“He file a police report?”
“Don’t sound like it. The guy in Wayland is named Dog. You want his and Bird’s addresses, phones?”
“Shoot.”
Service pulled over and wrote the information in his notebook. “Thanks, Gunny; I owe you.”
“Wayland near you?”
“Just south of Grand Rapids,” Service said, “a long way from here.”
He punched in Friday’s speed-dial number. “You want company?”
“It’s not your case,” she said.
He explained about the guns and Gunny Prince’s call.
“Dog and Bird,” Friday said. “Too weird. I’ll meet you up at Slippery Creek. Can you be there in an hour? I’ll have my sis fetch Newf and Cat tonight and take them to her place with Shigun.”
He was home in fifty-one minutes flat and found Friday playing with Newf, while the foul-tempered cat hissed disapproval from a distance.
“Denninger tell you the revised lab results?” Friday asked.
“She did. Could the explanation for all this be some sort of ritual?”
Friday stared at him. “I thought the same thing from the start. But what?”
“Point is,” Service said, “maybe this guy’s ignoring cops, doing his own thing, whatever the hell that means. It doesn’t feel religious or psycho. Not quite.”
“Maybe that makes some sense,” she said. “Go pack and let’s roll. We can talk on the way.”
9
Thursday, October 23
GRAND RAPIDS, KENT COUNTY
Service knew Friday was having trouble getting the Indian connection out of her mind. There was no known connection between the dead women and Martine Lecair, the missing woman who wasn’t even officially missing. She still had no clue who the Jane Running Does were, the term a joke courtesy of Kristy Tork. Granks, gorks, and Jane Running Does. Cops and MEs were subject to jaundiced views of life and humanity, and talked their own pidgin—a lingo that blended all sorts of odd connections, making it the ultimate hybrid, with virtually no sensitivity.
Why had Lecair boogied so suddenly, and does it even matter? The question remained, its relevance not at all clear to either of them.
They had driven to Gaylord the night before and stayed over in the Alpine Inn, and this morning, when her mind was briefly off business, they had made love like a normal couple. Breakfast was two Sausage McMuffins on the fly south. Back to normal.
“The guns you and Denninger found. What caliber?”
“Three oh eight.”
“Is that good?”
He looked over at her. “What the hell do you mean, good?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know.”
“Calibers aren’t good or bad.”
“Well, I’m sure not gonna guess,” Friday said.
“Tuesday,” he said sharply.
“What?”
“You’re in that zone you get into.”
“I am?”
“You asked if the caliber was good.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the answer?”
“There isn’t one.”
She threw up her hands. “There ya go!”
There was no point trying to wedge her out of this. It would just take time for her to drift back to some semblance of physiological and intellectual reality. Not that this jaunt would give them any answers about the cases, but if they were lucky, they might start homing in on better questions.
Indians had their own word-of-mouth and cell-phone communications network, the modern version of smoke signals, and they used this to track comings and goings of relatives and friends who might be hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Tribals might not talk about what they knew to outsiders, especially cops, but they would know. Of that he was pretty damn certain. The arrogant little twerp who invented Facebook could have used Indian commo as his damn model.
The Grand Rapids Inter-Tribal Council Center was in the hilly northwest part of the city, a depressed zone with boarded storefronts, iron bars over blacked-out windows, and broken streetlights. The center was in a block-long brick building that appeared in another life to have been a school. There were no pedestrians on the street and no traffic. Cold air, but no snow. The last ground snow had been in Gaylord. A couple hundred miles made a dramatic difference in weather and weather patterns, he knew. It made an even greater difference culturally.
A half-dozen pickups and beat-up vans were parked in a narrow strip of unpaved lot between the street and the building. Everything in sight needed paint. With the economy the way it was, nationally and in the state, he doubted anybody would be slinging paint anytime soon. They stopped at a reception desk to receive directions from an old woman with an enormous head and stringy gray hair that looked like it had never been brushed.
Early evening and the door was closed and it was dark inside. Friday leaned against a wall to wait. Service, being impatient and nosy, followed sound up to a second-floor gym where several men were gathered in the middle of the floor whacking huge drums with padded paddles. Now and then they chanted and sang a cappella. If there were words here, he couldn’t make them out, but the sound made him think of a line from a song: “Sing a boop boop aboopa lopa lum bam boom!” He loved Sheb Wooley and “Purple People Eater,” and the drums for some reason made him think of it. Though there were no words, the beat of the drums and the starkness of the voices gave him a chill.
Friday waggled a finger from the gym door and he followed her.
Downstairs she said to the big-headed woman, “Rose Monroe’s not in her office.”
“I coulda told you that,” the woman said.
“But you didn’t.”
“What you asked was, ‘Where’s Rose Monroe’s office?’ and I told you. You never asked if she was in it.”
Service fought a grin. One of the first rules for copdom: ATRFQ. Ask the Right Fucking Question. This could be even more important in dealing with tribals, with whom the road tended toward strict cultural constructionism of the passive-aggressive school.
“Is Ms. Monroe available?” Friday asked.
“No, she ain’t.”
“Will she be available later today?”
“She don’t leave no schedule for nobody, her being honcho, and all.” After a pause the woman said, “I’m Rose Monroe.”
Friday and Service sighed and gave her their cards.
Service guessed she had played dumb to buy some time in order to find out about Friday. The issue was why, especially with no apology forthcoming for anything that had gone on earlier that day.
She led them to her office and opened the door. “You two are a long way from home,” Monroe began.
Friday said, “I’m not even sure you can help us. You’re very much of a long shot, or a blind stab.”
Monroe said, “Sometimes we find ourselves doing things without knowing the reasons why. That doesn’t make them wrong.”
“We had two murders in August,” Friday said. “Two young women in their late teens. We haven’t been able to identify them, and we still have the remains. DNA confirms they’re Native American. I asked around up there, but got no leads. Nobody seems to know anything, but I’m thinking your organization has a lot of extended kin to our local folks, and I heard there were some Ridge people down here, so here we are, asking for help. One of the dead girls has a tattoo on the back of her calf—a bear or a dog. Our medical examiner thinks it’s a bear, but I don’t know. I have a picture.”
She dug in her purse, handed the photo to Monroe, who looked at it without expression. “You got pictures of the dead girls’ faces?”
“No,” Friday said.
“Woulda been a lot cheaper to call me,” the woman said.
“The truth is, we’re desperate,” Friday said. �
�I really want to get closure for two families.”
Monroe looked skeptical. “Just what is it you think I can do?”
“Help us identify the girls, get them to their families.”
“They’re not from here.”
Service thought: Way too fast an answer.
Friday was on top of it. “How can you know that?”
“I make it my job to keep track of our people,” Monroe said.
Service guessed the woman was buying more time, trying to think about what she would say next, and he was trying to figure out why.
Monroe said, “Now that there’s legalized gambling, most tribes see each other as competitors at best, enemies at worst. The truth is, there’s not that much contact anymore, at least not like in the old days. We’re going backwards in inter- and intratribal relations.”
Friday said nothing, and Service knew she was letting silence work for her.
Monroe said, “What you’re asking for isn’t easy. Like I said, things are changin’ in our community.”
Use of the word community made Service grumpy. Nowadays everyone had a community, even men born with single testicles who loved grape-stomping on surfboards while shooting water pistols at rubber duckies in a three-foot surf. Crap.
Tuesday Friday asked, “What would you do? I don’t want to leave those girls unburied.”
“There’re worse things,” Monroe said.
“Do you want to hear where we are in our investigation?”
“If you like.”
Service thought: Weird response, but he wasn’t in second-guessing mode. Friday needed to play this thing out, and he listened as she gave her report, omitting only a few details.
Report done, Monroe asked, “No other problems?”
“What sort?”
“You’d know,” Monroe said mysteriously, and quickly added, “I’ll do what I can for you.”
“Not expecting miracles. I just can’t get those kids out of my mind. I feel like it’s my obligation to close the case and find out what happened.”
“How far are you willing to go?” Rose Monroe asked.
“We’re here.”
•••
Service left the meeting with Friday feeling unsettled.
Before leaving, Rose Monroe had said, deadpan, “Some of life’s hardest journeys aren’t measured in miles.”
10
Thursday, October 23
GRAND RAPIDS
It has been a long day and now it was night. Carnelian Bird, the man who claimed to have bought the sniper rifles and subsequently had them stolen, lived in a rambling old house across from the John Ball Park Zoo. His yard needed mowing and contained numerous signs: gunowers hass rites. no commies or solikicitors! trespassiders will be shot on side. The signage made Service shake his head. He ran into illiterates a half-dozen times a year, mostly older folks, sixty and up. It always jarred him.
He had called Bird’s phone number, the one he’d gotten from Gunny Prince, gotten an answering machine, which said only: “Leave message.” Service had done so, knowing it was probably a waste of time to try to see the man, but being this close, he hated to lose the chance, however remote.
“You think he’s here?” Friday asked.
“Not until I saw all the signs. I’m guessing this is his fortress, and he doesn’t evacuate the ramparts too often.”
“Or go anywhere unarmed?” she said.
“Never unarmed,” Service agreed.
The door opened even before Service could knock, and a cadaverous face stared out the cracked door at him. “You that cop what called?” the face asked.
Service nodded.
“Got ID?”
Service dug out his ID and badge and held them up.
“What’s your name?” Service asked. Two could play this game.
“Bird.”
“Carnelian Bird?”
The man nodded cautiously.
“Let me see your ID,” Service commanded, reversing circumstances, and momentum.
“I don’t carry it around.”
“Go get it. We’ll wait.”
The man looked sickly and had a tremoloish, irritating voice, but shuffled back with a state ID card.
“What about your operator’s license?”
“This is all I got. It’s legal, right?”
People showing state ID cards often had had their driving privileges and licenses suspended, or had other legal problems. Service nodded. “You want to step outside with us?”
“Gon’ stay right where I am, sir.”
“Why not step out where we can talk?”
“See that place acrosst road?” Bird asked.
Service nodded.
“They let them wild animals out at night, and they prowl all over the neighborhood. All them cougars that folks talk about on the Internet? Believe you me: That right over there’s your source.”
Service thought about taking exception but looked into the man’s eyes and saw that he wasn’t all there. “Have you had problems with the animals?”
“Not so far, but then they know I know they be out there. I hear them roaring all night.”
“Have they hurt anyone?”
“Nobody talks about it. It’s a government conspiracy. You ask questions, the IRS will rain all over your parade.”
“Have you had legal problems, Mr. Bird?” Service asked.
“Never,” the man said. “Never never never, ’cause I ain’t stupid, see? You piss off cops here, they haul your ass away at night.” He made a slitting motion with his thumb across his neck.
Whackadoodledandy. “You have evidence of that?”
The man tapped his head. “I know what I know.”
Service looked over at Friday, who remained remarkably expressionless.
“Mr. Bird, you bought two M40 rifles from a Mr. Truffle Dog, is that so?”
“Never heard of nobody named Dog.”
“He claims he sold you two rifles,” Service lied.
“Whoever he is, he’s a damn liar.”
“Mr. Bird, we’re going to run a background check on you. If there’s anything you need to tell me, now would be the time to step up.”
“Step up ta what?”
“Like, if you’re a paroled felon and possess firearms in violation of the terms of your parole.”
“Din’t I just tell you I ain’t bought no guns from Dog?”
“You say that like you know the man.”
The man blinked fiercely. “Hey, it’s a common name, ain’t it, like Smith! Check the dictionary, Webster’s New Codge, an’ like that.”
“But you just said you never heard of anyone named Dog.”
“Everydamnbody’s heard of dogs, so I guess they’ve all heard the goddamned name. You paying attention? I just don’t know no individual goes by that pa’tic’lar name. What’s the problem here?”
“I’m trying to find the owner of those rifles.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, they were recovered under suspicious circumstances.”
The man looked surprised. “You saying they was found?”
“They seemed to be in the possession of two individuals, who were found dead.”
“I don’t know them girls,” Bird said.
“I never said anything about girls.”
“Young women, girls, same thing. Why this hassle?”
Uh-oh. Time to tighten the clamps. “Mr. Bird, if your attitude doesn’t change pretty damn quick, we’re going to call the Grand Rapids police and haul you downtown for a formal interview relative to two homicides.”
“Homo-sites?” the man said, his jaw sagging.
“Brutal murders,” Tuesday Friday added.
Bird stepped outside, both legs in m
etal braces. Polio at some point? Service guessed. Something like that. The man was stooped, used two wrist canes.
“You want to sit down?” Friday asked.
He rattled a cane. “These don’t make me no damn invalid.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that.”
“Sure you did. They all do.”
The eponymous They.
Service said. “Let me see your ID again.”
The man handed it to him. Fifty-one years old, and the description fit, but he looked a lot older than his age. Service handed the ID card to Friday, who headed for her vehicle to run Carnelian Bird through her computer.
“Hey, you, gimme my ID back.”
“You’ll get it,” Service said.
“I didn’t know them girls,” Bird said.
“No?”
“They was Dog’s,” the man answered, his voice reduced to a raspy whisper, his breath coming in bursts. The man was afraid. Service’s instincts told him Friday was going to come back with some sort of shit on Bird, and he was turning cooperative in the hopes of softening the blow. “Okay if I call you Carnelian?”
“Carnie,” the man corrected him.
“What two girls, Carnie?” Service asked.
“Sluts, I just tol’ you: Dog’s sluts. I don’t drive no more. Can’t work pedals, and I can’t afford no fancy electronic gizmos and such. I’m on a fixed income. Besides, OWG has got tracking devices in all the cars of the handicapped, so they can keep track of them for the day.”
What day? “Fixed income, as in Social Security?”
“And military.”
“You were military?”
“Gunner on a Huey in Desert Storm, Eye-rack.” He tapped one of his braces. “Them’s what I got out of the war—hamburgered my motherfuckin’ legs, and three friggin’ Purple Hearts is all they give me, which ain’t worth shit-all.”
“You never heard the girls’ names?”
“No.”
“Can you describe them for me?”
“Whores, small, short black hair. Painted themseffs with the makeup of fallen doves.”
Killing a Cold One Page 5
