“A profile is a work in progress until the killer is captured or killed.”
“But he’s already gone off his pattern,” Service said, “with two kills so close together, and perhaps the Owens woman as well. That’s a change. Tatie thinks he’s feeling pressure.”
Bonaparte countered. “Special Agent Monica has a tendency to engage in wishful thinking. It’s more likely that this has been part of his plan from the start.”
“The guy’s got to be a wacko,” Service said.
“Why?” Bonaparte asked, leaning forward.
“Look what he does to the bodies, how he tears them up.”
Bonaparte studied him for several seconds. “Is what he does to a body any worse than what a bomb does?”
“Bombs aren’t aimed at individuals.”
“No? As I seem to recall, it was exactly such intent that got the the most recent war rolling in Iraq, and if the bomb doesn’t hit the intended target, is the destruction of others less gruesome?”
Before Service could respond, Bonaparte said, “May I call you Grady?”
Service nodded. Bonaparte was one of the strangest people he had ever met, yet he felt comfortable with the man.
“Tell me, Grady, do you really think that the ability to kill requires one to be insane; for example, a mother defending her child in self-defense, or an executioner following a sentence prescribed by law? Ah,” he said. “What enables any soldier to kill in combat?”
Again before Service could answer, the FBI man added, “Thanks to Special Agent Monica, we’re aware of your record: You’ve killed.”
“In a war.”
“Do you remember the faces of the men you killed?”
“No.” He remembered the emotions needed for killing, the intensity and desperate rage, but not the individuals.
“Do you think you’re the only person who can kill and not be affected? Here you are, a contributing member of society, an effective law enforcement professional in a difficult and underappreciated field. Individuals are individuals, Grady. Some serials remember faces, others do not. Everything we think we know about these people we have to unlearn and start over. Some people can kill as easily as they urinate. Some can’t do it at all, no matter the stakes. Judeo-Christian morality proclaims, ‘Thou Shalt Not Murder,’ and cultures built on this turn right around and support their soldiers in war, imploring God to assist them by making a distinction between murder and killing for society’s benefit. Some states and nations have capital punishment, others don’t. We’re a fragmented and splintered world, Grady. We can’t really decide what we think about the taking of human life. And as for those who carry out government policy, they kill because they possess the necessary aptitude. Some people can jump four feet straight up. Some can’t get their soles off the ground. Each of us is born with certain capabilities and potential. Did it ever occur to you that what you did as a marine with your country’s blessing was sanctioned serial murder?”
The man was making outrageous statements, yet they seemed almost rational. One thing seemed certain: the man believed what he was saying. It was time to cut this off.
Service stood up and stared down at the Behavioral Analysis Unit veteran, who announced, “I think we shall review the Wisconsin case in more detail and as a team.”
“You can inform Special Agent Monica that I’m returning to where I belong.”
“A sound decision, Grady,” Bonaparte proclaimed. “I’ll tender your regrets, but I wish we had more time to get to know each other better.”
Service made eye contact with the man for several seconds before turning away. He fetched his gear from his room and found Eddie Waco in the lobby. “I’m going back to Michigan,” he told Waco.
“How?”
“Closest commercial airport?”
“Springfield,” Waco said, answering the question about an airport. “I’ve got my rig,” he added.
Special Agent Larry Gasparino caught up to them in the parking lot and handed a large envelope to Service. “The reports you wanted.”
“The list too?”
“I made you a copy. Don’t tell Tatie.”
“No problem—and thanks, Larry.”
“You bugging out?”
“Taking care of some loose threads,” Service lied.
Service felt duped by Tatie Monica, but he wasn’t angry at her. He could sense her desperation to catch the killer, and in her shoes he might have made the same choices, but one thing was for sure: With only Michigan remaining, the COs at home were entitled to know what was going on. He told Eddie Waco the whole story about the killings and the list. They were twenty miles down the road when Service’s cell phone rang.
“Good news,” biologist Buster Beal greeted him. “It’s definitely not what we feared.”
“Is that the lab’s conclusion?”
“Nope, mine,” Beal said, “but I sent slides and tissue samples to confirm. I found the deer’s problem. The poor bastard had pneumonia and was blind.”
“You’re sure?”
“Certain to four nines.” Service knew this was techie talk for 99.99 percent. “I sent both eyes to the lab to confirm, but I’m telling you I’m sure.”
“Blind,” Service said. This would explain some of the animal’s bizarre behavior.
“It happens. It also looks like his nose was injured, which compounded things—no sight, no smell, all he had were his ears, and they aren’t much good for finding food. Think what that would do to you.”
Service felt relieved. Buster was a damn good biologist, and if he was certain this wasn’t CWD, chances were it wasn’t. “Okay, thanks. Anything else?”
“Yeah, it looks to me like the deer’s eyes were burned.”
“How does an animal burn its eyes?”
“That’s an answer I don’t have, but if I had to characterize it, I’d say the animal was exposed to some source of concentrated heat or light. Maybe he got mixed up with a downed power line or something. Deer aren’t the brightest bulbs in the woods.”
“That’s pretty hard to swallow.”
“So is a deer eating fish,” Beal said.
The biologist had once observed a small buck walking the shallows of a river, its snout in the water. Beal took several photographs of minnows hanging out of the animal’s mouth. Nobody could explain it, but it had happened, just as Service had once watched a thirteen-stripe chipmunk eating another of its kind, which had been struck by a vehicle. According to biologists, such creatures fed exclusively on seeds, nuts, and the occasional insect, not the flesh of other mammals, especially their own kind. “I hear you,” Service said. “Thanks, Chewy.”
“I’m just glad it was a false alarm,” the biologist said.
Service closed the cell phone and lay it on the dash.
It immediately rang again. “Grady, Gus. Where the hell are you?”
“On assignment.”
Gus Turnage chuckled. “The shadowy world of secret squirrels.” This was what COs sometimes called their detectives. “Listen, I thought you’d want to know that the word is out that Honeypat Allerdyce was seen in L’Anse.”
“When?”
“About a month ago.”
Service made a quick calculation. Honeypat was Limpy’s daughter-in-law, and she had once tried to usurp power in the clan and nearly killed Limpy in the effort. Limpy was the sort to tackle problems head-on. Honeypat was something entirely different, and dangerous. “Source?”
“I heard it from the magistrate here in Houghton. He heard it from a Baraga County judge named Kryder.”
“The judge saw her?”
“That I can’t say for sure.”
“Can you pin it down for me?”
“Can try, if it’s important.”
“It could be.” Honeypat Allerdyce had cleared out, no doubt with a serious grudge agai
nst him. He knew she was capable of attacking Nantz and Walter for revenge. His heart began to race.
“Everything going okay?” Gus asked.
“Jury’s out on that,” Service said, hanging up.
“Home front?” Eddie Waco asked.
“Yeah.” He no longer had a home front, but he kept this to himself.
“Whin families and wardens find out what has gone on, they all gon’ be one unhappy bunch,” Eddie Waco said. “I can’t believe game wardens bin gettin’ kilt and nobody got told,” Waco added as they drove along.
“I had a hard time believing it too, but you saw Elray’s body, and he’s not the first one. There are all those others.”
Service had shared Bonaparte’s theory of the killer. Waco looked over and said, “You’n ever meet a perfect lawbreaker?”
“Excluding politicians?” Service responded, which got them both laughing.
Waco grimaced. “What thet ole boy tole you’n, how I was the big dawg here, thet ain’t true.”
“Bonaparte said Special Agent Monica got your name from your department.”
“Our honchos are a secretive bunch. You git on thet Internet thing just to get the name a’ yer local agent, and you won’t be a-findin’ hit there. They hain’t no way the feds gonna get a list worth coon pie from our people. I’m tellin’ you’n, Elray Spargo was the man and has been for years.”
Which meant the killer had not killed anyone except the top person on the list, Service concluded. Why did Bonaparte tell him differently, and why was he suddenly in a rush to get home if he was the target and not Gus or another officer? He found himself lost in his thoughts as the truck’s headlights bored a hole in the darkness. Honeypat back in the U.P.? This needed to be confirmed. If true, maybe it would provide the leverage he needed to get the Troops to go back and take another look at Nantz’s accident scene. His mind was swimming with images, but the one that kept coming back was the freaky light he had seen at Mormon Creek; at the time he didn’t think much about it. There also was a blind deer with burnt eyes, and maybe there was sort of a thread, but he couldn’t see it. Cake Culkin also claimed to have seen something he seemed to think was lightning without thunder, and the killer who inflicted his victims with the blood eagle had removed their eyes. Service looked over at Eddie Waco. “Is there a television station near here?”
“Closest is West Plains.”
“Let’s talk to Cake again and go visit the weatherman,” Service said.
Eddie Waco said, “I hear grit in ’at voice,” he said. “I believe you’n and Elray would’ve got along good.”
20
LEFT SHOULDER RIDGE, MISSOURI
MAY 28, 2004
Cake Culkin came to the door looking antsy. “Where’s them feds at?” he asked, craning to look into the night past the two game wardens.
“Hit’s jes us, Cake,” Eddie Waco said. “We found Laglenda Owens dead.”
The blood ran out of Culkin’s face.
Service jumped in. “Cake, did you actually see Deputy Owens that night?”
“Nossir. I told all y’all I didn’t see her badge thet night.”
“And not her without the badge, out of uniform?”
“Nope; Elray done tole me he was gonna meet her and another feller.”
“He say what about?” Waco asked.
“Nossir.”
“Remember telling us you saw a flash of light?” Service asked.
“Lightnin’.”
“But you never heard thunder.”
“Right.”
“You sure it was lightnin’, Cake?”
“Was bright enough, I reckon. What else might it be?”
Service asked, “Was Elray acting normal before this happened?” He knew from experience that even when you thought your mood was hidden, others could often read it—especially a partner or a lover.
Cake chewed his lip. “He weren’t quite right since his baby sister Rosa done got called ta her reward. They was close, them two.”
“When was that, Cake?” Service asked.
“Couple fortnights back, I reckon, give or take.”
“How’d she die?”
“Her car rolled over,” Agent Waco said.
“Anything unusual about the crash?”
Waco said, “Only that she was a good driver and the weather was good.”
He had seen no cars in Fourteen, and no roads. “She didn’t live with the family?”
“She lived over ta West Plains with her husband and young ’uns.”
“Huh,” Grady Service said. Spargo’s sister and Nantz and Walter had died about the same time and in a similar manner. It was a weird coincidence.
Service looked at Cake Culkin. “You followed a blood trail and found Elray’s body?”
“I said.”
“Big blood trail?”
“Like a deer got drug.”
“Can you show Agent Waco where you picked up the trail?”
“Rained since then, won’t be no p’int.”
“Still like ta,” Waco chimed in. “Kin we get us a four-wheeler back thet far?”
“I reckon,” Culkin said.
“Back tomorrow, Cake,” Eddie Waco said.
Service wanted to be sure what he had heard. “Elray said he was meeting Deputy Owens and another man. You never saw her, but you got a glimpse of a man, is that right, Cake?”
Culkin nodded. “That’s how it were.”
21
WEST PLAINS, MISSOURI
MAY 28, 2004
The meteorologist at the television station was middle-aged and overweight with gray-blond hair in a pompadour.
“You got records for the weather goin’ back a spell?” Eddie Waco asked.
“That depends on how one defines spell,” the man said. “A spell of love can last seconds or a lifetime, a spell of weather somewhere in between.”
Service gave him the date.
“Clear night,” the weatherman said. “Could see smiles in the stars.”
“You can remember what the weather was back then?”
“What they pay me for. We’ve also got records to corroborate.”
“No lightning?” Service asked.
“Nothin’ closer than western Kansas, and if you boys are seeking Oz, you don’t have to travel that far afield.”
Back in Waco’s truck Service said, “What lightning was Cake talking about?”
“He’s a bit addled. Is it important?”
“I don’t know.” He was having trouble sorting out the things he had seen and heard, and he was tired.
22
CABOOL, MISSOURI
MAY 29, 2004
Service didn’t want to answer his vibrating cell phone. It was Special Agent Tatie Monica. “Service, you are not leaving until we talk.”
“I’ve had enough talk,” Service said.
“Please,” the special agent said. “Where are you?”
Service looked over at Eddie Waco. “Where are we?”
“Short spit down the road from Cabool,” Waco said.
“Near Cabool,” Service told the FBI agent.
“Afghanistan?” she asked.
Service looked at Waco. “She wants to know where that is.”
“Texas County,” the Missouri man said. “North a’ her.”
Service passed the word.
“They got an airport?” she asked.
“Airport?” Service said.
“Size of a three-cent stamp,” Waco said.
“Little one,” Service told her.
“I’ll meet you at airport security in two hours,” she said. “And I’ll arrange for a plane to take you to where you want to go. Just wait for me, okay?”
“Don’t waste my time,” Service said.
“I’ll be there.”
He closed the cell phone and cut her off.
“Change in plans?” Eddie Waco asked.
“The feds want a meet.”
“And you agreed?”
“She said please.”
“I reckon that changes everything,” Waco said.
They drove past darkened fields and, on the outskirts of town, farm-implement dealer lots filled with huge, brightly colored machines illuminated by garish neon lights. They pulled into the parking lot of an orange building called The Fish-Walker. The interior was dark, with a century-old stand-up bar, vases filled with peacock feathers, and dusty stuffed fish on the walls, mostly trout.
The waitress had long straight hair and a gaunt face. She stood with her legs apart like a linebacker waiting to make a tackle.
“How’d this place get its name?” Service asked.
“Town’s posed to be named for some Indian. The place is named for the owner. Why is anybody’s guess. He’s a lawyer over St. Looey way, a bit in his own world, all twisty-headed about trout. They ain’t no fish on the menu today, gents. What’ll it be?”
Waco ordered fried pork steaks for both of them, and Service settled in with the reports.
While Service tried to read, patrons tentatively approached Agent Waco, each of them using the same opener: “Hey, got a question for you.” Every game warden in the world had heard this so many times that it was an inside joke.
The commonalities in the cases were few: Every victim had been a game warden; no collateral fatalities had been discovered, unless Deputy Owens counted; the most recent victims had been killed and displayed in the same way, their eyes removed. All the bodies had been found unclothed near water. No kill sites had been discovered until Ficorelli’s. Culkin would show Waco another possible kill site, but in the wake of the storm, it was unlikely there would be much evidence there. But these were only the second batch. What about records for the first set of killings?
He saved Monica’s list until last. His name was listed for Michigan, Eddie Waco for Missouri, and Wayno Ficorelli for Wisconsin. His name didn’t freak him out as much as make his face turn red with anger.
A waitress brought the steaks, said to Waco, “You need anything more, you give a wave, okay, hon?”
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