Strike Dog

by Joseph Heywood

  “You’re top of the list,” Service said.

  Eddie Waco glanced at him. “Thet list hain’t right.”

  “Any way to find out who sent the information from your higher-ups to the feds, and to whom?”

  “I reckon, but I’m thinking weren’t nothin’ sent.”

  “How long have you been a warden?” Service asked.

  “Twenty year.”

  “You been ta college,” Service said, mimicking Cake Culkin.

  Waco nodded. “Mizzou.”

  Service raised an eyebrow: University of Missouri. “Studying what?”

  “Biology and forestry.”

  Service said, “I thought you said you don’t know science.”

  “Learned enough ta slide through. All I ever wanted was to be a game warden.”

  “I guess you turned out to be a pretty good one.”

  Waco’s eyes narrowed. “Elray was the best I seen. You think the feds are going to waste your time again?”

  “Our time,” Service said. “The way I figure it, we both have a stake in this fiasco, and if I’m in, you’re in. The feds have had this thing closed up in a box for too damn long. It needs air and light.”

  After eating, they waited in darkness at the airport. The unlit field was tiny, with only three small planes parked in the open air.

  “Where’s Security?” Monica asked when she pulled up.

  “I reckon we’re it,” Waco said.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said.

  “We’re outdoor guys,” Service said. “And there isn’t an inside unless you want to sit in the truck.”

  Eddie Waco grinned.

  Monica handed him a large envelope. “Larry only gave you the records from the second group. I thought you might want these.”

  “You lied to me,” Service said. “You put the bite on your old classmate. It wasn’t his idea to contact Governor Timms. It was yours.”

  She held up her hands. “Nolo contendere,” she said. “I wanted you close.”

  “To protect me,” Service said.

  “The killer hasn’t struck an officer outside his home state. If you were with us, I figured you’d be clear until we could get this damn thing figured out. I swear it was in your interest.”

  “Bonaparte says you’re a zealot.”

  She said, “I’m also damn good.”

  “Which is why you got dumped in Milwaukee.”

  “That’s bullshit. I broke the case in LA and I asked for Milwaukee.”

  “Your colleagues say differently.”

  “Gasparino?” she said. “Larry’s green, still susceptible to the most outrageous gossip. There’s always gossip when a woman gets the job done. You want, call my boss in Milwaukee. He’ll confirm it.”

  Service looked over at Eddie Waco, who shrugged.

  “You have had a chance to look at the reports?” she asked.

  “We looked.”

  “And?”

  “Not much there.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  Service said, “But it seems to me we have a few things. Bonaparte insists this guy is the perfect serial murderer, but he hit Elray Spargo, when Agent Waco is the top man on the list for Missouri. He also may have killed Deputy Owens, and the fact that he may have brought her in as a third party to arrange a meeting suggests he’s changed his ways, or is unsure of himself. Something is changing. He was also close to getting confronted in Wisconsin by the sheriff. This guy may be good, but he’s not flawless—if your list means a damn thing. The real key is what do all the victims on the list have in common—other than the obvious?”

  She scratched the corner of her mouth. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about—the list.”

  “We’re listening,” Service said.

  “The analyst who discovered the pattern also suggested the list. I mean, who were the victims? Were they targets of opportunity, the best guys, or unlucky foul-ups? The list was intended to help us pinpoint more of a pattern.”

  “Which it did.”

  “It became pretty clear that only the top people were being targeted.”

  “But Spargo died, not Waco.”

  “You have to understand, we were getting a little desperate. We have to fight like hell for resources nowadays and we were getting big pressure to produce. We thought the list would be a way of assessing patterns, and then it started to have predictive value, so I decided to rig a control, hoping I could speed up things.”

  Service thought he misheard. “You switched Spargo for Waco?”

  “It was strictly an alphabetical choice. They were both on the Missouri list.”

  “Which got Elray killed,” a tense Eddie Waco said. Service wondered if he should move the federal agent away from him.

  Tatie Monica shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. “Maybe, but the fact that the killer went for Agent Spargo tells us a couple of things.”

  Service said, “One, he makes mistakes.”

  “Hit also says he’s wired into the dadblame list,” Eddie Waco interjected.

  “Which has very limited distribution,” Monica said.

  “I managed to get a copy,” Service said, “which doesn’t say much for your security.”

  “I know, I know, but I wanted you to have the list, and you would have gotten it, but you duped Larry before I could get to it.”

  “It wasn’t difficult.”

  “He came to me and told me what he’d done. His instincts are good.”

  “The killer has thet list,” Eddie Waco repeated.

  “Only he fucked up,” Service said.

  “Not in his mind,” Monica said. “As far as the killer’s concerned, and according to the control, he took out the top man in Missouri. In his mind, he’s still perfect, and it’s what’s in his mind that matters to us.”

  “Bonaparte said the man’s flexible and creative.”

  “Both of which may be true, but he still took the wrong man. Bonaparte says I’m a zealot, but he won’t give up his bullshit perfect-killer theory.”

  “Who called the FBI about Spargo?” Service asked.

  “The call came into the St. Louis office,” she said.

  “Recorded?”

  “Yes, but the audio people say the caller used a pay phone and a masking device. They haven’t been able to filter it yet, and they probably won’t.”

  “Pay phone where?”

  “St. Louis,” she said.

  “How did Bonaparte get involved?”

  “He was in St. Louis when the call came in. I had talked to him about joining us in Wisconsin, but this broke before he could get there.”

  “And he went to the site here and left before we came in?” Service asked.

  She nodded.

  “Does he go to all the crime scenes?”

  “Not all, but it’s fairly standard procedure for BAU people, especially in a major case.”

  “Even for an acting assistant director?”

  “He’s been a profiler for a long time, and his management gig is ­short-term.”

  “He really believes his theory?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “Supporters?” Service asked.

  “These killings are certainly earning him some. Look,” she said, “if you want to go home, it’s your call. I’m sorry I pulled you into this the way I did.”

  “We might have met with my lungs pulled through my ribs.”

  “I know,” she said. “I was desperate, and I’m sorry.”

  “Officers have a right to know all about this,” Service said, looking to Eddie Waco, who nodded. “Do the states’ fish and game division law enforcement people know this is going on?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Unacceptable
!” Service said, nearly shouting.

  “We thought we could get the guy without making a big public case.”

  “All ya’ll were wrong,” Eddie Waco said. “That puts some of the body count on all ya’ll’s heads.”

  “I hear what you guys’re saying, and in your position I might be feeling the same thing, but we can’t call back the past. There’s no do-overs in this, so all we can do is move on.”

  “How many people are privy to the list?” Service asked.

  “Two dozen max.”

  “Two dozen like Larry?” Service shot back.

  “I hope not,” Tatie Monica said.

  “This don’t give a soul a heap of confidence,” Eddie Waco chimed in.

  “Look, I admit I’ve made mistakes. But now you know, and it’s up to you to decide where you go from here.”

  Service studied her. “You remember when you asked me about hunting?”

  “I remember.”

  “I forgot to say it’s not a group activity,” he said. “I’m thinking Agent Waco and I need to talk, and then we’ll get back to you.”

  “Are you going to stay?” she asked.

  “Did you order a plane?”

  “Be here soon.”

  “Good. I’m going to go back to Michigan.”

  “Home?”

  “I haven’t decided that yet,” Service said.

  Special Agent Monica looked at Eddie Waco. “You?”

  “Like the man says, we’ll get back at you’n,” the conservation agent said.

  “Any chance the killer has both the original list and the control?”

  “Looks that way, but I don’t see how,” Tatie Monica said. “Only the analyst and I had the list with the control.”

  “Did the killings that took place before the list conform to the list?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “But those states that already had lost a man wouldn’t be on the list.”

  “We went only to the states that had not lost someone.”

  “What about the states that had already lost people?”

  “We had names of victims, and went directly to each state to get a sense of the victim’s value.”

  “They all valuable,” Eddie Waco growled.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” the federal agent said. “Some of the states said the victim was their top performer, or a top performer.”

  “But the killer has focused on the top warden in each state.”

  “What are you getting at?” she asked.

  “How did the killer identify victims before the list?”

  She looked at Service for a long moment. “We don’t know.”

  Service said, “You can’t just wander into the woods and hope to bump into the top warden—or any warden, for that matter. Most of us aren’t predictable in our patterns. And, if you want to target the top people, it takes time to find them in order to do what you’re gonna do. Who supplied evaluations to you?”

  “The top law enforcement official in each state.”

  “How long to get back to you?”

  “A day or two at the most.”

  “States don’t keep such lists,” Eddie Waco said, “an’ the top law dog is the attorney general.”

  Service said, “Safari Club gives an award every year to the outstanding law enforcement officer in Michigan. Probably other states, too. The turkey federation also gives an award. Probably Ducks Unlimited too.”

  “You ever win any of those?” Tatie Monica asked.

  Service shook his head.

  “Then they’re irrelevant,” she said.

  “This list thing isn’t helping,” Service said. “The killer has to have a way of picking targets, a connection between the violets other than their jobs. We just have to figure out what it is. Where’s that plane?” he asked.

  “I said I ordered it.”

  Service looked at her and frowned. “It’s coming here?”

  “Destination?” she asked.

  “Iron Mountain. I need my truck.”

  She went to her vehicle, got on the radio, scribbled some notes, and came back. “Here’s fine. One hour.”

  “You’d better call someone and get the lights on here.” Obviously she had not ordered the plane, or was holding it back, hoping she could convince him to stay.

  “I really think it would be better if you remained with the team,” she said.

  “No chance,” he answered. He still couldn’t figure her out, but he had too many doubts about her motivation and competence to keep doing what she wanted.

  “You’ll be in touch?” she asked.

  “If I have reason.”

  When she was gone Service looked over at the Missouri agent. “You can go too. I’ve got plenty of reading to keep me occupied.”

  “Pass me some a’ them files, partner.”

  “Don’t you have something to do?”

  “I am doing it,” the man said.

  After reading by flashlight for a while, Waco said, “If the same feller did all these folks, he musta got started whin he was the size of a popcorn fart.”

  Service looked over at the man. “I’ve had similar thoughts.”

  “Hard as it is ta find the likes of us, could be more’n one perp, I ’speck.” Waco added, “I’m thinking you want a well, you best be willin’ to dig all the way down ta water, and if this ole boy’s the perfectionist them feds claim and he’s never got hisself caught, how come he’d switch to a new way? Way I read history, ole Babe Ruth never stopped swingin’ for fences even if he struck out more times thin he smacked homers. And Old Ty Cobb never stopped slidin’ with ’is spikes up.”

  The plane arrived and pulled in, Service walked across the apron, verified his credentials, loaded his gear, and walked back to the Missouri agent.

  “Good huntin’,” Waco said, extending his hand.

  “What makes you think I’m going to hunt?”

  Waco grinned. “You got the look. You think you get you a scent, call me and we’ll make it a pack hunt.” Waco handed him a card with several phone numbers and an e-mail address. “Me’n Cake will look at the site in the morning.”

  Service watched the conservation agent standing expressionless in front of his pickup as the plane taxied into position for takeoff.

  PART II MICHISSIPPI

  Prendre le chemin des écoliers

  To take the schoolboy’s route

  23

  WISCONSIN REDUX

  MAY 30, 2004

  Grady Service found himself beset with jumbled thoughts. The killer had not struck every year in either group. Why? Waco had suggested there was a group at work, and although possible, this didn’t seem likely. Still, a group would better explain how the killer might track his targets. More than one killer could explain how someone could get the better of the imposing Elray Spargo, much less drag his huge body alone. Most COs didn’t have easy or predictable routines for an outsider to key in on, and often they didn’t know from one moment to the next where they would be or what they would be doing.

  He knew that successful long-term fish and game violators tended to be fairly well organized, and often the shooters were not the same ones who located the targets. It could also apply to humans. That’s what their Kit Carson scouts had done for them in Vietnam.

  But if a crew had been operating over so many years, the odds were that one of them, or somebody who knew one of them, would have snitched. And why had there been a gap of a dozen years between the groups? Had “helpers” outlived their usefulness? The death of the Missouri deputy was definitely something the FBI ought to be taking a long, hard look at, but would they? They had known about the killings for three years and not informed game wardens around the country. Jesus. They were running around with a lot of people, and what seemed to
him more velocity than direction. What the hell was Special Agent T. R. Monica really thinking? There were moments when she seemed to be on top of things, and others when she seemed almost clueless. Whatever she was, his gut said not to trust her. As he thought about it, he even wondered if she was somehow involved. Why else would the investigation seem so cockamamie and have so many holes? He wondered if he could check her whereabouts against the killings and timing to see if there was a pattern, but decided this was a reach. Sometimes in an investigation you could have some strange notions. It paid to recognize them for what they were and move on. It would take one imposing person or two to take down Spargo, and Monica had been with him in Wisconsin, which eliminated her from involvement. Right?

  Early on she had seemed most interested in his tracking abilities. Why? What trail was he supposed to follow? He was on the list. Okay, but what else? He didn’t know if he was tracking a chimpanzee or a chickadee. He had a record of finding people who were known to be lost. And he had a good record of intervening in outdoor crime because he had experience and pretty good instincts about where things might happen. Wanting to protect him seemed ludicrous, but she had used political connections to pull him in, and she had admitted it to him. Maybe she believed having him close was the right thing to do.

  Whatever her reasoning, he decided there was only one trail, and that was in Wisconsin. He knew from experience that when you lost a trail, you often had to double back to where you’d lost it—all the way to the beginning, if necessary.

  He was still in the parking lot of Ford Airport in Iron Mountain when he decided he would not head home. He drove toward Florence, deep in thought.

  Why would the man who had killed so invisibly in so many different ways in the first group, and most of the second, suddenly switch to the blood eagle, which was impossible to hide? He had tried not to think about the gruesome details of the most recent killings, but he had a curious thought that such butchering required a fair amount of knowledge about the human anatomy, and some cutting skill. How the hell could someone just jump into killing like that unless they’d first tried it out? Could forensics see a difference in the technique of the mutilations from killing to killing? Was the killer getting better, or worse; was he changing his cutting methods . . . anything? There was no analysis of techniques in the reports. He knew from experience that gutting and butchering a large animal was not something you did perfectly the first time. The more you did it, the more efficient you got.