Buckular Dystrophy

by Joseph Heywood

  “I got nuttin’ more say ta da likes of youse,” Peaveyhouse said, turning away from the dead deer just as Sergeant Wooten emerged from the darkness.

  “Where were you?” del Olmo asked him.

  “Skin blew, had to fix it.”

  “Where?” Service asked him. “We came in the same road and never saw you.”

  The sergeant mumbled something about timing and walked away.

  “We don’t know nuttin’ ’bout no damn stoled ORVs,” Peaveyhouse said.

  “They were in your possession. The rest is moot.”

  “Oh yeah?” Peaveyhouse said. “Where are dey now? Youse can’t proof nuttin’.”

  “Got witnesses, Dinty. And we saw them on your trailers.”

  The man puffed up. “Won’t stand up.”

  “Of course it will,” Service said calmly. “This isn’t the old days, when guys like you couldn’t get convicted by scared juries. People these days care about the deer herd. When the jury sees photos of those animals in the back of my truck, that will be all she wrote. And when we throw in stolen goods, the fishing, well, they won’t take an hour to nail your asses with guilty on all counts; the judge will take it from there and drop-kick your asses into Loserland with beaucoup fines and time inside.”

  “We ain’t never done nothing before,” Peaveyhouse said.

  “Which means only that you’ve never been caught before,” Service said. “This kind of knucklehead outlaw binge doesn’t happen overnight.” He let that sink in and switched tone and direction. “But this isn’t the end of the world, so just settle down and talk to me. It’s not like you murdered someone.”

  Service turned away from the man, took a step, and turned back. “You didn’t murder anyone right?”

  “Course not,” Peaveyhouse the Elder said. “What the hull is wrong wichyouse?”

  Service knew the confrontation was over. “Tell me about the deer, Dinty. I know they’re yours, and we’ll have ballistic tests that will match up to your rifles. Science will bring truth, so we might as well start with the truth.”

  “What’re youse guys, like CSI?” the man asked.

  “No, that’s TV baloney; we’re real and a lot better at what we can do. So what’s with these deer?”

  “The wolfs donchu know,” Dinty Peaveyhouse said with a heavy voice.

  “Wolves? What about wolves?”

  “Dey killin’ all da deers.”

  “But you killed the deer.”

  “First,” Peaveyhouse argued; “’fore dose wolfs can eat dem.”

  “You killed the deer before the wolves could do it?”

  “Right.”

  “Either way, the deer end up dead,” Service pointed out.

  “Our deers, not for wolfs. God put deers here for taxpayers. Deers is our right. We paid for ’em.”

  Service was almost at a loss for words, but he managed. “You paid God for the deer?”

  Grinda interrupted. “I just ran the three of them through RSS. No licenses for anything this year,” she said, adding, “or any other year.”

  “No licenses, Dinty. How’d you pay for those deer you were just lecturing me on?”

  “I pay damn state an’ poppety taxes. We meant get licenses, just forget. But we still got time. Season not open yet.”

  “The season’s over and done for you and your boys.”

  “Dat ain’t fair.”

  The man was a cretin. “Why the duds on the deer?”

  “Keep wolfs and yotes offen dem.”

  “That’s a myth. Putting human scent on dead prey won’t keep predators away.”

  “Allas works good for us,” Peaveyhouse bragged.

  Service smiled. “So you’ve done this before, despite having no licenses.”

  “We allas got licenses.”

  “The state’s computer says differently.”

  “What youse expect from craputers, eh?” the man said.

  “I can understand how you feel,” Service said, “but it’s never been wrong for me.”

  “Course, your computer set up by state, so it say what you want it say.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Peaveyhouse crossed his arms. “Me and my boys, we ain’t got nuttin’ more to say.”

  “Good,” Service said, fetching his booze bag from the truck. All three men blew over the blood alcohol limit; the old man and the son driving the second truck were to be charged for operating while impaired.

  Grinda radioed the Dickinson County sheriff’s office for assistance with transporting prisoners. Service wrote tickets for fishing and deer violations and gave the Peavey clan’s leader receipts for their trucks, eight rifles from the house, two more rifles that they had found loaded and uncased in the pickups, and the fishing nets they had recovered earlier at the stream.

  “Why we got go jail?” Peaveyhouse demanded to know.

  “How do we love thee, let me count the ways,” Grinda said: “fleeand-elude, assaulting officers, resisting arrest, stolen ORVs, driving while impaired, hunting out of season, possessing illegally killed deer, loaded weapons in vehicles, the whole ball of wax.”

  The ORV thefts would be handled by complaint and warrant and passed into the prosecutor’s hands.

  Peaveyhouse snorted.

  When the sheriff’s deputies took the prisoners south to Iron Mountain, Service, Grinda, and del Olmo followed them. There Service wrote reports on the stolen goods and other events and left the reports and ticket copies in the magistrate’s in-basket. The report would go to the county prosecutor, who would decide what complaint charges to bring, if any. Not all county prosecutors took fish and wildlife charges as seriously as statutes dictated. Service recommended court condemnation of all the equipment they had confiscated, and while he thought it likely the clan wouldn’t get the rifles back, the state was unlikely to keep the trucks, preferring to give the guilty a means of transport to get to work to earn money to pay their fines. That was the twisted logic in such decisions.

  “We’re not starting real early tomorrow,” Service told Allerdyce. “I really need sleep.”

  “I still got plenty pizzazz,” the old poacher announced. “Feel twinny again.”

  Grady Service saw the twinkle in the old man’s eyes, knew it was true, and shook his head. Allerdyce’s constitution bordered on the supernatural.

  It was past midnight and now the fourteenth. Tomorrow morning would be the fifteenth, and at first light the firearms season would officially commence. There would be some early birds trying to whack deer behind camps over lighted bait piles tonight, and he wanted to be out and about as this was going on. A light or shot at night was automatic probable cause during the deer season.

  Sergeant Wooten did not make the trip to Iron Mountain, but Service called him on the cell phone and spoke directly and to the point. “Maybe you did blow a skin,” he said, “and this time I’ll assume you did. But next time your people are in George-mode you’d better be first in the goddamn charge, not the tail-end Charlie.”

  Wooten had no response, and hung up.

  Grinda and del Olmo were married, and del Olmo asked, “You call Novello?”

  “I did. Supposed to see him tonight, sixish at his camp. I think he wants company as much as anything, but he’s given us some great cases over the years, so we can’t just blow him off.”

  “Better you than us,” Grinda said. “Every time I see him, he wants to tell me how to do my job and keeps calling me ‘little girlie.’”

  “Old school. Don’t take it personally,” Service said. “He was a great game warden.”

  “So are you,” she reminded him, “but you’re not like that.”

  “He’s real old school.”

  “Right,” Grinda said. “Jackwagon High, somewhere right of Attila the Hun.”

  “He gives us good cases.”

  “Gives you, not us,” Grinda said, correcting him. “He gives us nothing.”

  “Are we or are we not one organization?”


  “That’s not sufficient justification to have to eat his shit sandwiches,” she carped.

  “I’ll eat the sandwich, get the information, and pass it to you guys.”

  “Oh, joy,” Grinda said. “If you’re going to see him tonight, there’s no sense driving home. Why don’t you and Nature Boy come home, bunk with us tonight, and work over here today?”

  Allerdyce perked up. “Nature Boy?”

  “It’s a term of endearment,” del Olmo told the old poacher.

  Tonight? Service thought and checked his watch. The season was still twelve-plus hours away, and time was already fragmenting and falling apart.

  “Sound more like one dose whatdeycall sharkism t’ings me,” Allerdyce complained.

  As they followed the other trucks, Service asked his passenger, “Does your battery ever run down?”

  “Nope, it’s one them gymnetic t’ings. My famblee tell story my ancestor over in da Englands one day walk t’irty miles, hunt pats, eat big supper, walk t’irty miles home in ’leven hours, do work all day at house, walk sixteen miles to ’nother house for dance, scromp two womans dat night, walk sixteen miles home by seven morning, hunt pats all day at ’is place. T’ree days, two nights dis old boy walk niney-two an’ t’irty mile, hunt pats, eat good, drink, fuck good. T’ink I got dat ol’ gent’s germs.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Ain’t not. I read in book, wrote by some guy name of White. You know best part today?”

  “No, and I don’t want to.” Service glanced at the old man. “Nature Boy.”

  “Ain’t too many pipples with sense of hummus no more,” Limpy lamented.

  CHAPTER 18

  South Iron County

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 14

  Grinda and del Olmo were long gone when Allerdyce made breakfast at noon, and Service and his partner didn’t get under way until 3 p.m. They refueled the truck in Crystal Falls and made their way south to the rec trail, an old east−west railroad bed turned road for hunters, fishermen, snowmobilers, trappers, and ORV riders. Mario wasn’t expecting them until six. Service decided to set up along the rec trail and look for road-hunters.

  The trick was to get up on a vehicle that was rolling slowly with open windows and hope for a porcupine (a vehicle with the tip of a gun barrel protruding from a window). Once you saw this, you had to rush them before they could unload. Unless you caught them with loaded weapons, the heaviest charge you could get on them would be uncased weapon and possession of a firearm inside a vehicle during the five days preceding opening day, referred to as the “quiet time.” Some COs called it the Temptation Removal Rule, or TRR. Veteran road-hunters stayed alert for COs and were practiced in unloading weapons quickly while their trucks were still moving. It was a kind of cat-and-mouse game. The TRR was regularly ignored.

  Service parked his truck so that he could see an intersection of the rec trail as well as another gravel road and a nearby two-track. With three good watch options, he hoped to up his chances for slow rollers.

  Timing couldn’t be better. Wisconsin’s season was shorter than Michigan’s by five days (nine days versus fourteen), started later, and ended earlier. Wisconsin’s season opened on a different date every year, while the Michigan firearm season was always November 15−30. Michigan opened tomorrow, Wisconsin a week from yesterday, meaning for a few days it was predictable that some Wisconsin hunters would be operating both legally and illegally in Michigan, mostly in the four border counties: Gogebic, Iron, Dickinson, and Menominee.

  Limpy said, pointing, “Sonny I t’ink dere’s tan truck park back in dose popples. Be at youse’s eight-clock.”

  “Got it,” Service said. “Stay here and watch the roads.” Service walked back into the aspens and saw the truck. He looked inside: no gun case, no ammo boxes, no bow or crossbow case, just an orange toque on the backseat. What’s this bird up to, scouting? Only one set of tracks leading away from the truck and now beginning to fill with snow. One soul, and he’d been gone from his truck for a while. Service felt the hood; it was cold.

  It would be difficult for him to explain why, but he felt a hunch taking root. There was no glaring reason for it, but the feeling was strong, and he had learned over the years to trust his hunches when they gnawed at him. He was still kicking himself over the little red truck in the 8-1 case. Had he made that stop, the case might have been solved a lot faster. All the most effective COs developed this extra sense of something being wrong without being able to identify how it worked, and the really top COs acquired it early on, or were born with it. He’d had it since boyhood, following his old man around. The old man could cruise past twenty or thirty parked vehicles and not even slow down; suddenly they’d come up on a truck and the old man would jam on his brakes and quietly say, “Oh, boy.” Every single time the old man did this, he found some sort of violation. Grady had continually questioned him on it, but all his father would say was, “Do it long enough and youse’ll get so youse just know.”

  The old man had been right. Service checked his watch. Almost four. He had read the light tables before they got in the patrol truck. Sunset today was 4:16, with shooting light to go for a few more minutes into the ensuing twilight. He decided to sit on this one, wait for the driver to come out. In the meantime, he decided to call Lansing. “Station Twenty, Twenty-Five Fourteen with a file. I’m in south Iron County on the rec trail and out of my vehicle.”

  “Ready to copy, Twenty.”

  “Wisconsin plate,” Service said, and he ticked off the numbers. Minutes later Station Twenty called back. “Your plate comes back to a 2005 tan Chevy pickup, registered to Noble Chern out of Florence, Wisconsin, no wants or warrants. Twenty clear.”

  Chern? Isn’t that the name Novello mentioned? What were the chances? He couldn’t stop grinning. This kind of coincidence almost never panned out, but now it was assuredly worth the wait.

  No sign of the man by 4:30, and the light snow was getting heavier, making it more difficult to see in the failing light. Just as he was thinking this, he picked up some movement in the gloaming and hugged the far side of the truck, using it to hide him. The man was straight-backed. No long gun apparent, no orange either. The guy was decked out head to toe in camo and walked in cautious, mincing steps, using a cane.

  Grady Service didn’t announce himself until the man was reaching for the driver’s door handle. “DNR, conservation officer, how’s it going?”

  “Great,” the man said, his voice betraying no evidence of anything.

  “Slow going in the snow with that game leg, eh?”

  “Affirmative, but I’m used to it. My leg.” He tapped the limb for effect.

  “What’s your name?” Service asked.

  “Noble. Noble Chern, sir.”

  “Is this your truck, Mr. Chern?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s back up in the woods, Noble?”

  “Not a darn thing. I was just doing some scouting.”

  “Good area?”

  “Can be,” the man said. “Got a thirteen-pointer near here last season.”

  “Very cool,” Service said. “We don’t see many like that down here on the grade. Why no orange?”

  “I’m not hunting,” the man said, his voice relaxed and calm. “I’m just scouting, want to see a picture of my deer?”

  “Sure.”

  The man dug out his wallet, wedged a photo out of the plastic folder, and handed it to Service, who said. “Wow, huge rack. Score?” There was a Michigan deer tag wrapped around one of the long tines.

  “One sixty-eight, but I never had it done officially. That’s just the green score, which is enough for me, hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “You get it mounted?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  Service kept counting the points and kept coming up with twelve, not thirteen. Were two deer involved with this guy? “Who does your work?”

  “Always the same place. Jumbo Teller down to Spread Eagle.”<
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  “Don’t know him. Has he got a shop?”

  “He’s good, and pricey. Cost me five bills.”

  Service whistled to make the man think he was awed. As he continued to look at the photo, he said, “I’ll be right back.” He walked away from the truck and said into his radio, “Station Twenty, Twenty-Five Fourteen, can you run RSS on the individual whose file I just ran, Noble Chern?”

  “Affirmative. What are we looking for, sir?”

  “Any deer licenses, oh five through this year.”

  “Stand by one, Twenty-Five Fourteen.”

  Service watched Chern, who stood like a statue, staring at him.

  “Twenty-Five Fourteen. We show no licenses for Mr. Chern for any of those years.”

  “Can you check DNR priors?”

  “Anticipated that, Twenty-Five Fourteen. Negative priors on Noble Chern. Twenty clear.”

  The registration date on the photo said 2007, which was two seasons back. But he had no license for that year, or any other. And he’d said he got the buck last year. Nothing tallied here, and the poofume of violation wafted up from the photo. No licenses and no DNR priors. Service guessed that the guy had never been stopped and had been operating under the radar for years with no regard for the rules or the law.

  Service walked back to the man. “Whose license is on the deer?” he asked, holding up the photo.

  “Mine, sir.”

  Wrong answer. “What were you doing in the woods just now?”

  “I told you I was scouting, sir.”

  “How about we go take a look?”

  “My leg,” the young man said. “I’m not up to another walk so soon. Is there a problem, sir?”

  The kid was clean-cut and shipshape in appearance. He had good posture, and he looked right into Service’s eyes rather than down at his own boots. He was totally unlike the usual twenty-thirty-something, backwardhat, tattoo-drowned, mop-haired dirt-bird he normally encountered in the woods. “The deal, Noble, is that you told me you shot that thirteen-point last year, but your photo says it was 2007, which is two seasons back.”