Service had no idea what gift Allerdyce was referring to and didn’t care.
Pillars walked out of the old man’s cabin, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “Good afternoon, Detective.”
Pillars invited him to sit at the table, turned to Allerdyce, and said, “Shoo, Andrew! This is business.” Allerdyce laughed his wheezing laugh, got up, and walked through the camp as people came up to him and engulfed him with questions.
The cabin was new, identical to the old one that had burned, though this version had a new metal roof. Other buildings in the compound were under construction, but there were no construction company trucks.
“Andrew’s family is doing all the work,” Pillars said. “They can do anything.”
She was obviously impressed. Service wasn’t. “You wanted to talk.”
“Yes. I’m writing a book about woods crime. It started out as rural crime, but as I got into the subject I realized that what goes on in the deep woods is a lot more interesting and complex, and I shifted my focus. My publisher doesn’t understand how I can find enough to fill a book on the subject, but I could write several if I wanted to. At this point I’ve talked to a lot of people around the country, but now I want to start shifting gears and get the views of law enforcement.”
One of Limpy’s grandchildren brought iced tea in tall glasses. The boy wore a Packer chook pulled down over his ears, and a Pistons jersey and shorts that reached almost to his beat-up high-top sneakers, a rural thug in training.
The professor took a sip. “I’ve interviewed many criminals around the country, but I have to tell you, Andrew is by far the most interesting of them . . . and near as I can tell, he’s also been one of the most successful.”
“If you don’t count his stint in Jackson,” Service said.
“Yes, Andrew told me about that. He said it was an accident that you got shot. He still feels bad about that.”
Service knew better. Limpy Allerdyce had no conscience.
“Andrew genuinely cares about you,” the woman said. “You’ll never hear it from him, but it’s true. He’s very old school about not emoting.”
Service wanted to say that this was because the only emotions the man had were evil, but he kept this to himself.
“I believe Andrew has changed,” Pillars said. “He readily admits to his violent past and says that since he nearly died, he has reevaluated and changed his ways.”
Service wanted to laugh out loud. Among his many skills, Limpy was at heart a world-class con man.
“Ah,” the professor said. “I can see in your eyes you don’t agree. When we undertake to change ourselves drastically from what we once were, people are understandably skeptical.
“Words are cheap and only actions speak, but the truth is that he and his family are no longer poaching or breaking laws,” she added. “He has seen the light, and has inculcated the others.”
Bullshit. Limpy hated the light. He was a creature of darkness, secretive in nature, evil in intent. He and his tribe were cedar swamp savages. “Right,” Service said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“The interesting thing about Andrew is that although he’s not formally educated, he is extremely intelligent, and even more than that, he’s very clever. He has made a great deal of money in his endeavors, but he has spent only what he’s needed for his operations. He chooses to live quite frugally. Do you know that he owns a warehouse in Marquette that’s being converted to condos with a view of the city harbor? He’s the majority shareholder in the development, and the condos are a thousand square feet and going at a million dollars each. The project was fully subscribed before construction even began,” Pillars said.
Allerdyce in real estate? Nantz had shown him the development overlooking the old iron dock in Marquette, insisting that the city would be the state’s next Traverse City. She claimed that people would flock to the area from California and Texas to buy lake properties, and that in ten years Marquette would be a far different place than it had been. Her prediction had turned his stomach, but she had wealth she never talked about and seemed to understand money at a level he couldn’t imagine.
“He owns a great deal of prime property,” the professor added.
“He claims.”
“Yes, of course, but he authorized me to talk to his accountant, and I have seen proof. Andrew is a man of considerable wealth, which is likely to keep increasing as he moves deeper into development.”
There was a picture: Poacher turned developer! Service tried not to laugh. It was just a different facet of the same business, driven by the same values. “What can I do for you?” he asked. The last thing he wanted to do was listen to some professor sing the praises of the worst poacher in the state.
“He really has changed,” Pillars repeated. “In fact, if you check with your RAP people, you will find that they have gotten a number of anonymous tips over the past sixty days, and all of them have led to arrests and convictions.” RAP (Report All Poaching) was the 800 line to Lansing where people called in infractions. She put a piece of notebook paper on the table. “All the times of the calls are there. Check them out and you’ll see. Instead of breaking laws, Andrew’s people are helping you and your colleagues enforce them. Who better to help than someone who is an expert on the other end of the process?”
Service shoved the paper into his pocket.
“Crimes vary in their severity,” she said. “And criminals vary in the degrees and extents to which they are involved. How do you see the criminals you engage?”
He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation, but he was here and he wanted to get it over with. “Most fish and game violations grow out of unchecked common emotions, not evil intent,” Service began.
“That’s a remarkably enlightened view,” the professor said.
“All I can tell you about is my own experience. Some churchgoing, Boy Scout–leading wrench-twister from Flat Rock sees not one, but two eight-point bucks, and before he can sort out his emotions, bang-bang, two dead deer and only one permit. Accidental violator.”
He plowed on, “Or a woman from Oscoda gets a weekend pass from her old man. She’s on the East Branch of the Black River catching trout, nice ones, big ones, eager ones. One, three, five, limit reached—but God, are they ever biting. Geez, I can’t quit now. Might never ever have another day like this in my life, and the hubby won’t believe me if he doesn’t see the evidence. Just this once, I’ll take them home, all twenty-two of them, when the limit is five and no more than three over fifteen inches. Out steps the game warden and uh-oh, accidental violator. The fine will be ten bucks for every fish over the limit, and she has a big fine to remind her to follow the law in the future. Most folks are sorry about it and won’t do it again. Sometimes we warn them, and sometimes we cite them, but these people are not the ones that cause the real problems.”
“But Andrew is different,” said Pillars.
“Limpy and his people are in it for one thing—money—and the way to that is wholesale slaughter by whatever method works best. They take jobs for people who want trophies, or they take huge quantities of meat and fish for black-market sales. They will do whatever it takes to get what they want, and they won’t stop on their own.”
“You’re saying they’re professionals,” she said.
“Right, but there’s also another class: the career violators who do it because they like the game between us and them, and like the feeling of getting away with something. Sometimes these people turn violent, but mostly it’s just a game, and they take their tickets and pay their fines or do their time and eventually go back to doing what they did before. They’re like those folks who pirate cable lines from the neighbor’s house, or break the speed limit with radar detectors. They like to see how far they can push the envelope.”
“What about subsistence poaching?”
“That goes on,” Service sai
d. “But we usually know which people are in need—even the proud ones who won’t admit to it. If I catch one of these folks, I usually warn him and let him keep what he has, but I also tell him not to do it again. Later I make sure that when we confiscate game from violators, I deliver it to people who need it.”
“But some people would starve without such things.”
“Some yes, and some I’m not sure about. A lot of people who need the meat also have the most modern weapons, new trucks, snowmobiles, boats and motors, ATVs, all the toys. The fact is that their per-pound cost is higher for the game they take without licenses or without regard to limits than if they bought it at the local IGA. A lot of people try to pass themselves off as subsistence poachers when really they’re in that see-what-we-can-get-away-with group.”
The professor was making occasional notes in a small notebook, but mostly checking a small tape recorder sitting on the table. “Are you seeing changes in the kinds and frequency of crimes?”
“It used to be the woods were full of jacklighters and people shooting deer out of season. We don’t see as much of that anymore. We see more drugs and timber theft than we used to—probably because lumber costs so much now. The patterns change, but there’s usually some fairly apparent reason for it. One of the reasons for decreasing frequencies is that fewer people are hunting and fishing. Not as many kids grow up in the woods anymore, and they never learn how to do it legally, much less consider illegal methods. If they can’t do it on a couch with a remote, they aren’t interested.” His son Walter had loved the outdoors.
“Are you saying the woods are getting more peaceful?” Pillars asked.
“No, the patterns are just changing. Now we see more boozers and druggies lugging around weapons, some legal, some not. More domestic abuse, assault, the same stuff other cops see.”
“Do you really believe that people don’t change, or that they can’t?”
“I hear people claiming to change, but I don’t see the actual changes. People will tell a cop what they think a cop wants to hear.”
“That’s an exceptionally pessimistic view of the human condition,” she said.
“Pessimism for a college professor is reality for a woods cop.”
“On that uplifting note,” she said, turning off the tape recorder.
As he talked to Pillars, Service carefully watched what was going on in the camp. Interview completed, he stood up and stretched. “You claim Limpy has changed,” he said, pointing to one of the cabins. “But there’s a rifle leaning against that cabin wall, and he’s on parole and cannot possess or be around anyone with a firearm. And that red Honda four-wheeler over here doesn’t have a registration. If I walked through this camp I could write at least a dozen violations. Limpy claims he’s changing? Great. That would be good, but I deal with evidence, not hot air, and maybe you shouldn’t either.”
Allerdyce came back as they were preparing to leave. “You stayin’ for supper, sonny?”
“Gotta move on,” Service said.
“Fresh brook trout,” the old poacher said, smacking his lips
“And if I looked in your freezer, all you’d have is the daily possession limit, right?”
“Cross my heart,” Allerdyce said with a cackle. “Changed my ways, boy.”
Service nodded for Limpy to follow, and as they walked away from Pillars he said to the old man, “Honeypat was in Baraga at the casino a while back.”
“She’s gone,” Allerdyce said, his eyes gleaming.
“Gone?” Service asked.
“Moved on; won’t never be back.”
“You saw her?”
Allerdyce said, “Tell me dis, sonny. How a woman who can fly an airplane crack up a pickup down below Palmer on dry road, eh?”
“The state ruled it an accident.”
Allerdyce shook his head.
Service left Limpy and turned back to Pillars. “Tell him the things I pointed out.”
Service was certain the poacher would always be out for himself. You could paint a skunk red and call it a fox, but it was still a skunk under the paint job, and he did not like Limpy’s tone when he said Honeypat was never coming back, or his question abut Nantz’s death.
30
NEGAUNEE, MICHIGAN
JUNE 9, 2004
Back at his car, Service turned his attention to his own concerns. He read the accident report. Then he drove to the regional state police post in Negaunee and talked to a sergeant named Chastain. He had known Chastain casually for many years, but had never worked with the man, who had the reputation of a laid-back straight shooter. “Hey, Chas,” Service greeted him after he showed his credentials and was admitted to the operations area.
“Geez, Grady, everybody feels really bad.”
“Thanks.” Service placed the accident report on the sergeant’s desk. “The Troop who handled this, his name is Villemure?”
“Yeah, Fritz. He grew up in Herman.”
“He on road patrol today?”
Chastain stood up and looked down into another cubicle. “Hey, Tonia, is Villemure on?”
A female voice said, “Yeah; we show him out by Diorite.”
Chastain looked down at Service. “You heard?”
“I’d like to talk to him. Can you ask him to meet me at the Circle in Humboldt?”
“What’s your call sign?”
“Twenty Five Fourteen. Say, thirty minutes, if that works for him.”
“Tonia, ask Villemure to meet DNR Twenty Five Fourteen at the Circle in Humboldt in thirty minutes.”
The Circle was a local stop-and-rob that sold live bait, snacks, deli sandwiches, ammunition, and camping gear. The state police cruiser was already parked in the lot when Service pulled up and went inside.
“Villemure?”
“Twenty Five Fourteen?”
“Grady Service.” The two men shook hands. Service bought two coffees from the owner’s twenty-something daughter.
“Service,” Villemure said. “Geez, that wreck was terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Is there a problem?”
No defensiveness. The kid was straight and all-business, and Service liked him immediately. “Nope; curiosity, mostly. You were first on the scene.”
“Yeah. A passerby called the station and Dispatch sent me. I was ten minutes away.”
“A passerby; did he stop at the wreck?”
“No. All he said was that a vehicle might be in the ditch.”
“It was a man?”
“Yeah.”
“Did Dispatch get a tape?”
“I think they tape everything, but I don’t know how long they keep the stuff. You’d have to ask. What’s up?”
“What was your first impression when you pulled up?”
“It looked bad, and I took my handheld and called for help as I went down the embankment to the truck—is that what you mean?”
“I’m not sure. At some point did you just stand and take in the scene and try to picture what happened in your mind?”
“Yeah, later, after the EMS come.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.”
“This isn’t a test, Officer.”
“Call me Fritz. Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, I looked, and I thought, How the heck did she lose control there? The road was dry and it’s banked and it’s been resurfaced and it’s smooth. I mean, it’s not a place generally where people might lose control.”
“Did you take that impression and go with it?”
The young Troop looked perplexed. “No witnesses, no survivors; where could I take it?”
“Did you ask about the call-in?”
“Yeah—anonymous, no name.”
“Who took the call?”
“Tonia Tonte.
She’s on Dispatch right now, the one who called me to meet you.”
“Thanks, Fritz.”
“Is there a problem?”
Most young Troops worried about mistakes and the repercussions of follow-ups.
“No, no problem. Thanks for indulging me.”
Service looked over the counter at Tonia Tonte. She had ebony hair with streaks of gray, wore little makeup and small dangling earrings that sparkled in the artificial lighting of the control center. “I’m Service,” he said. “About a month back you dispatched Officer Villemure to a wreck down by Palmer. You got a call from a passerby.”
“I’m on break in ten minutes,” she said. “It’s kind of crazy right now. Meet in the break room?”
He agreed, and passed the time by talking to a couple of Troops he knew in the back room, one of them a female undercover from the integrated county drug team.
Tonia Tonte came into the room and poured a cup of coffee from the urn. “You smoke?” she asked. “I can’t seem to quit, and by the time breaks roll around, I’m climbing the walls.”
They stepped outside. She opened her small purse and took out a pack of Salems. He lit her cigarette for her.
“That night,” she began, “I never said the caller was a passerby, and he never said it, but you know how things get started.”
“You have caller ID?”
“Right; the ID showed Colorado, which means it was probably a prepaid telephone card.”
“It was a man?”
“Yeah, definitely a guy.”
“Anything special about the voice?”
“Young; you know, the dude type. He said, ‘Hey dude. I think there’s a red pickup truck in the ditch.’”
“He said dude and red pickup?”
“Yes. Most people don’t notice details like that.”
“Do you still have the tape?”
“No. Case closed, tape gets erased. But I kept a transcript. I always keep transcripts of anonymous call-ins—just in case.”
“How long have you been on the job?”
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