Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  Grady Service said, “Well, that’s a relief. So, now we need to talk about all the deer and cigarettes you’ve got here.”

  “Those cigarettes are not mine.”

  “We found cartons of the same brand at your grandson’s apartment.”

  “You’d best talk to him then, not me. I know nothing about that.”

  Allerdyce summoned Service to the outside door. “Two gut piles down where we was, and girlie says fresh blood up above on road in. Gone take ORV up dose hills and see where it lead, okay?”

  “Go.”

  He stepped back into the garage. “I don’t care about the smokes. I want to know about the deer. We’ve got four outside your workshop, two in the garage, and my partner has found evidence of two more, which makes at least eight. This is your chance to come clean and prove you’re a man of honor.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything,” Cair said.

  “You say that with great conviction. Are you lying? Tell us about the deer, Parm. C’mon, this isn’t a capital crime, it’s just some deer. No biggie. Get it off your chest.”

  “There aren’t any deer.”

  “Look around you.”

  “I don’t have to look. I know my house and my workshop. There are no deer here.”

  “Where’s the venison?”

  “Ain’t no venison,” Cair said. “We do not consume such unspeakables.”

  “We interrupted you butchering a deer. There are parts and meat all around on the floor.”

  “I see nothing, and none of it is mine.” “None of what?”

  “None of what you see,” Cair said.“How do you know what I see?”

  “You just told me.”

  “You’ve been hunting.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I checked our computers. You have a license, as do your wife and your seventeen-year-old son. By the way, where is he?”

  “I have no son.”

  “Our retail sales system says differently.”

  “Computers can be wrong.”

  “Not this one. You bought licenses. I can even tell which day and time.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’ve been hunting.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Somebody killed the animals here.”

  “Not me.”

  “You didn’t do it, or you can’t remember if you did it?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “No?”

  “The war.”

  “Which one?”

  “Vietnam.”

  “You were there?”

  “I’m still there.”

  Neutre never mentioned any military service for the man. “Where was there?”

  “Long An Province, I Corps, Ninth Infantry Division, Operation Enterprise.”

  “When was this?”

  “I remember it like it was yesterday; 1965.”

  “Ninth Infantry Division?”

  “Oorah.”

  “Bullshitter,” Service said without hiding his disgust. “Op Enterprise ran from early ’67 into early ’68; Long An was in III Corps in the Delta Region, not in I Corps by the DMZ; and soldiers say ‘hooah,’ not ‘oorah.’ That’s reserved for Marines. Like me.”

  Cair was studying the floor again when the special agent returned. “Your wife knows nothing about cigarettes.”

  “She’s a pathological liar.”

  Neutre said, “I don’t think so. I talked to her in St. Louis.”

  Cair looked startled. “You’ve made a mistake. My wife’s in the house here.”

  “No, that woman in the house is your girlfriend, or however you guys put it. Her name is Kerny Pascal-Veyron, and she was once a titty bar stripper in Las Vegas.”

  “Exotic dancer,” Cair said. “And she was the headliner.”

  “She was a fifty dollar whore,” the special agent said. “She admits it, why can’t you?”

  “Pathological liar.”

  Neutre looked at a rifle case in the workshop. “Yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “For hunting?”

  “No, for shooting.”

  Service asked, “Can we see it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Cair opened the case, broke the rifle, and set it in Neutre’s hand. She hefted it and made a sound of admiration. “Beautiful work. Fieldstar Smackdown, single shot .45-70.” She looked closer. “Says ‘3 of 30.’”

  “Custom-made. The wife gave it to me last Christmas. Still makes me kinda weepy.”

  Service had shut out the man’s voice. There were two crossbows hanging in the garage outside the workshop; two rifles cases in the garage, three more rifle cases in the workshop, deer parts all over the damn place. No telling how many firearms in the house.

  “You use the .45-70 to shoot all these?”

  “No,” Cair said. “That’s the job of the .30-06.” He pointed at another gun case in the workshop.

  CO Paul picked it up, unzipped it, checked the breech. “Loaded,” she said, popping the clip. “Two rounds gone.”

  “I do not hunt,” the man said. “I collect.”

  Carcasses. “You just told us the .30-06 was used to kill the deer around here.”

  “Not by me.”

  Allerdyce materialized in the side door. “Got two bait piles in field quarter mile up road, two gut piles, drag marks out to road, I t’ink to haul on snowmobile under tarp by woodpile.”

  Couldn’t count all the animals right now. Too confusing. “Where’s all the meat?”

  Cair shrugged. “There isn’t any.”

  “I can see deer parts. We can all see them. And meat. Some of it’s right there on the floor.”

  “That’s not mine.”

  Service was looking at his partner. Angie Paul had gone back into the garage. He heard the following:

  Paul: “That’s a fine rifle, a .45-70, right?”

  Cair: “I got a sweet deal on that. Paid a man twenty-nine hundred. New she would go for four grand, easy.”

  Service had had enough and stepped back inside. “You just told us your wife gave that to you as a Christmas gift.”

  “That’s the story she tells. She don’t like to say what she had to do to get it off the guy.”

  “You just told Officer Paul you bought it.”

  Cair paused. “Well, if my wife bought it, then I bought it, right? Do you follow my logic?”

  “You said you.”

  “You’re being a strict constructionist. My wife bought it, but not with money, if you get my meaning. I don’t want her humiliated in public when all she wanted to do is surprise me and make me happy.”

  “Your wife is in St. Louis,” Neutre said again. “Not here. Your happiness isn’t on her radar and hasn’t been since you abandoned her.”

  “I beg to differ, and you have to bear in mind that I have some difficulty remembering things. Nothing is my fault.”

  Neutre took Service outside. “I talked to Pymn. He drives for Cair, takes a nice cut, which he passes to his pet rescue operation partner.”

  Service: “Keep Our Pets Alive, KOPA. His partner is Arletta Ingalls.”

  “You know her?”

  “I do. She claims to finance the group with pie sales.”

  “You believe that?”

  “No, but I honestly haven’t had time to look deeper into the case. I’ve been jammed since before the season began, and it hasn’t let up.”

  “Have you gotten everything you need from here?” Neutre asked.

  “Not yet.”

  There followed a strange conversation with the fake wife, woman whose first name was Kerny.

  Service: “There are three chest freezers in the garage, and two more in the workshop. How many are in the house?”

  Woman: “Uh huh.”

  Service: “That question calls for a number.”

  Woman: “The usual, I guess.”

  Service: “How many?”

  Woman: “Two chests and the freezer si
de of the fridge in the kitchen. That makes what, seven and a half?”

  Service: “How much venison do you have?”

  Woman: “I have no idea. I don’t cook, do I? Parm cooks on account of his dietary needs. You know, he got gassed in the war.”

  Service: “Did he? Which war?”

  Woman: “Persian Gulf, the first one, when that nice George Bush was our president, not when his fool son was in office.”

  Angie Paul intervened. “Ma’am, you told me your husband was in Vietnam.”

  The woman sighed. “He lies all the time, and how am I supposed to keep it all straight? I mean one stupid war’s pretty much the same as another, right?”

  Service was fed up. “Do you mind if we look in all the freezers?”

  “Of course not. Take everything you find. I don’t want that filthy stuff in my home.”

  “Filthy stuff?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The freezers were filled with venison, all packaged and neatly labeled. They stacked packages, used a scale, had right around a thousand pounds. Service calculated that at an average of eighty pounds of processed meat per animal, the meat in hand accounted for right around a dozen animals. It was close enough.

  Neutre said, “You’ll probably never get him in a state court.”

  “Wah,” Service said and looked at his watch. It was pushing midnight, November 29. Only one more day remaining in the 2009 traditional firearm season. What more could happen?

  CHAPTER 47

  Marquette

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  How did you interview a snake like Jesper Buckshow? This had been simmering in the back of his mind for some time, knowing the moment was coming, but only late last night had it struck him that the task might be a lot easier if he used all the tools at his disposal.

  Marquette State Prison Deputy Warden Hass Remington answered as if he had been awake for hours. “Service here. Got a wild proposal for you,” he told the man, who listened quietly.

  “You think this would help your case?”

  “It sure can’t hurt it.”

  “Okay then. I’ll see to it myself, but only if I can watch.”

  “By all means,” Service told the man.

  • • •

  Jesper Buckshow was wearing a faded orange jumpsuit, white cotton socks, and white paper slippers. A county corrections officer pushed his wheelchair into the interview room.

  “That chair feel strange? I’m Conservation Officer Service, DNR. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Buckshow rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, toy cop; I got arraigned on a chickenshit drug beef yesterday.”

  “You can look forward to more from us.”

  “For drugs?”

  “Where’s your attorney?”

  “The wop? I sent his ass packing. Couldn’t even get me bail, what kind of bullshit is that?”

  If true, and for whatever reason, this might be a lucky break for Tavolacci. “And now here you sit.”

  “Ain’t nothing the likes of you can do to me.”

  “We took about two hundred pieces of evidence out of your house that suggests differently. Deer skulls and mounts, turkey fans, wolf pelts; you’re a regular killing machine.”

  “I got nothing to say until I have representation.”

  “That’s your right of course.”

  The interview room had been chosen with care. It shared a two-way mirror with the next room. Which side was mirror and which side you could see through was electronically controlled from the other room. Buckshow could see into the other room but not vice versa.

  Service let the action take place as a door opened and Deputy Warden Hass Remington brought a handcuffed Tyrene “T-Rex” Talent into the room and gave him a chair.

  Buckshow was as still as prey until T-Rex looked at the window. Buckshow lurched in his wheelchair. “What is this?”

  “What is what?”

  “Over there,” Buckshow said, turning his head away. “That . . . thing.”

  “No idea who he is. Our business is here in this room.”

  “I know that guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “In the next room; are you not paying attention here?”

  Service glanced at T-Rex. “Sorry, no same-sex conjugal visits allowed in this jail.”

  Buckshow hissed, “I ain’t one of them people. I’m normal.”

  Service said, “Yah; we saw that at your house.”

  Buckshow reddened, and Service told him, “We need to get down to business.”

  “What business?”

  “Your poaching business.”

  “Weren’t no business. Hunting’s my avocation. Is that word too big for you? It means hobby.”

  “It also means minor occupation, and because you’re allegedly medically disabled and have no primary occupation, prima facie, which makes it your primary occupation.”

  He noticed Buckshow was perspiring heavily. “Is it too hot in here for you?”

  “I have medical conditions.”

  “Care to specify?”

  The man shook his head, was now watching T-Rex and nothing else. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to tell me about the animals you took.”

  “I do not possess an eidetic memory.”

  “No problem. We’ll go through every item one at a time.”

  “Why is that man in there?” Buckshow asked again, his voice cracking.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Can we stay on topic? I have other things to do today.”

  “That’s a very, very bad man in that room.”

  Service glanced at T-Rex. “He looks perfectly normal to me.”

  “Oh no, oh no, you are wrong. Not that one.”

  “What about the animals?”

  Buckshow was talking to him, but his eyes were fixed on T-Rex, who was looking at the mirror on his side. “Is that man in this jail?”

  “I don’t know. Want me to ask?”

  “Yes.”

  Service went next door so Buckshow could see him. The black man nodded, grinned, and held out a fist for the CO to bump.

  “They’re getting him ready for in-processing.”

  “You know him?” the prisoner asked.

  “I’ve never seen him before this morning.”

  “What was all the doo-dap bullshit?”

  “You must be seeing things.”

  “I know what I’m seeing. I’m not blind.”

  “Your sniping proves that.”

  “What do I have to do to make all this go away?”

  “All this is not going away. You’re in serious trouble, and you need to face it.”

  “I didn’t mean go away forever, I meant go away today, this morning, go away now. Is there something I can sign?”

  “We’ve taken the liberty of writing a statement for you. If you prefer, you can write your own. Otherwise, read the one here and, if you agree, sign it.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “It says that you killed all the animals listed in evidence in the appended report and that you acted alone. Is that an accurate summary?”

  “Yes; give me a damn pen.”

  “First you have to read the statement and the attachment.”

  “Okay.”

  Service gave him the evidence list and the statement. The prisoner’s attention remained next door.

  “The report’s on your table, not in that other room.”

  Buckshow held out his hand for a pen.

  Service placed his digital recorder on the table. “Do you swear that you voluntarily sign this statement of your own volition and without coercion?”

  “Yah, yah; give me a pen.”

  The man scribbled his signature and stood up.

  Service said, “My God, it’s a miracle. You can walk!”

  “Up yours. I want out.”

  “What about your wheelchair? You might suffer a relapse.”

  “Are you deaf? I’m done here. I want back in
my cell.”

  Service buzzed for a guard to take the prisoner, who paused momentarily at the door. “What’s the fine for all this crap?”

  “Our charges? No idea, except they won’t be cheap. Restitution on one deer is a thousand. But if I were you, I’d worry more about the jail time the drug charges are likely to carry. Hundreds of plants suggests more than personal use.”

  “I use it only for medical reasons.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Weed is legal. We voted it in statewide a year ago.”

  “I heard something about that.” He wasn’t sure if the statement would hold up, but with Buckshow in jail and not out on bail, it didn’t really matter. They had more than enough evidence, and when the season was over, he would have to sit down and write the complaint and request warrants on charges specified.

  Claims he had fired Sandy. True, or had Sandy walked? The latter, he hoped.

  CHAPTER 48

  Rock, Delta County

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  Service fetched Allerdyce from Friday’s house and they headed out. No real plan in mind other than to just drive aimlessly until something caught their attention. Right after a stop for coffee in Gwinn, they saw a doe carcass in a field, an orange tag in its jaw. Service got out and fetched the tag. The name was Dux Goldmanenmooi. He called Station Twenty in Lansing and ran the name, which came back to an address on Jokkola Street in Rock. “Let’s go see this fella, then call it a day and a season.”

  “You gone write fella just t’row ’way bones?”

  “We’re going to have a little talk about littering and illegal disposal and see what other doors pop open.”

  “Youse’s daddy woulda leff ’at t’ing right dere.”

  “I’m not him. Times change. The paper trail reigns.”

  • • •

  Dux Goldmanenmooi (they learned it was pronounced Ghoul-de-moy) was in his twenties, on the gaunt side, dull-eyed, gold earrings, standard goatee of young men of his generation’s age.

  It took awhile to get the name straight, and finally Service asked, “You hunt this year?”

  “Yah, sure.”

  “Get a deer?”

  “Was fork horn, I think.”

  Thinks? “Where at?”

  “Over by the river; you know, the Escanaba, up where the Sawmill Creek dumps in. Is there a problem, sir?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Service told him.