Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “I never said that.”

  “I’m saying it.”

  “Be still,” the lawyer told her client. “Proceed with your search,” she told Service.

  The officers did a methodical sweep of the house, ending up in the basement, where a small cubicle had been built in front of a porthole out into the backyard and in line with the spotlight from above. There were a couple of .22 magnum cartridges on the floor, which the officers put into evidence bags and marked.

  “What’s this room for?” Service asked.

  “My cameras,” Ingalls told him.

  Wooten said, “The opening is large enough only for a rifle barrel. No camera lens will fit.”

  “Well, I guess you haven’t seen my camera lenses, have you?”

  “You’re right,” the sarge said, “I haven’t. Show them to us.”

  The woman brought a large hard-back camera case filled with cameras and lenses, all looking new and expensive, and a baggie with a half dozen disks and flash drives. None of the lenses fit the shooting port. “Tag everything,” Service told Wooten and Rice.

  “You can’t take my cameras,” the woman protested. “I make my living with them. I can’t support the rescue fund without my gear.”

  “Where’s your computer?” Sergeant Wooten asked, and this gave the woman pause.

  “It’s broke down and don’t work.”

  “Show us,” Service said, and when Ingalls looked at her lawyer, her counselor nodded. “They have a warrant,” the lawyer said.

  “Even for broken stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  The broken computer was placed in Service’s truck. It was not broken after all, and they took a smart phone as well as multiple photo albums. It was 10 a.m. by the time they cleared the premises. Charges would be recommended to the Menominee County prosecutor. What happened after that was up to the prosecutor. Service recommended that Pymn go uncharged for illegally tagging the deer, because he had cooperated and it had been her, apparently, who actually had the tag and affixed it to the animal.

  Grady Service wanted to call Friday but had no cell service and was too tired to drive until he found it. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He turned north at Hardwood and got as far as a maze of two-tracks just north of the Sturgeon River. He nosed his truck into a copse of birches, piled his jacket behind his head, and closed his eyes. Sleep did not come quickly. Only two days until the firearms season began in earnest. How much more crap like this lay ahead? He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted sleep, and then he wanted to get to the county jail to see Knezevich again.

  CHAPTER 13

  Deadhorse Creek, Northwest Delta County

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 13

  The first image when Grady Service awoke: snow coming down silently vertically in ugly, fat flakes, turning the landscape as white as a freshly bleached sheet. Looked first at his watch: 0814, and from his watch to the passengerside window, where he saw a pair of beady eyes staring in that caused his heart to skip as he hurriedly sat up and heard someone fumbling with the door handle.

  “Hey, Sonny boy,” a muffled voice croaked. “Open bloody door; I gochyouse coffee.”

  Grady Service tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes and saw that his visitor was Limpy Allerdyce, who, like other supernatural beings, had a knack for materializing when and where you least expected him.

  The old man tapped a thermos top on the passenger window. “Geez, oh, Pete.”

  Service tripped the door’s auto-lock and the old man hopped spritely up into the passenger seat, his clothes dry, no evidence of snow despite the heavy downfall going on outside. “Snow doesn’t stick to you?”

  “Sure. I jes brusher off, eh. Heard youse pinched dat Crow-hat King.” “The who?”

  “Not da Who, dat Cro-hat, Knezevich.”

  How the hell does he know the things he knows? “Who’s that?”

  “Geez, don’t go clam on me, Sonny. Dis da guy I t’ought he never get pinched.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Real smart Illinoider, sneaky, works alone, keeps ’is mout shut, don’ live up ’ere, swoops in, makes da kills, swoops out, quiet as owl. You know what dey say.”

  “Actually, I don’t. What do they say?”

  “Keep your mout’ shut is best armor.”

  “You know Knezevich?”

  “Know ’is work is all, but youse pinch ’im. How youse dood dis, Sonny? Most dose udder COs coul’n’t even find where he work, and nobody figure he all done by gun season. Like bloody ghost ’e is.”

  “You admire this . . . king?” The admiration was in the old poacher’s tone.

  Allerdyce snorted and chortled. “Youse know I know most evert’ing goes on in Yoop. Dis Knezevich, he’s pret’ good. Got give ’im ’is due, eh.”

  “Good as you?”

  Allerdyce showed his noncommittal toothless grin. “Youse know I don’t do dat stuff no more, but in my day? Nope not as good. Close dough, eh.”

  “You’re surprised he got arrested?”

  The old man grimaced as he uncapped the thermos, grabbed a cup from a holder, filled it with coffee and handed the mug to the conservation officer. “Al’ays knew he had one weak-knee-ass.”

  “What weakness?”

  “Dat bloody red truck dose udder guys leave.”

  “Red truck?”

  “Why you treat me like dis, Sonny? Me and your daddy was partners; now youse and me is. I’m frien’, not foal.”

  Talking to the old man could be simultaneously illuminating, confusing, and disconcerting. Anything but stupid, his mangling of language was in a class by itself. “Foal?”

  “Yah, like dat guy Ziggy Fraud tell, pipples is frien’ or foal.”

  Service nearly spit out his coffee and, after recovering his composure, asked, “So what do you think the deal is with the red truck?”

  “Like hammer judge got on desk in court, tell ever’body he da man.”

  “Like it’s a symbol?”

  “Not t’ing use wid drums,” Allerdyce said. “Like judge’s hammer.”

  “That’s called a symbol.”

  “Yah, sure, youse sayso. See queen of the Englands how she carry dat fancy club sometimes, all gold, silver, jewels and shit?”

  “Her scepter?”

  “Yah, like short snowsnake, eh. You know why she gots carry dat t’ing?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “First, why youse sleepin’ out here boonies middle of day? You have fight wit’ your dickatective squeeze?”

  “I ran out of gas.”

  “Truck gas?”

  “Grady gas.”

  “Huh. So, dey make da queen, queen, dey give her all kinds fancyschmancy food, booze, and den dey give her dat bitsy snowsnake ya know, ta fluff her dress to get rid of farts she let.”

  “Farts?”

  “Ever’body got da gas, Sonny, even dat queen of dose Englands, and dey don’t got no Beano over dere, so dey invent dat fancy stick for Queenie.”

  “Do you know everything?” Service asked the old poacher, suppressing a belly laugh.

  “Not yet,” Allerdyce said. “Mebbe someday.”

  “So the red truck is used by Knezevich against farts?”

  “Holy Pete, don’t youse listen, Sonny? Queen has fart stick so ever’body know she got gas and she da queen. Cro-hat, he got red truck so ever’body know he king.”

  “King of what?”

  Allerdyce shrugged. “’is pipples.”

  “The truck is stolen,” Service said.

  “Dat’s hull point. His boys steal new red truck, leave it for him, like pipples bring presents to dat queen of the Englands.”

  “Tribute.”

  “Yah,” Allerdyce said. “Like t’ing youse jes said.”

  “He drives the truck?”

  “Nah. Jest sits dere, like big red Bright Eye. “’is boys come get later, take to chop shop.”

  Bright Eyes were tacks used by outdoorsmen to mark roads and trails. They explode
d with reflected light when a light beam struck them at night. “The truck marks his location?”

  The old man shrugged. “Dose Cro-hats, who know what dose jamokes t’ink? Youse look back, youse gone find cops find red stoled truck ever’ deer season, an’ never find no owner. Mos time never get tow, ’cause gone.”

  “Going back how long?” Service had never heard this mentioned.

  “Huh. Dis oh nine, I say back ninety-six, mebbe, ninety-seven. Been long while, eh.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, old man,” Service told the old poacher.

  “Sayin’ trut’. Cross my heart and hope for pie,” Allerdyce said.

  One of a kind; that aside, the old man was also an asset, a wellspring of precise knowledge and gossip. “Pattinson, Hamore, Haire, Swetz, what do you hear about the deer herd on their properties?”

  “Ah,” Allerdyce said. “So dat why youse is down dis way?”

  The old man lacked formal education, but he did not lack smarts. “What’ve you heard?”

  “Dey don’t like no wolfies, dose lads.”

  “Your opinion on wolves?”

  “We all got eat.”

  “Big wolf population on their lands?”

  “Wolfies ’ere, but not t’ick like udder places in Yoop. Not ’nuff deer, eh. No deer, no wolfies.”

  Predator biology in four words: No deer, no wolves. The old man made sense. There were wolves only where there were enough deer to eat. So why no deer in that area? “You hear anything specific about that area?”

  Allerdyce shook his head. “Jest know dose guys get’ ole, mebbe, don’t hunt so hard no more, den want blame somet’ing udder dan seffs.”

  This assessment might have some merit. “Where’s your truck?”

  “Got dropped. My grandkittle Johnny O, lives down Toledo.”

  “I don’t know him.” The old man seemed to have a lot of grandkids.

  “Went school over Wisconsin, Insaned Somet’ing.”

  “And now?”

  “Up to da codge now; teach maps, survey, gee pee ass, stadelites, shit like dat.”

  “Da codge” meant either Northern Michigan University or Michigan Tech. “Your grandson teaches geography?”

  “Don’t know da fancy name,” Allerdyce said with a shrug.

  “Why did Johnny O drop you here?”

  “Seen youses’ truck. Ain’t seen youse for while. Miss me?”

  “You came looking for me?”

  The old man grinned. “Good, ain’t I?”

  Eerie was closer to the reality.

  “Got suitcase in youse’s truck bed,” the allegedly reformed poacher announced.

  “What?”

  “Got have duds, gone stay while, eh?”

  “Who said you could stay with us?”

  “Wah! Not youse two, us two, youse an’ me out to Slippy Crick camp. Dis is deers season, Sonny, game warden got stay camp, t’ink abut nuttin’ but dose cheaters out in da swamps.”

  The old man had a key to Service’s Slippery Creek house, which was not far from the Mosquito Wilderness. Allerdyce had copied the key without Service’s permission and was forever letting himself in.

  “Really?”

  “Yah, sure, deer season, eh. Youse need me close to be advicer. So I t’ink best I stay right dere wid youse. Besides, youse gone be too busy make whoopee wid dat girlfriend.”

  Service gave the old man a long look. Why not? He picked up his microphone, called central dispatch and Station Twenty. “Twenty-Five Fourteen is in service with a ride-along. Make a note that said ride-along probably will be on board for the duration of the firearm season.”

  “She must be someone special,” a familiar voice in Lansing said. Service recognized Candace McCants, his friend and colleague. She had just taken the job as lieutenant in charge of the state’s Report All Poaching operation—the so-called RAP room, which had dispatchers on duty twenty-four hours a day, taking complaints from citizens and relaying them to officers in the field. Having McCants in the RAP room was a big plus for all officers. She had been a great CO, and sergeant.

  “It’s Allerdyce,” Service announced.

  The name was met with dead silence on the other end, then, “Station Twenty is clear . . . and yet . . . not clear at all.”

  “What dat about?” Allerdyce asked.

  “Your fan club.”

  “I got fan club?”

  “All across the state, even BTB.”

  “I’m like unfamous?”

  “There you go,” Service said, deadpan.

  The old man crossed his arms and gummed his upper lip. “Dat mean I don’t got no more piracy.”

  “You’re probably okay for the moment.”

  “I like my piracy,” Allerdyce grumbled.

  Grady Service backed the truck out to the two-track. “A stolen red truck for the king every year, no bull?”

  Allerdyce nodded, his head jerking like a bobblehead. “No bull, Sonny.”

  “You’re saying the king never takes possession of the truck, just lets it sit there?”

  “He never use it; don’t know if he even know it dere.”

  “And the truck is intended to prove exactly what?”

  “Geez, Sonny. It prove he da king.”

  “But he doesn’t even know the truck is there.”

  “Sackly; kings don’t pay no tension to stuff like trucks. Dey got important t’ings t’ink about.”

  Good god. If Allerdyce was right, Knezevich had not been lying about the truck.

  CHAPTER 14

  Northwest Delta County

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 13

  Torky Hamore looked hung over when he pulled open his camp door. His eyes were swollen, and alcohol fumes wafted off him, dragon breath so rich you could ignite it with a match.

  “What time it is?” Hamore mumbled, looking past Service and stiffening. “What dat no-good old SOB doin’ wid youse?”

  Allerdyce said, “Nice see youse too, Torky.”

  Hamore said, “Youse can come in, Service, but dat piece shit stays outside in da bloody snow. I don’t even want ’im on my proppity.”

  “You two got some history?” Service asked.

  Hamore said, “Allerdyce, he got him some history wit ever’body. Shoulda been left down Jackson after he winged you.”

  “People change,” Grady Service said, more an expression of hope than fact.

  “Not dat one.”

  “Leave it alone. He’s with me, Torky.”

  “Okay, but he don’t touch nuttin’ when he come inside,” Hamore told Service, with another glare at the old poacher.

  Allerdyce squinted at mounted fish and deer heads covering the log walls. “Ain’t nuttin’ but babies up dere, Hamore.”

  The cabin owner yelped. “You come inside and insult my camp!”

  “Ain’t no insult, eh. Jes’ say trut’. You ain’t got much up dere on dose walls.”

  “I suppose you do at your place?”

  Allerdyce chuckled. “Can’t eat no horns, Torky. Better to make moola an’ sell dose t’ings to sports like youse.”

  Torky Hamore surged toward the poacher, but Service blocked the man by stepping in front of him. “What hell youse want ’ere dis time day?” Hamore shouted.

  “Heard there was a little cabal here: Pattinson, you, Dornboek, Haire, Swetz. You guys aren’t conspiring to take out wolves, I hope.”

  “What me and friends talk about ain’t none youse’s business. Last I knew, we still had bloody freedom of speech out to camp, eh.”

  “You certainly do,” Service said. “But I thought I’d let you know I’ll be keeping a special eye on all of you and your camps this deer season.”

  “What youse need keep eye on is wolf biologist, tell dat guy he need get rid some dose bloody deer eaters ’fore dey eat hull damn herd.”

  “We’re working on it, Torky. First step is to get the Feds to downgrade the animals from endangered.”

  “Bloody bureaucraps,” the landowner said. “All
talk gobbledygook while dose wolves eatin’ my deer now.”

  “They’re not your deer, Torky. They belong to taxpayers.”

  “Bullshit! Dere on my land, dere mine.”

  “You fellas just need to hold your horses, let us solve this thing. Be patient.”

  “We all got grandkids we want kill deer outten our camps.”

  “They will—in time.”

  “We all gettin’ old; don’t know how much more time we got.”

  You’re not alone, Service wanted to say, but all he said was “Okay.” This was the standard cop acknowledgement that a statement had been made and heard, but implying neither agreement nor disagreement.

  Allerdyce was quiet until they were back in the Silverado. “Torky dere din’t drink so much, mebbe he shoot more deers. Dey can smell dat stuff long way off. Deers got long noses for reason. Mutter Nature she make dem so dey smell stuff good.”

  Grady Service took a deep breath and turned the truck toward Marquette. It was not quite noon, and he was tired and needing a good night’s sleep. Maybe tonight, at camp.

  With Limpy as housemate.

  Good grief.

  CHAPTER 15

  Marquette

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 13

  Knezevich was freshly shaven, his eyes alert and twinkling. “Slept good,” he announced to Service in the interview room.

  “Jails aren’t known for comfort.”

  “After you sleep on the ground as a soldier for years, any bed feels good.”

  Service wouldn’t disagree. Over the years he had developed the ability to sleep almost anytime, anywhere, but seldom better than he slept in his own bed. He had called Friday before going in to see the Croatian man.

  “Motel Patrol Truck last night?” she had greeted him.

  “Worked all night, caught a nap this morning. I woke up to Allerdyce tapping on the truck window.”

  “Let me guess, you were somewhere east of Bumfuck, Egypt.”

  “Hell, I’m not even sure where I was.”

  Friday laughed, and Service suddenly wanted to be hugging her. “Allerdyce is gonna stay at Slippery Creek Camp.”

  “I assume this call is to inform me that you will be bunking there too.”

  “Do you mind?”