Captain Grant’s formidable door guard, Fern LeBlanc, answered. “It’s Grady. Is he in?”
“One moment, please.”
“Detective,” the captain greeted him. “The chief has briefed me.”
“Has the word gone out?”
“Not yet. The chief and I want to meet with you.”
“The word needs to get out yesterday, Cap’n. What this guy does to people is not pretty.”
“Tomorrow afternoon in my office, sixteen hundred hours?”
“The chief will be here tomorrow?”
“He’ll be here for a security meeting at noon.”
“The Bush visit?”
Heavy silence from Grant. “Where did you hear that? It’s not been announced yet, and the trip is only tentative.”
“Toe Tag Barratt.”
The captain said in his faint southern drawl, “The Secret Service is going to have its hands full up here.”
U.P. residents didn’t like being fenced in or herded by the government, even one they had elected.
“Tomorrow at four, Cap’n.”
He started driving east on M-69 toward Escanaba, checked his cell phone for a signal, and called Gus Turnage.
“Were you able to confirm that thing with Honeypat?”
“The judge saw her at the casino in Baraga. She was wearing a wig, but he’s sure it was her. He had her in his court a couple of times. He tried to talk to her but she pretended to be someone else. I talked to the captain right after he got off the phone with you, and he’s going to put out a BOLO to all of our people.”
“Thanks, Gus.”
“Where are you?”
“Heading for home.”
“You got something working?”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
Honeypat would have a reason to hurt him through Nantz and Walter, but Ficorelli and Spargo also had close relatives killed in auto accidents not long before they died. Was Honeypat Allerdyce the only possibility? If it was her, it had nothing to do with the serial killings. Or did it? Her reappearance only complicated things.
26
SLIPPERY CREEK, MICHIGAN
MAY 31, 2004
He dropped his gear and bags inside the front door, surveyed his cabin, and saw it for what it was: a wooden shell, not a house—and certainly not a home. But he couldn’t think how he could change it, or why he should bother. It had always been adequate, and would be again.
He gathered his clothes and took them to the laundry in a small room off the back porch and mudroom. He loaded the washer, poured in some detergent, set the dials, and started the load. He looked around for Cat and Newf but couldn’t find them. Eventually he found a note on his refrigerator from McCants, saying she had taken them to her place. He had been gone longer than he had expected. He hadn’t really thought about the logistics of McCants coming by each day, twice a day, to let Newf out. He should have suggested she take them in the first place. He wasn’t thinking things through.
He considered calling McCants and picking up his animals but decided not to. The animals were safe and that’s all that mattered. What else was he overlooking?
A serial killer was out there, and he was the next victim on the list. For a fleeting moment he thought of locking the cabin door. It would have been ridiculous. He never had before and he wouldn’t begin now. The killer would be waiting for him in the woods. That’s how he worked. And Service would be ready for him.
27
MARQUETTE, MICHIGAN
JUNE 1, 2004
If the best part of being a detective was not wearing a uniform every day, the worst was spending time in a cookie-cutter cubicle in the DNR’s regional office. Most Wildlife Resources Protection unit detectives operated out of home offices, but Captain Grant insisted on Service putting in a regular appearance in Marquette, probably because the captain wanted to keep track of him. As a CO, Service had for years operated out of his truck and Slippery Creek Camp, and had been accountable primarily to sergeants, who largely had left him alone. He had never been one to need or welcome a lot of direction and supervision.
He waved at Fern LeBlanc on the way to his cubicle, stopped, and pulled his mail out of his box. He went to the copier room, made copies of the FBI reports, and went back to his office and turned on his computer. While it was booting up, he checked his voice-mail messages. One was from Joan Pillars. Who the hell? Then he remembered: Limpy’s alleged squeeze. She had left a card and note in the restaurant, stuck another under his windshield wiper, and now, here was a phone call. She said she was persistent and it appeared she was true to her word. He decided he’d call her back if he had time—just to get her off his back.
Fern LeBlanc appeared in his cubicle. “They’re ready for you.”
Service checked his watch: 3 p.m. “The meeting’s not until four.”
“Things change,” she said. “They’re waiting.”
“Sounds like I’m in trouble,” he joked.
“Familiar terrain for you,” she said, but her tone suggested she was joking. Weird, he thought. The woman had never liked him. But even Fern was treating him differently since the accident. Not an accident! He quickly corrected himself.
“On my way,” he said, gathering his folders.
Captain Ware Grant and Chief Lorne O’Driscoll were sitting in the captain’s office, which looked out on distant Lake Superior. The lake was lit by the sun, and a gentle breeze made it look like it was pocked with diamonds.
The captain pointed to a chair at the table with the chief and remained behind his desk. Service gave one set of records to the chief and the other to the captain. “Coffee?”
“Buzz Fern,” the captain said, opening his folder.
“I’ll get it,” Service said.
“I could have done that,” Fern said as he filled three cups in the canteen. “You don’t need to do my job for me.”
“Sorry,” he said. So much for joking. Nothing he did, it seemed, met with Fern’s approval. She scowled and walked away.
The chief looked up when he returned. “Ficorelli’s death was announced last night,” he said. “No details, no date, and only an approximate location. It’s being called a homicide. Why such a long delay?”
“The Feebs found their first kill site there. They wanted to protect it. I argued for a release to encourage tips.” He didn’t tell the captain or chief he had been the one to find the kill site.
Captain Grant said, “The bureau loathes media attention unless they want to tell a story that will benefit them.”
The chief glared at one of the photos of the mutilated wardens, tapped it on the table, and shook his head. No words came out and Service understood. The photos were enough to turn the stomach of the most callous lawman.
The three men sat in lugubrious silence. Service sensed they were as much at a loss of where to start as he was. Finally, Chief O’Driscoll spoke. “Do you believe the FBI arranged to have you in Wisconsin to shield you?”
“They admitted as much,” Service said.
The captain asked, “If you had been the victim, would they have brought Ficorelli or the other man in to protect them?”
Service hadn’t considered this angle, and wondered why the captain had asked it, and if he was trying to make a point. “I don’t know,” he said. Elray Spargo was their control, which had doomed him. “It’s down to one state now.” Why Spargo and not him or Ficorelli as the control? Pure luck, he guessed.
“I called Director Mueller in Washington,” Chief O’Driscoll said. “He is somewhat familiar with the case, but I believe he knows nothing about the list or the Missouri control angle. I told him we’ll request assistance if we need it to protect our own, but it’s our intent to handle this ourselves.”
“He agreed?”
“He said they have to bring a team here as an
adjunct of the presidential security detail, so they’ll be available. I think that’s his way of telling us to expect them to be around.”
Great, Service thought.
“The Bureau has resources we don’t,” the captain said, playing devil’s advocate.
“Which have gotten them nowhere,” the chief said. “This is our problem.” O’Driscoll looked into Service’s eyes. “We have to assume you’re the target, but I intend to brief all officers. Captains will brief lieutenants and sergeants, and together they will meet with all personnel in each district.”
“What about leaks?” Service asked.
“There will be no leaks,” the chief said. “I will tell our people about the killings and what we know, but you will not be identified as the possible target. We want all officers on their toes, and all officers up here will be asked to exercise extreme caution in riverine environments. We’ll continue solo patrols, but backup is to be called in if any officer encounters anything that seems unusually suspicious or out of place.”
Service wondered how many officers would take the chief’s advice to heart. Most of them tended to be self-reliant, stubborn, and not easily intimidated. “Will you show them a photo? Asking for caution is one thing; seeing the reality is a whole other thing.”
The chief looked over at the captain, who nodded agreement.
“How do you propose to handle your situation?” the chief asked. “Are you pulling yourself off the FBI team?”
Did he have that option? “I haven’t thought it through yet. I called a contact in Detroit. She’s using her sources to go through the VICAP data. Agent Waco, the warden I worked with in Missouri, thinks it’s possible that there’s more than one perp—that even in targeting specific individuals, wardens are difficult to track. Considerable preparation would be essential.”
“Why VICAP?”
“Two groups of killings. The MO varies throughout the first group. But the blood eagle is a constant in only the most recent killings in the second group, and the location near water is the same for both groups. There was a method change in the last few, and the feds don’t understand why, or what it means. Given the complexity of the blood eagle, I think it’s possible the perp gave the method a test run—maybe on civilians. The Feebs claim VICAP led them to both groups. I thought I should go back and see exactly what it gave them.” He said nothing about Tatie Monica’s non-FBI analyst.
“VICAP should have turned up something,” the chief said.
“You’d think,” Service said. “I didn’t know much about VICAP before this, and what I’ve learned so far is that it has more wrinkles than a cheap suit. It’s not unreasonable to expect that something has been missed, something small but significant.”
“We’re not going to lecture you on caution,” the chief said.
“I hear you,” Service replied. “Everybody’s going to be uptight about this. I want to keep working my sources. This guy is methodical, and method implies routine, which suggests predictability. There’s got to be something we’re not seeing.”
Service thought about sharing information about the fly he had found, and the coincidental deaths that might or might not be linked to the killings, but he decided he didn’t have enough information to make sense and kept quiet. Besides, he had stuck the fly in his pocket and forgotten to turn it over to the FBI for evidence.
After O’Driscoll departed for Lansing, Captain Grant said, “The FBI pulled you under their wings for more than protection. They were buying time to get their act together. Understood?”
“It’s occurred to me that they want me to be their bait,” Service said.
“Where’s the ideal spot to place bait?”
“Where the predator expects to find it.”
“Does such a place come to mind?” the captain asked.
“Several.”
“Good. When you’re ready, let me know.”
“I’m thinking the more sources I reach out to, the better off we are.”
“I agree,” the captain said. “I’ll do the same.”
“Do you want me to check in with O’Brien?”
“Not necessary,” the captain said. “He’s a good man and will help you only if you need it. You are all right, yes?”
“I’m good to go, Captain.” But he wasn’t convinced, himself. “Cap’n,” he added, “You talked to Gus about Honeypat Allerdyce?”
The captain nodded. “I put out a BOLO. Are you thinking there is a connection between the woman’s return and Nantz’s death?”
“You know her background. We can’t rule it out, and there’s another reason for revisiting the accident.” He explained about Ficorelli’s mother, Spargo’s sister, and the timing.
The captain made notes, looked up, and pointed with his pen. “I’ll follow up with the Troops. You make sure to keep your mind on you.”
28
JEFFERSON, WISCONSIN
JUNE 8, 2004
Wayno Ficorelli’s memorial was held in an old firehouse-turned-community-meeting-room in Jefferson, the town where he’d lived with his mother. While the service had involved mostly family members, Service and three Wisconsin wardens were included.
The way Wayno died had left everyone pensive. It was one thing to be killed in the performance of duty and another to be slaughtered like a pig. The public had not been told about the mutilations, but the family of the victim and his fellow wardens knew.
There was a reception at the Ficorelli house, a mile north of Jefferson, after the burial. Marge Ciucci, Ficorelli’s aunt, was in charge. She had obviously been cooking for several days. She was effusive and friendly, circulating like a dervish, making sure her guests were overfed and comfortable. At one point she came over to Grady Service: “You’re staying tonight, yes?”
“Thought I’d head back to Michigan.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You’re staying. We need to talk, you and me.”
Service thought she had the voice of an angel and the eyes of hangman.
When the last guests were gone, Marge Ciucci took him to a small outbuilding. It was filled with fly-fishing equipment and tying materials. The walls held more than a dozen impressive brook trout mounts.
“It was Wayno’s plan when he retired to open a fly shop up north,” she said. Over the years he and my sister bought several fine properties on good rivers.” She paused and took a deep breath. “He would have wanted you to have some of his gear,” she said. “He’d want the sheriff to have his rods. I’m giving you all his flies; there are boxes and boxes of them.”
“I can’t do that,” Service said.
“Plus the gear the FBI has,” she added. “When they release that, I’ll send it to you. He thought you were the best,” the dead man’s aunt said, “and he had a high opinion of himself, that boy.”
Service sensed the woman fighting to hold back her emotions.
“So you take all this stuff and load it in your truck; use it in good health and enjoy. Life is too short.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Grady Service said.
“Say you’ll get who did this,” the old woman said.
It was more than clear in the woman’s tone that she was not referring to simply bringing the killer to justice, but something more final.
“The justice system will take care of it,” he said.
“The system?” Marge Ciucci said. “Non me rompere le palle! In the old country they have other ways to take care of animals like this.” Her face tightened into a mask and she hissed, “Nessuno me lo ficca in culo!”
Service understood her anger, but not her specific words “I’ll do my best.”
The old woman reached up, pinched his face, and nodded. “Compari to settle the stomach before we go to bed?”
It was not a question.
In the morning she had coffee waiting an
d fried three eggs for him. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “You don’t speak Italian and I lost my temper, but you and Wayno are men of the world, and you have a right to know what I said. First, I told you not to break my balls. Then I said nobody fucks me up the ass! You catch the animale who did this to my nephew and you cut off his balls, si?” She made a violent slicing gesture with the side of her hand.
Definitely not someone he would want to cross, he thought as he loaded Wayno’s boxes of flies into his vehicle.
29
ALLERDYCE COMPOUND, SOUTHWEST MARQUETTE COUNTY, MICHIGAN
JUNE 9, 2004
On the way back to Michigan, Service called the cell phone number that Joan Pillars had left for him. The phone rang interminably and he was about to hang up when she finally answered. “Hello?”
“This is Grady Service.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice brightening. “The detective. Andrew’s friend.”
Limpy’s friend? He almost laughed out loud. “You said you wanted to talk.”
“Not over the phone,” she said.
“I’m free this afternoon.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m at Andrew’s camp today, and tomorrow I’m leaving for North Carolina for a few days.”
It was difficult to picture the chic professor in Allerdyce’s crude camp in southwest Marquette County. “I’ll be there in about three hours, give or take.”
There was a two-track off a U.S. Forest Service road down to the compound’s parking area, then a half-mile walk along a twisting trail from there into the camp itself. The surrounding area was dense with black spruce, cedars, hemlocks, and tamaracks. He parked and began to make his way along the dark trail on foot.
It was normal to not see a soul en route to or in the compound, but today there were people everywhere in the camp, and Allerdyce himself was seated at a picnic table, freshly shaved, teeth in, grinning. It irked him that neither he nor the old poacher had their real teeth.
“Sonny,” he said, “Joanie told me youse was dropping by, but I din’t believe her, eh.” The old man winked. “She got the gift for sure.”
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