Bad Optics

by Joseph Heywood

  As no law at the time of sale required ownership of mineral rights to be filed, she came up short on this avenue of inquiry. She did find records that seemed to refer to the W. Stafinski property and a sale or property transfer to an E. Stafinski, but this lead died out quickly. Surface rights were sort of accounted for, at the state and county registers of deeds. The state had bought its property in the area of question from E. Stafinski. It was Molly Cloud who sold the surface rights to the state, and the mineral rights to Gibson Service before that.

  The land was purchased by the state under the Michigan Wilderness Act in 1986, from E. Stafinski, aka Ellie Staff, subsequently Molly Cloud, who had lived in Marquette at the time, and who had been pre-deceased by her husband at their hunting camp, an eighty-acre parcel in what is now the Mosquito Wilderness Tract. E. Stafinski, aka Molly Cloud, had four eighties, which formed a square in portions of four sections in what became the Mosquito.

  Having laid all this out, O’Halloran added, “There is no record of any company ever having owned the land claimed by Kalleskevich as property of one of his holdings.”

  Meanwhile, M’s sources had traced D&D Hop Farms through multiple holding company stops until landing on one overarching holding company with a single owner, Kalleskevich.

  “I really sorry dis happen,” Allerdyce apologized as they drove south toward the rendezvous.

  Wildingfelz was dressed in civvies and driving; Service sat shotgun. It had been her idea to drive so the two men could think about what they would be facing.

  Starting in Indian River on Interstate 75, they began to encounter other COs in their black Silverados and Tahoes. The COs would run up beside the van, honk their horns, flip a salute, accelerate, and get off at the next exit. Wildingfelz always honked back, and this continued all the way through Flint and down Interstate 69 West.

  Service guessed this to be a show of support arranged quietly by someone, most likely Chief Eddie Waco, except the chief did not know anything about this meeting or its agenda.

  “Hey partner,” he said.

  Allerdyce said, “Yah?”

  Service said, “Not you, her—my real partner.”

  “Yo,” she said, grinning.

  “All these trucks we’re seeing. You set this up.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. Are you getting paranoid in your old age?”

  “Go ahead and deny,” he said.

  “The tribe,” Wildingfelz said from the corner of her mouth. “We may argue and irritate each other, but when it counts there’s only one green and gray line.”

  “Shut up and drive,” Service told her. “You . . . whippersnapper.”

  Allerdyce laughed. “I like dat, whiskersnakers.”

  “Good one, guys,” Wildingfelz said, never breaking a smile.

  *****

  Below the Bridge was warm and humid, the sort of weather where it was spring one day and sweltering summer the next, with no transition. The meeting site was south of Laingsburg, the same place where Service had met Oheneff, the wayward wife of Kalleskevich. Seeing the place again, he worried that she had taped them and Kalleskevich was waiting with some kind of surprise, but there was nothing to be done about the past. He and Wildingfelz unloaded Allerdyce in his chair, went through the protocol with the security camera, heard the gate pop open, and made their way toward the lake and the hunting camp building. Wildingfelz immediately drove the van off to await a cell phone summons to pick them up.

  Allerdyce got out of the van, squinted upward, and said, “Blue-balls sky.”

  As they walked, Service told Allerdyce, “Let me do the talking. Even if they ask you a question, I’ll step in and repeat the question to you. But only if I do that will you actually talk to them, understood?”

  The old man shrugged. “Don’t worry, Sonny, I make dem t’ink I practice bein’ gravestone.”

  “You damn near were.”

  “No more talkin’,” Allerdyce said, and used his good hand to make a zipping motion across his mouth, cackling softly.

  Crazy bastard is enjoying this.

  Kalleskevich was waiting outside the camp building. He was the antithesis of King Kong. His hair was feral-gray like mildew, his shoulders rounded and slumped, and he was slightly bowlegged, which left him seeming to tilt to the right. Has he been drinking? Service wondered.

  Their host helped Service pull Allerdyce into the camp building and led the visitors into the living area where the big window faced the lake.There in front of the window with the view sat Sam Bozian, his eyes dark, his skin the color of winter fog.

  The Canadian lunch box was in Allerdyce’s lap. There was no sign that the other side had brought a similar offering.

  Kalleskevich said peremptorily, “No wires, no witnesses, straight talk only.” He looked a frump, but had a surprisingly commanding voice that demanded both attention and obedience. Service had heard such voices before.

  Bozian glared, and said nothing.

  A moment of silence settled over them, broken by Allerdyce. “Youse boys are fucked,” he said and began cackling.

  God. Service put the lunch box on a table between Kalleskevich and Bozian and opened the latch.

  Service said, “Our game, go ahead and take a look, Sam.”

  “You hired that bitch O’Halloran,” Kalleskevich said, snorting.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You hired her,” Kalleskevich said. “Frosty O’Halloran.”

  “Hired her to do what?”

  Kalleskevich said, “What doesn’t matter what. I hate that . . .” he didn’t finish the sentence.

  Nonsensical gibberish. The man’s really uptight, Service thought.

  “No idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Kalleskevich, shall we press on? You claim that one of your companies owns the mineral rights to four eighty-acre parcels in the federally designated Mosquito Wilderness Tract.”

  “Fact, not claim,” Kalleskevich said forcefully, but Service thought he detected weakness in the response, a slight hesitation maybe, the sort of thing you often felt in the split second before a fight went, like the point in an airplane before you feel lift assert itself.

  “We have proof,” Kalleskevich declared.

  Service paused and said, “I don’t know who you have handling your legal stuff, but you may want to slap an internal auditor on them. I think you guys are getting hosed.”

  Bozian remained quiet and did not look at the metal lunch box sitting in front of him.

  Service flipped open the lunch box, took out the two documents, and set them on the tabletop.

  Bozian leaned over and picked up the documents, read them, and impassively handed them to Kalleskevich.

  Allerdyce spoke again, “How it feel get caught wit’ youse’s dicks in hand, boys?”

  Service saw Kalleskevich exchange glances with Bozian. No words passed between them. Bozian stood up and walked out of the building. Kalleskevich followed.

  Grady Service walked to the door and saw a Hummer back out of the garage and fly down the camp road. There were two heads in the vehicle.

  Service reloaded the lunch box, put it back in Allerdyce’s lap, called Wildingfelz, and started pushing the wheelchair back to where the van would be waiting. “T’ink we shuff lock up camp door for dose boys?” he said. “Got t’iefs ever’wheres dese days.”

  Chapter 43

  Mosquito Wilderness Tract

  “What’s down in that cave belongs to all the people of the state,” Wildingfelz said. They were standing just beyond where the cave entrance had once been, blocked now by a massive boulder Service had lowered into place five days ago. He had told his partner nothing about it, and she was seething.

  “I’m not arguing that. But if we make this place known, the state will let archaeologists in and they’ll bring students and write papers and pr
etty soon it will be crawling with all kinds of people. So I decided we needed to seal the entrance. It can always be uncovered sometime down the road, but for now it stays closed. I don’t want people traipsing all over this place because sooner or later they will find the diamonds.”

  “God?” she said, looking over at him.

  “Harmony, partner, listen to me. With diamonds near here, high gem-quality stones worth a lot of money, the reality is that the more people we have screwing around out here, the more likely someone is to stumble onto them. If that happens, this place will no longer be a wilderness. It will become a carnival for knuckleheads with treasure on their minds.”

  “God,” she said again.

  “This boulder solves our problem for now, but someday you may have to make a decision different than this. I’ll no longer be around and then it will be all your baby,” he told her. “And I do not envy you that decision or moment. This is a delicate, sweet, damn ugly place and I intend to keep it that way while I’m here.”

  Kalleskevich and Bozian had withdrawn the claim. The state attorney general had all the paperwork needed to determine what had gone down in the attempted fraud. It was up to them as to what happened next. Service was almost certain the whole thing would be ignored. Meanwhile, he was reinstated and awarded back pay, which came as a surprise.

  “How did those boulders get there?” she asked.

  “Same way we put moose up in the McCormick. A chopper.”

  “Won’t Lansing want a reason for the expense?” she asked.

  “Lansing? This isn’t their budget and it’s not their business. You and I take care of this place. We guard it, not them.”

  “Right,” Wildingfelz said.

  They both heard the sound of four-wheelers in the distance, and she looked at him excitedly and said, “Hear that?”

  “I hear. You better book it if you’re going to catch up to them. Yell if you need assistance. Go get ’em.”

  “You mean we, right?”

  “No, I mean you. You’re the one with the young legs and four-syllable eyes. I have thinking to do.”

  He watched the easy loping gait of his young partner. She runs with the silence of a wild thing, he thought. Yeah, we’re gonna do just fine, her and me. And Allerdyce.

  Author’s Note

  This is the eleventh Woods Cop novel, written over eighteen years of ride-alongs with Michigan Conservation Officers (COs) in the course of doing their duty.

  It is a great privilege to be afforded this opportunity, and it has allowed me to see the job in practically every part of the state and to work in an astounding variety of conditions and situations. My problem is never what to put into a story, but what to leave out. Many of the things our COs encounter simply defy believability, even when one is right there watching it unfold.

  My thanks to the officers and their families for all they do and contend with, and for putting up with the “white-haired old fart,” as one citizen in Iron County once described me.

  This book could not have been written without the expert advice, assistance. and guidance of Marvin Roberson, Forest Policy Specialist for the Sierra Club of Michigan. Marv is an outdoorsman, a conservationist, a wildland enthusiast, a dog lover, and a smart cookie who can simplify complex issues and make them more understandable for the likes of me. Our wildlands need more passionate advocates like Marv—especially in times when states desperately want outside investment and development.

  If there are any errors in this story—in the law and any related matters—it is my sole responsibility.

  I am a lucky man by all measures, and here’s something to remember when you are out in Michigan’s woods and on its waters: You may never see conservation officers, but they see you. Be safe out there.

  What’s next for Grady Service? We shall see.

  Joseph Heywood

  Michigan Technological University, Ford Campus

  Alberta Village

  Baraga County, Michigan

  Eclipse Day, August 21, 2017