Eddie Waco had gone back to Missouri with the plumed headdress Fiannula Spargo had given Service. Taking it back to her was a task Service wanted no part of.
Tree was still around, staying with him at the cabin.
The captain came to his office and seemed hesitant. “I don’t know what the outcome of this case will be, but you, Tree, and Agent Waco did a fine job, Grady.”
As soon as he got into his truck, Service jimmied his false teeth loose and put them in a plastic container. He’d clean them when he got home. It felt good to have them out.
A mile from Slippery Creek, he saw a familiar truck parked on the side of the road. Limpy Allerdyce was sitting on the gate, swinging his legs like a kid. Service pulled up behind the old poacher and got out.
Allerdyce shoved a satchel off the gate. It plopped on the ground, raising dust. “Mutt brung dat stuff home, sonny.”
Service unzipped the bag and opened it. There was a stainless-steel hatchet and surgical kit inside, identical to the tools taken from the man on the island. There was also an FBI badge, ID card, and a night vision device. The photograph on the ID was that of Cranbrook P. Bonaparte.
Service looked up at Allerdyce. “The FBI is looking for this man.”
“Zat so?”
“Your dog found these things, all in a bag like this?”
“Just da way dey is right dere on da ground.”
“Must be one helluva strong dog to carry a bag like that.”
“Crazy mutt,” Allerdyce said.
Service groped for words, but Limpy spoke first. “We take care of our own, sonny.”
What the hell was Allerdyce saying?
“Your dog found this stuff?”
Allerdyce shrugged. “I jes noticed it and brung it, eh?’
“You’re on damn thin ice,” Service said.
“Been out dere plenty times,” Allerdyce cackled.
“The FBI will want to talk to you.”
The old man winked. “I jes know what da mutt brung home.”
Service wanted to ask questions, but couldn’t find a starting point. He found a stick, picked up the bag, started back to his truck, and stopped. “Your dog didn’t happen to bring home a powerful light of some kind?”
“Youse make a mistake with light at night and youse can blind yoreseff wid one-a dem, eh?” Allerdyce said.
Service stared at the man, groping for what to say.
“Close yore mout’, sonny, and put yore teets in whin youse’re out in publics. Don’t want ta scare da peoples, eh.”
55
MARQUETTE, MICHIGAN
AUGUST 23, 2004
The interview was being held at the federal offices on the second floor of the Republic Bank on US 41. Wink Rector invited Service to observe from behind one-way glass. Two days after giving Service the bag and implements, Limpy Allerdyce had surrendered without resistance, told only that the U.S. Attorney wanted to talk to him. Alona Pappas and an unnamed assistant director were with Rector.
Allerdyce sat in the interview room with his insipid grin and a twinkle in his eyes.
“They offer him a lawyer?” Service asked Rector.
“Repeatedly. Says he’s not interested.”
Talia Rilling, assistant U.S. attorney for the Western District of Michigan, was less than two years on the job in the Marquette office, and being touted as a rising star. She wore oversize glasses that made her look both bland and studious, but Service saw that she was a handsome woman, small in stature. Her size made her look less than intimidating, but she moved with grace and confidence in the room. He wondered how she would handle Allerdyce.
The interview began, and Service found himself mesmerized by the exchanges. From the start it was clear that Rilling had never fenced verbally with the likes of Limpy before, and he knew from experience that there was nothing more difficult than dealing with someone with a steel-trap mind who acted like a fool and talked like a dolt.
rilling: Mr. Allerdyce, you have been informed of the reasons for this interview. Let the record show that you have come in willingly, and further, that you also have refused legal representation.
allerdyce: Why I wanta lawyer? Youse want to talk about what dat mutt drug home, eh.
rilling: Can you describe the circumstances under which your pet brought home the satchel?
allerdyce: Ain’t no pet! Just a mutt hangs around camp.
rilling: The dog brought home a satchel.
allerdyce: Name’s Satchmutt, on account he gotta big black nose and howls like dat colored horn player died awhile back. Dat “Hello Molly” guy. I like dat music, eh.
rilling: He’s not a pet, but you named him Satchmutt?
allerdyce: Youse ain’t nobody’s pet, but youse got name, eh?
rilling: Let’s start again. The dog brought home a satchel.
allerdyce: Dat’s why we here, eh?
rilling: What time of day did the dog bring home the satchel?
allerdyce: I was asleep.
rilling: So . . . this event transpired during the night.
allerdyce: I go ta bed late, sleep late.
rilling: What time did you discover the satchel?
allerdyce: Was when I wokened up. Couldn’t find it when I was asleep, eh.
rilling: What time was that?
allerdyce: I don’t watch no clocks.
rilling: Before noon, after noon?
allerdyce: Yes.
rilling: Yes to what—before or after?
allerdyce: I said I don’t watch no clocks.
rilling: But you will agree it was around midday.
allerdyce: Tink I said dat, din’t I?
rilling: All right, the dog brought the satchel to you around midday.
allerdyce: No, I said I found it den; I don’t know when da mutt brung it, and he din’t bring it me. Just brung it, okay?
rilling: Did you see the dog when you went to bed?
allerdyce: Din’t look for ’im.
rilling: All right, please describe the circumstances under which you discovered the satchel.
allerdyce: Joycie ridin’ me, see, and she says, “Dat your bag over dere in da corner?”
rilling: Joycie?
allerdyce: She’s up top, red in face, all discombobolinked, and she says, “Dat your bag over dere in da corner?”
rilling: All right, Mr. Allerdyce. What did you do when Joycie pointed out the satchel?
allerdyce: Holy Wah, I lay right dere till she got done. I’m a gentleman wit wimmens.
rilling: And after she got . . . after that?
allerdyce: Told her ta fetch cuppa coffee.
rilling: What about the bag?
allerdyce: Still sittin’ where she seen it.
rilling: Eventually you looked in the bag.
allerdyce: Yeah, I looked.
rilling: What was in it?
allerdyce: Same was in it when I give it ta sonny-boy.
rilling: That would be Department of Natural Resources Detective Grady Service?
allerdyce: Yeah, sonny-boy.
rilling: Did you see the dog bring the satchel in?
allerdyce: Nope.
rilling: So you don’t know it was the dog that brought it in.
allerdyce: Was him. Does dat sorta ting alla bloody time.
rilling: But you didn’t actually see the dog with the bag?
allerdyce: I seen where da mutt chewed it.
rilling: Yes or no—you saw the dog bring the bag in?
allerdyce: No.
rilling: Okay, thank you. Let’s change directions. What did you think of what you found in the bag?
allerdyce: I t’ought somebody be bloody pissed ta lose stuff like dat.
rilling: Did you have any idea who might have owned the bag?
allerdyce: Was ID inside.
rilling: You assumed the person who owned the badge and ID owned the bag?
allerdyce: You tink different?
rilling: I’m interested in what you thought.
allerdyce: I already said: I t’ought somebody be bloody pissed.
rilling: Let’s take a brief break. Would you like something to drink, Mr. Allerdyce?
allerdyce: Tanks, I’m good—but youse go ahead. Youse look kinda sweaty, dere, girlie.
Rilling came out of the room, looked at Wink Rector, rolled her eyes, went to get a cup of water, talked briefly to Alona Pappas, and came back. “Service?”
“Yep.”
“You know Allerdyce pretty well?”
“Dealt with him a lot. Nobody knows him.”
“You see anything different in his demeanor today?”
“He’s being more direct than normal.”
Rilling blinked. “You buy his story that a dog brought the bag home?”
“No,” Grady Service said.
“You know,” she said, “the way this looks, the bag was Bonaparte’s, which leads us to speculate that he was one of the killers. Do you think Allerdyce did something to Bonaparte?”
“Absolutely.”
“Any reason why?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“You want to join me inside?”
“Nope.”
“I insist,” she said, holding open the door.
Grady Service walked into the room and Allerdyce started chuckling. “Dey bringin’ in a relief pitcher already?”
The interview resumed.
rilling: You know Detective Service?
allerdyce: Holy Wah, long time—his daddy too. Sonny dere busted me, sent me up seven year.
rilling: Were you angry with him?
allerdyce: Was me shot ’im—on accident. He’d be the one pissed.
service: Can we get back to the satchel?
allerdyce: Why I come in—ta help youse.
service: Why’d you bring the bag to me?
allerdyce: Youse’re closest law ta camp, eh.
service: When you gave me the bag, did you not say, “We take care of our own?”
allerdyce: Dat’s right, sonny.
service: What did you mean by that?
allerdyce: Youse find somepin’ don’t belong, youse take it to da law. Got a record like me, gotta be careful. Youse always saying, sonny, I screw up, you gonna send me back inside. I din’t mess wit yer old man—I ain’t messin’ wit you.
service: How do you account for your dog finding the bag?
allerdyce: He got da dandy sniffer, eh.
service: But you have no idea where he found it?
allerdyce: Bloody mutt runs all over da place. Once found him down Iron County.
service: Did the dog go down into Iron County often?
allerdyce: He don’t leave one of dem whatchacallits.
service: Itineraries?
allerdyce: Yeah.
service: Have you been in Iron County recently?
allerdyce: I move around, eh.
service: Yes or no?
allerdyce: Mebbe. I don’t pay no attention ta county lines.
service: Did you ever meet the man whose ID was in the satchel?
allerdyce: No.
service: How do you think someone could lose a bag with such valuable contents?
allerdyce: You know peoples lose stuff alla time in woods.
service: Do you think your dog could take you back to where it found the bag?
allerdyce: Dat sorry mutt? He ain’t ’roun’ no more.
service: The dog ran off again?
allerdyce: Nipped one-a da grankittles, had to shoot ’im. Can’t have no nippin’ dog roun’ my grankittles.
service: The dog is dead, and you’re saying we’ll never find the place where the bag was found?
allerdyce: I won’t say never.
rilling: Would you willingly take a lie detector test, Mr. Allerdyce?
allerdyce: Youse ast me, I’ll take ’er.
Grady Service nudged the U.S. attorney, who followed him into the hall.
“You’re wasting your time, and mine,” he said.
“Wouldn’t hurt to give him the test,” Rilling said.
“He’ll pass.”
“Then we’ll know he’s telling the truth.”
“If you hook him up to the machine and ask him if Mother Teresa gave him a blow job last night, he’ll say yes, and the machine will indicate he’s telling the truth.”
“Sociopath?” she countered.
“Total.”
“Do you think he has something to do with Bonaparte’s disappearance?”
“What I think and what I can prove are two different things.”
“Why do you think he brought you the bag?”
“To let me know Bonaparte had been taken care of.”
“Why?”
“He’s a strange old bird with his own twisted sense of justice.”
“I’m going to call this off,” Rilling said.
When Allerdyce came out of the room, Service walked downstairs with the old poacher and followed him. “Between us, do you know what happened to Bonaparte?”
“Sounds like he lost ’is bag, den himseff.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Youse know what da wolfie haters say?”
“Shoot, shovel, and shut up.”
“Dat’s all I got ta say ta youse, sonny. I’m real sorry about yer gal and yer kittle.”
Service wasn’t finished, and followed the old man to his truck. “Between us and off the record.”
Allerdyce stopped and turned to face him. “Listenin’, sonny boy.”
“You were out there.”
Allerdyce gave a single nod. “Heard your truck was up dat way.”
“Bullshit. Heard from who?”
“Youse know I got my ways.”
“You were out there.”
“Seen your fire on da island. Real good fishin’, dat spot.”
“That’s all you saw.”
“Seen da woman come. Walked in dere, and she look scared shitless, eh.”
“And?”
“She start downriver.”
“She didn’t make it.”
“Fella wit a mask like black hornet slash’t her t’roat.”
“That’s when you stepped in. You shined a flashlight into his goggles.”
“Ain’t sayin’, but he had one-a dem funny computers in his jeep. Youse know, like youse use.”
“His jeep?”
“Parked up Sumac Camp.”
The camp was two miles west, isolated, difficult to get into.
“You brought the bag to let me know.”
Another curt nod. “You know how I said Joycie in da room dere dat day? I lied. It was Joanie. Couldn’t let ’er reputation get mudded. You don’t owe me nothin’, sonny.”
Service knew he had heard most of the truth. He called Wink Rector and told him where to find Bonaparte’s vehicle.
He sat on the curb and lit a cigarette. Limpy had brought finality to the case, and now he owed the old bastard, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.
EPILOGUE
NORTH OF NOWHERE CHIPPEWA COUNTY
SEPTEMBER 28, 2004
Summer was gone, the maples beginning to turn, tamaracks starting to yellow up, leaves already falling under the assault of seasonal rains and gusty northwest winds. Karylanne was installed in an apartment in Houghton and back in classes; Shark and Limey, and Gus, were acting
as her extended family there.
The day before, Grady Service had held a memorial for Maridly Nantz and his son Walter. The Slippery Creek camp had been crammed with people, and there had been tears. As tragic as their deaths were, both Mar and Walter had been positive people, engaged with life and laughing at everything. After several people had spoken, he had tried to say something, but his voice and nerve had failed him. Tree had draped his arm around his shoulders, Karylanne moved over to hug him, and that had ended the ceremony, such as it was. Kalina had gone back to Detroit and Tree stayed, announcing he had finally decided to retire. He had been talking about it for years, and Service knew the only reason he’d delayed was Kalina didn’t want him underfoot.
Grady Service was on a five-day furlough. Wink Rector told him that the FBI’s push to punish Waco and him for using the animal drugs had been dropped. Wink didn’t know why.
Wink added, “Bonaparte was the one. Pappas found some way into cyberspace and learned that Bonaparte had partnered with one Duane Royant, aka Rud Hud, aka Check Six.”
“Duane Royant?”
“The one you guys took down that night. He’s the one who ran Nantz off the road. They got fingerprints off of the rental and matched the ones we got from him. Once the Bureau had a name, they were able to track Royant. He’s Québecois, a former medical student at McGill University. Came across the border with false papers. He and Bonaparte hooked up, and Bonaparte was teaching him, and I quote, ‘to attain perfection.’ Royant has no record, has never been in trouble, at least that we know of.”
“The same relationship Bonaparte had with Frankie Pey. Bonaparte was Marcel.”
“We couldn’t find a Frankie Pey here at Northern, and we thought maybe your tip from Indiana was actually for Marquette the school, rather than the town, but that went nowhere, and as Pappas dissects Bonaparte’s background, it isn’t holding up. Apparently he looked fine and everything was copasetic when he joined the Bureau, but that was a long time ago and now we have better tools and it looks pretty much like his background was as bogus as an air castle. Pappas can’t say that Bonaparte was Marcel, but she’s digging deeper and so far there’s no indication of a connection with Frankie Pey or Ney. But there’s no doubt he and Royant are the killers in the second batch. Royant is probably not competent to stand trial, but they’ll put him away somewhere for the rest of his life.”
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