Angus appeared smaller than he remembered. He looked older and tougher, but not in a good way.
Their breathing clouded the afternoon air.
Moon considered Rivers with a dark stare, then said, “This here is Clayton Winthrop.”
Sam held Moon’s watery brown eyes, happy for the opportunity to engage, even if it was just a look. He could see there was still plenty of fight in the compact hunter. But the years, and he guessed whiskey through plenty of cold winters, had rounded the man’s shoulders and thinned him out a little. He looked older and meaner.
“Williston wouldn’t like it,” Moon added, turning to the Sheriff.
“Williston’s in no place to worry about it,” the Sheriff said. “Besides, I think we could use his help.”
The Sheriff turned to Diane and said, “Diane, we’ve got a little situation here. If I’d have known you were coming along, I might have mentioned something to Sam. The DNR and Agriculture don’t want news of this kill getting out. At least not until we finish our investigation.”
Diane thought about it. She’d come along for two reasons. Sam Rivers, because it had been a while since she’d found any men interesting. But once she discovered what happened, and that it was significant, she was also interested in the story.
“Sheriff,” Diane started. “I want to be a good citizen. But this might be the kind of story people need to know about.”
“I agree. It’s just nothing we need getting out until we’re absolutely certain what we’ve got here. Don’t your stories need to be accurate?”
“It’s a wolf kill, alright,” Moon said.
“Then people need to know,” Diane reiterated.
“Diane,” Sam started. “Now that the Sheriff mentions it, I’m tracking with him. Wolf kills are sensitive. If this one is real, and it’s in a barn, there could be considerable fallout among ranchers in the state. And plenty of heat for the DNR. But first we have to know for certain what it is we’ve got here.”
“That’s right,” the Sheriff agreed.
“What we got is goddamn wolves,” Angus said. “Come into a barn and slaughtered three calves.”
Diane paused, glancing at Angus before turning to the Sheriff. “I appreciate that. All I’m saying is people have a right to know. What if they kill again?”
“Damn right,” Angus added.
“That’s not how normal wolves operate,” Sam said.
“Wolves kill anything.”
“Wolves kill to feed. And for the record, they don’t go into barns.”
“Bullshit! Done it right here.”
“That’s why we’re here, Angus,” he smiled, but without humor. “To have a look at something that’s never before been recorded in the annals of wolf livestock predation.”
“Wolves kill every day,” Angus growled.
“Not in barns.” Sam watched a vein swell the side of Angus Moon’s neck, a good sign. Before Angus could speak Sam said, “How about this, Sheriff? We make a thorough investigation of this kill. I can help officer Svegman sort through the details. If that’s OK, Steve,” Sam said, turning to Svegman.
“Sure.”
“Once officer Svegman finishes writing his report and files it with the DNR, we give Diane exclusive rights to the story.”
Diane frowned. She didn’t like negotiating access to a story, particularly when it was in front of her and she wasn’t one of the primary negotiators. She was suddenly a little pissed at Sam Rivers. He’d invited her on a charade. And now he’d turned paternalistic.
“We can’t be exclusive,” the Sheriff said. “But I suspect we could give her a good headstart on viewing the document. That sound fair, Diane?”
“I’m well within my rights to write any damn thing I want.”
Before she gathered a full head of steam Sam cut her off, turning back to Sheriff Goddard. “I guess she has a point, Sheriff. But if I’m not mistaken, this is a crime scene, isn’t it?”
Dean knew immediately where Sam was headed, and he liked the tack. “That’s right,” he agreed.
“And the Sheriff has the right to restrict access to the crime scene?”
“That’s correct,” the Sheriff said.
“Bullshit,” Diane barked. Sam Rivers had bushwhacked her. “This isn’t St. Paul. This is the Iron Range.”
“Diane, your friend here has a point.”
“You can’t shut me out.”
“Yes he can,” Sam said.
She turned a withering eye on Sam Rivers. But Sam was ready for it. “On the other hand, Diane, I suspect the Sheriff would be willing to allow the press to accompany us, providing you held your story until you received the exclusive final report.”
The Sheriff thought about it. “That’s right,” he finally said.
Diane didn’t much care for where this was heading. But she wasn’t sure, just yet, what she could do about it. Except play along. And when she got the chance, give Sam Rivers a piece of her mind. He had bailed her out of a tough situation with Hank Gunderson. He’d gained some credit with her. Now he was using some up.
“I don’t like it,” Diane finally said. “But I’ll play along, providing the report doesn’t take two weeks to write.”
“Clayton Winthrop got no business here,” Angus said.
The Sheriff turned to the woodsman. “Steve Svegman and the DNR are heading up the investigation of this wolf kill. But if I’m not mistaken, he can invite assistance from any party he chooses,” Dean added, looking to Steve Svegman, already knowing the young CO would play along. “Isn’t that right, Steve?”
Steve blushed a little. “That’s right.”
“Particularly from a USFW specialist,” the Sheriff added.
“Uh-huh,” Svegman nodded.
“That’s a bunch of horse shit, Sheriff.”
“Maybe you should return to the warmth of that farmhouse,” the Sheriff suggested. “We can show ourselves to the barn.”
Angus scowled. There was no way he’d let them walk around in that barn alone.
Sam realized there would be no unaccompanied perusal of the farmhouse, at least today. But a glance at the lintel over the door showed the edge of a thin metal line, barely a half-inch curve. It was the place the old man had kept a spare key, back when Sam was young. Some things hadn’t changed, Sam thought.
The Sheriff turned back to Diane. “I don’t think Steve’s going to take long writing this one, Diane. Isn’t that right, Steve?”
“It shouldn’t take that long.”
“We’ll have to release it to everyone, but perhaps we can first give it a kind of soft release and call you with a heads up. A day’s heads up sounds like it’ll work. Won’t it, Steve?”
“Sure,” Svegman agreed.
Moon led them to the barn, clearly angry about Svegman’s posse, but knowing they needed the DNR’s blessing. Svegman followed Angus across the narrow, unplowed walk, for now taking the lead. The Sheriff stepped in behind Svegman. Sam and Diane followed.
“So give us the details,” the Sheriff said.
“I been feeding Williston’s calves since the accident. Wolves came in last night.” He turned and glanced at the Sheriff. “Killed ’em. Had a feed.”
He paused in front of the sliding barn door. “I don’t know nothin‘ about Colorado. But here the packs are growing plenty,” Angus said. “They’re takin‘ dogs off porches.”
So the woodsman knew about Colorado. Either he’d noticed the plates, or more likely Gunderson told him. Word travels fast.
“Most pet predations happen out in the woods, not on porches,” Sam clarified, for the record.
Angus stared at him.
Sam stared back, recognizing that old familiar meanness. It was unpredictability with a sense that just about anything was possible. But Angus was an aging wolverine. Or maybe a wea
sel, Sam thought, feeling pleasant tension in his solar plexus.
Angus flung the sliding barn door open, then said, “If wolves don’t go into barns, then what the hell is this?”
The first thing Sam noticed was the odor. It was like a frozen meat locker, only a little more fetid, with entrails and terminal ooze covering the killing room floor.
“My God,” Diane said.
Sam peered across the threshold and examined the floor. “When did you say this happened?”
Angus turned. “Last night.”
The first thing Sam Rivers noticed was the state of the carcasses. They appeared to be at least 24 hours old, which meant this couldn’t have happened any earlier than the night before last. Interesting, given Moon’s assertion. Particularly when Sam could see no good reason to lie.
“This how they came in?” Sam asked. He didn’t question the timing, but he remembered the words from the middle of that storm, night before last. Grebs and Gunderson had been somewhere, and there were others who were heading back to Angus’s place. But from where?
“This door was unlatched,” Angus said. “Must have nosed it open.”
“Smart wolves,” Sam commented. He peered along the frame, found tufts of gray and black hair. “Steve,” he called to the conservation officer, who was behind him. “What do you have in the bag?”
“Digital camera. Evidence kit,” he managed, a little shaken by the view and smell.
“Got any baggies?”
Svegman opened the shoulder bag, happy for the diversion. He rummaged through its contents and pulled out a small sheaf of baggies with a rubber band around them.
“Can I have one of those?” Sam asked.
Svegman pulled off his mittens and extracted a baggy, handing it to Sam.
“How about a forceps?”
Svegman returned to the bag and extracted the bright silver tool.
“Is this normal?” Diane asked.
Sam leaned down close to the edge of the door. The others were standing just outside the barn, watching him work. He clamped down on the largest clump of hair, shaking it loose into the baggie. He found two or three more samples and dropped them into separate bags. When he handed the bags to Svegman he said, “nothing normal about it.”
Angus appeared to dislike seeing Sam bag hair. Interesting. “Wolf hair is pretty specific. I’m sure this is it, but it’s standard with most wolf investigations. You always want a little physical evidence,” Sam lied.
“Got plenty of that,” Angus growled.
Sam had taken a sample because he wanted to check it. But he was also interested in Angus’s reaction. The woodsman’s irritation confirmed his decision to ship the sample to the USFW lab in Ashland. As soon as they returned to town, Sam would FedEx it. They’d determine definitively what kind of wolves they were. It looked like the real thing. Sam just wanted to be certain. And if the Sheriff and the Minnesota DNR and Agriculture wanted the final report delayed, giving them time to prepare for the fallout, waiting for the DNA analysis would provide some cover.
Clearly the woodsman was unnerved.
Svegman nodded in agreement, though he wouldn’t have bagged the hair.
Diane watched.
The Sheriff was pleased Sam Rivers was along.
Moon finally reached over and flicked on the overhead light, providing a little more illumination of the scene. The smell and shadowed glimpses were bad enough, but under the dull barn light the five onlookers were shocked by the carnage. Everyone but Moon and Sam Rivers.
“My God,” Diane repeated.
One glance was enough, not likely something any of them would soon forget. Svegman looked at it and thought Jesus H. Christ.
“Doesn’t look good,” the Sheriff agreed, though he was cool, Sam noticed. He had probably seen plenty worse, involving people, not livestock.
For Sam it was ugly and unusual but not unnerving. He stepped forward. “Got a flashlight, Steve?”
Svegman reached into his bag and extracted a flashlight. Sam flicked it on and carefully stepped to the largest animal, or what was left of it. Then he turned and said, “There should probably be just the two of us in here, stepping around these animals. Or what’s left of them.”
The Sheriff understood. Crime scene. And it was a chance to get into the house. “Angus, mind if we wait in the house?”
Angus didn’t like it. Particularly Clayton Winthrop nosing around the barn uninvited and without an escort. He didn’t like it one damn bit. But he couldn’t see Clayton, Sam, whatever the hell he called himself, would find anything contrary to what happened. Wolves come in and killed them. “Be quick,” he finally said.
Rivers ignored the woodsmen, knowing he’d take however much time his investigation needed. He was fascinated by the kill.
Sam didn’t turn to watch them go. His beam flashed over the closest kill. Its head and neck had been partially eaten. Most of the rest of it was stripped, entrails cascading from its belly onto the floor. The upward haunch was almost completely devoured. Sam turned the beam on what was left of the nose. “Got that camera?” he asked.
Svegman stepped closer, ashen. Sam watched him reach into his pack and pull out a portable digital camera with a built-in flash.
“Focus, Steve,” Sam advised. “Just focus on what I tell you. You think you can take some pictures?”
Svegman nodded. “I’ve never seen a kill like this.”
“Neither have I. But for the time being let’s keep that between ourselves. Can you just shoot where I point the beam?” Sam aimed the beam on the center of the calf’s nose, what was left of it. There were teeth marks around the snout.
Svegman sucked it up, pointed, focused and clicked. The camera flashed like a lightning strike. In the same manner they spent the next ten minutes working around the calves, which were all badly eviscerated.
Twice more Sam reached down and placed fur clumps into baggies. There were a couple of clear footprints in the barn floor where the wolves stepped in blood and paced over the cement. Sam had Svegman photograph them; wide angle lens, macro shots. They were big. Svegman didn’t have a rule, but Sam could tell they were oversized for gray wolves. He placed the toe of his snow boot beside two of the bloody paw prints, measuring the distance. Svegman took the picture with Sam’s boot in the frame, next to the paw print. Later he could use it for a more precise measurement. But he already saw something about them he didn’t like. Not only were they oversized, but two pairs of prints had a wider stance than a typical wolf.
“There must have been a bunch of them,” Svegman said, the carnage and subsequent feeding so extreme.
“Looks like five,” Sam agreed.
Svegman was surprised. “Only five?”
“Wolves can eat almost one quarter their weight in a single sitting,” Sam said, still examining the scene. “They gorge, then they sleep it off. Then they’ll usually starve a few days before they kill again. Or return to feed off what they’ve already killed.”
“Feast and famine,” Svegman said.
“That’s it.”
On the way back to the house, Angus ruminated about leaving Sam Rivers alone. He was an unwelcome development. And Hank had been right. He wasn’t a kid anymore. But it was damn cold. And there was nothing to be done about it. They needed Svegman to authorize the kill. And there was plenty of evidence, even for Sam Rivers.
The Sheriff let Diane walk in front of him and they stepped quickly through the cold to the front door. At first the Sheriff had been disappointed in Sam Rivers. He’d invited a reporter to a crime scene. And that was a clear violation of protocol, though Sheriff Goddard wasn’t sure how they did things in the USFW. Maybe it was different if you were investigating animals, not people. But something about Sam Rivers told the lawman there was more to Diane’s invitation than friendly courtesy. He appreciated her for the same reaso
n. Because now he might be able to nose around a little himself, inside the house, while the coarse Angus Moon was distracted by his inquisitive guest.
Once inside, the Sheriff glanced around the spare front room. “Might be good to look around,” he suggested. “Just get a picture of what’s here, in case anyone tries to take advantage of Williston’s passing.”
Angus eyed the Sheriff with suspicion, but couldn’t find the harm. He shrugged and said, “Not much to take, I guess.”
“Better to be safe,” he said. “You like some water or something, Diane?”
Diane nodded to the offer of water and Angus turned into the small farm kitchen to help her.
The Sheriff stepped down the hallway to the basement door, then down the creaking stairs into the dark cellar. It smelled dank, musty, earthen. There was a workbench under a couple of spare bulbs. There was equipment for making ammo, and the necessary supplies. A peg board with plenty of hooks and tools hung in front of the bench. There was an old furnace at the other end of the room. While he stood next to it he heard the old fuel oil ignition spit and light, the heat firing on.
The Sheriff stepped over to the bench, reviewing it for drawers or some other place Winthrop might have hidden a disk, or any records of Pine Grove Estates. He stepped over to an opened box and reached in. A pile of empty shotgun shells. He took one out and examined it.
“Damn big charge,” he said.
He remembered it was for the weapon that removed Williston’s head, or most of it. He returned the empty cartridge to the box, had another look, and muttered, “OK,” turning back toward the stairs.
In the same manner he examined the rest of the house.
After fetching water for Diane, Angus joined him. The place was typical, the Sheriff thought, of Range farmhouses. Rickety and in need of repair. Other than an old CB in a back room, the place was bare.
“Radio still work?” the Sheriff asked. He hadn’t seen a CB rig in quite a while.
Wolves Page 18
