“Moving your way,” Celt told her over the radio. “Both banks. How many vehicles?”
“Twelve,” she said. “That I could count. There could be more down toward the mouth, but a dozen was my quick tally, including the couple in the white van.”
“Weps?” Service asked.
“Haven’t heard or seen any, but that’s not saying there aren’t.”
Celt again, “We’re coming up on the first vehicles. Looks like most are clustered around the culvert crossroad, and north.”
“That’s affirmative,” Denninger said. “Clear.”
Service grabbed Allerdyce’s down coat. “You got a red penlight?”
“Sure, sonny.”
“Break off when we reach the vehicles. Write down license numbers, makes, and models. You got a pencil and pad?”
“Got one writes in rain, and won’t wash away.”
Service thought it was a weird comment, but had no time to ask why the old man possessed such a thing. “If the couple are still shaking the van, go easy around that one.”
“An’ after I get plates?”
“Wait here and we’ll be back to get you. Okay?”
Allerdyce nodded.
Celt on the radio to Denninger: “You got NVD or IR?”
“Both,” she said. “Infrared shows kids creeping over to the trailer, looking in, and going back to the bonfire. They just look in and scoot, don’t say a word. Major weird. Clear.”
Service stopped his team. “Everybody got good lights and fresh batts?”
The other three men patted pockets with their gloves.
“Don’t turn on any lights until I do. I want to mix in with them before we bring the light of the law to their sad little corner of the world.”
Allerdyce split off to collect license-plate numbers. The other four headed down the Little Huron River from the culvert, and almost as soon as they started north, the wind picked up in velocity and began to blow hard. In ten minutes they could see the faint glow of a fire ahead. Service and Noonan veered right to where the trailer was said to be. Service said on his radio, “Dani, we’re moving to the trailer. Hundred yards out, maybe. Clear.”
“Meet you there,” she whispered. “From your east. Clear.”
A sudden east wind was making a metallic tapping sound. At first, Service thought branches in the giant oaks and maples were scraping and banging in the wind, but this was definitely metallic, almost like an off-key cymbal. He saw the silhouette of the trailer ahead, and a door, top hinge gone, bottom hinge holding it in place but askew, the wind making it flap like a broken bird wing. The place stunk from twenty yards away, and his first thought was that it might be a meth lab, but the odor wasn’t right—less ammonia than something else.
Fuck: I know this smell. Goddammit to hell.
The sides of the trailer were clawed, the wood bits chewed. A bear had been here. Service got to the trailer, handed his rifle to Noonan, took out his red penlight, approached the door, peeked inside, and pulled his head back. Porkies have been in there: Two black turd piles two feet high—like termite mounds. The interior had not been chewed and not devastated the way a bear would do.
He leaned in again: Empty DeKuyper root beer schnapps bottle near the far wall. Fishermen and hunters: Lots of them are slobs. Somebody using the trailer as a deer blind?
Service put a knee on the trailer floor and shone his light toward the end. Something white shone pink in his light beam. Something hanging. A coon? He used his hand on the old jamb to get to his feet and take one step toward the back of the trailer.
Fuck. Not an animal, he thought, gorge rising in his throat. A kid.
This time, the killer had left the head and the hands, but the feet and buttocks were gone. Jesus.
He felt light-headed and fought through it to maintain composure. Do your job, do your job, do your job. “Dani, you close?”
“Right outside.”
“Come take a look.”
She did as asked, and all she said was, “We have to secure this fricking site now.”
They crawled past the porky piles to get out, and Denninger stayed by the trailer. Service and Noonan headed for the bonfire, and when they reached the clearing with the music and kids, they turned on their flashlights, announced “DNR,” and kids scattered like rats under the sudden light, running in every direction, including splashing through the stream. Service could hear Treebone and Celt barking at kids scrambling through the woods on the west bank.
Twenty minutes later they had thirteen teenagers sitting on the ground around the fire. Celt said, “I’m calling backup again.”
Service hotfooted it back to the culvert road intersection to find five vehicles lined up on the road, headlights on, engines off, kids standing in front of the vehicles with their hands, palms down, on the hoods, key sets prominently displayed on the hood of each truck. There was a backpack on the hood of the first truck, and Allerdyce was standing with his hand on it, smoking a cigarette.
A red laser occasionally flashed down from the woods to the west, sweeping across the teens attached by their hands to their cars. Allerdyce seemed unconcerned by the light, but it made Service edgy.
“What’s going on?” Service asked.
“Cripes, I got all dem plates and den I hear what I took for grope-motion down dere, so I stand myself near first truck, wait see if drivers come out. I put Donte up in dere in woods wit’ laser, tole him sweep ’em once I got everyt’ing horgalnized.”
Service blinked, trying to process what he was hearing. “Donte? What laser light?”
“DeJean,” Limpy said. “ ’Member? Was in woods when we come down, and after youse’d gone, he come out. Ast he can help. Tole me what’s down dere. I hope ain’t true.”
“It is,” Service said.
Allerdyce made a snarling sound. “First kids get to truck, I lighted ’em up, tole ’em turn off motor, put on headlights, get fuck out, make line up on front, put keys in front on hood, keep hands on metal. Dat’s when Donte-boy swepp ’em wit’ red dot. I tole ’em, ‘Youse guys’ll seen dem cop shows on the TV, you know what dat red dot is.’ Den dey do what I tell ’em, see.”
“You tell them you were a CO?”
“ ’Course not. Just said, DNR will want ta talk all youse.”
“You threaten them?”
“Just tol’ dem dat TV t’ing, eh.”
Service had to swallow a laugh.
“After da first truck crew did what I say, t’other four din’t argoo and di’ what I tole ’em.”
“How many people?” Service asked.
“ ’Leven, not count pair still bunny-humpin’ in white van. God, talk ’bout lastin’!” the old man said admiringly.
Grady Service shook his head. “You ever drive one of our trucks?”
“Nope, but I sure rode in plenty wid cuffs on me.”
Service handed him his spare key. “Take the Tahoe back up to the intersection. Baraga deps and a Troop are coming to back us up. Park so your headlights point down the north road. Turn on the blue lights when they approach. You know how to operate the lights and siren?”
“I figger it out, don’ youse worry none, sonny.” Limpy handed Service his notebook. “Plates an’ makes, an’ like.”
“Git. We’ve got work to do here.”
Allerdyce took off with unexpected alacrity.
Service went truck to truck, gathering the detainees, and stopped the group at the van. He knocked on the sliding side door. A boy opened it and Service said, “DNR. Get your clothes on. You two will have to come with me.”
The boy and girl dressed and got out and the boy leaned close to Service and said, “Thanks, man. The bitch was, like, scrompin’ me dead, sayin’?”
Service cringed: English was becoming a second language even among English speakers.
&
nbsp; They marched the group across the culvert berm and down the east bank to the bonfire.
He called Tuesday Friday on the cell phone as he escorted the group to the fire. “I don’t know how long I’ll have a signal. We’re on the Little Huron, couple of miles north of where it dumps into Superior. It’s a child this time. Butchered and nasty. Baraga deps and a Troop are coming for support. I alerted your Troop crime scene crew, and they’re rolling. If you cut up the Peshekee Grade Road off M-28, you’ll hit Arvon Road. Just stay on that until you hit Skanee Road. You can save a lot of time, but with this cold snap, the deer are starting to chase, and hormones have replaced brains.”
“Normal males, then,” she said. “One hour plus.”
He walked her through directions west of Big Erick’s Bridge, and told her a CO truck was in place to mark the correct road at the intersection.
“What shape’s the scene in?” she asked.
“Ugly, but Denninger closed it off immediately to limit spoilage.”
“Our boy’s work?”
“I’m thinking that. Only thing is, this time he left the head and the hands, but the feet are gone.”
“One hour plus,” she said again.
Service, Noonan, and Treebone separated the kids and began talking to them one at a time. Denninger stayed with the main group, keeping an eye on the trailer. Celt took off down the road to check for other vehicles and to look for anything at the river mouth.
They quickly learned the party organizer was the young male from the van. He claimed to be sixteen but looked older. The girl with him claimed to be eighteen, but other kids said she was fourteen.
Service took the boy off to the side. “Where’s your wallet?”
“In the van, dude.”
“Your name?”
“I want my lawyer.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen, man.”
“You have a lawyer at your age?”
“Got no choice, way youses hassle peeps in the woods.”
Denninger bopped over, whispered, “Daly DeJean.”
“Says he’s sixteen,” Service said.
“Bullshit. Early twenties.” She went back to her post.
“You’re Daly DeJean?”
“What if I am?”
“Well, Daly, you’re twenty-something, not sixteen, and the girl’s fourteen.”
“Dude, dat bitch swore she was eighteen. She’s got ID, man.”
“Look at her, Daly. She’s probably still playing with Barbie dolls. Twenties and fourteen equals statutory rape.”
“Dude,” DeJean keened. “She give it up like she’s t’irty. B’lee me, I ain’t first one pork dat shit.”
“Ten bucks a head to look at a dead child? What’s wrong with you, DeJean?”
“Didn’t do no such.”
“Evidence and witnesses say otherwise. It’s a felony to not report a dead body, and there’s all sorts of other shit going down here. You provide the drugs and booze?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a crime to move a dead body.”
“Like hell!” Daly shot back.
“You check that with your lawyer?”
The boy said nothing.
“Contra bonos mores,” Service said.
“Dude, I don’t know nothing about no bones.”
“It means ‘against good morals,’ ” Service explained. “You can be indicted for preventing a burial, for exposing a body, for preventing an inquest. You want me to go on?”
“But I didn’t put the thing there, man.”
“Then how’d you find it?”
“I want my lawyer. I ain’t got nothin’ more to say to you.”
“Sure you do. You just don’t know it yet.”
The other officers gathered bits of meth, weed, beer, schnapps, box wine, and such an assortment of other prescription pills they’d need a reference book to identify all of them. DeJean was the only one over eighteen. Several gave names, recanted, and opted for mute.
Celt came back, puffing. “Guy DeJean’s truck and boat trailer are parked at the mouth. There’s a gun case on the floor, covered by a blanket, and an empty box of slugs.”
“You open the door?”
“Door panel’s rusted away. I could see through the hole.”
“Boat?”
“Sea Skiff he runs all over hell. Lake’s rough as dickens.”
“He that nuts?”
“One year, when Superior froze over, I busted him and some of his boys eight miles out on the ice in their trucks. They think they’re bulletproof.”
“What’s DeJean want?” Service asked. “This river’s got plenty of easy fish.”
Celt said, “There’s a small stream just west of the Huron Mountain Club on their property. Dumps underground from Pine Lake. Only a half-mile long, but it piles up with early steelies and coaster brookies some years. Three feet wide, max. You can scoop ’em out with a net, but I don’t think he’s after fish. I’ve been hearing rumors of a jumbo bull moose in the marshes over by Huron River Point.”
“Is he that crazy?”
“No, he’s that greedy. I guess it can work out to be the same. Guy’s been busted for recreational trespass at the club before. They get him again, it’ll be criminal trespass. I already called Jocko Shannsky, the club’s security boss. One of the club’s two-tracks will take him almost all the way to the moose area and creek. He’s rolling now.”
“Can he handle DeJean?”
“Retired Troop, good man.”
Denninger joined them. “What a mess. I think we ought to haul all these kids out to Big Erick’s campground, call their parents, let them collect their nasty little asses, and haul them home. I say we write MIPs for those we can identify and verify, haul the rest to jail for failure to provide proper ID and seeking to avoid identification.”
Service called Allerdyce on the radio. “Twenty Five Fourteen, partner. There’s a Troop SUV en route. Follow her in. We’re gonna need the Tahoe to haul bodies.”
“Ten-four,” Allerdyce cackled over the radio.
So much time with cops, the old man knew cop codes.What a joke. Service shook his head and looked at his watch. Midnight. Damn long night ahead. Need to change my call sign. Not Twenty Five Fourteen anymore.
They decided to march all the kids out to the bridge crossroad to wait for backups to start hauling them away. Meanwhile, Denninger began writing tickets, and Willie Celt stuck Daly DeJean in his truck in cuffs.
Jen Maki, the Michigan State Police lead forensics tech, was first to arrive and took possession of the site and the body. “ME’s not far behind me. She was visiting her mom in Covington,” she said.
Two Baraga deps and a Troop in his blue goose rolled in. Then Marquette County sergeant Weasel Linsenman and a second Marquette deputy in his personal vehicle arrived.
Service saw Tuesday approaching and the Tahoe right behind her. Service waved and went over to Limpy. “Where’s Donte DeJean?”
“Took ’im oot wit’ me, drop ’im off. Why?”
“Nothing. Thanks; you did good.” Merely saying the words to Allerdyce threatened to gag him.
Police milled around the crime scene, and Dr. Kristy Tork came over to Service. “You want to step aside for a few?” she asked.
“Bring my people?”
She shrugged, took him to where Friday and Jen Maki were waiting, both wearing blue latex gloves. The ME said, “The cut patterns on the ankles and buttocks leave little doubt this is the same guy, although he did leave the head and hands this time.”
Friday said, “He probably wants us to identify the vick.”
Tork continued. “Very little blood here. I’m guessing she was killed and bled out elsewhere, dumped and mutilated here. She’s relatively fresh, I think. Four, five days ma
x, but that’s just a guess.”
“Chance of a copycat?” Noonan asked.
“Never say never, but not in my opinion. The cut patterns look identical.”
“What else?” Tree asked.
“Female vick’s five or six, give or take. Native American. Won’t guess at cause of death, but I sure hope it happened fast.”
Silence. No gork jokes this time. A child was dead. This changed everything.
Service contemplated the situation. Who found the body, and when, assuming the killer and finder were different? The first two victims remained unidentified, but this was a kid. Young women could run away and not be reported, but a missing child? Highly unlikely anyone would ignore that.
Celt bumped Service on the 800. “You want to come back up to my truck with Detective Friday?”
“On our way.”
Tork stepped back and lit a cigarette.
“Stunt your growth,” Service said.
“Bite me,” she countered and looked at her watch. “Zero six hundred. Not that long until we have light.”
There’s light, and there’s light, Service thought.
•••
Celt met them. “Shannsky has Guy DeJean in custody. Caught him with fifty steelies, six coasters, and two cohos in his boat, but the boat was unattended, and he found DeJean trying to quarter a bull moose with a chain saw.”
“He resist?”
“Shannsky said the old guy was too tired from so much work. He just sighed and put up his hands. Jocko’s taking him to the Club’s security building. Linsenman has dispatched a dep from Marquette to pick him up. I told them to make sure they bring the gun, net, fish, and some moose meat as evidence. DeJean’s already asked for a lawyer.”
“Conditioned response,” Service said.
“What do you need?” Friday asked.
Killing a Cold One Page 9
