The man in the white lab coat was short with a prominent nose, a perpetual smile, and dark hair combed back. “You Otter?”
“Service, not Otter.”
“Sorry, your guys called you Otter. Cop humor, I guess. You’d think I’d learn. I’m a doctor.”
Service let his eyes scan the room. Light was seeping through the shades.
“Warm enough?” the doctor asked.
“Head hurts.”
“It should. I put six stitches in your forehead, eleven in back.”
“Tasted salt.”
“From the cuts. You’re either damn lucky or Superman.”
“Sir?”
“You’ve got a concussion, not a mild one, and you could use a neurologist, but we don’t have one in town. I’m an internist. Your brain’s internal, right, so that makes it my territory. You feel dizzy, nauseous?”
“Just sore, thirsty.”
“We’ve got you on an IV for fluids. Body temp’s normal now. You were in the water almost an hour. Most people wouldn’t have lasted nearly that long. I’m not sure why you did.”
“How long have I been here?”
The man looked at his watch. “About twelve hours. We’re gonna keep you tonight, release you tomorrow if everything goes okay.”
“Can I get up, walk around?”
“Later, maybe. There’s a buzzer by your right hand. Use it if you need anything or feel dizzy. By the way, I’m Vince Vilardo.”
“Grady.”
“Not Otter.”
“Not Otter—Grady Service,” Service repeated. “Did we get the rats?”
“Rats?” the doctor named Vince said. “Don’t worry about that. Right now you’re gonna go to sleep.”
“How can you know that?”
Vince smiled and held up a syringe. “I’m your doctor.”
38
ESCANABA, MAY 9, 1976
“You really ought to clean up the place. It gives the Garden a bad name.”
Service peered into the room where Moe Lapalme sat with two black eyes and a bandage across his nose. Learning that it had been Lapalme in the boat had not been surprising. Moe might not be one of the leaders in the Garden, but he was in the thick of it. During his two-week recon he had not encountered Lapalme until he saw him with a rifle at Middle Bluff. Where had he been before that?
Colt Homes stood next to Service. “He’s da one.”
“Never know it by me,” Service said. “All I saw were dark oilers. Too dark and too fast to see a face. Did he look like that when I left the boat?”
“It was kinda close quarters,” Homes said sheepishly. “I went over right behind you and jumped da driver. Dere was some wrestling, and when I got ’em settled down, you were gone, and I about shit my pants. Neither of da bastards wanted ta turn da boat around.”
Homes explained that he had threatened to shoot both men if they didn’t calm down and do what he ordered. The scuffle in the boat had taken them way off course, and by the time Homes got the situation under control, he had no idea where Service was. Only the sound and muzzle flashes of his revolver had enabled them to find him and fish him out. “By den,” Homes said, “I was wondering if we had a funeral on our hands. Lapalme thought da whole thing was kinda funny.”
“Not now, I’d guess.”
“It was close,” Homes said seriously. “Too bloody close.”
“We get their nets?”
“Yesterday morning. Unmarked, but in da area where you dropped the buoy. Found da Little Rat south of da Stonington. Joe Flap spotted it from above.”
“Lapalme, of course, knows nothing about the nets.”
“Never seen ’em before. Dey was just out for a boat ride when we come roarin’ up on ’em and scared ’em, which was why dey bolted.”
“Blood tests?”
“Both blotto and change,” Homes said.
Meaning they had been over the blood alcohol level for legally operating a vehicle—on land or water. “At least we have that.”
“An’ some blood on Lapalme’s oilers. He denies touching you.”
“Probably the truth. It felt like a club, not fists.”
“Three-pound fish bat to be precise,” Homes said. “Your blood type was on da bat and it matched da type on da oilers. Neither Lapalme, nor da other guy, have your blood type. ’Course, dey say it was a pal who cut himself earlier. Dey’ve been arraigned for attempted murder, assaulting police officers, resisting arrest, fleeing, fishing in a closed zone during a closed period, driving while intoxicated, and more charges are going ta be added. We got dere boat, dere’s no registration, and da VIN is missing.”
“Does Murray think he has a case?” Murray was Delta County’s prosecuting attorney.
“He says it will come down to da jury.”
“Same old story.” Juries were notorious for siding with poachers and lawbreakers in the U.P. “Did Lapalme lawyer up?”
“Young worm outta Negaunee named Tavolacci. We’ve bumped heads wit’ him in several counties. He’s one of da first lawyers da bad guys call.”
“Is he good enough to get them off?”
“Can’t rule it out, but if Murray and his people get dere shit together, Tavolacci will plead it out. Dat okay by you?”
“No,” Service said, “but it would take two rats out of the pack. I’d like to talk to Lapalme, alone.”
“Bad idea.”
“Colt.”
“Okay, okay. We’d better let Tavolacci know. He’ll go ballistic if he ain’t at da party.”
“It’s not about the other night.”
Homes cocked his head. “You want a tape recorder?”
“Yes, but if it’s okay with you, I’ll hang on to the tape.” Homes shrugged and handed the device to him.
“You know,” Service said, pausing near the door to the room, “I never saw his face. I was in the water almoast immediately.” He didn’t tell Homes he had previously seen Lapalme in the Garden.
“Don’t worry,” Homes said. “I told you I jumped da other guy.”
“Who is he?”
“Duperow.”
“Regular rat?” This was a new name to Service.
“Fringe type—sort of an apprentice,” Homes said with a grin.
“He wasn’t on the fringe the other night.”
“As he is now so painfully aware,” Homes said. “If he decides ta get his own lawyer, he’ll turn on Moe. You sure you don’t want me ta sit in wit’ you?”
“Thanks, I’ll be fine.”
“Da yak-shack’s all yours.”
“Yak-shack?”
Homes pointed, enunciated, “Interview room.”
Lapalme sat across the table from Service.
“I guess we both had a rough night,” Service said.
“I never touched you, man.”
“You know me?”
“Seen you around.”
“Really?” Service said. “Where?”
“How I’m supposed to remember. Your face looks familiar.”
“How do you know I’m the one who got thrown out of the boat?”
Lapalme stared at him. “Because I helped fish your waterlogged ass out of the lake.”
“Thanks,” Service said. “I appreciate that.”
Lapalme shrugged.
“Looks like you had some problems,” Service said, nodding at the man’s injuries.
“That fucking Homes,” Lapalme said. “I tried to help Dupe and he beat the shit outta me.”
“Homes jumped Duperow?”
Lapalme stared at the wall. “I want my lawyer.”
“This isn’t about the other night, Moe.”
“No?”
“You know
Anise Aucoin?”
Lapalme sneered. “That psycho bitch. What did she tell you?”
Service delayed answering, let silence eat at Lapalme’s attempt at nonchalance. “What do you think she told me?”
“I—no! I want my lawyer.”
“You’ve seen her since she got back,” Service said, a statement rather than a question.
“I dropped that scag years ago, man.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What’re you trying to pull, man?”
Service lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Lapalme. “I’m sure I saw you and her in your truck a couple of months back.”
Lapalme leaned away from the table. “She told you that?”
“You’re not listening, Moe. I said I saw you up on US Two by the Fishdam.”
“You’da seen me that day, you’da come visiting,” Lapalme said.
“Blue pickup, home just north of Garden. It looks like a junkyard, Moe. You really ought to clean up the place. It gives the Garden a bad name.”
“What is this shit, man!”
“You were with her.”
“Like I give a shit what you think.”
“You like venison, Moe?”
Lapalme got up from the table and knocked over his chair. “You’re as crazy as that cunt. I want my fucking lawyer!”
Homes was waiting outside the room. “What was all dat about?”
“Keeping my head in the game.”
“You need ta call it a day, pal. Your concussion’s showing.”
“You’re probably right.” In fact, he had a headache that seemed to be getting worse rather than better. But he was sure now it had been Lapalme driving the truck with Aucoin as his passenger. Lapalme had slipped up and said “that day,” as much as admitting he had made the drive-by at the Fishdam. He needed to talk to Lasurm’s daughter, and he needed to talk to her without Hegstrom running interference. But before that, he knew he needed to go back to Show-Titties Pond. Hegstrom had asked some questions he couldn’t answer, and before he went off on a tangent he wanted to know what Hegstrom thought he knew.
39
SLIPPERY CREEK, MAY 9–10, 1976
“You’re a lout, Service!”
On the way back from the jail, Service stopped at the district office. Connie Leppo gave him a look. “Len said you’re s’pposed ta be off for a few days.”
“I’m working on it,” he said on his way to the evidence locker, where he had left the two slugs recovered from the deer parts at the pond. It took thirty minutes to find the plastic bag with the slugs, and he cursed himself for not having a better memory.
On the drive home he found the afternoon light almost blinding; he put on his sunglasses, which helped, but his eyes continued to tear up and he felt a headache starting.
He had just walked into the Airstream when the trailer door burst open behind him.
“There you are, you scoundrel!”
Brigid Mehegen’s diminutive grandfather stood in the doorway, his face flushed, brandishing a shotgun. He wore a pith helmet with a Civil Defense logo on the front. “You broke my grandbaby’s heart!”
Service slapped the barrel of the shotgun aside and wrenched it away from the man. “Get out of my house.” The ache in his head was sharper.
“This ain’t no house. I gotta hurt you bad. It’s the code.”
Mehegen came in behind her grandfather, spun him around, and got in his face. “The same code says I fight my own fights,” she growled.
“I’m upholding your honor,” her grandfather said. “Not that you got all that much left.”
Mehegen turned him around and ushered him out the door, slamming it behind him.
She looked at the cut on Service’s head.
“Are you two a traveling tag team?” he asked.
“That’s right: Make funny, Mr. Macho. Every cop in the U.P. is talking about your swim—Otter.” She sat down at the table. “Don’t mind that old man. The fact is, neither of you understand the concept of a fuck-buddy.” She paused to let her words sink in. “There can’t be any sex when the fuck-buddy disappears for a mysterious and undefined family emergency, and doesn’t bother to call when he gets back to town. You’re a lout, Service!”
Lout . . . scoundrel? He was being skewered with nineteenth-century vocabulary.
“I came here tonight to officially dissolve our fuck-buddyship,” Mehegen said. “Do you care to offer a defense?”
“I forgot?” he said. His head was pounding now; he was cold again, and beginning to feel nauseous.
“That’s it! You forgot? That does wonders for my ego!”
He waved his hand at her, felt the gorge rising in his throat.
“You’re . . . dismissing me?”
“Unless you want—” He vomited on the floor and her boots and grabbed the edge of the table to maintain his balance.
“I’m getting help!” Mehegen said, her eyes wide.
He grabbed her wrist. “No.”
She peeled his hand away and went outside. Moments later her grandfather came through the door. “He’s a doctor,” Mehegen announced.
“What kind?” Service mumbled.
“It matters, you puking all over?” the grandfather replied. “I was an OB/GYN before I retired.”
Service vomited again and started to fall. His guests caught him and helped him back to the toilet.
He awoke in bed, his head still hurting, but the pain somewhat diminished. Mehegen’s grandfather was standing by the bed.
“Feeling better?”
“I think I’m done throwing up.”
“You got nothing left to expel but organs,” the old man said. “You really let loose.”
“You’re actually a doctor?”
“Until liability and malpractice insurance got so bad it drove me out.”
“High?”
“Probably more than you’ll ever make in a year, but it wasn’t just the money. I got tired of being sued, and my insurance company kept wanting to settle; and of course, my premiums kept going up,” he explained. “I wasn’t a bad doctor, or a perfect one. My problem was that I was the only OB/GYN for sixty miles, and I was outnumbered by lawyers. One day I just said to hell with it and moved up here. You’ve had a pretty good concussion. Did a neurologist look at you?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“That’s the U.P. for you. When did you get the whacks on the head?”
“Two nights ago, more or less.”
The retired doctor nodded ponderously. “Symptoms coming on this late aren’t good. You need to get back to your doctor. He tell you it could take weeks for the symptoms to clear?”
Service tried to shake his head, but couldn’t. “No.” Actually, he had ignored what the doctor, Vince Vilardo, had told him. Ignored or forgotten. The way he had felt, either was possible.
Mehegen came into the room, kissed her grandfather’s cheek, and after he was gone, sat on the end of the bed. “Cops are making a joke out of what you went through,” she said. “I don’t see the humor in it, and I’m spending the night right here.”
Service started to protest but she held up her hand. “Tonight we’ll focus on the buddy part. People with concussions are supposed to be watched,” she said. “Why’d they let you out anyway?”
“Work,” he said.
She rolled her eyes, growled “Cops,” and went to the front of the trailer, leaving him alone, but he followed her. “That night when you babysat Ivan Rhino, did he say anything when you were alone with him?”
She looked at him. “Not really.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I can’t believe you want to talk about that! He said two words: ‘Right on.’”
“When was
this?”
“You were inside with the deputies.”
“Right on?”
“I thought his synapses were misfiring.”
Maybe not, Service thought.
40
LITTLE LAKE, MAY 11, 1976
“He can smell a fart in a tornado.”
Service stopped at the Escanaba district office, and Leppo immediately began to yip, “Outta here! Youse’re s’pposed to be resting.”
He opened the evidence locker and started searching for the slugs he had stored there. He gave up after an hour. He knew he’d put them there. Hadn’t he?
Connie Leppo said, “I thought youse got what you needed from the evidence locker the other day?”
He had been here? Leppo held up an evidence custody form. It listed two rifle slugs, caliber unknown. He had signed for them May 9. Shit, he thought.
“Okay to use the phone?” he asked. Connie Leppo rolled her eyes and left her desk. He called the Marquette County sheriff’s office and got the names of the two deputies who had responded to his call that night at STP. He left before Leppo could come back and scold him for being there. He sat in his Plymouth trying to recall picking up the evidence. He couldn’t.
The deputies were Harry Wayne and Maurice Shelby. He called Wayne from a pay phone and asked if they could meet. Wayne agreed, and said he’d call Shelby.
It was fifty-three degrees, the snowpack melting quickly, leaving the side roads slippery with mud and slush on top and a substrate of holdover ice that had been packed down by vehicles over the long winter. He knew the warm-up wouldn’t last. It would take heavy spring rains to really take the snow, and even then turquoise-blue ice patches would persist in the dark nooks of cedar roots until well into July. Fifties today, it could be below twenty tomorrow, but spring and summer were coming on.
The two deputies were waiting at Harry Wayne’s small log house on Little Lake. There were patches of snow and ice stacked up on the south shore, opposite the cabin. The two men were in their late twenties, and both had been on the job for three years.
Wayne invited him in and offered him coffee. “She got a little wet down to the bay, eh?”
Running Dark Page 24
