Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  “Hmm, you just sparked an idea. What do you do to get even?” Porter asked, jotting some ideas on his note pad. “Let’s see: You give what you get, settle the score, make it right.”

  “Eye for an eye,” Kottle chimed in.

  “Good. What else?”

  “What are you looking for? Some meaning out of the doe’s hoof prints?” Sanguini queried.

  “What if it’s not a ‘1,’” Deputy Crossbine said. “What if—”

  “Hah, I know where you’re going,” Porter said, gleaming. “It’s an ‘I,’ as in ‘I-4-I,’ or eye for eye.”

  “Come on people, you’re more intelligent than that. Can’t be. No animal is that smart. Sure, an animal might seek revenge, maybe, but associate to a human concept—no way.” Sanguini said.

  “Monkeys and apes are capable of learning human gestures, why not deer?” Porter said.

  “Because someone would have to spend a lot of time teaching it, and I don’t think this doe has ever been around humans much except to run from hunters and local farmers.”

  “Maybe we’re up against a quirk of nature,” Kottle said.

  “Did you see how the doe reacted when I said, eye for eye? There, she did it again,” Porter said, pointing.

  “Quiet down people, or get the hell out of here,” the State Police officer commanded, lowering his stance, raising his handgun and bobbing his head to the side taking determined aim at the doe.

  The doe lowered her head, lifted it up quickly, and down again.

  “Yes, she’s indicating: yes.” Porter repeated in a high-pitched whisper.

  Each time the doe responded as before.

  “My baby, my baby,” the old woman’s daughter yelled. “It’s going to kill my baby!”

  The child flipped over trying to crawl forward. The doe lowered her head, pushing the boy back against the tree making it cry again.

  Pop. Pop.

  Two puffs of smoke rolled forward from the State Police officer’s gun as it recoiled. The impacting bullets forced the doe off balance. She bowed her head trying to grasp the child in her teeth. She chomped at the air around the small boy’s head, staggering sideways.

  “Oh, my God,” Kottle said. “She’s falling on the kid.”

  Porter reacted and ran toward the deer.

  “Stop, stop! Let me get another round off,” the officer said.

  Crossbine and Sanguini, hesitated, then jumped forward as well. Porter slammed the doe’s head with his right fist, but she continued to bite wildly at the air over the child’s head. He reached down, grabbed the child, turned and gently launched the struggling boy into Sanguini’s arms.

  “Ugh. Shit. She bit my ass.” Porter grimaced, putting his hand back to feel the damage. The doe chomped onto his suit coat sleeve, yanking and twisting. He let the coat slip away from his arms and leaped forward.

  Pop. Pop.

  Another two shots rang out. The doe exhaled; her legs slid out to four corners as she lowered to the ground.

  Whoomp. The skirmish ended.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Front page story, I’d say,” Porter said, scribbling more notes as the old woman, daughter, son-in-law and small child were escorted into the State Police vehicle. “Ah, I didn’t get their names.”

  “I’ll ask them,” Sanguini said, walking over to the police car. He leaned over and chatted through the window. The son-in-law waved his hands wildly. Sanguini shook his head, stood up and returned to the standing reporters.

  “They refused to give their names to maintain their privacy. They’re afraid others will threaten them.”

  “Threaten them? Doesn’t make sense,” Kottle said.

  “Actually it does. Many local business owners around here don’t want any negative hunting stories to get into the news. Can mean lost tourist dollars. Also, squatters and meth-lab operators don’t want the general public grousing around the woods on private property.”

  “So what do we do?” Kottle asked.

  “We’ve got the dead father’s name; we can refer to them as the Lickshill family and skirt the privacy issue by not calling them out individually. Right, Bob?” Porter said.

  “I suppose. News is news; you can’t keep this stuff out of the papers. Beside the State Police will have it in their reports so the word will get out anyway.”

  Chapter 7

  Friday, after work, three over-worked men decided to gather at Jack Hermanski’s new house in the exclusive Cambridge subdivision in the Troy suburb north of Detroit. His wife, Mandi, along with Rusty, the family dog, visited her mother’s home in the thumb area near Saginaw for Thanksgiving, while the men hunted. She was due home late evening.

  “Are you sure Mandi won’t mind? Why not get the deer professionally dressed and save us the work,” Lacarter said, making one last plea. “I’d rather just drink beer.”

  “I agree with Dillon; let’s just cut out a few steaks and take the rest of the animal over to Fred’s Meat Market. He knows how to make good-tasting jerky, too,” Montagno said.

  “C’mon, George, it’ll be a blast. I have a sink and some tools in the basement. Mandi won’t mind.” Hermanski said, turning off Livernois Road into the subdivision. As he approached his brick-sided two-story house, he clicked the remote, opening the garage door. A deer carcass hung from the rafters. Its front legs stuffed behind the eight-point rack, strung with rope. The outside temperature stayed 45 degrees keeping the animal in a refrigerated state.

  The three men exited the Hummer and walked toward the deer. Hermanski carried two packs of beer; Montagno and Lacarter carried a change of clothes.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Watch it. Careful, don’t smear the walls,” Hermanski said, as the three men struggled to get the carcass through the garage-access door and down the basement stairwell. Hermanski led the team by guiding the hind legs. Montagno bolstered the mid-section with his right shoulder, while Lacarter lifted the front legs tied to the antlers.

  “Wow, it’s a lot heavier than I thought. Maybe we should lay it down on the stairs and slide it down,” Montagno suggested, as he wrestled to keep the dead animal steady. “God damn, I’m getting bloody goop on my shirt. Whatever you do, don’t let go, or I’m wearing this thing.” He pushed up on the stomach cavity, causing it to partially open next to his half-cocked head.

  Hermanski turned to look at Montagno and missed the last step.

  “Oh shit, my leg’s going out,” he said, stooping to regain balance.

  “Noooo, I can’t hold it.” Lacarter pulled helplessly on the front legs.

  Montagno banged the left stairwell wall trying to avoid the evitable. The open midsection shifted over his head.

  “Not…good!” he shouted. The stomach cavity surrounded his head and shoulders. Hermanski twisted sideways avoiding the deer with Montagno attached. The front legs slipped out of Lacarter's hands. Montagno, literally wearing the deer, crashed onto the last stair step.

  “Mumfager. Geticoffame. Helphmeph,” Montagno mumbled. He sat on the last stair step, waving his hands in the air. The deer’s hindquarters drooped over his head.

  Hermanski limped into a standing position and grabbed the deer’s hind legs. Lacarter repositioned his hands on the deer’s antlers. Together, they heaved the carcass off Montagno’s head and let it drop next to him.

  “I’m so sorry, George,” Hermanski said, reacting to the sight.

  Montagno revealed a sticky dark-red slime covering his hair and face.

  “It tastes salty. Fuck, it’s up my nose and in my ears.” He wiped goop from his eyes and mouth and took a deep breath.

  Hermanski handed him a towel.

  “Sorry, man. I couldn’t hold it any longer,” Lacarter apologized, sitting on the stairs.

  “Hee, hee,” Montagno snickered. “Hah, hah, hah,” he convulsed into a belly laugh, as he stroked the towel across his face and hair. “I need a beer, hee, hee. We’ve got ourselves one hell of a hunting story to tell for years to come.” He stood up, staggered off t
he last step and gently lay onto the basement floor. “Jesus, I feel dizzy. Whoa, the room’s spinning around a hundred miles an hour.” He instinctively reached out and grabbed Hermanski’s leg.

  “You’ve made your point. Here,” Hermanski bent over and offered him a bottle from an open case nearby. “I suggest you take a shower before we continue. Okay, George...it's getting old; take the beer.”

  Montagno held on as if spiraling out of control. Suddenly, he let go, flipped over, and sat up. His glazed bloodshot eyes focused on a flickering fluorescent light overhead.

  “Damn, what a wild ride,” he said, “I’ll take that brewski now.” He received the open bottle from Hermanski’s hand and proceeded to chug half of it.

  “Slow down, man; you feeling okay? Your eyes are like two ripe tomatoes,” Lacarter said.

  “I feel fine now. Whoa, was I dizzy; must be a reaction to the allergy pills I’m taking. My doctor said I might get dizzy spells now and then.”

  “You can take a quick shower over there behind the furnace. I’ll get a clean towel; here’s your bag of clothes. Let’s get the buck on the table and get this over with.”

  “I might as well stay like this if we’re going to cut it up now. No use getting another set of clothes dirty.”

  “At least wash your face and get that shit out of your hair.” Hermanski offered another clean towel.

  Montagno went to the sink, lathered soap on this face, head and neck, doused his head with water and patted dry.

  “Gawd damn, I’m breaking out,” he said, looking in a mirror over the sink. Red pimples covered his face.

  “Let’s hope it’s just part of an allergic reaction to the pills and not to the deer blood. You should call your doctor tomorrow. ”

  Hermanski dabbed bloody goo off the stairs and around where the carcass fell using a sponge dipped in soapy water.

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “Hey, Dillon, please go up to the kitchen and bring down a couple of newspapers. I put them in a paper bag by the back door. I don’t have time to read them anymore.”

  Lacarter acknowledged, hopped up the stairs avoiding a few wet spots and returned with an armful of newspapers.

  The three men put on rubber gloves.

  Hermanski and Montagno grabbed hold of the deer’s legs and dragged it over to the table. Lacarter joined them and lifted the flaccid animal onto newspapers he spread evenly on the table.

  Hermanski, wielding a small butcher’s saw, severed the deer’s head at the shoulders, and set it aside on freezer paper spread out on a counter nearby. He then sawed the legs off and detached the tail. Montagno and Lacarter steadied the amputated body while Hermanski proceeded to skin it.

  “Did you see this?” Lacarter said, glancing at a news article on the spread-out newspapers. “A bow hunter from Port Huron got sick while gutting a deer up near West Branch. Says he shot an eight-point buck. He and his buddy were cleaning out the guts when he had an asthma attack, and his buddy carried him out of the woods and drove him to a local hospital. Doctors think it’s either West Nile or Lyme disease and hope this incident serves as a warning to other hunters.”

  “No shit. Is he all right? What’d they do with the deer?” Hermanski asked.

  “They left it in the woods next to a tree with a hunter’s perch attached. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’ll be dipped. We’re cleaning that guy’s buck, I’ll bet.”

  “Sure as shit,” Montagno said.

  Hermanski pulled the skin away from each half of the carcass, surveying the meat.

  “How should we cut this up? You want me to make steaks and grind the rest for sausage, or just slice it up in big chunks, and everyone can do what they want?”

  “Keep going, I don’t want to go through another mess when I get home. Hey, I just found the rest of the article on the next page. This West Nile stuff must really be noxious. Apparently, it has affected his brain somehow. He can barely move and when he talks, it’s all about how Einstein’s theories aren’t exactly right and gravity is not what we think. Like he’s some kind of savant,” Lacarter said.

  “West Nile is malicious. Doesn’t make you want to be out at night anymore with all those diseased mosquitoes. You don’t hear much about Lyme disease these days, though. At least it’s curable with antibiotics. West Nile affects the brain; it’s a whole different ball game,” Lacarter explained.

  “The Mad Cow disease moving into the deer herd from Canada is worse. I’d rather take my chances with West Nile then with a disease that leaves holes in your brain,” Hermanski said. “I didn’t know mosquitoes were still flying around the woods this time of year. It’s been a warm fall, though, so I suppose it’s possible.” The other men nodded.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Ah, feels a lot better. At least the rash is fading,” Montagno said, after taking a shower and donning clothes from the bag he brought with him.

  Hermanski finished packaging the meat and marked the wrappers as to contents and owner.

  “Are you going to mount the head? How about the hide, getting it tanned?” Lacarter asked.

  “No, I’m just going to saw off the antlers and keep them. The rest goes into the garbage, unless you gents want it.”

  “Not me. I’ve had enough fun for one year.”

  “I don’t want it. Sissy wouldn’t stand to have it in the house,” Montagno chimed in.

  Hermanski detached the antlers from the skull and put them into the sink. He took the head, skin, legs and remaining discarded meat, wrapped it in newspapers and carefully stuffed it into an oversized garbage bag. He then carefully removed his rubber gloves, pulling them inside out and placed them into the sink with the others.

  He put his labeled meat into a freezer by the furnace. The other men collected their meat into paper bags and declared a successful end to hunting for this year.

  Chapter 8

  “I bet you won’t soon forget that experience. You two really married?” Sanguini asked, as his Cadillac turned into the driveway of his remodeled office building.

  “Huh? Ah, well...” Kottle hesitated, waiting for Porter to clarify.

  “Look and learn,” Sanguini said, holding up his left hand.

  “You know about Pillbock’s trivial maxims?” Porter said.

  “Hah, you’ve been had by the best. Bet you’re wondering how a seemingly tactless man made it big in this business.”

  “The thought had occurred to me. He called me a ‘girl.’ I couldn’t believe it,” Kottle said, shaking her head.

  “You only think he called you a ‘girl.’ You need to look and learn.”

  “Excuse me, I’m confused,” Kottle said.

  “He’s trying to keep you off guard by batting at your sensitivities. It’s the primary area of failure for a junior reporter. As for the ring, you don’t really think he cares about your off-hours activities, do you?”

  Kottle’s face turned red. Porter winced.

  “He just wants you two to think hard before you get further involved—make you feel married. You know, he’s divorced. He married a junior reporter when he began his career in LA. She couldn’t handle his dedication to the business. He’s a hell of an investigative reporter ‘in his own write,’ as they say. He moved up the ranks quickly and became a city editor after two years. I began my career at the LA Times as well. He taught me everything I know. When the position at the Detroit Times opened up, he jumped at the chance to return to Michigan. I came back as well, but decided to get involved in a smaller paper and away from the big city.”

  “Fascinating, but I feel like telling him off when we get back on Monday,” Kottle said.

  “No, don’t. You have to play his game. He’ll respect you more.”

  “What do you mean?” Porter asked, now seemingly confused as well.

  “Look for ways to show you understand. Look and learn. Did you ever wonder what the hand-carved sign means, hanging on the wall by his desk?”

  “You mean the one
with the initials: BTDT? I thought it might be a story he worked on, or an award.”

  “Hah, it’s a play on the famous sign in the LA Times newsroom: GOYA/KOD. Get off your ass/knock on doors. BTDT means: Been there, done that.”

  Kottle nodded and laughed. She twisted the ring on her finger, attempting to remove it, then stopped and held out her hand.

  “Nope, I’m leaving it on as a reminder. Look and learn.”

  “Speaking of ‘look and learn,’ is there a chance we could talk to the Medical Examiner about Lickshill?” Porter queried.

  “Actually, Lickshill’s body is at the funeral home next door, waiting to be embalmed.”

  “Maybe we can look at it and garner more insight into what happened.”

  “Let’s go, I know the Funeral Director; he helps the Medical Examiner do autopsies,” Sanguini said, stepping out of the Cadillac.

  ~ ~ ~

  The three walked toward the funeral home and up the front walkway. Sanguini knocked on the entrance door. A woman cracked the door open and pointed to the back door. At the back door, a balding mid-fifties man, wearing a bloodstained smock and rubber gloves greeted them.

  “We’re here to ask a few questions about Lickshill. Do you mind?”

  “Hey Bob, come on in. I was wondering when you were coming to see Lickshill. I have another hour with an accident victim before I do more work on him. You can examine him if you wish. I’ll try to answer your questions, but I’ve got to get this other guy sewed together.”

  “No problem. This is Katie Kottle and Jeb Porter from the Detroit Times. We just returned from a harrowing experience in the woods out on Cook Road. I’ll tell you later. We’d like a quick look, that’s all,” Sanguini said.

  “You ready for this?” Porter whispered into Kottle’s ear.

  “I spent two weeks at the Wayne County morgue, so I can’t imagine this being any worse. Besides, I need the experience.” Kottle glanced at her feet, waiting for them to react.