The flight home the next day was not a pleasant one. He had taken it as far as he could. What happened now was in the hands of whoever took responsibility for miracles. In his own life, especially recently, there had not been many incidents that qualified. It occurred to him as he waited for his connecting flight to Detroit that his first task when he got back was to send the entire case report to del Rio. Then he would have done all he could do, and he could forget about this. It was time to get his boots back into the dirt and get on with his life.
75
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
EAST LANSING, INGHAM COUNTY
The anger management session was scheduled with Dr. Lance Purloy at his office in the Three Winds strip mall on Lake Lansing Road, at 8 a.m. The strip mall was one minute off US 27, the psychologist’s office sandwiched between the Polaris Transgender Internet Café and Lunella’s Parisian Bistro. The door in front of him said: l. purloy, consulting services, by appointment only.
There was a receptionist behind a desk in the entry area. Beige carpet, clean, beige walls, no color, no distractions. The woman had short brown hair and so many strands of colored plastic beads that she looked like a Mardi Gras refugee.
“Detective Service?” she greeted him, checking her wristwatch.
He nodded.
“Scooter will be with you in a minute.”
What kind of doctor was addressed as Scooter?
The doctor came out wearing a gray shirt that had the word marmosets emblazoned across the chest in blue and white. “You stay in town last night?” he asked.
“Just drove down from the U.P. Today’s my first day back on duty.”
“Lorne said you’d had some trouble.” He could sense the man looking directly at his new scars. “C’mon in,” the doctor added, waving him into a room furnished only with a green-and-white wrestling mat and a couple of speed bags used by boxers. “I have a real office, too,” the man assured him.
The doctor was six-foot-two with the heft of a serious weight lifter.
“Scooter?” Service said.
“Played ball for the Spartans until my knee blew out. Understand you played some college hockey.”
“You play Four-Square or volleyball?” Service asked, digging deep.
The psychologist grinned. “The way I heard it, you pounded some poor fuck half to death in a game. Was there any acting out before that?”
“It didn’t feel like acting,” Service said.
The doctor sat cross-legged on the mat and patted it as a signal for Service to sit down. Service remained standing.
“Anger doesn’t just show up one day like a migrating bird,” Purloy said.
“You want to hear how my old man beat me?”
“Sure.”
“He didn’t.”
“Got a bit of a chip on that shoulder,” Purloy said. “Being here a problem for you?”
“Is it for you?”
“I’m getting paid.”
“So am I.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Orders.”
“You always follow orders?”
“The ones that make sense.”
“Meaning the ones that don’t piss you off?”
“I don’t get pissed off.”
Purloy stared. “You’re pissed off right now.”
“I’m irritated right now, not pissed off.”
“They look the same to me.”
“You’re you, not me.”
“Point taken. You’ve had a couple of incidents.”
“I’m a cop. We have incidents almost every day.”
“I can imagine.”
“I doubt that.”
“I was a cop,” Purloy said. “ATF, seven years.”
“Short career.”
“By choice. I’d had enough of gun nuts. I went back to school.”
He didn’t want to hear the man’s life story, and he never liked hearing why an individual quit being a cop.
“Can we just get on with this?”
“More irritation?”
“Perturbation.”
“You’ve got the rep of a cowboy.”
“Our reps aren’t us.”
“True enough, but our reputations often affect how others deal with us.”
“Our reputations affect how people think they’ll deal with us; then they meet us and have to reevaluate.”
“Your captain says you’re a bit introverted, both analytical and instinctive, extremely intelligent, and that you rarely act on impulse.”
“Am I supposed to say, ‘Aw, shucks’?”
“That’s generally how a conversations works. Cooperate to graduate.”
“Keep your sheepskin.”
“No cooperation, no graduation, no job.”
“Like that would be the end of the world,” Service said.
“You don’t like your job?”
“I love my job.”
“And you’d risk losing it by not cooperating?”
“There it is,” Service said. “It’s a job, not a life.”
The man grinned. “Do you even have a fuse?”
“Fuses don’t do anyone any good.”
“How do you cook off pressure?”
“I bear down harder.”
The man got up, left the room, and came back with a piece of paper. He held it against a wall and made a flourish of signing it. “Well done.”
Service ignored the paper.
“You’re graduated, top of your class.”
“What the fuck is this?”
“Both your captain and your chief said your being sent here was bogus, that you have no anger problems. I told them everybody has a flashpoint and I bet them each fifty bucks I could find yours. You cost me a hundred smackers.”
“Jack up your rates.”
The man laughed out loud. “Get out of here.”
Dr. Purloy followed him out to the parking lot. “Emotional control is admirable, but too much leads to other problems. We all need outlets, safety valves, someone we can confide in.”
“I have a dog.”
“What’s your dog’s outlet?”
“Sex with wolves.”
76
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
ATLANTA, MONTMORENCY COUNTY
Service called Milo Miars on his way north. Miars was working in Atlanta with some biologists, planning for next year’s elk hunt. They agreed to meet for lunch at Bucky’s in Atlanta.
“You get the dirty elk guide this year?”
Miars shook his head. “Next year, I hope.”
They were halfway into their salads when Service’s cell phone rang. It was Roy Rogers. “Guilty on all counts. The judge passed sentence on the spot. Fagan got eighty-seven months in the federal lockup, Vandeal seventy. Vandeal skated without a fine, but Fagan got bit for a quarter million cash. The judge fined Piscova one million, and Shamrock Productions one point two. Piscova also has to forfeit just under a half-million more. Both plants are closed. How about them apples?”
“Good,” Service said, mouthing “pen” to Miars. “Give me those numbers again, Trip.” Service wrote them on a napkin as Rogers read them off and passed the napkin to his lieutenant, who raised his eyebrows and pumped a fist in the air.
“How long until they report?” Service asked.
“The judge gave them sixty days to get their acts together, and I know what you’re going to say, but Fagan gave a speech at sentencing and apologized, and well, it was pretty damn convincing.”
“He’s an asshole, Trip.”
“I understand your frustration,” the New York ECO said. “You did a great job. Without you, no
ne of this would have happened.”
“Fagan and Vandeal going to appeal?”
“Probably. Manny Florida says Fagan’s lawyer is a genius with appeals. He’ll find a lot to argue, even if the courts will never buy it. That will cost Fagan even more.”
“They killed a woman, Trip.”
“You don’t know that. Nobody knows that. It’s not provable.”
“Neither is God, but a helluva lot of people believe anyway.”
“This is a good thing,” Trip Rogers said. “Look at the glass as half full.”
“Fuck that. I’ve never been much on the things-happen-for-a-reason school of thought. Fagan’s going to run to Costa Rica.”
“Did it ever occur to you that you could be wrong?” the New Yorker asked.
“You bet. But not this time.”
He closed the phone and told Miars what Rogers had said.
Miars studied him for a long time. “You’re sure Fagan’s going to run.”
“The issue’s not if he’ll run, but what the feds will do if he does. And by the way, I dropped by to tell you thanks, but no thanks on the sergeant’s stripes.”
“We need people like you to teach and lead our younger officers.”
“You can do that a whole lot better than me.”
Miars was visibly upset. “The U.P. is still yours. You’ll report directly to me.”
“Nothing personal, Milo, but not too often, I hope.”
Miars grinned, said, “Cowboy,” and went back to eating his meal.
Grady Service thought: I’m the last of the old-time cowboy game wardens, whose decisions turn solely on what’s best for the resource. It was something to be proud of, and fuck anybody who didn’t understand.
As for Fagan, what had Fischer, the retired FBI agent said—that maybe there would be a miracle? Maybe there would be, but he wasn’t going to count on it. Time to turn his mind to more important things. In the time he’d been on medical leave, a builder from Rock had brought in a crew and finished Slippery Creek Camp. Now there were real bedrooms, with beds instead of footlockers, real bathrooms, one with a tub, new living room furniture, and a brand-new kitchen with top-line appliances. If Karylanne and the baby were going to be around, they deserved a real home—not the empty shell he had lived in for so many years.
“You got anything in your hopper up there?” Miars asked as they ate.
“No, but you know how it is. There’s always something.”
77
Friday, August 19, 2005
UPPER FISHDAM RIVER, DELTA COUNTY
McCants had stopped by the night before. She’d found a trot line in a feeder creek off the Fishdam River, about two miles south of County Road 442. It had been freshly set and baited, but there were no fish on the hooks she’d checked so far, and she told Service she was pretty sure the line belonged to Craine Koski, who had a dozen DNR priors and had done four years for meth manufacture and distribution. An officer had once called Koski, “double-digit stupid and triple-digit mean.”
They parked a half-mile away and made their way west to the Fishdam, then south until they found the feeder creek. There was an old two-track running south from the junction. “I think he parks west near Frying Pan Lake and hikes in,” she said. “The trot line’s about a quarter-mile north, and the water temp’s fifty-four degrees.”
Which meant brook trout would migrate out of the warmer Fishdam during this part of the summer. Service followed her west through tag alders and popple stands until the creek was just below them. They found blueberry bushes loaded with fruit, mixed in with waist-high ferns, and sat down to wait. It felt great to be back in the woods, but he kept this to himself. Working with Candi was a diversion. It wouldn’t be long until a case came in that would absorb all of his time, and he would find himself in an office doing stuff he didn’t like.
“You’ve seemed a little better in the last month or so,” she said.
He nodded.
“Better,” she added, “but the two of us—we’re not working out, are we?”
“This isn’t the time,” he said. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
“When is a good time?”
“Shhh,” he said.
“The thing is, you’re not over Nantz. Duh! Stupid me: I knew this, but didn’t really grasp it. Didn’t want to, I guess. You don’t think you’ll ever get over her, but you will.”
“Shush, Candi.”
“Life goes on, Grady. It really does. You have to deal with it.”
Why couldn’t she just be quiet? This guy Koski was bad news, and she needed to have her mind on the job.
An hour after dark they heard splashing in the small creek. Movement in the water, but not quite right, Service thought.
McCants started to move and he grabbed at her arm, but she was too quick and was on her feet, her SureFire light on, and yelling, “DNR, Conservation Officer,” followed by, “Holy Mother of Jesus!”
Something dark came up the embankment, banged into McCants, brushed Service’s leg, and disappeared into the ferns going north. McCants picked herself up, said, “You knew it was a goddamn bear, didn’t you?”
“Something didn’t sound quite right.” He wanted to laugh, had to hold it in.
“Jesus, he could’ve attacked me.”
“No bear’s that stupid,” he said.
She giggled, then guffawed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Man, that’s one fur coat in bad need of dry cleaning.”
A voice from below said, “What the the bloody devil’s goin’ on up dere?”
It was a challenge tinged with fear. “DNR, Conservation Officers,” the two of them said in unison, switching on their lights and charging down to the creek to face Craine Koski, who stood there dumbfounded and blinking in the glare of their lights. They immediately cuffed him.
“This is too fuckin’ weird,” Koski mumbled. “I ain’t done nuttin’. Why’s youse cuffin’ me?”
“For everyone’s protection,” McCants said. “You’re not under arrest . . . yet.”
Service said, “The trot line’s empty.”
“Where are the fish, Koski?” McCants asked.
“In da creek, where dey live.”
McCants illuminated the monofilament in her hand.
Koski said, “Holy wah, is dat trot line?”
“Braided line, treble hooks; your style, Craine.”
“Not bloody mine. I don’t need no more bullshit tickets from da likes a youse.”
“Where’s your vehicle?” McCants asked.
Koski nodded west, providing no clear verbal direction.
“You mind if we take a look?” Service asked.
“Ain’t no reason for you ta look in my truck,” Koski shot back.
“There’s this trot line,” McCants said.
“Ain’t mine. I brung a rod.”
“Really? Where is it?”
“In da grass; youse scared da shit outten me.”
McCants shone her beam along the grassy bank. “Show me.”
Koski bent over and groped in the grass with two hands and pivoted suddenly with something a lot fatter and more substantial than a fishing rod, but McCants anticipated something. She chopped the man’s legs with her baton and sent him facedown into the dark mud along the creek’s side, where he began shrieking. Service jumped on the man and rolled him onto his back. There were two treble hooks hanging out of his cheek, the monofilament reflecting the flashlight.
“Hurts!” Koski yelled. “Fuckin’ hurts!”
“Hold still,” Service said. “You’re not gonna die. We’ll take you into Manistique and get the hooks removed.”
“Looks to me like he’s in possession of illegal gear,” McCants said.
“Chickenshit!” Koski yelled. “Dis won’t stick.”
“Assaulting a police officer will,” Service growled.
Koski reluctantly led them to his truck, a rusted and ancient Willys. In the cluttered back Service found monofilament and a mason jar filled with treble hooks. There were twelve brook trout in a cooler, most of them under legal size. “You got more than one line out, Craine?” Service asked.
“I ain’t sayin’ shit,” he man said.
“Even when you’re talking you’re not saying shit,” McCants said. And to Service, “You want to go grab my truck? I’ll keep Craine company.”
It took a half-hour to walk to Candi’s truck and drive back to where she was holding her prisoner, but when he got there, the Willys was gone and there was no sign of McCants or Koski. His heart sank. What the hell? This area was a crosshatch of two-tracks. He got out of her truck and shone his light on the grass and saw tracks. The truck had gone west, spinning its tires. What the hell had happened?
He jogged along, looking around; several hundred feet west, he saw a silhouette staggering along the road. He ran to catch up, lit the figure with his light. It was McCants. Her face was covered with blood.
“Where are you going?” he asked her, wanting to judge her condition.
“To kick Koski’s ass,” she said, slogging along.
“How about we drive?” he said, grabbing her arm and steering her east toward her truck, holding her firmly until he had her in her seat. He gave her a towel. “Pressure.”
“Fucker had a pipe sitting on one of the fenders. I looked away and next thing I knew I was seeing stars. I came to hearing him grinding the gears, trying to get out of there. I got hold of a window, but I couldn’t hold on. He was trying to shift and steer with both hands cuffed.”
Blood continued to course from her head wound. Service reached over and pushed hard on the towel. “Pressure!” he said. “Stop talking.”
“He’ll run home,” she said. “Like most men, he always runs home.”
Service cringed. Had that comment been aimed at him?
Koski lived in a small house on Cemetery Road, east of the village of Cooks. No lights, no Willys. Service drove in dark, got out, and found the Willys back in the trees behind the house, which was dark.
Death Roe Page 35
