Hard As Nails
“One, One Fifty Five, Station Twenty. We had a call from a woman in Ishpeming. She says her neighbor has taken in a fawn for a pet. The caller says the woman’s son brought the animal to her.”
Station Twenty was DNR HQ in Lansing, a room in the Mason Building filled with dedicated phone dispatchers who served as links between citizens and officers in the field. Dispatchers took complaints and calls and passed them to officers, 24/7.
“I’m almost home, Twenty.” CO Prudie Fugasy was sun-burned, wind-burned and bone-tired. She had spent all day in her boat dealing with safety and licensing violations and issues, some fishing over-limit cases, and two nasty domestics in a campground, including the last one that turned into an all-out fight. She ended up lodging a drunk wanted on felonious assault warrants against a Detroit Metro police officer. And now, one minute from home get a call to turn around and drive fifteen miles to confiscate an illegally held fawn. Well, shit.
“One, One Fifty Five, One, One Forty Eight, I’m closer. I’ll take that fawn call.”
Fugasy radioed, “Thanks,” and sighed. Her partner of three years, Dallas “D” Clay was simple, aggressive, and energetic. Thank God. Her plan for the night was to sit on the screened gazebo out back with a glass of red wine and read. Husband Sherm had taken the kids over to the Soo to see his parents, giving her a rare gift, time to herself. Time alone, precious, silent, still, alone-time.
She quickly changed into shorts and flip-flops, a T-shirt, no bra. It felt so damn good to be unencumbered by a load of equipment. To not worry about how she looked. She usually felt more pressure than some of the guys to look professional and attractive, and to fly the state flag for the public for the gray-green line. She desperately wanted a glass of merlot, but for reasons she couldn’t enunciate, she delayed opening the bottle. COs were not always on call, but many of them felt like they were and that they could be called out at any time, which meant if she’d had any alcohol, she couldn’t go.
Looking at her toenails she did not like what she saw. A game warden’s feet were in some ways as important as her truck. She wiggled her toes. Can read later. I’ll do my nails. She missed doing some girlie things, missed doing them on a regular basis, not on rare occasions when she happened to notice something. Missed pampering herself, alone!
Fugasy gathered the makings for her evening with no less focus than a priest before mass. Basin for her feet, towel under the basin, nail polish remover (which smelled suspiciously like the model airplane glue her dad used when she was growing up), nail undercoating, robin egg blue polish, nail strengthener. If her colleagues ever saw her polished toenails she’d never hear the end of it. Daughter Eula, seven, had gone gaga over robin egg blue, wanted it on everything. Three-year-old Samantha called it Robbers-Beg-Blue.
Ah, girl time. She toyed with switching off the phones but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She got a bottle of Pepperwood Grove merlot out of the wine rack and put it on the counter. Under eight bucks, not bad at all. The label proclaimed “Groovy Green bottle.” What the hell did that mean? She imagined hell as a place where sinners were made for eternity to scribble insipid promotional slogans and yell them at each other. How could you even look at yourself in the mirror if writing slogans was your job? Talk about your popcorn light work. She got out her personal wine glass and set it by the bottle.
Hubby Sherm called the wine Peckerwood, which made her laugh. Sherm was a beer guy, and she liked that. No pretenses. She was contemplating a long soak in the tub when the state cell phone clicked and coughed for attention.
“Fugasy.”
“Prudie, D.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve got a ride-along in my truck.”
“I’m just getting ready to pop the cork on a bottle of red. To indulge myself.”
“What? No! Listen, Prudie, I’ve got a serious situation here.”
“You’re picking up a fawn. What situation?”
“The fawn.” She could hear a catch in Dallas Clay’s voice.
“I’m listening.”
“The woman’s son found the fawn and brought it home to mom.”
“You have it?”
“I do.”
“Drop it at the rehabber. Georgia Dizzo out in Lakewood already has several of this year’s fawns.”
“That’s not the situation, Prudie. I know the damn drill.”
“So why the yank and more to the point, why this phone call? I’ve checked out of service. This is Prudie time. Sherm took the girls to the Soo.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll owe you big time.”
“Owe me for what?”
“The kid picked up the fawn in Wisconsin.”
Fugasy said, “Fuck.” Then, “You know what you have to do.”
“I know, I know, but I have a ride-along.”
“Somebody who wants to be a CO?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Good, show him the seamy side of the work.”
“Her, not him.”
“No diff, D, male, female. This is reality. It’ll do her good to embrace reality.”
“I . . . just . . . can’t.”
Fugasy sat down. “Let me guess. She’s hot.”
“Mega.”
“And you think she might be amenable to more than a truck ride.”
“Distinct signals have been transmitted.”
“I’m home, I’m stark naked, D.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but you got to help me here.”
“I do not have to.” She toyed with telling him she had already started on the wine, but you couldn’t lie to a partner, ever.
“I’m begging you, Prudie. Begging. I’ll do anything.”
“Where are you?”
“By the Monk highway.”
“Okay start heading my way. I’ll meet you at Yalmer Lane. Half hour.”
She hung up. Should make him do this, not bail out his sorry ass. Stop your bellyaching, you said you’d do it, now get with it.
Yalmer Lane, truck behind truck, Fugasy met her partner and his ride-along. Hot indeed. She could feel heat coming off the woman from three feet away. Fugasy took the fawn from the girl. “I’m Prudie,” she said.
“Jaymilla,” the girl said. Twenty max, sweet voice and smile.
The animal was wrapped in a pink towel decorated with pale green leaves. “Got a rope?” she asked Dallas Clay.
“Don’t you?”
She could see he was antsy, wanting to be shed of the fawn. She gave him the laser eye. “D.”
“Yah, yah, I think I got something in my GoBox.”
He went away. “You want to be a CO?” Prudie asked the girl.
“What’s that?”
“Conservation officer.”
“Oh yeah, for sure. I like really adore animals.”
Clay came back with six feet of parachute cord and tied it to the fawn’s neck.
“Hey Jaymilla,” Prudie said. “You want to jump in with me and see what happens?”
Dallas Clay said, “Regulations dictate that she has to finish the ride-along with the officer she begins with.”
“No problem,” Fugasy said. “Just follow me.”
“Can’t,” Dallas Clay said. “I’m out of hours and her vehicle’s in Ishpeming.”
Fugasy felt the desperation in her young partner. “Too bad. Another time, Jaymilla?”
“Cool, I’d love that,” the girl said, “pleased to meet you ma’am.”
Prudie walked her partner to his side of the truck. “You owe me, asshole. Don’t throw your back out. I’m already handling your slack, bud.”
“Thank you, thank you, Prudie.”
“You even think about hugging or kissing me and I will inflate your stones to balloons.”
Clay got in his truck and raced away.
> The conservation officer had a cardboard box in back of her truck and put the animal in it and draped a towel over the top, leaving the little head with big eyes sticking out and staring at her.
“Do not even look at me,” Fugasy told the fawn.
She pulled down a two-track about five miles from her place. Not the best spot because of nearby farms and houses, but it would have to do. She parked the truck, got a shovel, and quickly excavated a three-foot-deep oval.
She took the fawn from the truck, leading it by the cord around its neck. What a delicate, beautiful little creature. She’d like to find the jerkwad who caused this and kick his ignorant ass.
Chronic Wasting Disease had been found in deer in Western Wisconsin in 2002, and since then Michigan had a quarantine on all Wisconsin deer, dead and or alive. You could shoot one over there but it had to be deboned and butchered before you brought it back into the state.
Since 2002 the prevalence of CWD had risen in males and females and in all age groups in the stricken area. The disease was lethal to whitetails. All deer brought from Wisconsin had to be seized and destroyed. Officers had no other options.
Fugasy lay the animal in the hole and rubbed it until it curled into a ball. So warm, unafraid, its heartbeat quick but even. Poor little bugger. She had her .38 snubby in hand, wrapped the towel around it, pressed the barrel to the creature’s head and squeezed once.
The animal went limp and the officer wrapped the towel around it and filled the hole, covering the scar with leaves and pine duff. She took deep breaths to steady her emotions.
There were parts of this job the public did not need to know about, much less to witness. Dallas was right about that. Now she needed a hot shower to get the filth off her, a glass of wine and time to take care of her toenails.
Back at the house she looked at her toe supplies and began to laugh and cry at the same time. Her nail polish strengthener was made by Sally Hansen. It was called Hard As Nails.
Just One More Second
Yoo nevr hewp me whan dodie wend and I try at goon but it don’t do no damm gud, I can’t do dat, I can’t doo noddin, Dodie she go die and I don’t do noddin and what choice I got do somepin you no helup I ask you not tell me what do now Dodie gone and I all alone out here own hilltop owt from town, you say, girl?
“I didn’t know.”
Holy Petecrap. I got pud up sign say old shit feel shit, hep-hep-hep, need magical marriagedwana?
“I didn’t know.”
Can’t say thet no moor ant now it don’t matter shit I t’ink. Smalltown pipples spose look out each udder, tek care dem ’roun dem, not like I got done me, agknored.
“How could I possibly know, you know?”
So naou yookno, yookno, what you thing ’is ting was, eh, had mye gottdamm head go down yoo lapp now yoo lapp you tag gut loog I try yoo no gun waukt sloe down roed heavyday, hope dis it, did it, but neffer iss, neffer iss, I waukt when trees and flouers grooedd, butt nobutties seen old man waukt wid stick. Yoo cee my eyes, girl, yoo cee my eyes. Answer ’ere in eye’s is mine nobuddy gift no shits old man tint dekache.
Nine-thirty in the morning, and Meghan Petryshen heard the dispatcher call out a fatal vehicle accident. She quickly processed the location in her mind: shit, not more than a half mile ahead of her, flipped on her blue lights, boogied straight at the situation, thinking, not this, not today. Winter was trying to roll in that morning with freezing rain and fog, and vehicle grills moved through it like it was gray Jell-O, nasty, nasty shit, visibility was down to yards at times with a mixture of sleet and snow and fog.
Petryshen saw an emergency light ahead, got to it, parked, left her engine running, stepped out, saw who it was, got a lump in her throat, went directly to the black truck, gluing her eyes only on Alicin Carmichael, ignoring all else.
The door was jammed but she managed to muscle it just enough to get it open.
Alicin was listing toward the open door. She was staring out, her eyes surrounded by dark red blood, almost black. Petryshen reached across the blockage in the front seat, popped the officer’s seatbelt release, got her by the armpits, dragged her out, eased her down, propped her up.
“Al, Al it’s Meghan.”
Cee! same always yoo leaf mee here go off like when Dodie wend, nuddin les I speck, I speck. All dis tax monies nobody look me in eye say dis what it buy, for dose young buck, dose hold fart, wons lieg mhe.
“Alicin, can you stand?”
The conservation officer was standing on her own, but was unresponsive. “Al, if you’re hearing me, nod your damn head.” Petryshen looked up and saw the sheriff come pulsing up in his squad, jump out, and take over traffic control as EMS rolled up and went to the truck and one of them came over to them and said, “You ought sit down, officer, and let me take a look at you.”
Carmichael seemed to come to life. “I already seen! Are you fricking people blind?”
Petryshen waved at the sheriff, got his attention. “I’m taking her home. I’ll bring her to the hospital.”
The sheriff was by the DNR truck, looking shaken and pale as death. He nodded without enthusiasm.
“Is that your blood, Al? Are you cut?”
“Not my fricking blood.”
“Al, give me your sidearm.”
“It’s my gun!”
“I know that, give it to me.”
“No.”
“Don’t be a fucking child. Give me your Sig.”
Carmichael frowned, unsnapped the holster, and handed the pistol to her colleague, handle first.
“Okay now your radio and the rest of the firepower. I know you’re packing a .45 slim-line under your tits in your vest, and you’ve got the state .38 snubby and a .32 hammerless snub somewhere. I want all of them.”
The woman handed her partner her service vest and dug out weapons and handed them over.
“Jesus, you’ve got to be the most armed CO in the whole damn state.”
“Wasn’t worth a shit today, was it?” Carmichael said. “Meg?”
“What?”
“Meg?”
“I’m here.”
“Am I here?”
“You are, Al, c’mon let’s go, we’re getting out of this place.”
“Where he went you think, Meg?”
“Huh?”
“You know.”
“You mean where are we going?”
“Yah, okay that.”
“I’m taking you home to clean you up, take care of business.”
“Got no business.”
“Don’t bust my balls, it’s a figure of speech.”
“Busted balls, yah I know,” Carmichael said.
Go hed maggot jogs all cops stickemtites yooseeachudder, you cee my eye, I need you cee my eye, made you cee, you see, I kno you kno, had no choose, no hewp yoo, nobody and what Dodie do I don’t kno.
Petryshen on her cell phone to Central. “One One Fifty Five has One One Fifty on board, transporting her to her residence and from there to the hospital.”
“Fifty Five you want us to call Dutch?”
Dutch Carmichael, Alicin’s husband. “Negative, I’ve got this, One One Fifty Five Clear.”
“Central clear.”
“You feel sick?” Petryshen asked her passenger.
“Nuh-uh.”
“We’ll get you cleaned up when we get to your place.”
“My place? Dutch?”
“I’ll talk to Dutch. We’re going to your place to tidy you up some, and then we’ll head for the hospital to get a blood draw, you understand, right?”
“Procedure, standard,” the officer said. “SOP, right?”
“Right, going by the book now is in everybody’s interest.”
“I got to worry, you think?”
“Hush until we get some coffee in you, get you cle
aned up.”
“There, not there, Meg. I swear.”
“Shut up Al. Don’t talk.”
Petryshen triggered Carmichael’s home phone number. Husband Dutch answered right away.
“Dutch this is Meghan. Al had a little problem and I’m bringing her home. Listen to me, she’s okay, all right? Dutch did you hear me? Answer me.”
“Yah-sure, okay, she’s okay.”
“There in ten minutes, max.”
“Okay then, what’s going on?”
“I’ll explain when I get there, but she is okay. Focus on that, Dutch.”
An hour later in the hospital, blood being drawn to rule out alcohol, drugs, whatever, by the book. Al stared at the syringe, the needle in her arm, said nothing, looked almost disinterested at first before fixating on the blood filling the cylinder. Black, what’s black blood mean? Alicin Carmichael asked the nurse.
“Your eyes are playing tricks,” the nurse said. “It’s red. All blood is red.”
“Huh,” the conservation officer said.
Cee, all blood same red, you blood, Dodie, my blood you cee my blood you cee my eye, I maked sure dat ok blood come there yoo-me.
Hansen arrived at the hospital, Michigan State Police lieutenant Eddie Hansen, Dutch Carmichael’s hunting and fishing buddy, the two families owning a camp over in north Dickinson, together all the time when they weren’t on duty. Why Hansen to lead the incident investigation? Why not bring in a stranger? This is already gonna be too fucking hard for everyone involved.
The giant lieutenant nodded at her. “You should have brought her directly here, Meg.”
“Pardon me, El-Tee but you didn’t see her, you didn’t see it. You don’t know dick at this point. I saw it, her, knew I had to get her out of there.”
“I want this by the book, Officer Petryshen, you copy?”
“I copy, El-Tee. The tests will show nothing because there’s nothing to find. She doesn’t drink, won’t even take prescriptions unless Dutch forces them down her damn throat. You know that.”
“Put your emotions away,” the troop said, “And back the fuck off, Meg. She’s my friend and colleague too.”
Harder Ground Page 18
