Death Roe

by Joseph Heywood

  One thing was certain: His old nemesis, “Fast Track” Black, was after his scalp. He also knew this was personal, not part of the case, except that Black was seeing this case as an opportunity. He had not butted heads with Black in years, but he knew the man had had it in for him for a long time. He could ignore Black. Fisheries chief Flinders seemed unaffected by all the emotion in the room. The salmon guy, Jeff Choate, had lost it, and seemed convinced that Fagan and Piscova were untouchable. Choate had more or less declared his loyalty to the contractor, but Flinders had said nothing, and Service wondered where he stood on the potential scandal.

  So far Service had done nothing but piss people off—most of the Fisheries group, a county prosecuting attorney, and a judge. He guessed there would be a lot more angry people and wondered if there was a way to avoid hard feelings and negative reactions. After a moment he decided there wasn’t. If he couldn’t avoid it, was there a way to increase fear and disunity among the opposition, whoever they might be?

  “I’m going to see this through,” Denninger declared forcefully, breaking into his thoughts.

  “Dinner?”

  She laughed. “This case, you, the job—everything I signed on for.”

  “That’s good,” he said, and tried to return to his thoughts, but she wasn’t going to allow it.

  “The thing is,” she said, “I want to actually play a meaningful role, not just be your personal gofer.”

  “I took you with me to Traverse City and the RAM Center.”

  “Exactly. You took me with you—your exact words. To do what? Bottom line: I was just there.”

  “Are you proposing something?”

  “We’ve got our list for the subpoenas. Let’s talk our way through it and divide them up. You do some and I’ll do some. We can cover more ground if we’re both moving.”

  “Serving subpoenas isn’t exactly brain work.”

  “It’s movement. If I have to sit here endlessly at our resort, I’m liable to lose it. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind being alone, but there’s alone and there’s hermit. Understand?”

  “There’s a difference between alone and hermit?” he said with wide eyes.

  “Only you wouldn’t notice,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I cooked. You get the dishes.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Visit the edge.” He had decided to find a reporter he could use to plant stories. The idea had popped into his mind as he was talking to Denninger.

  “Define edge,” she said.

  31

  Wednesday, November 10, 2004

  EAST LANSING, INGHAM COUNTY

  After doing their run in the morning dark and wet snow, Service showered and called veterinarian, Summer Rose “SuRo” Genova, founder and operator of the Vegan Animal Rescue and Reclamation Sanctuary near Brevort. Now sixty, Genova was well respected among COs and animal rehab personnel, despite her alleged affinity for radical environmental causes and organizations. Service had met her years before, and though their relationship had started off rocky, it was fairly solid now, based on mutual respect and even a degree of amusement with each other.

  “Grady Service,” he said when she answered.

  “How are you?” she asked quietly.

  “Not Rockhead?” She almost always called him Rockhead.

  “People should cut you some slack when you lose people dear to you.”

  “Sympathy . . . from you?”

  “That’s over, Rockhead. You’re exempt. What the hell do you want?”

  “I’m looking for the name of a reporter, someone who covers environmental issues who might be interested in a potential story, and capable of doing something with it.”

  Silence on the other end. “Beaker Salant,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “Knight Center for Environmental Journalism at Michigan State.”

  “I’m not looking for a student. I’m looking for a real pencil, somebody who actually works in the business.”

  She laughed. “Always the rockhead. Beaker is the director for special investigations. He’s only twenty-five and already has the sort of reputation in his field that you do in yours. You try to push bullshit at him and he’ll shove it back up your ass.”

  “I was actually thinking more along the lines of somebody who can actually publish things.”

  Genova laughed. “This kid started getting published nationally when he was fifteen. Two years ago he was named a MacArthur Fellow.”

  “A genius award?” He’d heard of the MacArthurs, but didn’t know details.

  “One of the youngest ever named. Got him half a million over the next five years, no strings. If Beaker decides to pursue something, anybody and everybody will want to publish it. The trick is convincing him to do anything.”

  “Sounds like a prima donna.”

  “Be like looking in a mirror for you,” she shot back.

  Service wrote down the man’s name and his office and cell-phone numbers, and thanked Genova for her help.

  “You’re probably gonna really piss each other off to start with,” she said. “Wish I could be there.”

  He called Salant’s office and got an answering machine that instructed callers to use his cell number.

  “Asshole,” Service thought, dialing the cell-phone number. Over the years he had not had a lot of contact with environmentalists, but what he’d seen mostly were arrogant, often naive zealots who growled and gloated when they thought they had the upper hand and whined when the tide turned against them.

  “I haven’t got all day, dude,” a voice said on the other end of the cell phone.

  “Beaker Salant?”

  “That’s the number you dialed, dude, unless you’re one of those who can’t figure out how to correctly key in a simple seven-number sequence.”

  “My name’s Service.”

  “Like the poet,” the voice said. “That’s cool.”

  “I’m a detective with the Wildlife Resource Protection Unit in the Michigan DNR.”

  “I don’t hunt, fish, trap, gather, or do anything else in your purview, dude.”

  “Maybe I have something that would interest you.”

  “Dubious.”

  Service didn’t care for the man’s attitude. “Maybe you’re right. I was told I’d be talking to somebody who knows how to jump on a good story.”

  “Told by whom?”

  “Summer Rose Genova.”

  “SuRo sent you to me?”

  “She recommended you.”

  “Okay, that helps my interest. What do you have?”

  “Not over the phone. Can we meet?”

  “I’m busy, dude.”

  “Fine,” Service said. “I can find someone else.”

  “Wait, wait, okay. I’m tied up with a hearing at the Capitol until three. How about we meet at Paul Revere’s at four?”

  “The bar on East Grand River toward Okemos?”

  “Only Paul Revere’s I know of.”

  Service was surprised to hear it was still around. It had been a landmark at one time, but landmarks had a way of disappearing. “Four—I’ll be there.”

  Service arrived fifteen minutes early and ordered a draft beer. The bar was dark and relatively empty. The bartender brought the draft. “Menu?”

  “Libations only,” Service said.

  The bartender rolled his eyes.

  A gaunt young man came into the bar one minute before four and looked around, trying to accustom his eyes to the low light. He wore hiking boots, blue jeans, a black toque, and a ratty, old-fashioned red-and-black-plaid hunting coat. Service waved at him.

  The boy sat down without taking off his coat or wool hat.
“How’d you recognize me?”

  “Your uniform,” Service said.

  “Witticism from a game warden?”

  “I never met anyone in your line of work who doesn’t dress similarly. Simple deduction.”

  “So, whatchu got?”

  “You want a beer?”

  “I don’t consume much alcohol.”

  Apparently he didn’t eat much either. “SuRo highly recommended you.”

  “You don’t have to butter me up. I called her after I talked to you. She said you’re Attila the Hun for the Good Guys. She doesn’t say that about many cops. You are a real cop, right?”

  “As much as you’re a real journalist.”

  The young man laughed. “I also used my BlackBerry to do some quick research. You’ve been credited with solving some very high-profile cases, but I get the feeling you like stepping on toes.”

  “Got the same feeling about you—without the BlackBerry.”

  Salant actually smiled and signaled the bartender. “Virgin Mary.”

  He looked at Service. “I was raised Catholic and I love the name of the drink.”

  “It’s not a real drink without booze,” Service said. “Congratulations on the Genius Award.”

  “Fellowship, not award.”

  “Whatever. The money change you?”

  “Never had money, never really wanted it. Mostly it just sits there in a green mutual fund, accumulating interest. The only thing I bought was the BlackBerry—and some CDs. Man’s gotta have his tunes.” Service’s son had felt the same way about music.

  The bartender delivered the drink and left them alone.

  “Why did you want to talk to me?” Salant asked.

  “What would you say if I told you that there’s an investigation of a Michigan company who is allegedly importing contaminated salmon eggs from Lake Ontario, mixing them with Lake Michigan eggs, and selling them as red caviar to an outfit on the East Coast, which provides them to cruise lines?”

  “Interesting, but hardly compelling. Contamination in the Lake Ontario eggs is a generalization. Want to be more specific and precise?”

  “Mirex.”

  Salant nodded. “Mirex is some totally bad shit. My interest level riseth.”

  “There are unsubstantiated allegations of favoritism and maybe some graft among state employees.”

  The young man grinned. “Getting warmer. What allegations?”

  “Not until we get the ground rules straight.”

  “I don’t bargain.”

  “Sure you do,” Service said. “You accepted my invitation, checked my bona fides with SuRo, and researched me. That shows interest and a willingness to hear what I have to say. Willingness to hear requires a degree of cooperation, and cooperation is just another word for trading.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “Northern.”

  “Majoring in?”

  “It was a long time ago. Nothing significant.”

  “What ground rules?”

  “See how easy it is to bargain?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “That’s the first step.”

  “You’re not what I expected,” the young man said.

  “I’ll give you some information with some detail. If you’re interested, we’ll see what else I can do for you. But if we go the next step, my name and all details have to stay out of it,” said Service.

  “That’s called ‘on background.’ If I publish, that means I can say ‘a source close to the investigation.’ ”

  “Too close. I am the investigation. It’s possible there’s an organized crime connection in this, too. Did I mention that?”

  “Okay, ‘on background’ won’t work. The other choice is ‘off the record.’ ”

  “Which means?”

  “It means you tell me, and I can’t write about it unless I can get it from another source.”

  “How do you do that?”

  Salant sucked in a breath. “I call someone up and I say, ‘I’ve heard yada yada.’ ”

  “And they respond, ‘So what?’ ”

  “Most people will say, ‘Where did you hear that?’—which usually means they know something about what you want to talk about. So then you say, ‘It’s going around Lansing.’ ”

  “You lie to them?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Sounds like a car rental ad.”

  “Trust me—if you go off the record, I won’t do anything to jeopardize your investigation,” said Salant. “Most journalists and writers are interested almost exclusively in the story as it benefits them personally and professionally, not the final outcome. I’m different. If someone is fucking with the environment, I’d rather subjugate the story in the interests of the justice process.”

  “Okay,” Service said. “What if I’m just fucking with you and there’s no substance to any of this, and I’m just looking for personal aggrandizement.”

  Salant said with absolute conviction, “First, SuRo would never send such a person to me. Second, if you’re bullshitting me, it won’t take long for me to find out.”

  “Piscova,” Service said.

  “Quintan Fagan,” Salant said.

  “You know who he is?”

  “Plays marbles with a bowling ball.”

  “That’s him.”

  “This is about Fagan and Piscova?”

  Service nodded. The young man pulled out a small recorder and set it on the bar. He took off his hat and coat, stacked them on top of the barstool beside him, and said, “Feed me, big dude.”

  32

  Wednesday, November 10, 2004

  SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY

  Service found a note from Denninger when he got back to the cabin: “Couch called. Subpoenas ready in GR. Back later. Don’t wait dinner. D2.”

  He checked the woodpile stack on the deck, brought more wood up from below the deck to fill the pile, and got the stove going. He sat down at the table and started going through copies of Piscova files, trying to cross-reference documents with people, and where needed, adding more names to the subpoena list. He had no experience with grand juries and wondered how far he—or they—could push. Doing this sort of work was necessary. And it was also annoying. Deer season in five days and I’m making fucking lists. It was embarrassing.

  Roy Rogers called just before 7 p.m. “How goes it out there?” the New York ECO asked.

  “Still trying to sort out what we have to do. There’s a sitting grand jury and the Assistant U.S. Attorney is helping push through subpoenas.”

  “Grand juries are finicky, and we’re bumping against Thanksgiving. Not a hell of a lot gets done in New York State from Thanksgiving into the New Year. I called Fish and Wildlife and they were glad to hear from us, but they are bulldogging about helping us with subpoenas and warrants for our investigation.”

  “Just to get in our way?”

  “They don’t really open up, but I got some signals that they may have somebody on the inside at Crimea, or at least a source cognizant of the company’s activities. I think they don’t want to blow their setup until they’re ready.”

  Service wasn’t surprised. His experience with federal agencies had never been particularly satisfying. “What’s that mean for us?”

  “Military doctrine number one: Hurry up and wait.”

  Service said, “There’s a hearing here late next week on the Piscova samples.”

  “The U.S. Attorney in Syracuse thinks you’ll lose.”

  Service cringed. Was it his fault?

  “Doesn’t really matter,” Rogers said. “The FDA will complete the DNA tests, and like you said the last time we talked, then we’ll know. Even if we can’t use the test results now, we’
ll still have them, and that will help us focus.”

  The next call came from Buster Beal. Service could hear cheering and other loud noise in the background. “You sitting down?” the biologist asked.

  “Only way to make my ass get as wide as yours.”

  “Teeny quit!” Beal shouted, and this raised more noise in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “Party.”

  “What party?”

  “ ’Cause Teeny’s gone. You deaf?”

  “Getting that way.”

  “That’s great, right?”

  “Stalin replaced Lenin,” Service said.

  “Geez, you’re a bloody downer, Grady. Wait. Candi’s here.”

  “So,” McCants said, “the animals have circulated a petition asking for custody to be shifted to me.”

  “They can’t read or write.”

  “Shows how little attention you pay,” she said. “This Teeny thing is good for us, right?”

  “Could be. Whoever the new director is, they’re gonna have a fiscal mess to deal with.”

  “Boy, you’re a tough audience. Word is that the governor is going to ask Cecil Hopkins to step in as interim director.”

  “He’s got to be eighty.”

  “Eighty is just a number,” she said.

  Hopkins had been director more than a decade ago and had a good reputation with all parts of the department. “He’s coming back to a far different situation than he left.”

  “You know,” she said, “I was out of line the other night. How’s Karylanne?”

  “Tired, working hard, big as the front of a barrel trap.”

  “That’s an awful image. I was pissed at you but I thought about it, and I really do understand that you can’t talk about what you’re doing with Piscova.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “See,” she said brightly, “that confirms it. Somebody got a call from one of the biologists at the RAM Center who said you were there, rattling their cages.”

  Jesus, he thought. She played me exactly the way Beaker Salant said he’d play potential sources. “You ought to become an investigative journalist,” he said.

  “Huh?”