“Like Lamb.”
“Jen found human tissue mixed among venison packages.”
Friday grimaced and asked, “What makes you think Ulupov will hunker down?”
“Hunch,” he said, checking his watch.
“There’s a multiple-state BOLO.”
Service grunted. What was it about that sweat lodge?
Pincock joined them, went into the interview room with several water bottles, and asked Lakotish how he was doing. Friday introduced the federal agent.
“Am I under arrest?” Lakotish asked without emotion.
“We want to talk to Eldar Gavrilovich Ulupov,” Pincock said. “You know him?”
“The Czech isn’t the kind of man one gets to know well.”
“Did he know about the pending land deal?”
Lakotish stared at a wall. “It’s possible,” he admitted quietly.
“You’ve met him?”
“Rarely.”
“Why?”
“He came to my camp. I had never seen him before, never heard of him, or anyone like him. I got the impression he was a hermit. He said he lived not far away, out back.”
“Back of where?”
“He never said.”
“He came to your camp. What did he want?”
“Not sure, then or now. I cooked trout for us.”
“When was this?” Pincock asked.
“Last May.”
“Whose fish?”
“Mine.”
“You shared a meal. What did you talk about?”
“My people. He knows a lot about the Anishinaabe—our history, our beliefs.”
“That was it?”
“Pretty much.”
“And then he went away?” Pincock asked.
“Yes. I got sick that night, drove myself to the hospital in L’Anse.”
“In the Volvo?” Friday asked.
“What Volvo? A neighbor woman, Mrs. Asheguance, has an old Jeep she loans me. She looks after the rectory when I’m not around.”
“Did the hospital admit you?”
“Overnight. They pumped my stomach and kept me for observation. Mrs. Asheguance and her husband picked up the Jeep, and me, and took me home.”
“What was the diagnosis?”
“They weren’t sure. Food poisoning, or an allergy. Never had the problem again.”
“What kind of symptoms?”
“Terrible,” Lakotish said. “I saw things, heard things; there were voices.”
“How soon after you ate did your symptoms set in?”
“Not long.”
“You supplied the fish. What did Ulupov bring?”
“Wild leeks and brown sugar.”
“For the fish?”
“He fried the fish, and I made potatoes and onions.”
“Was Ulupov still there when you got sick?”
“I’m not sure. I think I remember hearing his voice.”
“Saying what?”
“Not my land. God’s land.”
“That’s it?” Pincock asked.
“What I remember.”
“And then you drove to the hospital.”
“I woke up there. I don’t remember the drive.”
“When did you see him again?”
“Never.”
“When did you get rid of your car?”
“I’ve never had one, I told you. I always borrowed, used a bicycle, or walked.”
“There was a tire behind your workshop,” Friday said. “Can you explain that?”
Lakotish said, “I don’t know about any tire. People up here throw things wherever they please. They’re getting better, but they still do it.” He exhaled deeply. “I made mistakes, but I’ve tried to be a good shepherd, a good priest for my parish, I really have.”
Friday left Pincock and Service with the prisoner and went out to call the hospital. Pincock and Service came out after a few minutes, and Friday reported, “The way he tells it: stomach pumped, held overnight and released, no sequelae, no tox panel, probable food poisoning or allergic reaction. He was fine five hours after admission.”
Service told Pincock, “Ask him about the .308. His prints are all over the weapon.”
Pincock went back inside. “We found a .308 with your prints.”
“The Czech had a .308. I don’t own guns . . . I use a bow.”
“How do you explain your fingerprints?”
Lakotish pondered this. “That day, he had a rifle with him, insisted I try it.”
“Which you did?”
“He’s a difficult man to refuse.”
The FBI agent came back outside. “You two better take a seat,” she said, opened her briefcase, and took out a folder. “Ulupov was heavily involved in the ’68 uprising against the Soviets. He fled to Austria, showed up at our embassy in Viennna, and asked for political asylum. He was one of many at that time, all claiming to be freedom fighters. Ulupov was a professor of anthropology at Náprstek Museum. He was part of a group of academics who began to study Native Americans in the early ’60s, with a focus on how the Indians had tried to resist assimilation. The subject apparently became quite popular in certain circles and remains so today. A lot of Czechs love Indians, know a lot about them—because of Ulupov.”
“Asylum granted?” Service asked.
“Czech communists then were under a reformer who was losing the reins. Moscow sent troops from five Warsaw Pact countries, smashed the uprising, and removed the leader, per the Brezhnev Doctrine. Ulupov played a key role as a commando leader. The CIA verified his claims. They brought him to Atlanta, set him up with a position at Emory University, teaching anthropology, and gave him a new identity.”
“He come out alone?” Service asked.
“Just him. The CIA learned later he had been the driving force behind the Native American movement in Prague. He graduated from Charles University and did three years in the Czech Army in the early ’50s. Earned advanced degrees after that and joined the museum faculty. He was the only Czech refugee to make it to our embassy, refused to say how he crossed the border. The CIA took this as a red flag. It seemed possible he had been sent by the Soviets as an agent provocateur. The agency took him to Germany and debriefed him for two years. He knew a lot about the Soviets. He landed in Atlanta in mid-1972.”
“But he’s here now,” Service said.
“He disappeared from Atlanta in 1975. No trace of him since, and no national search undertaken. In his home country he often lived in the woods and off the land. He was obsessed with outdoor life, rugged individualism, all that. There was some effort made to look for him in North Georgia, but no leads came from that. Something must’ve spooked him, but nobody knows what. It was hypothesized that he went off the grid.”
“U.P.,” Friday said.
“Appears that way.”
Service said, “We have prints on the gun and on a knife.”
Pincock nodded. “We’ll know, then.” She added, “We have a psychological profile on him. Highly resourceful and intelligent, prefers to operate alone, unlikely to be found in a heavily populated area.”
“Our tax money paid for this?” Service asked. “Say this is our guy, and now he’s spooked again. What’s the prediction?”
“He’s seventy-five, and this is his turf. He’ll dig in and disappear.”
“If we confront him?”
“This is the end of his road. He’ll fight.”
“We have a shot at finding him,” Service said, “but we may need some bodies.”
“Agents?”
“Not where we think he might be headed. My own people, some conservation officers. If it’s him.”
“We’ll have fingerprint data back by late today,” Pincock said.
“You get any
feel for Ulupov?” Friday asked.
“Not sure he’s your guy,” the special agent said.
•••
Service and Allerdyce drove to the DNR regional office called the Roof.
Ulupov’s identity was confirmed by fingerprints, and Pincock shared the prints with other federal agencies.
Allerdyce looked uncomfortable sitting in Service’s old work cubicle.
“Dis bird,” the old man said, “he sit tight like a pat, hold breat’, honkered down, won’t flush lessen get stepped on. Send shitload pipples, he jumps, mebbe kills bunch, or runs, an’ we chase again. No good. Better few pipples, move slow, read sit’ation, grab ’im by surprise where he honker down. Give ’im no chance ta run. ’Member, dis guy real good in woods.”
Service hauled out 7.5-minute topographical maps, spread them on a conference table, and anchored the corners with books. Allerdyce stood over the maps, mumbling. “Chenk won’t be in da deep; come summer, too many pipples, Lebanese backpackers, downstater, outstater, weirdos with kittles.” The man made a sour face. “Chenk, I t’ink he be up west side in feeder crick draws, some old camp, no pipples, hard get dere, straight-down cliffs, t’ick bush, hard slog. Hear way back was trapper ladders ’ere, ’ere, ’ere,” he said, emphatically tapping a finger on a map.
“Trapper ladder?”
“Find place by cliff got high trees, cut branches, use like ladder or steps. Never make where easy ta see. Hide so udder trappers not find so good.”
Service had never heard of this and once again wondered how big a storehouse of knowledge lay inside the old man’s brain.
“Here’s deal, sonny. I go now, find track, scout. You come later, just you, den we get sumbitch.”
“I want Noonan and Tree with us.”
“Dat li’l city dick?”
“He’s with us—end of story. He’s tough, and his instincts in the shit are unmatched, even by you.” This ended the discussion. “How long before you want us?”
“Satitty, late day, youse run Forest 2210 up 2227 to end, den nort’ one hunnert yards, look for my sign. Follow hit till see small red ribbon, I put on top small ridge, twinny yard off track. See dat, wait dere. No fires. Pisspot burner okay make tea. No fire smoke. Stay till Limpy come fetish.”
Come “fetish?” All the marbles on Limpy? I couldn’t imagine this ten years ago. Even a year ago. Hell, yesterday.
“Las’ t’ing,” Allerdyce said. “Dress all-white duds, eh. Face, gun, glove, ev’t’ing.”
Service nodded. “If he gets past us, where do we post backups?”
“Spread on 2210, 1360, wherever we end up. No radio talk.”
There had been no evidence of electronics or communications gear in the Czech’s camp. “You leaving now?”
The old man nodded.
“You got a firearm?”
“Youse know law say no, and gun jes’ get in way. Whole life, Limpy learn how not get see’, smelt, ’eard. I learn hide so good Limpy can’t find Limpy.”
Preemptive Allerdyce logic, meaning no response was possible. The two men shook hands.
“Satitty,” the old violator said, and cackled. “Dis what it feel like when you chase me?”
“Sort of.” What a strange man.
Service telephoned Friday. “Well?” she asked.
“It’s this Ulupov.”
“I don’t see a motive,” she said.
“We’ve seen this before. Somebody has a little plot of private land surrounded by state or fed, or other private, rarely visited, and they begin to think of it as their own turf, and sometimes something else happens to tip them to take action. Case down south of Kalamazoo where a guy shot two deer hunters on the same day. Took a cold-case team fifteen years to solve it. Turned out the perp was even a good DNR informant.”
“Ulupov?” she asked.
“My opinion? If the casino comes in, he loses his land. He’s not about to let that happen. Russians drove him out of Czechoslovakia. He’s done being pushed.”
“This is sick,” Friday said.
“This is the world we live in,” Service reminded her.
75
Saturday, January 24
STURGEON RIVER GORGE WILDERNESS, HOUGHTON COUNTY
The past three days had been spent in planning and preparation, making contact with officers Service wanted to help with the manhunt. He had even made a call to the chief to fill him in and seek his blessing. Yesterday at noon, WLUC-TV had reported that a suspect in the killings had been taken into custody, another suspect was at large, and a manhunt was being organized. The report pissed him off.
Friday had called and told him she was hearing reports of vigilantes in Marquette, Baraga, and Houghton Counties, and that out-of-state and downstate license plates were filling area motels, and restaurants were full. Service thought he recognized an opportunity, quickly outlined his thinking to her, and after a long silence got an “I guess.”
Friday had handled an impromptu press conference at the jail yesterday afternoon. TV queen Bonnie Balat had tried to hog the spotlight with inflammatory statements disguised as questions.
The conference began with Friday reading a prepared statement: “We have an individual in custody, but not charged with the killings. A second individual is being sought as a person of extreme interest. A BOLO has been issued, and you will all be given a copy before you leave. We believe this second individual to be in the Silver Lake Basin area, and the search will center there. We are asking civilians to stay out of the area unless they are there to work, or live there. Anyone caught there who doesn’t belong will be asked to leave, or will be arrested for interfering with police and charged with conspiracy. The hunt could last forty-eight hours or more. We apologize for any inconvenience, but public and officer safety are paramount,” she told reporters.
“We have also established an anonymous toll-free tip line. We ask you reporters to make it public. Callers will get a recording. Leave a message of less than one minute, your name, and phone number. We will have people screening the messages, and we’ll call you back if your information appears relevant.”
Service grinned when he saw Friday on TV. Messages would be taken, but not checked. Silver Lake Basin was almost eighty miles east of the main hunt. He had picked the site for misdirection because it was close to where Lamb Jones had been found. Calculated disinformation. He could tell Friday wasn’t convinced when he talked to her with the idea, but her performance was professional and convincing.
“Questions?” she had asked after reading the statement.
Balat out-elbowed and out-shouted her competition. “Detective, you have no power to declare martial law.”
“This isn’t martial law, Bonnie. Martial law means the military governs, and there are no military personnel involved in this operation. Next question.”
Balat again. “Has the governor authorized this?”
“This is a local law enforcement matter being conducted by the county, assisted by the Michigan State Police.”
Balat was as insistent as an infection: “Why no charges?”
“Procedure,” Friday said calmly.
“But the windigo!” Balat shrieked.
“There is no such thing,” Friday said calmly. “You need to stop spreading fiction and stirring up kids and old people with outrageous, irresponsible, and unsupportable claims.”
“Someone has to warn the public,” Balat countered.
Friday paused for effect. “Bonnie, you are doing your audience a huge disservice by fanning the flames of some half-baked fantasy. You’re either in the hard news and fact business, or you’re someone who wants to make up things to create an audience to bring in more advertising. Right now I think your viewers have a pretty good idea which group you belong to. Next?”
The room was silent. Balat shut up and the other quest
ions were perfunctory and polite. She had taken the wind out of Balat’s sails.
Grady Service was proud of her poise, and when she called and asked what he thought, he told her: “Perfect.”
“Balat called me a cunt when the cameras were off,” she said.
“And you said?”
“Takes one.”
Service laughed.
“The governor called me before I could call you,” she added.
“Really?”
“She asked me if you had authorized this. I told her it’s my investigation, and she didn’t argue.”
Damn the governor. What the hell was wrong with her?
“Newf and Cat miss you,” Friday said. Both pets had been at her place for a long time.
“Just them?”
“Shigun, and Litle Maridly too.”
“Not you?”
“Nah, we cops get it. Be safe.”
“Always the goal,” he told her.
“You honestly think this Silver Lake Basin ruse will work?”
“I don’t know, but I hope so; if it does, it will help us.”
“And if it doesn’t, and everyone lands on our parade?”
“We’ll tell the truth. We needed space, and thought this was a good way to get it.”
•••
Planning was done, and it was late Saturday afternoon. Service found Allerdyce’s marker where Forest Highway 2217 and the USFS road ended, splitting into two trails, one veering southeast, the other angling due north. The old poacher’s trail was a hundred yards behind the ribbon marker, and even then Service had to walk some to find it. The old man had brushed his trail clean from where Service had parked his truck to where the trail became readable. Unbelievably cautious, with thorough woodcraft.
Allerdyce’s snowshoes eventually merged onto an old trail, badly overgrown, almost unnavigable on snowshoes. Three miles north, he, Treebone, and Noonan found the red ribbon in a spruce by a steep gully, with Stretch Creek to their west.
“You fuckers actually like this shit?” Noonan groused. He had maintained pace and never complained until they stopped.
Killing a Cold One Page 40
