“Six years. My husband died of leukemia seven years ago, and I had to go back to work. I moved here from the Soo to live with my sister and I got this job. Lucky for me. You want a copy of the transcript?”
“Is it more extensive than what you told me?”
“No. It was short and to the point.” She looked at him. “Service? It was your girlfriend and son in the truck that night, right?”
He nodded.
“That’s rough,” she said. “I’ve been there.”
31
MARQUETTE, MICHIGAN
JULY 13, 2004
There had been an off-and-on rain all morning under a fuliginous sky. “Goya on acid,” a college girl standing near Grady Service said as she looked up. She had long hair, purple and electric green, and wore a white T-shirt with a solid black triangle on it, and the words the only bush i trust is my own.
Grady Service was amused and tried not to smile. He was in uniform outside the Yooperdome in Marquette, waiting for President Bush to arrive; around him were dozens of demonstrators, each with a personal ax to grind. Three beer-guts in frayed camo hats wore new red T-shirts that pronounced laborers for kerry. A man wore a blue T-shirt that read illinois is a war zone. What the hell? Two men in camos and old jungle boots carried identical signs: hot damn vietnam—deja vu. Another of them carried a huge sign that said dubya ducked: others got fucked.
As he observed, he mulled over Nantz’s accident. The cop Villemure couldn’t understand how it had happened. The dispatcher, Tonia Tonte, had had an anonymous caller, a male. Did that rule out Honeypat? Was he confusing two things? Not an accident. That was all he knew for sure. Let the captain do his job and you do yours, he told himself. Whatever the fuck it is. Why am I here at this circus?
The parade of signs was endless: keep da u.p. wild, eh! was followed by a bearded man carrying one that read native americans’ rights are way to the left. Another wore a T-shirt that proclaimed u.p. dubya digit unemployment. A dumpy woman in earth shoes and an ankle-length dress carried a sign: jump your bones for food (or dope). Service recognized her as an undercover from Escanaba.
Decades of causes, hurts, and policy non sequiturs were bubbling out, but for the most part, the demonstrators were quiet and nearly lethargic in humidity dense enough to slice like cudighi. A skinny woman in short-shorts wore a shirt that said my body is not public property. Service knew her, and if her body wasn’t exactly public, it was frequently and freely shared at closing times in several local watering holes.
A college girl in a sweatshirt (representing Wildcat Women for Kerry) was telling a group of friends how she had dutifully waited in line three hours for a ticket to get inside the Yooperdome, only to be refused because she was a registered Democrat. “They’re, like, totally fascist?” the girl said. “Too bad some of the young dudes are so hot, eh?”
“You can get a tax deduction for fucking Republicans,” a girl in her entourage said. “But you can’t dance with them, eh.”
“Shuuut up . . .” the first girl said, giggling.
Historically the U.P. had voted Democrat and pro union, and though this was changing, it still tended toward its historical inclinations, and the Bush people were doing their best to pack the hall with vetted true believers. With Democrat Lori Timms as the state’s new governor, Michigan was being viewed as a swing state, and Bush’s minders were determined not to cede to the Democrats a single electoral vote. Thus, Republican legions had descended upon Marquette and a lot of locals, while honored by the leader of the land being there, were equally pissed off at the costs being imposed by the presidential visit.
It was a fine circus, and Service was there with several other officers from various agencies, all in uniform with no particular role to play other than to stand around and look official. Captain Grant had been in several meetings with the Secret Service, but in the end, DNR law enforcement personnel were deployed primarily along the twenty-mile motorcade route from Sawyer to Marquette. Service told himself he would have been happy standing out in the boonies watching the presidential vehicles fly by at seventy-five miles per hour, but the captain had asked him to join him in Marquette, so here he was among the other outsiders. He had been in Vietnam during the antiwar demonstrations in the U.S., and he figured this was about as close to such displays as he would ever get. More than a few of the protesters were of his generation, graying peace-bangers desperately fishing for another cause.
The people headed into the Yooperdome were well dressed, slicked down, and orderly, carrying red, white, and blue balloons, and wearing patriotic party hats. There were even a few signs: jugulate a terrorist for jesus and ammo special for bin laden: dubya-ought buck! The town’s year-round population was about 20,000, but the crowd at the dome was expected to be more than half of that, the vast majority from places other than Marquette, buses coming in from all over the U.P., Wisconsin, and from below the bridge to pack the house with conservative pedigrees and cheering voices for George Bush.
The captain caught Service’s attention and motioned for him to follow him.
They went to a parking lot away from the protesters. “‘Buckshot’ is going to arrive here,” the captain said as a Secret Service agent in a black suit approached them. The agent wasn’t tall, but he was built like an iron-pumper, and wore dark shades despite the total absence of sun.
The captain shook hands with the man. “This is Detective Service.”
The agent gave him the once-over and said, “Follow me, please.”
Grady Service looked at his captain’s impassive face. Now what the hell was this? He followed the agent to a loading dock and stopped when the man put out his arm like a railway crossing. “We’ll wait here.”
“For what?”
No explanation was offered.
Soon he heard sirens and saw a shiny black Cadillac limo come racing into the lot toward the dock. It was followed by several black SUVs, which stopped and unloaded Secret Service agents before anyone opened the limo doors.
The president got out and lifted his chin to stretch his neck.
Several people were talking to him and he was nodding, but appeared not to be paying a whole lot of attention to any of the voices. After a few moments, the president of the United States started walking toward the loading dock entrance. He was wearing a black suit that looked like it had cost a fortune, shiny black oxfords, a blue button-down shirt, and a pale blue tie that gave off a sort of lavender sheen in the low light.
As the president neared, the Secret Service agent stepped out and George Bush stopped, looked at Service, and as if prompted, reached out his hand. “This is Michigan Department of Natural Resources Detective Service,” the Secret Service agent announced.
The president’s hair was mussed some and it was much grayer than Service had expected. He was tall, maybe six feet.
“Gordy, I been hearin’ good things about you,” the president said with a one-sided smile that looked like a smirk.
Service blinked. What the hell? Before he knew it, he was saying, “It’s Grady, Mr. President, not Gordy.”
Flashlights were popping and Bush laughed. “Heh-heh, I meet a lot of folks, and names sort of run off on me like untamed colts, big guy. From what I hear, you got the big cojones, son. Your country needs men a’ your caliber, so keep up the good work, and maybe there’ll be a role for you in Homeland Security. Ya gotta unnerstand, that’s important work, big fella.”
Service looked into the president’s eyes, but they were dancing around, searching for other visual stimulation. “Sir, I don’t think our shaking hands out here in public is such a good idea.”
Bush looked confused and giggled again. “You ain’t one-a them Dem’crats, are ya, big guy?”
“Sir, have you been briefed that somebody is gunning for me, and that at this moment you could be in extreme danger?” Service couldn’t help himself.
George Bush�
��s hand dropped and he said, “Uh, heh-heh, uh . . .” and looked around with the wide eyes of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. “Uh, well, ah gotta git on inside and dew mah speech, son. Kin I count on yore vote come November?” And then he was gone inside with Service’s escort and an entourage of stern-faced men.
Minutes later Service rejoined the captain. “Sir, what is going on?”
“Don’t know for sure,” Captain Ware Grant said with a grin. “The request came directly from the director of the FBI.”
Service was at a loss for words.
“What was the point?”
“He likes being photographed with law enforcement and first-responder types. His handlers think it makes him look like a man of the people.”
“Seeing him shaking hands with a game warden won’t win him a lot of votes up here,” Service said.
“Maybe that’s why the chief agreed to the FBI’s request,” the captain said, breaking a rare smile.
Service watched a woman walk by with a sign: how do you confuse a texas politician? put three shovels against a wall and ask him to take his pick.
He went downtown to Snowbound Books after the rally, looking for something to read. He saw a woman with a sweatshirt that said mother earth prays for you. He was about to turn back to a bookshelf when he recognized the woman in the sweatshirt as one of Tatie Monica’s agents.
“Bobbi?” he said, stepping toward her.
The woman tried to twist away, but he caught her sleeve. “Tell Special Agent Monica I don’t need a bunch of amateur babysitters.” The woman fled the store.
He was pissed beyond words, threw up his hands, and walked out of the store.
Service found the captain in his office at the regional office. “There’s Feeb surveillance all over me,” he griped.
The captain looked at him, saying only, “A good game warden knows how to throw people off his trail.”
32
SLIPPERY CREEK, MICHIGAN
JULY 15, 2004
Service had called Shark on his way to Limpy’s to tell him about Wayno Ficorelli’s fly collection. Shark had called back and announced that he and Limey would be bringing dinner over that night. Grady Service didn’t want company. McCants had dropped off his animals that day, and they were about all the companionship he could handle.
He had maps and charts pinned up all around the main room of the cabin. He had taken locations of killings from FBI reports and tried to convert them to points on the maps so that he could see what sort of patterns might appear. He didn’t want to be interrupted, but Shark was a force and would be there soon.
The results of his efforts so far seemed negligible. Most of the bodies had been found near rivers and streams—water. But those in Rhode Island, Louisiana, and Florida were on the ocean or one of its brackish bays. Given the disparity, how the hell had Monica’s analyst found a pattern? He sure as hell didn’t see it. All by water. Big deal.
Newf tipped her water bowl, a signal that it was empty and she was thirsty. As he filled the bowl, some of it slopped over the side and soaked his bare foot. It struck him: moving water. Rivers and streams moved, and oceans moved; they had tides. The link wasn’t simply water, but moving water, and the way the killer moved Ficorelli’s body suggested why. But what about Spargo? He had been killed two hundred feet above the Eleven Point.
It was an alarming realization. How many other obvious things was he missing?
He wanted to keep working, but suddenly the cabin door flew open, Newf started barking and charged Shark, who collided with the dog. Limey came in behind her husband, caught Service’s eye, and shook her head. Yalmer Wetelainen was an old friend from Houghton who managed a motel and worked only to finance his hunting and fishing obsessions. He was bald, thin, short, and partial to beer, especially homemade, which he made and drank in copious quantities, mostly because it was cheap. Service and Gus Turnage had once administered a preliminary breathalyzer test to their friend during an all-night nickel-and-dime poker game. The unique Finn drank a case of beer and shots of straight vodka in a fairly short time, but never registered legally drunk. Neither CO could figure it out. Yalmer drank like a fish and ate like a pig, yet there was not even a hint of fat on his body.
They decided that their friend didn’t fit any known human physiological profile, and because of his unique metabolism, they nicknamed him Shark, and the name stuck. Limey Pyykkonen was a homicide detective for Houghton County. A strapping, angular woman with a small round face, Limey had close-cropped blonde hair and thin lips. She had once had a brief fling with Wayno Ficorelli, but for some time now, she and Shark had been married and were a rock-solid couple.
Limey hugged Service while Newf and Shark wrestled. “I was really sorry to hear about Wayno,” she said. “The feds got any leads?”
“Don’t know,” Service said as Shark came bouncing over with a gallon jug of bright red wine. “Last year’s chokecherries,” Shark announced, plopping it down on the kitchen table. “Kicks like a ten-gauge. Where the heck are the new flies?”
They went over to the area in the main room where Service kept his fishing gear. Wetelainen was like a kid at Christmas, ripping through the fly boxes. He shouted, “Hey woman, fetch your man some wine!”
Pyykkonen yelled back, “You break a leg?”
Service said, “I’ll get it,” and heard Pyykkonen mumble, “Why do men revert to adolescence when they get new toys?”
“That hurts,” Service said, pouring three glasses of wine and putting one in front of her. Limey rolled her eyes.
When Service got back to Shark, he found his friend holding a fly and looking perplexed. “Somebody steal one of your patterns?”
“You know what this is?” Shark asked, holding up a fly.
Service looked at it. “Some kind of brown drake?”
Shark shook his head. “Right, brown drake, but what kind of brown drake?”
“Dun?”
“Holy Wah! You gotta stop working so bloody much and fish more. It’s a booger brown drake.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Booger flies,” Shark said. “Look at it.”
Service took the fly and examined it. “It’s got a rubber body. Should float good, right?”
“Float good? Hell, they float the best, and they aren’t made of rubber.”
“Some kind of plastic?”
“Nobody knows what it is. A guy from Curran ties these things, or he used to. I don’t know if he’s still alive. Crazy old fart; he always claimed they were made from nasal mucus.”
Service dropped the fly on his desk and grimaced.
Wetelainen picked it up and touched the tip of his tongue to it. “Got a faint flavor. This is the real deal, not a knockoff.”
“Boogers?” Service said disgustedly.
“Could be,” Shark said obliviously. “Man, you do not see booger flies in the boxes of weekend warriors. Only serious trout-chasers know about them, much less use them. Hell, they were three bucks a copy back when I bought them—and that’s a good fifteen years ago.”
“You bought flies tied by somebody else?”
Shark got defensive. “Just a couple. I wanted to see if I could replicate the body material, but I couldn’t. The way these flies are made, they ride right in the film. Sweet! And they’ll float all night. Only drawback: One good bite and they’re usually shot. I thought I could come up with something more durable. I managed the durable part, but I couldn’t get mine to float low like the originals.”
Wetelainen suddenly looked around the room. “You putting together a national compendium of trout spots?”
“Right,” Service said. “Trout in the ocean,” he said sarcastically.
Shark looked at his friend. “Sure.”
“Bullshit.”
“Not
bullshit, science.”
“Trout in Florida and Louisiana?” asked Service.
“Cynoscion nebulosus,” Wetelainen said. “Spotted sea trout.”
“An actual trout?”
“The rednecks are a little loose in their definitions. They look a lot like trout, though, and they eat good. Sometimes they even call them specks, like Funnelheads call brookies. Only their specks got a couple of big fangs, like this,” his friend said, using his fingers to simulate protruding fangs.
Wetelainen walked over to the maps and tapped the northeastern states where there were marks along the oceans. “I don’t think Cynoscion nebulosus is that far north. When they talk about sea trout up there, they’d probably mean salmonids that migrate into the oceans and return to rivers to spawn. You get up into Maine and eastern Canada, and they have both rainbows and brookies that do this. In the other states, it’s pretty much browns.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Because you live in your own world. In New England the boys who chase sea-run browns are more secretive than morel-chasers up here. Hell, the fish and game departments in those states can’t even get an accurate estimate on the populations because the guys who catch the most fish never report them, and some people think because there’s no data, there’re no fish.”
Service sipped his wine. In his current state of mind, drinking too much invited disaster, and Shark’s chokecherry wine was known for its potency—far above commercially available wine in alcohol content. “You’re telling me that all of those marks on the maps are places where trout are caught?”
“What’s the question?” Wetelainen countered. “’Course you can catch trout in all those locations.”
Service pointed at the other maps. “What about the other states?”
“Hell, it’s like Michigan. Some will be warm-water fisheries, some cold-water. Each state’s DNR would have to tell you what’s what.”
Great, Service thought. More information to chase. He nudged the fly on his desk with a pencil. “Booger fly, huh?”
Strike Dog Page 24
