Bad Optics

by Joseph Heywood

  “I’m not exactly clear on that point. Having a felon in the truck, poor professional judgment, unprofessional behavior—their reasoning is kinda murky, looks bad.”

  “Originally off till spring, now pushed to September?”

  What had she said? “September? This fall thing’s entirely new to me. The last I heard it was extended to July 1.”

  “And what was the reason given for the extension?”

  “I don’t know. Lansing isn’t exactly forthcoming. Something about needing more time to gather more input, you know, the usual Lansing bullshit.”

  “This is unfair,” she said. “Have you talked to Chief Waco?”

  “When he took my badge and again when he told me the suspension was being extended. Where did you hear the September thing?”

  She said, “Maybe you should talk to your chief.”

  “What would be the point of that?”

  “Are your math skills that bad?”

  “Two and two is one,” he said laconically.

  “Stop with the cute. You ever hear of a suspension of this length?”

  He had not. “No.”

  “Then there must be a reason. I mean it’s way outside any norm I know of for state workers.”

  “I put it down to Lansing.” The old-time game wardens, the horse blankets of his father’s generation, always called the capital the Center of Administrative Incest.

  “Don’t play cute word games. Your career and pension are on the line.”

  “Now who’s playing word games? None of this is your concern, Lori.”

  “Friends are always concerned for friends.”

  “You’re meddling, as you love to do.”

  Silence. “Okay, I can see how it may be interpreted that way by you, but really, I’m seeing an iceberg here.”

  He had to think about that. “I’m like what, the small visible tip?”

  “Could be a certain former governor has his prodigious appetite back in the state trough. There’s a rumor circulating that the current director of the DNR will retire and be replaced by Bozian’s son.”

  The governor had only one son, Samuel A. “Trip” Bozian III. “You mean Trip?”

  “Trip Bozian is wildlife chief in New Mexico, and very highly regarded,” Timms explained. “You realize if he’s the director here, that law enforcement will report to him, be under him.”

  “Trip’s not like his father,” Service said. He hoped this was true, but deep down he knew he couldn’t know with certainty. It had been a long time. Maybe he’d heard something about the kid getting a degree in wildlife management, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Might be that Sam will use his son to try to sweep you out.”

  “No, not Trip, Lori. He’s a good kid, and I can’t see him doing that. Now Clearcut, that’s a different deal. He’d drown himself to drown an enemy. What the hell are you circling around, Lori?”

  “Follow the money,” she said.

  “Thank you, I’m sure. Are you my Deep Throat?” He cringed as soon as the words were loose.

  “Stop making jokes,” she said. “Think gigantic commercial fish farms.”

  Fish farms? This might apply to the Great Lakes, he thought, but the Mosquito? No way for the Mosquito to be involved in any way in any sort of aquaculture.

  “I can’t buy that, Governor.”

  “Nevertheless, start with fish farms,” Timms directed. “See where that takes you.”

  “You know there’s more?”

  “I think there’s more, but I can’t prove a darn thing with what I know, but you’re a detective, so good grief, get out there and detect. And talk to Chief Waco, please.”

  “I doubt the chief will think that’s such a great idea.”

  She laughed sardonically. “I think what you think about what the chief may think is baloney.” With that, she hung up.

  Geez, he thought. She’s such a pain in the ass. But well informed. You have to give her that.

  Service turned to Allerdyce, who had come back from the slots. “Fish farms.”

  The old man grimaced. “Where?”

  “Could be the U.P.”

  “Dis ain’t youse’s Missistinky or Loositania. Dose pipples down dere like eat all dat soff-meat stinky fish. Not no Yoopers, no.”

  “Have you ever heard rumors about fish farming in Michigan?”

  “None. Youse put one dose t’ings up ’ere wit’ salmons, trouts, Yoopers steal dem blind, cut dere nets, all dat shit. Youse know, hey.”

  “I thought farmed fish was stinky, and Yoopers won’t eat the meat.”

  “Day ain’t gone raise no catsfish ’ere. Or eat dat shit. Got be salmons or trouts, hey. Water too bloody cold for whiskerfishies. Could sell down Stinkcago, dose FIBTABs, dey don’t know shit.”

  FIBTAB was Yooper talk for Fucking Illinois Bastard Towing A Boat. It made no sense, linking the Mosquito to fish farms—unless this involved the big lake water at the mouth of the Mosquito River. Even so, this seemed way outside the realm of possible or practicable. But Lori said start there, and she was connected in ways you couldn’t even suspect.

  “We need to get back to Lansing,” Service told his partner.

  “Us, we?”

  “We’re partners, right?”

  The old man’s leer made his belly roll.

  Allerdyce grabbed his arm. “C’mon, we got do firs’ somepin.”

  “What?”

  “Eat, collect moula.”

  “You won at the slots?”

  Allerdyce winked.

  “Nobody but the house wins at slots. The odds are stacked miles-high against the players.”

  “I allas win, Sonnyboy.”

  “No way.”

  “Youse just got know way to talk da stupid t’ings.”

  “Talk, as in what?”

  “You don’t spit out no money, I kill youse’s ass.”

  “It’s a machine. It’s not alive.”

  “Shhh,” Allerdyce said, “machines dey don’t know dat.”

  God. “How much did you win?”

  “One pay one, one pay five, one pay twinnyfive.”

  “Dollars?”

  “T’ousand.” Limpy said quietly and stumbled away toward the cashier’s cage, leaving Service standing in the smoky air.

  Chapter 12

  Chief Waco’s House

  Ingham/Eaton Counties

  He’d called the chief from Mount Pleasant. “Meet me at my house,” Waco had instructed, and hung up. It had been awhile since he’d seen his friend. The chief’s place straddled two counties, Ingham and Eaton. Service had no idea which county was the county of record and didn’t much care.

  “Guess I’m not surprised to see you below the bridge,” Waco greeted him at the door, then looked beyond the officer at his personal truck. “Is that Allerdyce out there?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Might as well fetch him into my office. All this concerns both of you fellers,” Waco said. “The governor is talking about having him arrested for parole violations.”

  Grady’s voice rose, “Has a warrant been issued?”

  “No, but it’s being bandied about right now at the governor’s staff level. Colonel Sudifant from the MSP called, and I told her all about the deal with you. She’s topnotch, knows political crap when she sees it. The Troops will play sea anchor for us as long as she dares, but make no mistake, the governor is out to make some sort of example out of Allerdyce just to get you out.”

  “I’ve never had a problem with this governor,” Grady Service said.

  They both waved Allerdyce in, and he came like a rascal summoned to the principal’s office. Waco greeted him with a handshake. “Good to finally meet you. You had a deer season for the record books—if we had such things.”

&n
bsp; “Sonnyboy’s work. I jest dere for da laffs.”

  “Let’s drop all the horse-pucky,” the chief said. “The governor is trying to crush Grady and force him to retire. And he’s going to try to use you for leverage,” the chief told the old man. “He wants you back inside for parole violations, but if Service will put in his papers, you’ll remain free.”

  Allerdyce looked bored. “Sonnyboy ain’t done nuffins wrong. Me never . . . uh . . . mostly . . . I ain’t no saint, okay?”

  “This is all sleaze politics,” Chief Waco said, “but that doesn’t make it less real. Grady’s got friends and allies, but most of us can do only so much when the opposing force is the governor’s will and office.”

  Allerdyce crossed his arms and frowned. “I got go back inside, so she goes. None dis is Sonnyboy’s fault. He got fault, it’s that he cares too bloody much dis bloody state.”

  Waco said, “You’ll get no argument from me, and sentiment and emotion are good things, as is loyalty, but we’re dealing with realities of law, politics, and power, which means you guys need a plan. Correction: We need a plan.”

  Chief Waco, unlike previous DNR law chiefs, wore a sparse full-face beard. He had intense, wild gray eyes. The two men had worked a case involving a serial killer who was murdering game wardens and, during a search for a possible victim, had been trapped in a flash flood in Missouri’s Irish Wilderness. Both of them had nearly died. They had bonded then and remained so. Later Waco had been brought to Michigan to head up the law division, purportedly to inject new blood into the department, which it had. It was not clear that DNR senior management was pleased with the result. Waco was his highly principled. He had been the same kind of dedicated, hard-charging game warden as Service.

  “You having us here,” Service said, “puts you deep into potential conspiracy country, Eddie.”

  Service tried to turn and head for the door, but the chief grabbed his arm. “Hold your horses, Grady. This whole thing is one big political shit sandwich I refuse to eat. The governor wants your suspension pushed back to Labor Day. He’s hoping you’ll take the hint and retire, but if not, his next move is to go after Limpy, to put him back in the can as additional pressure on you.”

  “Can he do that, legally?”

  “Hard to say, but for the moment he has the AG and his legal team’s backing, and that’s all that matters to him. Have you heard about his aspirations to higher office? They’re true.”

  “Then he can’t let this thing with Limpy and me become public. If it does, it’ll look like . . . hell, I don’t know exactly what, but my gut says this guy is banking on always looking like Mr. Clean. If this thing breaks publicly, people may wonder if he’s captaining the ship of the state or the ship of fools. Going public hurts him, not me.”

  “Exactly. That’s why he’s using suspend-and-delay tactics, but if those don’t work, he might feel he’s forced to strike at Allerdyce.”

  “All this shit is about the governor’s concern for his reputation? Jesus.”

  “That’s what I’m hearing, why?”

  Grady asked if he could smoke and made a fast decision. “Sit down, Eddie, there’s more of this you need to hear.” He laid out the Mosquito, Drazel Sisters, fish farms, Kalleskevich, and Bozian. Eddie Waco sank back in his chair. “You mind if I smoke one of your nails, Grady?”

  After two or three puffs, the chief said, “We’re gonna fight these bastards, whatever it takes and whatever cost. The sitting governor is a tool, and worse, a pompous fool. What the hell do Kalleskevich and Bozian want with the Mosquito? Last I knew there was no commercial market for blackflies, skeets, and ticks.”

  Now Service had a really tough disclosure decision to make, and after a moment, he said, “The apparent interest is limestone.”

  “Apparent interest . . . in limestone?”

  “There’s limestone there, but not a hell of a lot of it, and there’s sure as hell not enough to commercialize.”

  “Is there natural gas and oil up there?”

  “No,” Grady Service said, drawing out the word. “There are diamonds.”

  Waco blew a ragged blue smoke cloud and coughed. “There are diamonds in Iron County, probably Menominee and Marquette Counties too.”

  “Not like what’s in the Mosquito,” Service said. “These are gem quality, very high gem quality.”

  The chief exhaled and coughed again. “Good Lord, that changes the whole game. Do you think they know about the diamonds?”

  “There’s no other explanation for their interest.”

  “Who owns the mineral rights?”

  Grady Service reminded his chief, “That’s irrelevant, doesn’t matter, it’s a wilderness area, legally and officially. You can’t mine a federal wilderness. It’s sacrosanct.”

  Chief Waco said, “You need a remedial wildland law refresher course. The surface is wilderness, the mineral substrate isn’t. The only way you can stop mining is if the surface rights owner is the same as the underground resource owner, in this case, the state. Otherwise, mineral rights trump all private ownership, even if the land in question has your home on top of it. How many people know about these diamonds?”

  This was new ground, and scary. “Limpy and me, and now you. The three of us know the whole thing. Two other people knew I had stones, but not where from.” He didn’t mention Maridly Nantz, who had found them, because she was dead now, and he hated to think about that.

  “I’ll ask again,” Chief Waco said. “Who owns the mineral rights?”

  “Guess we’d better figure that out posthaste.”

  “Should be right at the top of your agenda,” the chief said. “If I were to make even discreet inquiries inside the department, it could raise suspicions. But any distant and indirect help I can give you, I will. And if this thing becomes real, I will resign and bathe the governor in manure on my way out. Gimme another nail.”

  “Eddie, we can’t tell anyone about the real treasure in the tract, not until we’re damn sure of our legal grounds, and even then it will be a disaster.”

  “Won’t be a word from me; we’ll keep this close until we can’t anymore.”

  “We can’t ever let this become public,” Service argued. “If word gets out, the tract will be trashed by treasure hunters and all the shit that goes with that.”

  “I hear you, but circumstances will tell, and all battles always boil down to terrain and circumstances. I’m with you as far as a goal, unless we are forced to change the goal, agreed?”

  “I’ve never been much for compromise.”

  “I know. Me neither. Agreed?”

  Service nodded. Allerdyce said not a word during the exchange, just sat quietly looking around, like he was in another dimension.

  “There’s one more thing,” Service said. “Trip Bozian.”

  “Who the blazes is that?”

  Either Eddie hasn’t heard or he’s a good actor. “Clearcut’s son.”

  Waco shrugged. “This would concern us how?”

  “He’s going to replace the DNR director.”

  “The director is in place.”

  “He’s going to resign.”

  Waco looked flummoxed. “We talk every day. He hasn’t said a word.”

  “It’s not his idea. Bozian will use the governor to push him out and wedge his son in his place.”

  Eddie Waco’s chin sank. “This is becoming a madhouse.”

  “The son, Trip, was once one of my cubs, but screwed up big time and resigned before he was officially fired. He was glad to be out. The whole thing was a burden, and he knew law enforcement wasn’t the right road for him, but the old man has been after me ever since.”

  Eddie Waco said thoughtfully, “None of this makes me happy, but let’s keep our eyes on the real ball for the moment. That’s the Mosquito. I’d like to tell the governor that you and I have ha
d a heart-to-heart, and that you are going to talk to your lawyer regarding retirement—for the benefit of the force. I’ll suggest to the governor that we let your suspension run to July 1, and that we not extend to Labor Day because that might get your back up again. This buys us time. You okay with this?”

  Service said, “July 1, right?”

  Eddie Waco said, “Yes. The governor won’t bring charges against you or Allerdyce if it will risk your not going along with the game. His best move is to swallow his tongue and sit back for a while. I’ll advise him that anything else will be regarded as a provocation.”

  “Okay,” Grady Service said. “First agenda item, find out who the heck owns the mineral rights under the Mosquito.”

  “Which you will find out without inquiry to anyone in the DNR or DNRE. You need to get yourselves into wound-licking mode, and stay unseen and unheard.”

  “You’re making us play with an arm tied behind us.”

  “You’ve always been an accomplished head-butter, and nut-kicker, so it doesn’t seem like all that big a restriction. You’re clever, and I’m confident you’ll find a work-around.”

  “I hate games,” Service said.

  “Welcome to the secret world of government and greed.”

  “How do you tolerate it?” Service asked his friend.

  “The wife asks me that very thing several times a week, but I swore an oath here and I intend to uphold it by doing what’s right, not necessarily what’s legal or politically expedient. And, just for the record here, you and Allerdyce? I thought it was a brilliant partnership, same as Cake and me down in Missouri.”

  The chief’s dedication made him ashamed. He was taking this whole thing personally. “Maybe I should retire.”

  “Go ahead, if you want to open the treasure house door. The only thing that has Bozian and the rest of them stymied and slow-walking this deal is your presence and reputation as the Mosquito’s junkyard dog defender. Find out who owns the mineral rights. That’s enough for you to focus on right now.”

  “What if the state doesn’t own underground rights?”

  “Let’s cross that bridge if we have to. Our first go-to will be wilderness lawyers, somebody over in the Sierra Club or experts of that ilk. They may know some ways to block exploitation, but if the state owns the rights, this deal will be dead and done, stillborn, no matter what cards Kalleskevich and Bozian have up their sleeves.”