Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  “Yeah, what the hell, let’s pan fry a couple steaks smothered in onions. Damn, I can taste it already. He gave me these pills to replace the other ones. They’re diuretic. I might have too much fluid pressure in my inner ear. Mensair or Menswear Disease, he called it.”

  “Menswear Disease? Are your pants too tight? I’ve heard of Meniere’s Disease.”

  “Sounds right. Whoa, hold on to me I’m dizzy.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “When should I pick you up?” Sissy asked out the car window, as George stepped onto the entrance sidewalk to the HMM Design Company building.

  “No need. I’ll have Jack or Dillon take me home, probably around six o’clock. Have those deer steaks thawed and ready to go. I have extra bookwork to finish after dinner.

  A plain black car with government license plates sat next to the curb.

  Shit, Internal Revenue, Montagno thought, stumbling slightly in the revolving entrance door. Now I’m in trouble.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jack Hermanski shook his head as a balding man in an aging blue suit flipped through pages of a handheld report. Dillon Lacarter stood next to him.

  “Are you sure it’s the same?” Jack asked.

  “One hundred percent positive the blood anti-bodies are the same as Gordon Lickshill’s.”

  “Ah...what’s going on? Anything I need to be part of?” Montagno said, hesitating to join in the discussion.

  “Did you see the article in the newspaper yesterday about all those strange accidents happening near West Branch?” Hermanski said.

  “Yeah, we already know what happened in one instance...right? We...we...” Montagno said, hesitating to expose the truth in front of the suited stranger.”

  “This is Josh Morris from the Troy Police department; he knows all about the deer and the two men from Port Huron. I told him about us finding the deer and claiming it.”

  “Oh,” Montagno said, shaking hands, “so what’s this about?” Whew, it’s not the state auditor, he thought.

  “We’ve done some tests on the deer blood sample provided by Mr. Hermanski yesterday morning. It’s definitely deer blood, but contains matching anti-bodies of the blood from a Mr. Gordon Lickshill of West Branch, who may have been a victim of foul play. I understand the three of you found a deer in the woods off Cook Road near West Branch, apparently, in a field connected to Lickshill’s property.”

  “You don’t think the two guys in Port Huron got into an argument with Lickshill and possibly killed him, do you? Wasn’t Lickshill impaled by blunt objects similar to deer antlers? Maybe the deer, our buck, killed Lickshill. Is that possible? I’m confused as to how the deer’s blood got mixed with Lickshill’s DNA, though,” Lacarter said.

  “Those are all good questions,” Morris said, as he scribbled notes in his folder.

  “Do we need to do anything? I put the deer carcass in the trash, and as you know from the report, the deer head was carried away by a couple of dogs,” Hermanski said.

  “Dogs? Deer head? I don’t have anything else in my report except a description of a possible break-in and some blood from an unknown source, which we know now, is definitely deer blood. It’s best you tell me the whole story of what happened this weekend.”

  Hermanski explained the two incidents with his dog, the deer head and the two unfamiliar dogs. Montagno explained his encounter with several dogs carrying something through his yard, too.

  “Hmm,” Morris murmured. “That doesn’t make any sense. I might be back to ask a few more questions, or maybe the State Police will call. This is clearly out of my jurisdiction.” He finished writing notes, gave the three men a firm handshake and showed himself to the door.

  “I’m getting less and less enthused about eating deer meat. What if our deer killed Lickshill, and his blood antibodies are in the deer’s blood and the meat? God, I want to puke,” Lacarter said.

  “Antibodies aren’t the same as the person’s DNA. Jesus, let’s not get carried away. I’m having some tonight. By the way, we’re pregnant,” Montagno said, changing the subject.

  “It’s confirmed? George, that’s great! When’s the due date?” Hermanski said.

  “Yippee, I’m going to be an uncle," Lacarter said. "Dillon Montagno—what a great name for a boy.”

  “The baby is due sometime in July. I was thinking Jack Montagno would be more appropriate,” Montagno said, smirking.

  Hermanski feigned an open-jawed laugh. “Brilliant. Suck up to the boss. Makes sense to me. Now let’s get some work done. The auditor should be here later today.”

  The three men retreated into a conference room and closed the door.

  Chapter 17

  Katie Kottle rushed her normal Monday routine. Porter had called late Sunday and explained they were to meet with Dingman at 7:30 AM sharp, and plan to work late.

  A thought stream of past days’ events flowed through her head. She must maintain a reporter’s edge to retain facts: who, what, where, why and how. Dingman will be watching and testing her constantly. The two Port Huron men, who were they? She struggled to remember: Harry Lopez and John Greppleton. Ah...now who was the West Branch mortician? She pulled on her blue twill suit jacket, adjusted her red-flowered neck scarf, brushed lint from her proper knee-length skirt, grabbed her smart-looking laptop storage bag and headed toward the door.

  Sukine, Surkind...argh, she thought. What’s his name? She stopped, opened her bag and browsed her notes. Come on, girl, Dingman’s going to have you for lunch.

  “Sulkin, Mort Sulkin,” she blurted and stuffed her notes back into the bag. Now describe the three men in detail. “Oops, sorry people, didn’t mean to wake anyone,” she said, as the apartment door slammed behind her.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Kaaatie,” her mother shouted, standing on the front sidewalk of their small, split-level brick home in Warren, Michigan. “Come home, dinner’s ready. I baked pizza.”

  “I have to go, my mother is calling,” Katie said to the stranger who stopped his car alongside her and asked directions to a local grocery store. She could hear her mother calling from around the street corner.

  “You must be Katie; you’re very pretty. How old are you?” the man asked.

  The question surprised her. “I’m eight...eight years old,” she said, staring at the stranger. She instinctively perched her right leg on the bike pedal, ready to speed away.

  “Oh, was your birthday this month? I told your mother to tell me, and I would buy you a present. She said you like Barbie Dolls.” The man moved from the driver’s seat to the passenger window as he talked. Katie leaned closer to the window to listen.

  “Who are you? My birthday was last week.” Her mother told her to be wary of strangers, but this man knew about her birthday and her favorite plaything: Barbie Dolls.”

  “I’m your mother’s friend. We went to school together. I sell toys to stores. I have a Ken Doll in the back seat. Want to see it?”

  Ken, she thought. Wow, Mom wouldn’t let me have a Ken doll.

  “I have to go, it’s getting late,” she said.

  “Oh, you don’t like Ken? How about Miss Lindsey; do you have Miss Lindsey?”

  Miss Lindsey? Oh boy, Miss Lindsey, she thought. She would scoop Maryanne who lived next door. Maryanne had every Barbie Doll ever made: a complete collection. However, she didn’t have Miss Lindsey; it just came out.

  “No...really? You got Miss Lindsey? Can I see her?”

  “Well, I suppose you better get going. Your mother’s waiting,” the stranger said, backing away from the window.

  No, no, wait, she thought. “Please, let me look. I’ll be careful not to get your car dirty.”

  “Okay, you can step inside and look, but make it quick, I have to go soon,” he said, opening the back door from the inside.

  Katie smiled as she dropped her bike to the curb, adjusted her red shorts and tank top. She stood anxiously waiting by the open car door as the man stretched over the front seat and rummaged through several boxes on t
he rear seat.

  “Here it is. I don’t want anyone else to see this. It will be our secret. Come inside and close the car door.”

  Katie noticed the man had severe calluses on his hands. They were very dirty. The car smelled bad. The man’s blue jacket didn’t fit right; arm muscles bulged through the coat sleeves. His black hair laid slicked flat against his head, ringed with indented cap marks, an uneven beard surrounded his dark-tan face. Fierce blue eyes stared at her as he talked.

  “Kaaatie, where are you?” her mother shouted, rounding the street corner, now seeing the car.

  “My mother is calling me. Let’s show her,” Katie said to the man. She rolled the car window down.

  “No, you little bitch. You’re mine now,” the man said, grabbing her, as he leaned over the front seat. He held on to her left forearm with his right hand and started the car.

  Poke and jab, Katie thought, remembering what her dad told her. Poke and jab.

  “Oh, good heavens, he’s got my little girl. Help, he’s kidnapped my baby!” her mother said, waving her hands, frantically running toward the vehicle speeding away.

  “Ugh...son of a bitch,” the man said as a small hand, fingers rigid, thrust into his face and eyes. “I can’t see.” The car swerved to the curb. Katie lunged toward the open window, throwing her body out to the ground.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” Katie yelled, her eyes filled with tears. Both knees were scrapped and bloody. Her mother grabbed Katie by the waist and held her as the car sped down the street. She struggled to see the license plate.

  Her mother let go and ran after the car, yelling to stop. Katie could not understand why; she was okay...safe now.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Look out,” Kottle shouted, “you’re in my lane!” She swerved her Honda gently left, avoiding a collision as she neared the Jefferson exit off I-75 heading into Detroit.

  The attempted abduction flashed up from her subconscious during stressful moments. She patted her right knee, feeling a slight indentation left by a scar 17 years earlier. Although, the man was never identified, the police said she had a near photographic ability to retain facts. She would make a good police investigator someday, or maybe a lawyer, her dad would say. But, a reporter, no way, until she worked on the Michigan State University newspaper in college as part of an experiential class assignment. It hooked her into pursuing a journalism career; she loved working with facts and talking to diverse people. Today, she doubted that decision.

  ~ ~ ~

  “About time,” Dingman said, as Kottle walked into the briefing room. He stood by a whiteboard, sticking small yellow notes to it and drawing lines connecting them. On another sheet of poster-size paper, he placed names of people involved. Porter sat at the long wooden conference table nearby with his notes and laptop open.

  “I’m right on time, when did you guys start?” she asked, tapping her watch.

  “Around six-thirty,” Porter said, winking and putting a finger to his mouth.

  “Oh,” she murmured, remembering what Pillbock once advised her: Get there earlier than the agreed time to keep others off guard and gain control. She sat at the table across from Porter, removed her notes from her laptop bag and fumbled to catch up.

  “Okay, we’ve identified these people so far: Harry Lopez and John Greppleton are hunters from Port Huron. Greppleton killed a deer with a bow and arrow. Lopez had an asthma attack due to the excitement of a doe attacking him, and Greppleton carried him out of the woods and transported him to a local hospital. From there he went to a Port Huron hospital, became delirious and spouted secrets of the universe, challenging Einstein’s ideas. Probably a reaction to a drug he was taking for post-Iraq-war trauma, doctor said. Then there’s Lickshill.”

  “Do you have the guy who apparently recovered the buck from the woods? His name is Jack Hermanski,” Kottle said, smiling.

  “Got it. Actually, there were three men in the woods: Jack Hermanski, George Montagno and Dillon Lacarter,” Porter said.

  “Oh, must have missed that,” Kottle said. Argh, what am I saying, she stressed.

  Dingman glanced at her and shook his head.

  “I called Hermanski late yesterday, and he gave me the other two names. He said he’s encountered several bizarre events since he brought the deer home, and—”

  “And, you and Kottle are going to talk to him this afternoon, right?” Dingman said.

  “Ah...yeah,” Porter agreed.

  “Good ‘nough. Lickshill, what do we know?”

  “He was a retired lumberjack, fifty years old, had a wife and married daughter. A doe carried his one-year-old grandson into the woods. He was killed by chest perforations from a series of stabbings by a blunt object: could be antlers, eight points total,” Porter said.

  “He wore brown work shoes, blue-cotton pants, a faded-blue work shirt, a brown jacket and a cap with LMA embroidered on it. A week-old white beard covered his face and he had thinning black and white hair. His sunken eyes were bloodshot,” Kottle said.

  “Weight and height?” Dingman asked.

  “I’d say around two hundred and fifty pounds, six feet.” Porter said.

  “His hand...was...so cold...and...” Kottle mumbled.

  “Excuse me, you held his hand?” Dingman said.

  “He grabbed me...it was a reflex, and...” Kottle stood up to demonstrate.

  “I told you about that, remember?” Porter said to Dingman.

  Dingman stared at Kottle, watching her reaction. “And?”

  “And?” She looked puzzled.

  “And...come on...there’s more.”

  “And his penis was missing, apparently bit off by some animal,” Porter said, deflecting the discussion away from Kottle.

  “And...his hand was rough and callused...rough and callused.” Kottle mumbled. Her skin paled. She became rigid. Blood seeped from her left nostril.

  “Hey, you okay?” Porter said, standing to offer help.

  “I’m okay, it’s just a nose bleed,” Kottle said, pinching her nose and sitting back into a chair.

  “I suspect you’re not up to the challenge of this assignment, my dear,” Dingman said, offering her a box of facial tissues.

  “Another flashback?” Porter said.

  “Yes...you don’t think...Lickshill...no, can’t be,” Kottle said, dabbing blood with a tissue.

  “Don’t go there,” Porter whispered. He nodded sideways toward Dingman.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, pushing Porter away. Kottle stood, held her noise and walked out of the briefing room toward the bathroom.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Is she okay? Something you want to tell me?” Dingman said, patiently waiting ten minutes for her return.

  “Having a dead man grab you is probably not something you want to remember,” Porter said.

  “I just hope she’s going to help and not hurt our progress. We cannot afford to indulge her sensitivity to death. Know what I mean?”

  “It won’t be a problem. I’ll talk to her.”

  Dingman continued to write on the board as another ten minutes passed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kottle returned and sat down as if nothing happened.

  “Do we need to describe the incident with the doe and the little girl? I have a couple of pages of related notes. Plus, there was a message drawn in the dirt next to Lickshill’s body: H-E-W-M-A-N.”

  “Hewman?” Dingman said. “So, the man apparently had enemies. Who would say that to another human being, unless...” He backed up to the table making a dramatic gesture.

  “Unless a non-human being scratched it into the dirt,” Porter said, grinning.

  “Right. Hmm.”

  “He’s a retired lumberjack. It probably means axe-swinging man. Just a play on words,” Kottle said. “Or maybe a general statement like kill all men.”

  “I get it,” Dingman said. “It’s a play on words. Fascinating.”

  Kottle looked puzzled.

  “We talked about it before you got h
ere,” Porter said.

  “Oh,” Kottle said. Jackass, she thought. “Did you also discuss the fact that the doe hovering over the little girl in the woods scratched ‘I4I’ in the dirt, and Lopez has it on his license plate?”

  “Whoa, that is interesting. Tell me more,” Dingman said, showing sudden interest.

  The meeting continued as the three described people, places, timing and remarkable events until all facts were categorized and organized into a historical storyboard.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Well, look at this,” Pillbock said, “three reporters actually working together and getting something done. He entered the room from his office.

  “Good morning, sir,” Kottle said. Porter and Dingman nodded.

  Pillbock walked to the entrance and shouted into the newsroom. “Murphy, Reilly, Justine and Morley, front and center. Look and learn!”

  Four men shuffled away from their desks, each carrying notebooks, and briskly walked toward the conference room.

  “Gentlemen, this is how it’s done. Cooperation and perspiration equal communication. Write it down. Dingman, tell them what you’re doing, why you’re doing it, and what you hope to achieve. Okay, people, get to work.” Pillbock retreated into his office as the four straight-faced men sat at the long table waiting for more words of wisdom.

  Shit, Dingman thought, why me? Another waste of time.

  Chapter 18

  A dark-blue hybrid Honda sedan pulled up the driveway near the building entrance.

  “Are you ready for this?” Hermanski said.

  “It’s a man and a woman,” Montagno said. “I thought it would be one person. They’re young, right out of grad school I’ll bet.”

  “All this new accounting bullshit is creating an enormous demand for MBAs. Apparently, no hands-on experience is required,” Lacarter said, shaking his head.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Hi, I’m Jeb Porter, this is Katie Kottle. We—“

  “We’re expecting you. Your boss called late Friday and said you’d be here this afternoon,” Hermanski explained.