again.
“But that’s not all. Listen. I talked to a guy who is retired from Shell Oil Exploration. Duane Dennis, originally from Tulsa, Oklahoma, now lives in Wolverine, up in Cheboygan County. He was here in the seventies, ran the seismic program and the test wells. He popped the first Pigeon River well. Said it was almost a gusher, like his younger days in east Texas.
“So I asked him why this stretch of properties hadn’t been mapped, and he was sure they had been. When I told him there were no files on record he just couldn’t explain it other than it must have been an oversight.
“So I asked him, did he think there was any oil or gas in this area, and he said there certainly would be, it was in the heart of the track they picked up that led them to Pigeon River.
“He said when the tests came in on Pigeon River there was a crew working this way from Grayling, but everyone’s focus was way up north, and that’s where he was spending all of his time.”
I interrupted. “So, could he tell us anything about the crew that worked this way?”
“Like what, I could call him and ask.”
“Like if Raymond Means had been part of that crew, like that?”
“I’ll call you right back.”
I made coffee and then started wondering about how all this timing worked. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the scope of this. Did it really reach way back to 1974?
When she called back, she was all business. “Means was a supervisor of an exploration crew under Duane, and they didn’t part friends. Duane is certain that Means stole all kinds of information from Shell to use for his personal gain.”
“Like how?”
“Means started a little wildcat operation on the side, and found some backers and punched two good wells up by Fredrick. Duane said the whole company was in an uproar about Pigeon River, and people were being reassigned and frankly he and everyone else took their eye off the ball.
“Anyway, when they see these wells come in, Duane confronts Means who denies he stole anything. Said he had a tip from a land owner that there was oil in some of the ponds on his place. Said he drilled the first well and it hit, then quadrangled that site and guessed where the next well would be, and damn if he didn’t hit it.”
She explained that once Shell started accusing Means, they drove all his investors away. “Then he left Shell abruptly in nineteen eighty-one and went to work on a farm where he had done some work before.”
“So how does that connect to our properties?”
“The last month he was with Shell his crew was working the Manistee basin around Mineral Valley. It was the last assignment around here for that crew. They were reassigned to Afton, up near the Pigeon River strike.”
I thought for a second. “And the results of that testing around Mineral Valley?”
“Until now, Duane hadn’t given it a thought. Apparently it was never submitted.”
I had been leaning into the phone, following all this as best I could. I sat back. She waited for me to catch up.
“So what are you going to do with this?”
“I’m going to write a story in the Record that reports that there are oil and gas reserves under the ground targeted for the Penny Point development, and, if Shell will confirm it, that there are missing records as to the potential of those reserves. I think I can do that without libeling anybody.”
“You probably can, but I’m not sure what the connection is to your readers.”
“It’ll be a side bar to our ongoing coverage of Patty’s attack…”
“How is she, by the way?”
“Oh, recovering daily. I talked with her this morning while I was waiting for you to wake up. She is going to her parents’ house Tuesday, and the prognosis is that she could be ready to return to work by fall. It’s real hard for her to talk, but she’s thinking clearly and making connections, but she talks like she has a speech impediment. The doctor told her that it was like a stroke, in that her brain will construct a work-around for her in time.”
“That’s good to hear. Have you had any talks with her about that day, her research or anything?”
“Not really. She doesn’t remember much. And, when she tries to remember she gets real agitated. Lawton has had several meetings with her, and his medical people think she’ll be better able to handle it if they have concrete questions to ask, but nobody’s in a hurry to cause that kid more pain.”
“I hear that. What does Lawton think of your research? Have you talked to him?”
“No, he’s on my list. I’ll give him all my details if he wants.”
“Jan,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’d really like to know that you gave him everything today. Drive down to Cadillac if you must, but if somebody approached you tonight and wanted your notes, I’d like to think you could tell them that you gave a copy to the law, you k
now?”
“You still think this is connected, don’t you?”
“I can’t believe in coincidence, no matter how hard I try.”
And her voice did that changing thing again, “And you are worried about my personal safety?”
“I am.”
“I like the sound of that. It’s not just professional courtesy?”
“I’m a long way away, and I can’t help you if someone overreacts, you know? I’m feeling a bit helpless.”
“You could fix that. I have a spare room. Big Mike will have some rooms next week, too, if my house is too small.”
“Do you hear anything from Lawton if he’s having any luck finding White or Means?”
She paused and I knew she was considering my hasty topic change. “No. I haven’t. I’ll be sure to ask him when I see him later today. Goodbye.”
The phone was empty, and so I hung it up.
I felt alone on the outside of all meaningful events. No Punch. No anybody. The house was feeling pretty empty.
My mope was back in full force. I decided I needed a walk in the woods and headed out the door.
43
I had just pulled on my rain jacket and was halfway out the door when I stopped, returned to the kitchen, pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, and headed back to the door.
As I rounded the corner, I ran face to face with Ron White.
“Gee, nice of you to open the door for us, pal,” he said as he threw a straight left at my face.
My hands instinctively came up in an often-practiced form and encircled his forearm and stopped the punch short. I clung to that arm as my body reeled with the momentum of his punch, giving with the force of his blow while sticking to him.
As we fell, I spun on his arm, bending him at the elbow in the opposite direction of the joint. I landed on the floor on top of that bent arm. The snap of the elbow was audible even as he started to scream.
