Strike Dog

by Joseph Heywood

  Service thanked the man, pulled onto highway W-70, and headed west, passing a billboard, black type on a white background: if you’re against ­logging, try wiping with plastic. There was a yellow steel tube gate across the road and behind it, a dusty gray Crown Victoria with two men in it. They let him pull up to the gate, got out, looked at his credentials, and manually swung open the yellow gate. “Command Post’s a couple miles in,” one of the men said. “They’re expecting you.”

  The road was deeply rutted, the area recently logged, with twenty-foot-high stacks of maple and assorted hardwoods piled neatly along the two-track, bark chips scattered all over the road like confetti. Discarded beer and pop cans twinkled with reflected light on the edges of the road. The forest in the area was thick. Along the way he saw two red logging rigs nosed into the tree lines.

  There could be only one reason the FBI would be set up so far out in the boonies: They had a crime on their hands, and no doubt a crime scene nearby as well. An unmarked navy blue panel truck was snugged close to a copse of birch trees where a camouflaged plastic tarp had been strung to create shade. Service parked and walked toward a group of people under the tarp. A crude, hand-painted slab of quarter-inch plywood nailed to a nearby tree read beer, weed, gas, or ass—no one rides free. Life at its most basic, he thought. The sign wasn’t new, and suggested that the logging company’s gate was ineffectual in deterring visitors, especially kids who obviously used the area as a party spot. As any soldier, border guard, and game warden knew, outdoor security was impossible unless you had the rare perfect terrain and a lot of bodies in the security detail.

  A dark-haired woman with a prominent nose got up. She had short black hair and dense black hair on her arms. She wore khaki pants and sleeveless black body armor over an open-collar, short-sleeved polo shirt. A badge dangled from a navy blue cord around her neck. “Detective Service?” she asked.

  “Special Agent T. R. Monica?”

  “Tatie,” she said, adding, “Follow me.” She led him to the panel truck, slid open the massive door, and nodded for him to step inside. He could hear a generator humming softly. The cramped interior was filled with banks of communications equipment; the air was cool. “Take a seat,” the agent said, nudging a wheeled stool over to him with her boot.

  She opened a blue-and-white cooler and took out two bottles of beer. “It’s sticky out there,” she said, pushing a longneck Pabst Blue Ribbon at him.

  “No thanks. I’m working,” he said. “Tatie?”

  She smiled. “When I was a kid, all I wanted to eat were potatoes: fried, boiled, baked, you name it—like that Bubba dude and his shrimp in Forrest Gump? You don’t drink when you work, or is it my brand?”

  He shook his head and wondered what this was about. She had a soft air to her, but a commanding, slightly imposing voice. She was also slender and obviously long shed of her childhood starch fixation.

  “At ease,” the agent said, opening her beer and taking a long pull.

  Service ignored his beer.

  “Is it because of your father?” she asked.

  “Is what because of my father?”

  “Your not drinking on duty.”

  “It’s because that’s the rule.” What the hell did she know about his father, and why? He felt his blood pressure rise, took a deep breath, and tried to adjust his breathing.

  “It’s my understanding that you’re sort of a cookbook Catholic when it comes to rules,” she said.

  “Whatever,” he said, not wanting a confrontation, but if she kept this up she might get one. This gig was starting off oddly and he sensed it was not going to improve.

  Special Agent Monica leaned back. “I heard you can be pretty tight-lipped,” she said. “This isn’t a deposition. We’re on the same team.”

  “I don’t know what this is. My chief told me to report and here I am,” he said.

  She tilted her head, sizing him up. “I take it you’ve had some less-than-satisfactory experiences with the Bureau?”

  “Mixed,” he answered, adding, “at best.”

  She smiled. “I’d hate to depose you,” she said.

  “So don’t,” he said. “What’s this about?”

  “I say again, we—you and I, all the people here—are on the same team, Detective. You are a federal deputy, correct?”

  She was well briefed. “All of our officers who work state or international border counties are deputized,” he said. This had taken place just more than a year ago. Anyone committing a game violation in one state and crossing the border of another state in possession of illegal game was in violation of the Federal Lacey Act. Being deputized as feds gave COs the authority to pursue them. Deputization was also supposed to enhance cooperation with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the federal agency Michigan’s DNR was most likely to interface with. The implication for cooperation with and by the USFS, FBI, BATF, and an alphabet soup of other federal agencies remained a question mark. From experience he knew that major policy farts of this kind often required glacially calibrated clocks to gauge results, by which time the rules would no doubt change again.

  Special Agent Monica reached into a black leather portfolio, pulled out a Temporary FBI ID card on a black lanyard, and set it on the table. “Wear this at all times around here. If you see somebody without one, make them show one to you, or put their face in the dirt—and yell for help. The only leaks out of this outfit will be the ones we choose to make for tactical reasons,” she declared.

  He looked at the identification badge. It was his photo. How did she get it so fast? The chief had left him with the impression that this was a chop-chop deal, but her having his photo suggested something very different, and he was suspicious.

  “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions,” she said, “but bear with me for a while, and for God’s sake, drink a beer.” She snapped off the cap for him and pushed the bottle closer. “Your father was a game warden,” she said. “He was killed in the line of duty.”

  “He was a game warden who died while he was drunk on duty,” Service said.

  “But the state honored him as a hero,” she countered.

  He nodded. “He liked to stop and schmooze violets,” he said. “The state didn’t talk about that part.”

  “Violets?” she said with a puzzled look.

  “Violators.”

  She smiled. “That’s what all effective cops do,” she said. “You don’t drink with your . . . violets?” She seemed amused by the term.

  “No,” he said.

  Agent Monica cocked her head slightly. “What did you think of your father?”

  Service stiffened. “I didn’t come here to have my head shrunk.” First the shrinky-dink priest, now her. Jesus.

  “I promise not to shrink it,” she said. “But I do want to dig around in there—if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” he said.

  “In your place, I would too,” she said sympathetically. “You’ve worked with Wisconsin warden Wayno Ficorelli.”

  Wayno. “Once.”

  “Your opinion of him?”

  “Is he up for a federal job or something?”

  “Just answer the question, okay?” Like most feds, Agent Monica was an adept interviewer, accomplished at deflecting and maintaining control.

  “Wayno is smart, dedicated, and determined.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “When did you work with him?”

  “Last fall.” Time tended to lose meaning for game wardens, and the older he got, the worse the time dislocation seemed to get.

  “Just that once?”

  “Right.”

  “Contact since?”

  “Now and then.”

  “About other cases?” she asked.

  “It’s none of your business,” he said. There was a smugness—or something—in her attitude that was begi
nning to really rub him the wrong way.

  Hmmm, her lips said.

  He sensed she wouldn’t let up. “He wanted a job in Michigan.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Wisconsin wardens aren’t fully empowered peace officers.”

  “Have you encouraged him?”

  “No, and I haven’t discouraged him either.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t take positions in hiring decisions unless I’m tasked to do background checks.”

  “What was your opinion of him?”

  “Smart, dedicated, and determined,” he said.

  “You already told me that. Is there something else?”

  “No.”

  “Let me add something,” Monica said. “He’s a pathological ass-man.”

  “If you say so.” What the hell was going on? Service could feel the hairs standing up on his arms.

  “I do say so, and by all reports, marital status hasn’t ever been an issue for him.”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Have you ever gotten mixed up with married women?”

  “Only my wife,” he said, “and that’s none of your goddamn business.” Why all these questions? She was beginning to really piss him off.

  “That would be your ex, who died on 9/11 in Pennsylvania,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I bet,” he said. Jesus, did she know his entire life history? Then she must know about Nantz and Walter, he thought. He felt his face flush and started to stand, but she reached out and grasped his arm.

  “Wayno Ficorelli is dead,” she said.

  Service stared at her, trying to comprehend. “When?”

  “A little more than forty-eight hours ago.”

  All the questions she had been asking were driving at something. “You think I know something about it?”

  “Do you?”

  “Don’t be an asshole!” he snapped, standing up and telling himself if she shot off her mouth one more time, he was going to bury a fist in it.

  “Have you ever lied to your violets?” Agent Monica asked.

  What the hell was she trying to get at?

  “When necessary,” he said.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Please.”

  He sat. “How did Wayno die?”

  She pondered this for a moment. “He was executed.”

  Service stared at her. Executed? “What the fuck does that mean?”

  She said, “You have the reputation of being an extraordinarily skilled and aggressive officer.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t jerk me around. You’re a loaded gun on bad guys. You’ve been wounded in the line of duty, both in the marines and as a game warden. Did Ficorelli mistreat prisoners and suspects?”

  “Not that I saw,” Service said.

  “You and Ficorelli are a lot alike—except for a predilection for married women.”

  “Look,” he said, trying to tamp down his rage, “I was ordered to come over here and cooperate. I didn’t come here to get mind-fucked.”

  “Good,” the agent said. “Just calm down and cooperate. I sense that you’re not surprised someone killed him.”

  “I’m not happy about it, but I guess I’m not all that surprised. Wayno could push pretty hard.”

  “He stretched the envelope and made some enemies,” she said.

  “I worked with him just once, but I suspected he pissed off a whole lot of people.”

  “Which he surely did,” she said. “Did you know that his second cousin is Wisconsin’s attorney general?”

  “No.”

  “Apparently Wayno talked to his cousin about you a lot. He said you were the best officer he’d ever worked with. He held you in the highest regard, Detective Service.”

  Service wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I want you to see something,” she said. There was a video monitor on a table next to them, and she turned it on.

  Service watched a series of digital photos, walked over to the door, and stepped outside, gasping for air. He had never seen anything so grotesque. The FBI agent was right on his heels as he fumbled to light a cigarette.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Have you ever seen anybody killed that way?”

  He shook his head.

  “Ever hear of anybody killed like that? In Vietnam, maybe?”

  “No.” Although the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese had done heinous things to people they got their hands on. He had seen too many instances of that, and had worked to erase the memories.

  “You’ve got a reputation for locating hard-to-find people,” she said.

  “Most of the ones I find are dead by the time I get to them,” he said.

  “The nature of the search-and-rescue beast,” she said softly. “Why don’t you come back inside and sit down?”

  “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “I said I would.”

  Service took a slug of beer while she turned on a laptop computer and swiveled it toward him. “PowerPoint,” she said. “Watch it all the way through and then we’ll talk.”

  There was no narration. On many of the slides there were no photos, only names, dates, and locations. The first sequence ran from 1950 to 1970, followed by a gap of twelve years, then a new batch replete with crime scene photos, dates, names, and causes of death. The bodies in the second group since 2000 were mutilated like Ficorelli’s. Until then the cause of death varied. The program ended with Wayno’s death photo.

  “What is this?” Service asked, looking away from the laptop with the photos of mutilated bodies.

  “It’s called a blood eagle. The Vikings used it on some of their . . . favored captives.”

  “Vikings.”

  “Yeah, Norsemen—Skandahoovians with attitude. They’d split open a captive’s back to expose the spine. Then they’d hack through the back ribs, pull the lungs through, and drape them over his back. Some historians vehemently insist Vikings never did such things, that such reports were the creative inventions of Christian-centric chroniclers with political agendas, but the term ‘blood eagle’ exists in all the old Norse languages, and there are descriptions and drawings by Viking writers,” said Agent Monica. “Some contend that exposing the lungs let the dead man’s air flow out to be inhaled by those standing close to him, and if he had been especially valiant, his bravery would flow to them. Sometimes the exposed lungs flapped as they expelled air, and that’s where the eagle part comes from. As far as we know, the Vikings didn’t remove the eyes the way our guy has. Comments?”

  “This is . . .” he started to say, but didn’t finish.

  “It’s worse,” she said. “It’s said they usually did this while the victim was still alive, and sometimes they poured salt into the open wounds. Shall I proceed?”

  Grady Service sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Had Wayno been alive? He didn’t want to think about it, and he didn’t ask.

  “The toll in the first go-round was twenty-seven game wardens in twenty-five states over twenty years—better than one a year.”

  “But it started again?” he said.

  “After a hiatus of a dozen years, which we don’t understand; but it’s been steady since then, one a year, one in 2000, one in 2001, but two in ’02, two in ’03, and Wayno so far this year. The blood eagle has been the MO since 2000.”

  Service thought about the photos. “What about the eyes?”

  “The killer started taking them in 2001—another change.”

  Two different killers—two separate groups of killings? “Copycat?” Service asked.

  “That’s one school of thought,” Agent Monica answered, with a tone suggesting it wasn’t her view. “Could be the killer was out of circulation du
ring that time, out of the country, in a lockup or loony bin, or maybe he gave it up for Lent, but fell off the wagon. We just don’t know,” she said. “All we do know is that somebody has been killing game wardens all around the United States since 1950.”

  He couldn’t believe what she was telling him. “I’ve never heard anything about this. How can game wardens be murdered around the country and nobody know about it? How can game wardens not know?”

  “Because nobody detected a connection or saw the pattern until three years ago. Think about it. You kill one warden in a state at a rate of less than one a year, and each in a different way, and who would put it all together? Cops, like politicians, tend to think locally, and federal and state computers still don’t talk to each other very effectively. Before 9/11 they didn’t talk at all.

  “In the latter part of the second group we had a common and spectacular MO, but the vicks in the first group were all done differently. The common denominator is that the victims are all game wardens, and it’s been one per state, all of them found by water in relatively obscure but open areas,” said the agent. “Obviously we recognized we had a serial with the second batch. An analyst was first to see the pattern and bring it forward. The same analyst then went back in time and found the first group. The method was different in most of the early murders, and the way they were spread out, there were no statistical or geographic clusters to work with. If the killer hadn’t started up again, we never would have known about the first group.”

  “But now they’re all the blood eagle,” Service said. He did a quick mental calculation. “Twenty-seven in group one, twenty-one in the second batch.”

  “We thought it might be a copycat, but we’ve decided the blood eagle is just his latest method. Why? Who knows? Maybe he wants to make sure he gets credit. So many dead and nobody knowing about the first batch, and maybe now he wants everybody to know, so he changes his MO to provide an unmistakable signature for his work. There was no signature or consistent MO until 2000. Why a sudden need for recognition? Again, who knows? The key fact turns out to be that there has been one game warden killed in forty-eight states, and all that remains after Wayno Ficorelli are Missouri and Michigan.”