Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  Del Olmo said, “Channel Three is clear and crisp.”

  Service said, “One, One Forty, send Rosie up that feeder creek for a mile, cut her west a half-mile and back south—then east to me to set a perimeter box.”

  There was a single gunshot not ten seconds later, roughly in the direction the tracks were pointing. It had sounded close, very low caliber and presumably subsonic, from neither a shotgun nor a deer rifle. A muffled crack, not even a .22. A .17, he guessed, the modern scumbag’s precision tool of choice.

  Did the others hear? “You guys hear that?” he asked his colleagues.

  “Hear what?” del Olmo came back.

  I heard it and Simon didn’t. Means it’s closer to me than to him.

  “Rosie recorded what I think is a gunshot,” Torvay reported. “Real low volume, but her audio sensors tagged it with a blip.”

  “That’s a roger. Does she have a fix on it?”

  “Negative GPS coordinates. The decibels weren’t sufficient for a fix, but she’s calculated a relative heading.”

  Service smiled. It was just like being with another CO when you heard a shot. Both of you would point and see how close you were. Maybe the drones aren’t all that sophisticated after all.

  “Okay, send her; I’ll keep going north. One, One Twenty-Two, cross the creek northwest at first opportunity and start making your way toward me.”

  Click-click.

  He watched the monitor for a moment, began walking, and didn’t get twenty yards before stopping to squint at white objects hanging in a tree, swaying in the light breeze that had just arisen. The breeze was out of the east and suggesting possible snow, which the tree objects looked like at first glance. Long white flakes of snow? Or ice? What the hell is this? At first he saw one, then two, and shortly thereafter he had counted seven of the objects on one low balsam. He got out his digital camera, moved closer, and took photographs. He stared at the objects, mouth agape. What the . . . ? Tampons. Tampons? What the . . . ? Strings hung down like small white bombs. Service keyed his radio. “One, One Twenty-Two, you aren’t going to believe what I have over here.”

  “Twenty-Two is sliding east.”

  Service looked at the drone monitor and radioed, “One Forty, circle Rosie over my position.”

  “Check your monitor.”

  Service looked and saw himself kneeling on a hummock in the swamp. “There’s a bunch of stuff hung in a balsam right in front of me.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Things kind of stuff.”

  “Can you be a bit more specific, Twenty-Five Fourteen?”

  On the radio? Jesus. “Uh, like uh . . . woman stuff, uh-you-know, like once-a-month-woman stuff?” Service radioed.

  Del Olmo radioed. “If you’re seeing tampons hung in a tree, I have two trees of the same thing so far.”

  “What brand?” Service asked, moving closer to his tree.

  “Say again?” Torvay asked incredulously.

  “Monthly feminine care items,” Service said. “Uh, corks?” Which is what Friday called them.

  “The ones over here appear to be used,” Del Olmo said.

  Service looked closely at his tree, made a face, and radioed, “Same here.” What idiot hangs used corks? He watched the drone pick up del Olmo on the drone video monitor, and he knelt to await his longtime friend’s arrival. He whispered into the radio, “Back when I was a kid, my old man usta tell me about old-timers who had their wives urinate on apples and corn when they were having their periods. They claimed it enhanced the value of bait, especially when the rut was on.”

  “Two comments. First, that’s totally junk science,” del Olmo said derisively. “Second comment: Yah-uck!”

  “Deer hunters,” Service said, as if that one phrase encompassed all the strange things they did, legally and illegally.

  “Anything more on that shot heading?” Service asked Torvay as he looked at his monitor and thought he saw a human figure trotting between some trees. “Is that Sasquatch or a human?” Service asked the drone operator.

  “Looks humanoid to me.”

  “Can Rosie stay on him?”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “Got a heading from us?”

  “Three five eight degrees, crow-fly.”

  As good as due north. Dead ahead of Service was a massive open expanse of sphagnum islands, clusters of spindly golden tamaracks that had started to lose some needles, and ragged rows and clusters of stunted, gnarled black spruces. In the near foreground he could see a looming line of tall white cedars with an interlaced canopy overhead blocking most light from reaching the ground, perfect protection for deer in winter. Service noted a browse line about seven feet high, confirming this area had been used as winter thermal cover and deer yards. He looked up to see if he could eyeball the drone, but it was butter-knife silent and he saw nothing. They could keep the heading and go under the cedars, but risk breaking an ankle on exposed roots in the dark. Better to skirt northwest and swing around to intercept.

  “Moving,” Service said, not looking over to confirm that his friend was with him. Del Olmo was the best kind of CO—one who charged toward the sound of the guns. With Simon, your six was always covered.

  “Your mark’s not moving,” One One Forty announced.

  “Keep Rosie circling him, we’re moving up.”

  Click-click.

  Fifteen minutes later the two conservation officers converged on a heavy foot trail into the thick, severely leaning white cedars. Both men knelt, opened their packs, and put on their night vision goggles to help them see when they moved into the blackness under the trees. “You see us, One Forty?”

  “Roger, got a faint thermal sig on both of you. Your mark is about fifty yards north and stationary.” Service was impressed with how easily the drone’s thermal imaging camera penetrated the dense cedar grove.

  The two game wardens entered the dark forest, spread out by twenty feet. “Report any change in position,” Service whispered to the drone operator.

  Click-click, Torvay answered. “I have a faint thermal signal twenty yards to the right of target,” the operator reported.

  “Another person?”

  “Rosie shows four legs, and signature’s heat is fading.”

  A deer, Service guessed, walking on. Ahead of him he saw a small log shack and a man squatting in the opening of the walled structure. He closed on the man, who popped up and quickly knelt again. There was a deer at the man’s feet, a doe.

  “Had some luck, eh?” Service said to announce himself.

  The man turned, his face flushed and contorted in a rictus of surprise. “You! . . . Go! . . . Away!” the man said, struggling with every word, a rifle in his hand and leveled roughly at Service’s midsection.

  Grady Service said, “Department of Natural Resources, conservation officer. Point your weapon away and show me your hunting and driver’s licenses.”

  The man stared at him. “Going! Away!”

  Simon del Olmo swept in from the right and slammed the man down, separating him from the weapon and rolling him on his face as Service stepped in to pull back the man’s arms and cuff him. “Sir, you are not under arrest. This is for everyone’s safety, until we figure out what’s going on here.”

  The man said nothing.

  Del Olmo asked, “Sir, what’s your name?”

  “My name is none your business!”

  “Show me your licenses,” del Olmo said calmly.

  “Go fucking yourself!” the man said with a hiss. He was not tall, but he was wide and strong and had reddish brown scars all over his face.

  “Let’s get him out into the light,” Service said. “Torvay thinks there’s another deer. See if you can find it.” Good god, the season’s not even started!

  Grady Service snatched the man’s rifle by the sling, hooked it over his shoulder, and roughly frog-hopped the man through the cedars out into the light and pushed him down onto a log. “Sit.”

  “
You treat me like dog!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Neću razgovarati s fašističkim ološem.”

  “What the fuck is that, pig Latin?” Service asked. “We speak English here.”

  The man said, “Jebite se ja više ništa reć” and crossed his arms.

  “Fourteen, this is Twenty-Two, I have a doe here, just been shot. You want me to field-dress it?”

  “Yah, go ahead; it won’t be staying out here.”

  Grady Service examined the man’s rifle. It was a Remington Model Seven in .17 caliber, a poacher’s gun, the barrel only twenty inches long and the rifle under seven pounds. But this weapon, made for close-in shooting, also had a lightweight Armasight digital night-vision scope mounted on it—the Armasight Drone Pro, a very current product and available only through the government. How the hell did this jerkwad get his hands on it?

  Service pointed at the scope. “Really?”

  The man stared past him. “You got a name?” the CO pressed.

  “Fucking you.”

  “Listen to me, Mr. Gambol, if that’s who you are. We could have done this the easy way but, because of your asshole attitude, we’ll do it the hard way. You pointed that weapon at me, meaning you threatened a peace officer with a deadly weapon.”

  “No Gambol,” the man muttered. “I no make no threat on you.”

  “So you do speak English.”

  “I make some spick.”

  “Licenses.”

  The man shrugged.

  “I can’t translate that. You don’t have licenses, or you left them at camp?”

  The man shrugged again as del Olmo came over, dragging the doe.

  Service got on the radio. “One Four Zero, are we close to any roads?

  There are two-tracks coming off County Road 444 across Mud Creek. That road dead-ends between Mud and Sawmill Creeks, about a mile north and east of where the two creeks intersect.”

  “Okay,” Service said. “Our trucks aren’t anywhere close. Call Marquette County and ask if they can do a prisoner transport from the 444 hookup point. How far for us to get there on foot?”

  “I have you guys closer to Parker Spur. It crosses Sawmill right close to the area where you are now. You can follow that east to M-35. Five miles crow-fly, but the deps may be able to get down the spur road and shorten your hike.”

  “OK, change the link-up to the Parker Spur and let us know if you see anything else of interest. We want to deliver this guy for a jail run and then loop back here to look around more.”

  “You want me over there too?”

  “Affirmative, and bring Rosie, but don’t land her yet. Keep her flying in case this guy tries to make a run. Keep her flying until we pass the prisoner over to the deps.”

  “See you soon,” Torvay said.

  Minutes later, he called back. “Twenty Five Fourteen, I think I’ve got a vehicle parked just off the spur.”

  Service asked, “What kind, and where?”

  “Not certain of the ID, but it’s a good size, bigger than a pickup. You want particulars?”

  The CO read out the coordinates and Service used a ballpoint pen to write them on the heel of his hand, a CO’s forever, all-weather notebook. “It’s just across the creek, just as you walk out of the swamp, pushed back in some trees on the south side of the two-track.”

  “See you soon, Twenty-Five Fourteen clear.”

  “You want me up with you or back here?” del Olmo asked.

  “With me until we hand off this jamoke.” If the prisoner ran, he’d let the younger legs run him down.

  The two men helped their prisoner through the swamp and carried him across Sawmill Creek and quickly located the two-track. Just as Torvay said, they found the vehicle, which turned out to be a brown-and-green panel truck with no plate. But ten minutes after finding the vehicle, del Olmo found a nest of license plates in a plastic bag in the high grass not far from the driver’s door: Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois, Ohio, Indiana. “Pick your flavor,” del Olmo said.

  “Your truck?” Service asked his prisoner.

  “I never see this.”

  Service looked at del Olmo. “No plates; could be stolen. Got your Sheena in your pack?”

  The officer shrugged, put down his pack, and searched for the tool to jimmy open the door locks. His wife was CO Elza Grinda, nickname Sheena, and it did not make her happy to have a breaking-and-entering tool named for her by her colleagues, which of course was the whole point.

  Del Olmo held up the tool.

  Service said, “Hold off for now.”

  “Roger, jefe.”

  The Marquette County deputy who showed up was Sergeant Linsenman, who had been riding with a rookie. “Jesus, Grady. How do you find such shit-hole roads?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  Linsenman barked like an owl choking on a mouse.

  Service and del Olmo looked around the van, finding blood and deer hair in several places, but the vehicle’s rear doors were locked with three padlocks. After a thorough search of the prisoner’s person, they found no keys, no wallet, no ID, no combinations to the locks, not even keys to the red truck. Had he stashed his stuff elsewhere?

  Service leaned close to del Olmo. “Why don’t you head back to where we grabbed this guy. Don’t touch or force anything, but look around and see if there are keys or anything else. I’m going to request search warrants.”

  “Don’t need one for the field stuff.”

  “I know there’s plenty of probable cause, but I want to play this tight. My gut says this isn’t our plain-brown-wrapper violet.”

  “Roger that,” del Olmo said and loped away.

  Was I ever that energetic? Two hours later he had his search warrants and four more conservation officers. Inside the suspect panel truck they found thirty skinned deer and boxes of dry ice. Del Olmo found more butchered carcasses in some balsam-covered pits packed with more dry ice—and six trophy-size buck heads, caped for shoulder mounts.

  • • •

  The additional COs included Sergeant James “Slick” Wooten, who, not yet thirty-five, technically was Service’s newly minted boss. He was wise enough to let Service run the show and do whatever he was asked to help out, offering opinions only when asked—a good sign, Service thought. Three stripes on your arm didn’t confer omniscience.

  Service wanted to assist in the search but decided his time would be better spent with the prisoner. A deputy took him to his patrol truck and told him en route that the man the panel truck plates came back to wasn’t named Gambol but someone else.

  “Who?” Service asked; the dep only shrugged.

  Grady Service headed for the jail, almost forty miles away. Goddamn distances were killers in this line of work, especially in some U.P. counties.

  • • •

  “Talk about poetic justice,” Grady Service said when the U.P.’s leading attorney-to-assholes Sandy Tavolacci showed up with the prisoner, now identified not as Kimball Gambol but as Bojan Knezevich of Ridge Street, Chicago.

  “What’s that ’pose ta mean?” Tavolacci asked. The lawyer had a long rodentious proboscis that twitched and quivered like a hungry rat vacuuming a garbage bin.

  “Asshole lawyer for an asshole violet,” Service said.

  “Let’s try to civilize this situation right now,” Tavolacci said sternly. “My client is a respectable member of the Greater Chicago Croatian community.”

  Service was unimpressed. “Good for him. Why’s your client driving a truck registered to a bogus address in Evanston?”

  Tavolacci furrowed his brow. “Did you personally see my client drive said vehicle?”

  Goddamn lawyers. “I tracked him nearly four miles, and the boots on his feet match the pattern and size of tracks I followed in the snow from the truck.”

  “Four miles and no chance you crossed a second trail and got mixed up and followed the other trail erroneously?”

  Service laughed. “No chance, Sandy. His tracks
were the only ones out there.”

  “You’re infallible, is that what you’re saying, Officer?”

  “Competent, not infallible.”

  “Did you ever consider that the boot he’s wearing is probably one of the most popular among hunters, that such prints abound in the bush?”

  Service saw how Tavolacci was going to play this game. It didn’t concern him. “I want to talk to your client, Sandy. Alone.”

  “No can do, Grady. You’ll have to wait for our translator.”

  “That’s bullshit, Sandy. Your boy speaks and understands English. I’ve watched his eyes. He’s following this whole deal.”

  The man immediately looked away.

  “So he speaks a little of the lingo. You’ll still have to wait. All citizens have their rights.”

  Service looked at the prisoner. “You don’t have the balls to face this like a man?”

  Bojan Knezevich’s face reddened.

  “Not a problem,” Service said. “If you want to wait for your testicles to arrive from wherever, so be it.”

  Knezevich grasped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

  “How long?” Service asked Tavolacci.

  “Tomorrow. The specialist, he has to like, you know, drive up from Chicago?”

  Grady Service stood up. “Fine by me. Time?”

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  “Cool,” Service said, took one step and turned back to the prisoner. “It would be a lot more honorable to handle this man to man,” he said.

  The prisoner stared straight ahead.

  “Your hands are shaking, Bub,” Service said over his shoulder as he left the room.

  CHAPTER 10

  Marquette, Marquette County

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12

  Grady Service was on his way to interview the suspect when a woman stopped him in the Marquette County courthouse. “You know my boyfriend, Harry Pattinson?”

  Pattinson was a major property owner near Torky Hamore’s camp in Delta County. The man owned several radio stations in the state and a restaurant near Gladstone. “You are?” Service countered.

  “Myra Steghouse. I work for Tom Neckers.”

  “How come we’ve never met?”