Shining patrols back in the 1970s had been sure things, shining and shooting deer at night amounting to the state’s rural sport of choice. Now, not so much. Violators these days were wiser, at least some of them were. The smart ones did their damage over lighted bait piles behind locked gates, killing silently with crossbows. The Natural Resource Commission had opened the way for increased crossbow use, which had immediately benefitted violators. It had only made law enforcement’s job more difficult—exactly what the NRC had been warned about when its members made the decision. Sometimes it seemed like political appointees made decisions solely to interfere with law enforcement. They’d never admit to that, but there were times when no other reasonable read on their actions was possible.
Bottom line? Experienced jacklighters weren’t willing to run the risks against Department of Natural Resources (DNR) patrols and overhead aircraft and had gone underground. Only the inexperienced and stupid took such risks now. The old days and old ways had been dangerous. But they also had been fun. He hated to see such times end.
“Gradysaurus,” Friday sometimes called him, and it was too true to take umbrage.
He had himself in position at the back end of a camp property east of Skandia. Great spot, top of a nice hill looking at a north and east panorama, where he knew he’d see the faintest speck of light. The camp belonged to a U of M biology professor who encouraged him to use it whenever he wanted, including when she and her family were present, which was rarely during deer-whacking season. “Just ease on past the house and do your thing,” she’d told him. One fall night, she’d brought him freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. He could still smell them in his memory.
His cell phone rang. The display said “Private.” He didn’t punch in the code to unblock the caller, knowing it was one of his partners.
The caller was CO Josh Spear, a fifteen-year veteran of the DNR who had just transferred up from Branch County. “Grady?”
“Yo.”
“Josh here. You know that deer case you’re working?”
“What about it?”
“I have another one, and I think it might be part of your deal. My daughter, Annakate, said today at lunch she knows some boys who drive a new white Chevy pickup . . . and an old black truck.”
Seriously? It breaks like this? Annakate Spear was a junior at Negaunee High School, a scholar in the making and a social butterfly. “Friends of hers?”
“No, but she knows of them. The boy she actually knows is seventeen and a dropout. The others are older. The oldest is twenty-two, the others nineteen or twenty. Probably nothing to this, but I thought you should know.”
“Thanks.”
“If this connects, Deana and I don’t want her name in the case, Grady.
Done, she was just reborn as Confidential Informant Number One.” Not being able to name an informant complicated an officer’s work and changed the ground rules for obtaining search warrants to gather evidence.
“Deana and I thank you.”
“No problem. Where’s the deer, Josh?”
“County Road Four Sixty Two, near Gordon. I’m there now.”
“Buck?”
“Hard to tell,” Spear said jokingly.
Weird response. “I’m making my way toward you.
Be right here. Deana made a tub of fried chicken.”
• • •
The deer’s skull had been smashed and split by a violent blow, the small antlers hanging askew, the rest of the animal untouched.
“Bit short of Boone and Crockett,” Spear joked after they looked at the deer and got into his truck. “Chicken?”
The aroma overwhelmed. Service took a plump drumstick. Deer season had a host of victims—regular meals for COs, not to mention sex lives, or just having a glass of beer or wine.
“This one fit your case?” Spear asked with a full mouth.
“Don’t know. You mind if I take the head, just in case?”
“Knock yourself out. I’m thinking it was shot today. Critters will be on it before sunrise. Got to admit, they do keep things clean around here.”
“Too bad they don’t eat violets,” Service said. Violets, his word for violators and poachers.
Spear laughed and spit out a bite of chicken, which bounced off the laptop pedestal between the seats.
Eight now? Does this make eight? How many more before we can nail these jerks? An imponderable. I need a break. If those involved are young, there’s always a chance for a break. Four boys, three vehicles, six trimmed bucks, one found with full antlers and a saw nearby, and now this one with the crushed head. Can’t say it all fits, at least not yet. Need more. Got to find the boys named by Annakate, see what pops up on that front.
“What the hell is it about deer antlers that makes some people turn so stupid?” he asked Spear, who shrugged and tore into another chicken leg.
CHAPTER 4
West Ishpeming, Marquette County
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 18
They were at the DNR satellite office, Spear and Service and Simon del Olmo, who had popped up from Iron County on another matter and Service invited him to sit in with them. They had four names now, but none of the boys were living at the addresses on their operator’s licenses, all of which came back to their parents. Typical young people, nomads searching aimlessly, moving on whims and such until they joined the military or headed for North Dakota, where there were jobs aplenty for those willing to work hard.
Grady’s cell phone clicked like a cricket. It was Carrie Ericksen, the secretary-receptionist at the regional office near the prison in Marquette. “Grady, I have a young man on the line who wants to talk to a game warden about a poached bear.”
“Can you transfer him?”
She was back quickly. “I guess he lost his nerve. He says he has to think more about it. I gave him your work cell.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“No.”
“Thanks, Carrie.” He rubbed his head. Break in the making or just a dumb interruption? Bear not deer, separate deal, don’t get your hopes up.
“Bad news?” del Olmo asked.
“Kid wanted to report an illegal bear whacking.”
“Lost his cojones, eh?”
“Apparently. Told Carrie he’s thinking on it, searching his soul, or whatever.”
“Under-thirties have no souls,” Spear said. “Only a long list of entitlements and parents circling a few feet over their heads, choreographing and micromanaging every detail of their lives.”
“You included?” Service said.
“My wife, not me. But her chicken’s damn good, eh?”
“The ledger balances,” Service said, wondering what Friday’s son, Shigun, and his granddaughter, Maridly, would grow up to become. Just as quickly he said. “Back to work, men. Eight deer, probably linked, and two hazy truck descriptions. One miter saw with the prints of one dumbass deputy on it. One sedan, which allegedly carried off the perps. Our deerwhacker apparently knew enough to wear gloves.”
“But not the trained dep,” del Olmo said.
“Some of his training must not have taken,” Service said with a straight face.
Pressing on, “We have four names from Annakate Spear: Gardy Shintner, Josh Cair, Peter Basquell, and Belko Vaunt. As stated, all addresses come back to their parents, or guardians, or whatever, all except Cair, which came back to someone who was either an uncle or a grandfather. The retail sales file shows no DNR licenses ever for any of them and no hunter safety. LEIN shows clean, no wants or warrants, except for Vaunt, who has warrants and pick up and detain orders for both Marquette and Delta Counties. None of the four actually live at home, but we have no idea where they do live. We could make cold calls to daddies and such, but that might spook them if they’re also part of this business. Violating is sometimes a family sport. Right now we don’t know anything conclusive. All we have is a sort of alleged link to two vehicles, maybe three.”
“Do vehicles come back to them?” del Olm
o asked.
Service shook his head. “Loggerheads so far. We’ve got what look like bones, but no connecting tissue. For all we know, these four have no involvement other than vehicle similarities. Spear’s daughter says she’s never heard any rumors about any hunting, but she does say they run with younger girls, as in fourteen, fifteen.”
“That opens the way to some ugly scenarios,” del Olmo remarked.
“But no names for the girls,” Spear threw out. “Annakate never heard any names, just that they had some sort of teenybop groupies, maybe looking to score drugs or booze.”
“Turn it over to the drug team?” del Olmo suggested.
“Not until we know more,” Service said. “We can always pull them in if we need them.” Funny how often drugs led to poaching cases or vice versa.
“Big fat goose egg,” the Cuba-born del Olmo grumbled. “No tenemos nada. We have nothing.”
Service’s phone clucked like a hen about to squeeze off an egg. “Conservation Officer Service.”
The voice gushed. “I’ve had enough, eh. All them deer, then two nights ago those fuckers put a bear head in my truck and took it to a party! A bear! At a party! Enough is enough!”
“Who am I speaking to?” Service asked.
“Ain’t gone say yet,” the voice answered.
“No problem. All what deer?”
“Seven bucks and just for damn horns. What douche bags.”
“Seven bucks and a bear?”
“I think this is all so bogus, but I want to be left out of it, man. I just want to do what’s right.”
If the caller was not a participant, why did he want to be left out? Test him; see if he’s legit. “Tell me about the chase.”
Long pause. “You know about that?”
“We know a lot more than you think. Tell me the story in your own words.”
A sigh this time. “Dude, Froggy Basquell and Belko Vaunt were hunting. Like they always do their shit, at night. This time they knocked down a big-ass buck with huge antlers, huge.”
“Ten-point,” Service told the caller.
“You know that?”
“I have the deer. Are you counting that among the seven?”
“No, dude, that makes eight,” the voice said nervously.
“The chase?” Service said.
“Yah. They like looked for the deer, eh, but they couldn’t find it. They went back to the car for a hit and a beer, and suddenly there were headlights behind them and Vaunt like split. Pete got left behind, so he run his ass up into the woods and kept goin’.”
“Pete?”
“We call him Froggy.”
“One of them dropped something.”
“Man, the saw. They are so pissed about that. The next deer they shot they had to use an ax and they fucked it up. A car came along and they had to get the fuck out of Dodge and leave the horns behind.”
“When was this?”
“Monday after dark.”
“East county?”
Silence again. “If you know it all, man, you don’t need me.”
Kid’s wavering, acting hinky. “Calm down. We know a lot, not everything. You’re helping us. You’re telling me there are eight deer and a bear?”
“Dude, only that I know of. There could be more. They are two crazy fuckers, sayin’.”
“Did you actually see them shoot deer?”
“Yes, six of the deer, but not the bear, man. That was sketch; the dudes are like way off the hook.”
The conversation had morphed inexplicably from near-English into Martian, which seemed to have the same words but diametrically opposite meanings from the English. “You saw them shoot deer, yes or no?”
“A’ight, I guess, dude.”
“Is that yes or no?”
“Totes. You popo like don’t speak good English?”
“Who did you see shoot deer?”
“Basquell. Vaunt, he just drives, and Pete shoots, like he’s OD on guns man—guns and girly pussy.”
“You’ve seen Basquell shoot?”
“Don’t be so basic. Yah I seen. Fucker is good, could be a Marine sniper. You already got all dis, why you axing me shit?”
“We need a witness to corroborate.”
“What’s that mean, cardboardorate?”
“To verify.”
“Like at court?”
“Not exactly. You just need to tell me what you’ve seen and when, and then we’ll write it up.”
“Like I don’t want to be in this, dude.”
“You’re already in it, and we’ve traced your number and know exactly where you are.” It was a lie, but he hoped it would freeze the caller, sap some of his will. “You know how much we know. How long do you think before we jump all of you and haul you in?”
“Dude, I like ain’t gone lie to you. I . . . have . . . like . . . ain’t . . . done . . . nothing . . . wrong.”
“We need to talk face to face,” Service told the caller.
“No way, dude.”
“Yes, way. We know where you are. I can have a car on you in one minute. We’ve already got two squads in position.”
“I just want do what’s right, dude. That bear, sayin’.”
“Let’s meet.”
“Marquette place with fucked-up roof?”
“No, we’re at the DNR office in West Ish, right on US 41. You come in and we’ll talk and get all this sorted out. You don’t, you might risk going down for all of it. It’s your call.” Another sigh. “Take me half a six-oh, dude.”
“Half hour?”
“Like dat, bra.”
Service looked at his fellow COs. “Guy claims to be inside the crew, here in thirty.”
“If he shows,” Spear said.
“He’ll show,” Service said.
CHAPTER 5
West Ishpeming
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 18
Thirty minutes turned into two and a half hours. Spear and del Olmo both moved on to other tasks, but Grady Service waited and smoked and tried to shut off his imagination. Damn no-smoking bugaboo. Friday’s all over my ass over cigs, but geez, I’ve spent a life with them and it’s deer season for cripes sake. Focus yourself, Service. Smoke and think. The kid will come. He wants out, not in. To get himself out of this, he has to come in, an algorithm even a fool can grab onto. Salvation lies here, not there.
A red Toyota pickup pulled up and parked as it got dark. Nobody got out. Service’s phone eventually rang. “Bra, I’m like out front now.”
“Red Toyota?”
“Yah,” said with reluctance.
“I’m coming out.”
“Not in my truck, Bra. In the woods out back, eh. I’ll go first.”
Service made a mental note of the plate as he went by the truck, saw the kid—gaunt and skeletal as a longtime POW, pasty-skinned, evasive eyes that bulged slightly. “You packing?” Service asked and, seeing that the question meant nothing, added, “Are you carrying a firearm or any kind of weapon?”
“Unh, unh, Bra. Not my style, man.
“I need your name. I’m Officer Service.”
“What’s your real name, Bra?”
“Officer. Service. My first name is Officer and my last name is Service.
You fucking with me, Bra?”
“Your name?”
“Clayton,” the boy said after a long pause.
“Something Clayton, or Clayton something?”
“Clayton Tree, Clay Tree, Clay.”
“Good, thanks for that. You got ID, Clay? This is standard, man. I’m not dissing you.”
The boy handed him his driver’s license. “This address current?” Service asked. It showed an address in Palmer, south of Negaunee.
“My ’rents, Bra.”
“Rents?”
“Like parental units, dude?”
“You live with your parents?”
“I do, bra. I got a job, I go to school, tryin’ to get my GED. I don’t got time ta party twenny-four seven like those other dou
che bags.”
“The others don’t live with their parents?”
“No, dude. Got their own pad out off M-35 in Little Lake.”
Clayton Tree’s license put his age at nineteen. “How do you know these people?”
“Me and Shintner, we went to high school. I quit, he finish. Negaunee. Go Miners and all that shit, eh. Basquell and Vaunt from over Champion, I think. Cair’s from Marquette.”
“You know where they live?”
“Yah; they all crash at Cair’s place. His grandfather buy him a truck and the ’parmen’. Truck in old man’s name, ’parmen’ too, but Cair got like deeds and like legalshit?”
“White Silverado, tricked-out?”
The boy nodded. “Okay, Clay, let’s hear all about your role in the chase.
Weren’t no role, man.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Clay. I saw you and another individual headed south from that location that same morning. That’s aiding and abetting flight, and it’s a felony nowadays.”
“Shit.”
“Talk to me. Silence will screw you.”
“Like I tole Vaunt, he panic; run and leave Basquell, but his ride crap out at Crossroads. Froggy he runned up inna woods and call me to fetch his ass. I get him, and then that asshole Vaunt call me for ride, so me and Froggy fetched him from Crossroads.” The Crossroads was a bar south of Marquette, a local landmark for decades.
“Basquell in the woods, Vaunt in the sedan.”
“Rye, how it went down, Bra.”
“That was Froggy—Basquell—with you when I saw you.
Rye.”
“And you guys went and picked up Vaunt.”
“Rye; I thought they gone fight on account Vaunt leave Froggy, see, but they just bump fists like it cool and no fight. Just light up joint and stare stoopid at each other all way out to crash, man.”
“You took them to Cair’s apartment, correct?”
“His crash, rye, dude.”
“Was Cair there alone?”
“No, th’ fo ho allas there; dudes don’t never wear no clothes, man, like reg’lar nymph flecks. You know, like tote thirsties, dude, panting for Froggy’s thang-bang; they all basic cray, sayin’.”
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