Bad Optics

by Joseph Heywood

  They drove to the narrow trail that led to the woman’s house, and parked, leaving the engine running.

  Curious. He had gotten a first impression of her that she was playing a few marbles short. Over time he had changed his opinion, deciding he’d been wrong, that her directness was just quirkiness. Now he wasn’t sure. “Limpy, jump in back and look around for a blue softcover book. Title’s Lost Person Behavior.”

  Allerdyce held it up. “Here youse go.”

  Service reached back for it, opened the index, found what he wanted, and flipped to the section on dementia. The book was from a course given to search and rescue people all around the country. It grew out of a thesis that there were various kinds of lost people, and it had gathered huge case numbers. The ongoing study concluded that people of certain ages in certain circumstances tended to react in similar ways. It seemed so damn obvious that he couldn’t understand why this hadn’t been done years ago. Even better, the lost-person database and behaviors were now being updated regularly.

  Knowing the high population of elderly in the U.P., he had been most intrigued by the dementia section and had made multiple notes in the page margins. Dementia victims tended to develop a kind of tunnel vision, which meant they tended to go straight until they got stuck, or hurt. There was no real attempt to understand the mental processes that made this happen, only to know the behaviors it caused. People with mild dementia tended to have some goal or destination in mind, and the distances they traveled could be remarkably far. Worse, one in four would be dead if not found in the first twenty-four hours, meaning there was no time to dick around with this. Cold rain and extreme heat jacked up twenty-four-hour mortality rates. It was cold up here and damp, which meant hypothermia was a real risk and often fatal.

  Got to move, he told himself. He raced the vehicle up the rough trail that had once been a wagon road, and skidded to a halt. The front door was standing open. “Stay here until I check the place,” he told his partner.

  Allerdyce stepped out to check the front. Service went inside, called, “Molly, it’s Grady Service.” No answer. Ample heat inside, even with the door open. Out front Allerdeyce had found two sets of footprints that seemed to lead from fresh vehicle tracks by her mailbox. The size of the tire imprint and the width of the axles said it was a pickup. In and out. Two people had gone to the house, two had come back, and the truck was gone. Who discovered Molly missing? These people?

  Service went back into the house and came out the side door. Another set of tracks, small, shoeless, might be her, heading due south into the woods. He followed for a few yards. “I think I’ve got her,” he called to Aller-dyce, who bounded over to him. Service’s mind was racing through calculations. Seventy-five percent of dementia walk-aways on flat terrain would be found within 2.4 kilometers, approximately a mile and a half, far short of the Mosquito border where the black spruce swamps began. He pointed at the track, and Allerdyce said, “Okay. See good, move slow, how come she barefeeted, hey?”

  No time to think about extraneous details. “I’ll take left of track, you take right,” he told his partner. “Maintain visual contact. Statistics say she’ll be about a mile and a half out.”

  Allerdyce commented, “Stride look strong, but barefeet slow down most pipples.”

  It was just this kind of situation when he felt total comfort with Limpy Allerdyce, who transitioned into all-action in an instant. He was right. “Let’s go,” Service said. The old man was the best tracker he knew, probably would ever know, and if the two of them couldn’t find her, nobody could or would.

  “Quick pace,” Service told his partner and stepped it up, constantly pointing to the tiny tracks running between them. Straight as an arrow south. Amazing and lucky this was an old tote road. Most of the Mosquito had never been logged of its white pine and still held some massive first growth, but these pines north of the wilderness had been logged, and the area was a maze of old tote roads, on which loggers had dragged out their take.

  Allerdyce saw her first, tapped his head, put forked fingers to his eyes to say, I see her, then held up one finger, I see one person. The old poacher’s left hand made an arc over, up, and over. Service understood. The land was beginning to get a little hilly. He waved Limpy on and followed him. They found the woman sitting on a rotting log.

  “Miss Molly,” Service said.

  She was tiny, with a thick mop of silver hair and dangling gold earrings that gleamed under their flashlight beams.

  She rolled her eyes momentarily. “Yes?”

  “You went for a little walk.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “Yes.” Limpy draped his jacket over her shoulders.

  “Can we take you home, Miss Molly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want us to help you?”

  “Yes.”

  Each man took an arm and gently helped her up, but Service then picked her up and carried her and she settled her head against his chest. She had the specific gravity of a shadow, no weight, no bulk, hardly a physical presence.

  “Thirsty?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  He stopped and Limpy helped her drink from a water bottle.

  So far, no matter what he said or asked was answered the same way. “You stopped to sit on that log, Miss Molly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you tired?”

  “Yes.”

  “And sleepy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you going to keep walking after you rested up?”

  No answer. “Miss Molly?”

  “Yes.”

  Slight change, she was responding to the inquiry, not answering. “Were you going to keep going after you rested, Miss Molly?”

  “Grady?” she said, and his name startled him and he felt for an instant like he was going to drop her.

  “Right, Miss Molly. It’s Grady. You’re okay.We’ll take care of you.”

  “Grady,” she said, pawing lightly at his chin. “I’m not . . . you know . . .”

  “I know,” he told her.

  “Yes,” she said and smiled. “I’m not.”

  “Want me take her?” Allerdyce asked.

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  Try to remember what you learned. Some dementia victims had trouble finding the right words. Some couldn’t walk or move easily, or smoothly. Some couldn’t recognize common things, like familiar faces. Some lost the ability to organize, plan, think in the abstract. But Molly had been walking with a nice gait, as Limpy pointed out. She recognized me, not right away, but eventually. And she was stuck mostly with one word.

  “I’m not crazy,” Molly said into his ear.

  “Of course you’re not,” he said.

  Allerdyce said, “Look, girlie, smile for Limpy.” He stopped walking and got right in her face, and she shrieked so loudly that nearby ravens fled squawking. Service pulled her closer, felt her trembling. He looked at Limpy, who had removed his teeth and looked like a gargoyle. “What the hell are you doing?” he snapped at the old man. “Maniac!”

  “Stroker test,” Allerdyce explained. “Pipples get strokered can’t make no smile, hey.”

  “If she’d had a stroke, she couldn’t have walked this far,” he told the old man.

  “Could be quick stroker, ones leave pipples dizzy and drunk like cuckoo.”

  “Put your damn teeth back in and don’t do anything else until you check with me.”

  “Just try help,” Allerdyce muttered hoarsely.

  Service wondered if Allerdyce was the one with dementia. Or certifiably bat-shit crazy.

  “We’re sorry, Miss Molly,” Service told her and resumed walking.

  “Yes,” she said brightly, and grinned. “Good golly!”

  Geez, this is completely surreal. He said to her, �
�From the song, right, ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’?”

  “Yes,” she said. “My song.”

  “Let’s get you back to your house.”

  “Yes,” she said, then, “Your house?”

  “Not my house, your house, Miss Molly’s house.”

  When the house came into sight, the woman hugged him tight, and he could feel her stiffen up.

  “What is it, Miss Molly? Something there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “No, was.”

  “Something, or someone?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Spoon,” she said. “Fork.”

  What the hell was she trying to say? She pointed at the house and he took her inside. Allerdyce came in behind them and closed the door. He put her down and kept contact in case she wasn’t steady, but she seemed fine and shuffled to a kitchen cabinet drawer and pulled it out. “Fork,” she said, touching one; “spoon,” and she touched a spoon. She pointed at a tea kettle on the stove and nodded. “All.”

  All? What’s she mean by all? “Miss Molly, you saw something like the spoon, the fork, and the kettle?”

  “Yes,” she said resolutely. “Truck saw.”

  Truck saw . . . saw truck? “You saw a truck?”

  “Yes.”

  The connection then popped into place. “A silver truck?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling, and added meekly, “And red, yes.”

  “The silver truck had red on the doors or the people had red hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doors?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes.”

  She was shivering. “Limpy, find her some shoes and socks.”

  While Allerdyce searched for shoes, Service hit the speed dial on his smartphone. Reception was good, he noted, three good bars. Friday answered. “We’ve got her,” he told her. “She’s fine, but cold. Call Linsenmann, tell him to dispatch EMS. We’ll stay with her until they decide what they want to do.”

  “On it,” Friday said and hung up.

  He called Fellow Marthesdottir. “Recent Drazel activity?”

  “Yesterday, four p.m. or so.”

  “Where they’ve been the other times?”

  “Yes, what’s wrong?”

  “Not sure,” he said and hung up. Had the Drazels spooked her? And if so, why? This could happen with dementia patients as well. Had they spooked her into running yesterday? If so, she’d been out all night with bare feet. Damn.

  Allerdyce had helped her into socks and shoes and she was closing the Velcro straps while Service was boiling water on the stovetop and getting out fixings for tea and some bread for toast.

  The woman sat at her small table and traced the top of her cup with a finger and at one point tapped the cup with one finger and looked up at Allerdyce and said, “Yes.”

  Allerdyce beamed.

  Service wanted to press her while he had her partial attention. “You were in the woods all night.”

  She smiled.

  “You went into the woods after the silver truck was here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why, Miss Molly, why did you go into the woods?”

  “Warn,” she said.

  “Warn who?”

  She stared at Allerdyce. “You,” she said. “Warn Grady, yeah.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “Want yours, yes.”

  He felt uncomfortable pushing her like this, and maybe it was all bullshit, but it had to be done. “Try to concentrate, please. A silver truck, Miss Molly. With red letters on the doors?” She smiled and didn’t respond. Losing her, back off. “Are you warm enough?” More smiling. He tried to read her eyes, was she here or not here? “Miss Molly?” Yes, he thought, her eyes are still here. I hope. For how long?

  “Miss Molly, Have you seen this silver truck before?”

  “Yeah,” she said, glowering. A shadow seemed to cross her face.

  “Did you talk to the driver, Miss Molly?”

  “Yes.”

  “A man?”

  “Not a lady, no. The woman drives, a woman talks yeah, drive-talk.”

  “A man and a woman?”

  Molly shook her head.

  “Two women? Miss Molly?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a cautious, tentative voice.

  He almost laughed. She had made the point—crudely—that one of the women was not lady-like. Don’t leave us yet, Molly, we’re almost home. “What did they want, Miss Molly. Can you tell me?”

  She lifted an arm and pointed at a small vertical desk. Service nodded at Allerdyce. “Something in there, Miss Molly?”

  “Yeah.”

  Allerdyce opened the thin middle drawer, took out an envelope, looked at it, and passed it to his partner.

  Her name was typed on the front of the envelope, which was open. He read quickly. It was an offer to purchase her place for $250,000, but the original figure had been lined out and $400,000 scribbled above it. Service looked at the woman. “They want to buy your property, Miss Molly?”

  “Yeah. Yours.”

  Why the hell does she keep dragging me into this? “This is a lot of money; why wouldn’t you sell?”

  “No,” she said.

  “They said something yesterday that sent you into the woods,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me what they said that upset you, Miss Molly?”

  “Three word. Sell. Or. Else.”

  “They threatened you?”

  “Sell. Or. Else,” she repeated.

  “This is what made you run into the woods, a threat?”

  “No,” she said firmly.

  “You didn’t run away?”

  “No, go find Grady.”

  “Find me where?”

  “Mosquito,” she said.

  “You thought I’d be in the Mosquito, Miss Molly?”

  She beamed a smile. “Yeah. Always.”

  “I’m glad you found me, Miss Molly.”

  “Yes,” she said, proudly. “Find Grady.”

  Someone, possibly Drazel, wanted to buy her property. But there was no limestone anywhere near here. What the hell was going on?

  An EMS truck and Linsenmann showed up at the same moment. EMS decided to take her to Marquette, just to be safe. Linsenmann confirmed that she had a son downstate and he’d gotten in touch with him. “Told the son it’s not safe for Molly up here alone, but the son said she’s always been batty and, in any event, she has her own full-time caretaker. He didn’t want to hear what a cop thought.”

  “Some people spooked her out of here,” Service told the Marquette County Sheriff’s Department sergeant.

  “Know who?”

  “Just might.”

  “Want to share?”

  “Not yet.”

  With Linsenmann, the EMS, and Miss Molly gone, Service and Aller-dyce closed up the camp and locked the doors. Service wondered if Molly really had a full-time caretaker. If so, where the hell had he or she been since last night?

  Allerdyce said, “Miss Molly ain’t all dere in noggin, but she more dere den some I know, hey. Dey gone put her inna rubber room?”

  “I don’t know who they are or what will happen next. I think we need to make a run to Ford River tomorrow.”

  “Old days,” Allerdyce remembered, “old-timers get treated real good, get respeck. Respeck elders, kids learn. Now treat old pipples like dog shit on boot bottom.”

  A sad reality, Service thought.

  “We he’p Miss Molly?” Allerdyce asked.

  “I’m not sure we can, legally or otherwise.”

  “Dey can’t put rubber room dey can’t find ’er.”

  Ever the outlaw, thinking outside the box. Steal Molly and hide her? “Stay out of it,”
he told the reformed violator. “This is not the time for bush justice.”

  Allerdyce harrumphed.

  Why in hell would Drazels pay $400,000 for Molly’s land and camp? No damn way to know at this point. When he got to the Drazels tomorrow, he would make sure cages got rattled.

  Halfway to Slippery Creek it dawned on him that he had to meet the US Attorney in Marquette tomorrow. At first he was irritated, but then he realized that a fresh and legal badge would open a lot more doors than huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.

  Chapter 28

  Marquette

  Marquette County

  His meeting was on the third floor of the Federal Building on West Washington Street, the city’s main east-west drag. Business types loved to brag it up and call Marquette the next Traverse City. The thought sickened him. He hated Traverse City. Too much traffic, too damn many mindless liberal tree huggers who grazed on broccoli spears for breakfast, neighborhood healthy-lifestyle vigilantes who spent their time policing dogs crapping on neighborhood lawns and saving injured chipmunks and fawns. Michigan’s own fruit-and-nut coast. One thing was for sure, the city’s fast-talking, moneyed, harbor-front developers were having their way with the city, and it almost made him grab for a Zantac everytime he had to go downtown past froufrou storefronts filled with yuppie-blood merchandise and eight-dollar cupcakes.

  He’d telephoned this morning and confirmed a meeting with Tator Brezek, the US Attorney currently running the regional office for the Western District.

  Brezek was trim, of average height, pink-skinned and with the long fingers of a born pickpocket. “Where’s your partner?” the man greeted him after they shook hands.