Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “Some things, like what?”

  “Mebbe selling racks, raise cash for dogs and stuff.”

  “She kills deer for dogs?” Service said.

  “Smart girlie,” Allerdyce said. “Looks pretty good too, eh.”

  “Don’t even go there.”

  “Go where I want in my head. No guvmint in dere tell me what t’ink. Not yet.”

  Selling mounts for cash for an animal rescue joint? If true, this would be a first; and after so many years, firsts didn’t come along all that often. “Know somebody I could talk to? Somebody reliable? I need more than hearsay.”

  “Might could fix dat. Where we go now?”

  “Harry Pattinson’s camp.”

  “We got complaint t’ing?”

  Allerdyce’s pronunciation came out more like cunt-plane. The old violator and simple king’s English were sometimes on very separate tracks. “No, I just want to check in, see what sort of luck they’re having, what they’re seeing. We’ll fly the flag for the DNR.” This was bullshit; Allerdyce no doubt knew it.

  “Dis hull country down dis way usta have some dandy bucks.”

  “Use to?”

  “Not no more, I hear.”

  “Wolves?”

  “Dunno.”

  “You ever work this area?”

  “Way back, some. Youse’s ol’ man and me worked over dis way, time to time.”

  Allerdyce insisted he had ridden along with Service’s father, but it was a hard thing to swallow. And while he did remember Limpy showing up with the old man once in a while, he couldn’t remember any sort of what he’d call a relationship. Mostly they got drunk together, but the old man got drunk with a lot of different people and was known to hit the sauce even while he was on duty. Even so, it never seemed to affect his performance. He had a sixth sense and maybe a seventh too. How good would he have been without alcohol? Stupid question. Runway behind you, not worth a thought. He was what he was. Now he’s dead.

  “Pattinson’s a straight shooter?” Service asked his passenger.

  “Never heard he weren’t. Got big yap sometimes.”

  • • •

  The nine hunters at Pattinson’s camp were unshaven, as morose a crowd as Service had ever encountered. “Any luck?” he asked when Harry showed them into the main cabin’s great room.

  “Ain’t shot each other yet,” one of the crew proclaimed.

  “Ain’t shot at nothing,” this from another man.

  “I seen me a gray jay,” someone offered, “and a weasel. But no damn deer. Not even no tracks.”

  Harry Pattinson said, “It’s the wolves, Grady.”

  Service asked, “Anybody see a wolf on or near their bait today or yesterday?”

  Head shakes all around. “Any fresh wolf sign, scat, tracks, anything?”

  Same reaction, which was either the truth or they had rehearsed for such questions. Wolf shooters usually tried to have a leak-proof story to tell.

  “No sightings and no sign, how can it be wolves?” he asked them.

  “What else could it be?” Pattinson asked.

  “How about violators?”

  “Bullshit, Grady. We take care of trespassers; don’t usually need to call it inta you fellas, neither.”

  “Just a thought,” Service said. “Take care of them how?”

  “Let’s just say we don’t give ’em no tea and crumpets.” The others all smiled and looked smug.

  “Do you take names and ID?”

  “Why do that?” Pattinson came back. “We give them a direct message, and they never come near here again.”

  “You mean you don’t catch them when they come back.”

  Pattinson said quickly, “We know this ground like the insides of our houses.”

  Service looked at all the deer mounts on the walls, as good a collection as he’d ever seen in a U.P. camp. Even Limpy was gawking.

  “Listen, Harry, you and your folks know you’ve gotta leave the wolves alone.”

  “We’ve got the right to defend ourselves,” one of the hunters said.

  “Yes, you do,” Service said. “But this is not a war.”

  “Your opinion,” someone said.

  Service maintained eye contact with Pattinson. “True,” he said, “but with all the talk around here about smoking wolves and such shit to bring back the deer herd, it’s gonna take one hell of a story and supporting forensics to convince the law.”

  “You mean you,” Pattinson said.

  “That’s right. I mean me.”

  “Who you been talking to?”

  “Take a deep breath and think this thing through, Harry. You and your pals have what, seven, eight camps out this way? You’ve got people hunting just this one property. How many more in all the other locations? If all those guys get a hard-on for wolves, you think you can stop such momentum?”

  “DNR’s like KGB,” someone said.

  “The KGB doesn’t exist anymore,” Service said. “But we’re still here. Leave the damn wolves be, boys.”

  Pattinson said, “They don’t threaten us, they’ve got nothing to worry about from my boys.”

  Said Service, “Wolves never worry, Harry. We game wardens do that for them.”

  “I don’t like how some of your people operate,” Pattinson said, fumbling to light a pipe.

  “That cuts two ways.” Service looked around. “Nice camp, Harry. Thanks for inviting us in.”

  “Knew that scumbag was with you, I wunta,” the businessman complained and scowled at Limpy.

  “You’ve got a fan club,” Service told his partner when they were back in the truck.

  “Ain’t ’at somepin,” Limpy said.

  It seemed the old man was pleased about something. “Big wolf numbers over this way?” he asked the violator.

  “Not for few years. Ast youse’s wuff man.”

  Service drove until he got a cell phone signal, pulled over, and called Zander Hecla at the Marquette regional DNR office. Hecla was the biologist now directing the wolf recovery program. He led a team that did annual surveys to estimate the number of animals and packs in the state. Everyone called him Lobo or Z-Man.

  “Z-man, Service.”

  “So far so good,” the wolf expert said. “No wolves yet reported shot.”

  “Menominee, Marquette, Dickinson border corner. What sort of wolf population there?”

  Service heard papers rattling. “Steadily down over the past five counts, steep drop the past two.”

  “Particular reason?”

  “The usual refrain: not enough deer. The wolves have been moving over to farm country in Northwest Delta, and numbers are up over that way, down where you’re asking about.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem, Grady.”

  Service looked at his passenger. “Wolf numbers are down over five winter counts here, steep drop the past two.”

  Allerdyce said, “Somepin killin’ deers. Got plenty food for deers here, so how’s come no deers?”

  The old man had a point, but how could they find the cause quickly and prevent a small war on wolves? “Any of your competitors working this turf these days?”

  “Not no Allerdyces. My famblee outten da biz.”

  “Other violets?”

  “Nah, dey all gettin’ too long in toots or already in ground feedin’ wormies.”

  “Could be some new talent,” Service ventured.

  “Yah, could be,” the old man said. “More money in deers dese days den ever before. New talent wunt s’prise me none.”

  “How far back to when the deer population was still pretty good around here?”

  “Ten years, mebbe, give or bake.”

  Service snickered.

  “Wah,” Allerdyce said. “What I say?”

  “You’d think if a crew was seriously working this corner, word would be out.”

  “Would t’ink dat, but dere ain’t nuttin I been hearin’.”

  Conclusion, a very preliminary one: Deer nu
mbers way down, big buck numbers down, wolf numbers down, old poachers probably not in the picture. This might very well be the work of a new player, someone good enough to operate off all radars. Or was it something else entirely?

  Service called Pattinson on his cell phone. “Sorry to bother you again, Harry. Which numbers are down, deer in general, all bucks, or real big bucks?”

  “It’s all deer—all sexes, ages, the whole lot of them, goddammit all.”

  Market hunters killed everything with meat, size totally irrelevant. Long time since he’d seen honest-to-god market shooters. This was the sort of problem he liked. Something not obvious, something only suggested, a ghost problem.

  He asked Limpy, “Any good way to get a bead on a new operator around here?”

  Allerdyce looked over at him. “Work alone, never talk nobody, process own meat, mount own racks, don’t enter no stupid big buck contests, do t’ings dis way, nobody never know. Like dey say, silence is like night-guy’s partner. Closed loop is way p’ofessionals do it. No way any outsider can get in on youse, ’ceptin’ blind-ass luck.”

  Allerdyce was no doubt right about the best poachers’ methods, but there was always a way in. He kept this thought to himself. Solo operators were virtually impossible to get to. Look at the Croatian, Knezevich. Pure luck, curiosity, and the red truck had busted his gig. Maybe Rosie could help in some way here, need to think more on this. There’s no point in deploying a drone until there’s a reasonable target and reasonable probable cause.

  “Don’t t’ink so much,” Limpy said. “Hurts da headquarters.” The old man looked at him and grinned.

  CHAPTER 24

  La Branche, Menominee County

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16

  Arletta Ingalls met them at the end of her driveway. She wore a dark apron spackled with flour or some kind of powder, and she was holding a shotgun. “Stay off my property!” she said with a menacing growl.

  “We’re here to see Pymn,” Grady Service told the woman.

  “He’s gone, cleared out. I told you I threw his sorry ass out.”

  “Where’d he go, any idea?”

  “To Hell for all I care. That man ain’t no man at all, can’t hold up his end of nothing.”

  “His end to what?”

  “Anything,” she repeated. “Are you thick? You people come back here again, you’d better have a warrant.”

  “If any more suspicious fires happen, we won’t need a warrant,” Service told her, staring her down. “All the proceeds from your pies go to Keep Our Pets Alive?”

  “I don’t have to talk without my lawyer present.”

  “It’s a simple question, yes or no?”

  “Less expenses, yes.”

  “Exactly what percentage actually makes its way to the rescue operation?”

  “Get a subpoena, look at the records yourself. We do real good for everybody.” There was pride in her voice and stance.

  “On pies alone?” Service said, letting his words settle, and backed up.

  The woman reacted with a strange muted grunt sound, like she swallowed a scream.

  “Like lady moose callin’ for ’er bull stick,” Allerdyce said phlegmatically. “What we do next?”

  “See Mario Novello.”

  Allerdyce said, “Good youse clear dat up for me. He hang up ’is stuff, what, seventeen years back?”

  Probably that. The old violator noted every tiny change in and about his environment. Exactitude mattered for a poacher. A retired game warden meant new blood and an unknown for a violator, a potential sea change. Allerdyce had been top dog in the business so long because he paid attention to everything. It was astonishing to think how much he could learn from the old man, if Limpy was willing to share.

  CHAPTER 25

  Kingsford, Dickinson County

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17

  The retired CO’s first question: “How many did you stroke today?” Stroke was jargon for a ticket.

  “None.”

  “Jaysus, it’s the damn firearm season, son. Man don’t get ’im dozen a day, he ain’t earnin’ his pay.”

  “It’s not the same game these days, Mario. The job’s changed.”

  “Glad I’m retired. People ain’t changed.”

  “They have, and by a lot. Like everything,” Service told the retired officer. “I came to talk about Noble Chern. I took a big rack from his place.”

  “You make ’im cry?”

  “He wasn’t happy about it. Tell me what you’ve heard about him, every little detail.”

  “Ex-Army, runs mostly alone. His truck been seen in border counties from Menominee up to Gogebic. Skinny says he cruises around in daylight, shoots anything he comes across.”

  “I found him sitting.”

  “Yah, they say he stakes out big bucks.”

  “When exactly did you first hear about him?”

  “Five years back, maybe four; I don’t really remember.”

  “Did you tell del Olmo and Grinda about the man?”

  “This guy ain’t no job for those pups.”

  “Mario, they’re experienced officers, not pups.”

  “I don’t like neither one.”

  “You’re wrong about them.”

  “Been wrong before. Goes with bein’ alive.”

  “How’d you first hear about Chern, Wisconsin wardens?”

  “Landowners up here grousing. Damn guy likes to hunt open fields in broad daylight.”

  “He’s got a bum leg,” Service pointed out.

  “That’s why he only shoots trophies close to the road. Can’t get to ’em if they’re too far out. He whacked a big bear right off a road. Other hunters chased him, got the bear, and turned it in at the Crystal Falls office.”

  “How’d they know it was Chern?”

  “They didn’t. They saw a truck but didn’t get a plate. The description matched the truck the landowners had been describing.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two Septembers back. Big bear, skull green scored 20, which puts it way high on the Michigan list. Five thirty dressed weight.”’

  “This bear was shot near Crystal?”

  “No, was in a cornfield over near Iron River.”

  “What happened to the carcass?”

  “Went to evidence storage, I guess.”

  “Who caught the case?”

  “Don’t remember. Prolly them snot-noses.” He’d have to talk to del Olmo and Grinda about this, but it fit Chern’s way of doing things.

  “You talked about some people named Hill the other day, Fat Henny?”

  “Randville, Smith Lane, double-wide house trailer on King’s Creek; you can’t miss the stench.” Novello smiled, didn’t elaborate.

  “Elder or junior?”

  “Scumbags da bot’ a dem. Elder’s late eighties, on oxygen, all sorts of health issues. Junior’s in his fifties and not much better off than the old man, I heard.”

  “Violators?”

  “Mostly fuckups, kind never gets away with nothing.”

  “You busted them?”

  “Both, too many times to count. Too stupid for words, easily swayed and led astray. They mixed up with Chern?”

  “Chern told me that a friend named Hill took the photo I showed you.”

  Service stepped outside and activated his radio. “Twenty, Twenty-Five Fourteen on RAP Two; run a file?”

  “You’re in line sir.”

  “I’ll wait, Twenty-Five Fourteen.”

  He listened to the babble of officers around the state calling for information on citizens and situations; this was the time of year when the force of green and gray was in full gear. Eventually his turn came. “Looking for any and all DNR licenses, last five years, and DNR priors for two subjects.” He passed the names to Lansing. “Elder is approximately eighty, junior in his fifties, both at an address of Smith Lane, Randville, Dickinson County.”

  Two minutes passed. “Twenty-Five Fourteen, Twenty. We have a Henry R. Hill, born
1922, and a Henry R. Hill Jr., same address, YOB 1943. Elder has no current licenses, and an arm’s length of priors, both hunting and fishing violations. You want them all?”

  “Negative on that. What about Junior?”

  “He has three priors, two for no-orange and one for loaded firearm in vehicle.”

  “Twenty, can you cross-reference with RSS sales and see if there is a vehicle ID? This will probably be for the younger?”

  “On it; Twenty clear.”

  Five more minutes ticked by. “Twenty-Five Fourteen, Michigan shows blank, but we have a 1999 Toyota truck for Mr. Hill Jr. with Wisconsin plates.”

  The dispatcher gave him the plate numbers, and he wrote them in his notebook. This dispatcher was top-notch and seemed to understand that a lot of Michigan people in the western U.P. cheated by registering their vehicles in Wisconsin to get lower rates. It was an old scam neither state had ever attempted to do anything about.

  “Great job, Twenty. Fourteen clear.”

  He called Sheena Grinda. “You guys get a green score 20 bear a couple years back, one somebody tried to whack from a cornfield over by Iron River?”

  “It’s in the evidence freezer at the office. Typical story. Vague truck description, no plate, and it got brought in six hours after the events. Simon tried to run with it, but it led nowhere. Why?”

  “I may have a lead on it.”

  “Novello your source?” she said, “and his phantom road shooter from Wisconsin?”

  “Yah.”

  “It’s bullshit, Grady. Simon thinks it was dumped by a sometime guide townies call ‘Storebought,’ actual name Rance Melk. Real piece of work. Drives an old puke-green Willys.”

  “That’s what the complainants reported, green Willys?”

  “That’s right, but Mario has been running off his mouth about another color and make truck that fits stories he hears from landowners. They’re not the same.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Grady, that man goes out of his way to make us look bad every chance he gets.”

  He went back inside. “Junior is sixty-six.”

  Novello grinned. “Time flies.”

  “Does Junior work?”

  “Didn’t when I knew ’im. He and his old man were on full medical disabilities and sucking off the system.”