by C. E. Nelson
Don picked up a stick and stirred the cold ash in the fire while Dave combed the area looking for any kind of clue. From behind a tree Dave lifted a towel from a branch and walked back to Don holding it out to him. “This towel is from Big Pine. I’m guessing that’s blood.” There was a Big Pine label sewn into the towel and a dark stain ran through the middle.
“And I’m guessing this is what’s left of one of the wallets from the Big Pine victims,” added Don as he held a piece of burned leather.
Chapter Thirty-seven
By the time the Trask brothers reached Station 30 it was nearly one. The conference room was crowded, extra chairs added for the Two Harbors deputies and the BCA personnel. There were four agents from the Duluth BCA office in the room – Mike Simmons, Dale Peterson, Brad Michaels, and Julie Bouche. Bouche and Simmons sat at the end of the conference table, Peterson and Michaels leaned against the wall behind them. The county deputies had all managed to secure seats around the table in what the Trasks guessed was a show of territorial rights. Dave was not surprised to see Danny Meline occupied the seat next to Bouche, an attractive redhead, who appeared to be looking for an escape route.
Don leaned on the frame of the large open doorway as Dave entered the room and moved to the opposite end of the table from where the BCA agents were situated, leaning on the back of the only remaining empty chair.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” began Dave. “For those of you that don’t know me, I am Lake County Sheriff Dave Trask and yes, I am a distant relative of Special Agent Don Trask who is guarding the door to make sure no one makes a run for it.” There were a few snickers at the comment and it seemed to relive a little of the evident tension between the members of the agencies represented. “Because I don’t know what you all know or don’t know, I am going to spend a few minutes bringing you up-to-date on our situation. Just so you know before I get into details, we are no longer conducting a murder investigation, we are now involved in a manhunt. We are confident we know who our killer is.”
Dave went over the murders – the timing and details, as they knew them, as well as everything else that he felt was relevant. He had called ahead and asked Bauman to have a large map made of the area, marking each of the camps where the murders had been committed, and then make smaller versions for those in the meeting. Dave was happy to see the large map, held with magnets to the grease board behind him, had also been marked with lake names as well as any camps on those lakes. Station 30 was on the northeast side of the map. He instructed Bauman to pass out the maps and waited until he had done so until he began. “We think that Bigeagle is still in the area. We believe that he is unstable and is on a mission to take back the land for his people.”
With questions from the group the meeting lasted nearly two hours and Dave was becoming anxious. It was important that everyone was on the same page but he kept looking out the window to his right, knowing precious time was slipping away, and along with it, possibly Bigeagle. Dave’s deputies reported what they had learned from their morning work as well as from the interviews with the guests and staff at Allens Lodge, which wasn’t much. Someone asked about bringing in canine teams and Don informed them that that would happen as soon as they had a credible lead that they were close.
Don gave the group a description of Bigeagle from their sighting as well as from descriptions given by Brad Owens and John Bigeagle. “Bigeagle is injured. I don’t know how bad, but, as you heard, it has not driven him to seek help at any of the medical facilities in the area. Still, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t gone to someone he knows for help or even breaking in somewhere to get medical supplies or other supplies. We don’t doubt he will kill to get whatever he wants.” Unfortunately, they all knew that with the number of vacant seasonal cabins in the area it would be easy for Bigeagle to take up residence without being noticed.
Dave and Don had talked on the way to the meeting about who would do what. Two float planes from Johnson’s Fly-in service on Traverse Lake, fourteen miles to the east, had been put at their service. It was decided that one of the Station 30 deputies as well as one of the BCA agents would go in each. The Station 30 deputy was familiar with the area while the BCA agent would add an extra set of eyes. They would split a thirty square mile area around the boulder field where Bigeagle had last been seen. They were to call in any sightings of people by themselves on land or water that looked as if they fit the description of Bigeagle, as well as any smoke from fires, or boats or canoes where they could see no one. Clark would fly with Simmons, Meline with Peterson.
Carlson and Bouche would go back to Half Moon to learn everything there was to know about Bigeagle. Friends, relatives – anything that might give them some indication of where he might go. Michaels and Linners were to contact lake property owners in the area to find out when was the last time they had been at their lake home and then visit as many of those properties as possible as well as properties listed as being vacant and owned by the county. The vacant properties were to be given the highest priority.
Bauman could not be on field duty so he was to stay at Station 30 and serve as the coordinator of the manhunt. All activity was to be reported to him for dissemination to the group. Each officer was given a handheld radio. “Cell service can be spotty up here at best,” said Dave. “Use your phones as best you can to aid your search but if something comes up that the group needs to know about, you need to use your radios and contact Kyle.” He told the group that he and his brother would visit Bigeagle’s parents and then head out to Ghost Bay, the second possible sight John Bigeagle had mentioned.
The Trasks watched the group pair up as they filed out of the building and then made their way to the coffee machine in the kitchen. Dave poured two and handed one to his brother. “You think this will work?”
“You mean will it work putting these people with people they have never worked with or will it work and we’ll catch Bigeagle?”
Dave looked in his coffee cup for an answer. “I don’t know, both I guess.”
“Jesus Dave, you can’t second guess this. We both agreed this was the best we could do with what we have. I’ve got my ass on the line for this now as much as you do.”
Dave looked at his brother and now felt remorse for dragging him into this, putting his career in jeopardy. If this all went south he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself. He put his cup down on the counter, grabbing the towel they had found on the island that was in a plastic bag there. “I’m going to have Kyle get someone to take this to the lab in Two Harbors. I think you and I better go visit Bobby’s parents.”
“Don’t you think we should run to Ghost Bay to see if we can find him first?”
“We can do that after. Based on his last camp, I’m sure he has that one set up so he can see us coming, and it’s all government land around Ghost Bay. We’d need dogs to track him inland. Let’s see if his parents can tell us anything useful first.”
Like many in the area, the Bigeagles lived just off Highway Two, about twenty miles north of Two Harbors. Dave pulled into the gravel drive behind a blue Chevy pickup. There was a red swing set in the front yard as well as an old fishing boat on a trailer that had become a permanent resident based on how high the grass was around it. Stakes and ropes held up one skinny young birch near the swing set.
The house was a rambler with cedar siding that had been stained a dark brown. A stray shingle lay on the ground next to a gravel walk that led from the driveway to two concrete steps up to the front door. With the curling shingles Dave guessed the roof had been on its last legs for some time. The front door was stained brown like the house, the veneer cracked and peeling.
Dave knocked as there was no bell. Soon a face appeared at the lone small square window in the door and Dave held up his identification. A woman who Dave guessed was close to two hundred pounds, five and half feet tall, black hair in a bun, and easily over forty, opened the door, a small child clutching her left leg from behind. She was barefoo
t and wore a loose flowered green top and white shorts. She held a drink with ice in her pudgy hand making Dave thirsty.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m sheriff Trask and this is Agent Don Trask from the BCA. Are you Mrs. Bigeagle?”
The woman confirmed that she was and invited the men in. They were happy to feel the air conditioning as they were led down a short hall of worn tan linoleum to the living room. Toys littered the floor that was covered in green and brown shag that Dave was sure had not been made since the seventies. Mrs. Bigeagle sat in a green corduroy lounge chair with torn upholstery and her daughter climbed up on her lap. The brothers looked at the brown flowered sofa with cigarette burned arms to their right that held an assortment of clothes, some folded – some not, and decided to stand.
“Mrs. Bigeagle, we’d like to speak to Bobby. Would you know where he is?”
A hand went to her mouth as if she was physically stopping words from leaving her mouth.
“Do you know where he is?’ repeated Dave.
“This is about them killings isn’t it? You think he killed those men!” she responded as her hand moved to her forehead.
“We would just like to ask him a few questions.”
Mrs. Bigeagle swept a loose strand of graying hair from her forehead. “Bobby’s a good boy. You can’t think he done this.”
“Mrs. Bigeagle, when was the last time you saw your son?” asked Don.
The woman looked at the child that had snuggled against her. “I ain’t seen him since early summer. His father got him a guiding job and then he left.”
“OK,” replied Don. “Was he living here before that?”
“He stayed here for a few months but he and my husband didn’t really get along so he left.”
“And why didn’t they get along Mrs. Bigeagle?”
“Bobby was always looking for money and never could hold a job. My husband caught him going through my purse and he didn’t like him around the baby.”
There was more there that Don wanted to hear but he pressed on. “And where has he been living since then?”
She looked at Don and shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know. He could be guiding, he’s a good guide, but that is all I know. He hasn’t even called since Jay kicked him out.”
“Jay is your husband?” asked Dave.
“Yes,” she replied as her child climbed down from her lap and began to play with the toys on the floor, keeping an untrusting eye on the brothers.
“And where is he?”
“What do you want to talk to him for?”
“Just a few questions mam.”
She produced a tissue from the pocket of her shorts and wiped her nose. “He works in Two Harbors. He should be home soon.”
“Thank you mam. Would you mind if we looked at the room where Bobby stayed when he was here?” asked Don.
She looked at him with distrust and Don was sure she was going to refuse when she pushed herself up from her chair and waddled down the hall to the left. The brothers followed her as she opened the second door on the left and went in. They were surprised at what they saw.
The room was completely different than the rest of the house. Although the bed, chair and dresser inside weren’t new, they were neat and well cared for. The bed was made army-style and books were side-by-side on a shelf above the headboard. On top of the dresser was the skin of a muskrat with a single silver cross standing in the middle. A quick look showed the dresser and closet to be completely empty; the only thing on the walls was another small cross next to the door.
“The room is very neat,” commented Dave.
“Bobby always liked things to be neat,” Mrs. Bigeagle replied as she leaned over to pick up her child who had just entered the room. “He didn’t like nobody in his room.”
Dave and Don looked at each other and knew they should get a warrant to thoroughly search the room. Dave told her that they would wait outside to talk to her husband.
As the brothers leaned against their vehicle, an older model Toyota Corolla slowed and pulled to a stop in front of the yard. A large man with a red-checked bandanna wrapped around hair cut close to his head wiggled his way out. His dark blue t-shirt was stained with sweat in front and his jeans were worn. His eyes were dark and his skin rough and wrinkled. As he approached the men could see layers of skin below his chin, his belly pushing over his belt, and a wide stance with powerful looking arms reminding them of a sumo wrestler.
“Who are you?” Jay Bigeagle demanded.
Dave and Don both held up their ID’s. “I’m sheriff Trask and this is my brother Don. He works for the BCA. We’d like to ask you a few questions Mr. Bigeagle.”
“You come here to kill Bobby like you killed Billy Whitehead? Well you can forget it. You ain’t gonna find Bobby here!” he responded spitting his words out in anger.
“Do you know where Bobby might be?”
“I don’t know nothing!” he shouted at them and turned toward the house.
“Mr. Bigeagle,” said Don, “Do you know that you can be arrested for withholding information?”
Bigeagle stopped and turned back toward the men. “You can’t arrest me for not telling you what I don’t know. Now get off my property!”
Chapter Thirty-eight
The Sentry had spent the day in Ghost Bay waiting. He had slept there under the lean-to on the blanket he kept stored in a black plastic garbage bag that had been shoved in a crevice he covered with rock not far from the site. His sleep was fitful, waking in pain each time he rolled on his shoulder. The cloth he had wrapped over his wound stuck to it as he peeled it away in the morning, the area oozing and milky-colored, speckles of red throughout. He rinsed the wound with water he kept stored with his bedding and wrapped it again, his entire arm and shoulder now tender.
He had no appetite when he woke but ate a breakfast of a granola bar and water. The Sentry felt weak but forced himself to walk along the ridge, listening for any sound of a boat or plane bringing men searching for him. The voices in his head were quiet now, which he took as a sign that he was not in any immediate danger, but he still felt the need to keep alert. As noon approached he felt warm and tired. He had not put away his blanket and laid down on his back for a nap. The day was beginning to heat up but he now felt a chill and covered himself.
The Sentry woke nearly four hours later, sweating from the blanket that was still over him. He tossed the blanket to the side as he sat up, immediately alert to any sound or movement, but there was none. His fever had broken and the wrap on his wound felt hard and dry. It was healing. His appetite had also returned. He made his way to his boat on the shore, considered taking it out of the bay to catch a bass or larger pike, but then decided it would be too risky, and ended up casting from shore for a fish.
The small pike that inhabited the bay in the summer had little meat on them but were eager to bite his spinnerbait, and he soon had enough for a meal. He moved down the shore and cleaned the fish on a flat rock. He knew if he left the carcasses in the shallow water by the shore they would soon be devoured by eagles and gulls, but he did not want to chance that someone would see the circling birds, and so buried them in the sand. The Sentry rinsed the small filets in the lake and then carried them up the hill to his campsite where he salted them, cut them in chunks, and ate them raw.
The Sentry had been at his location for nearly a day and was beginning to feel anxious. Although he had prayed several times, he had heard no voices telling him what to do. He knew this meant he should wait for some sign but he felt as if time was passing quickly, time that his pursuers would be using to close in on him.
After pacing across the ridge into the late afternoon, he decided he would not wait any longer for his ancestors to speak to him, and was putting his blanket back in the crevice when he heard the sound of an approaching plane. Floatplanes were fairly common in the area but he could tell this one was traveling at a slower rate than he was accustomed to hearing
. He moved slightly up the slope to the west of his lean-to and stood under the branch of a large Norway there. It wasn’t long and the plane came into view, zigzagging across the lake. They were looking for him.
He watched as it moved closer to his location but he was not concerned that he or his boat would be seen, he had made sure there would be nothing to show his presence to anyone flying by, and it would be very difficult for anyone coming by water to detect him. Still, he watched the plane as it worked from north to south, nearly flying directly over him, until it disappeared. The Sentry returned to his lean-to and sat cross-legged praying to his ancestors, thanking them first for keeping him safe and then asking for guidance.
The brothers took the sheriff boat to Ghost Bay. Ghost Bay was actually a small lake of its own, nearly five hundred acres, connected to Basswood by a narrow channel lined with sheer granite cliffs, barely wide enough for a single boat to pass. The entire shoreline was jagged rock with dense pine and poplar behind masking a steep rise all around. The bay was shallow, known for its pike fishing in early spring.
The sun was already approaching the treetops as Dave cut the main motor and used the trolling motor on the bow to ease the boat through the opening into the bay. The water surface was calm and they could see a few small pike scatter to get out of their way.
“What do we look for here?” asked Don. “More deer?”
“I think this will be easier,” replied Dave. “The only one who would want to get out on the shore of Ghost Bay would either be someone like you who has a problem with peeing in the boat, or someone who has a camp close by. The flies and bugs will eat you alive here and you’d likely turn your ankle or break your leg just getting out of a boat. Besides, there are no fish worth chasing in here in the summer and everyone knows it.”
“So, how does that make it easier?” asked Don as he scanned the shoreline.
“The bottom of the bay is muddy and shallow right up to the shore. On a calm day like this we should be able to see where a boat approached shore by the marks on the bottom.”