Dedication
For Nick and Noah, keepers of the flame
Cover design by Lora Westberg
Book design by Jonathan Norberg
Edited by Brett Ortler
Copyright 2013 by Cary J. Griffith
Published by Adventure Publications, Inc.
820 Cleveland Street South
Cambridge, MN 55008
1-800-678-7006
www.adventurepublications.net
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-59193-436-3 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-59193-437-0 (ebook)
Acknowledgments
Nearly three decades ago I sped home over lunch to enter into a brief 45-minute writing spell in the rare quiet of my nearby home. The awful pursuits of the Iron County Gun Club fell out on the page. Eventually that story morphed into Wolves, early versions of which were read by my sons, Nick and Noah, my wife Anna, Lois and Laurie Sauerbry, and Dorothy Molstad. All provided both encouragement and suggestions and held to the steadfast belief that this novel needed to see the light of day.
Thanks to Nancy Jo Tubbs, chair of the board of directors for the International Wolf Center, who also graciously read an early version of the manuscript and provided valuable feedback. Mary Logue pored over the first third of the book and provided insight, suggestions, guidance and encouragement. It was Mary who first heard about Adventure Publication’s foray into publishing regional mysteries and recommended Wolves. Thanks to Pat Dennis for appreciating the book and passing it on.
Much of the wolf biology and related information in this book is based on information gleaned from discussions with wolf experts, and various officials from the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources and the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service. Also indispensable were site visits to The International Wolf Center in Ely, Minnesota, and the Wildlife Science Center in Forest Lake, Minnesota (where you can learn about and view wolf-dog hybrids, rare red wolves, Mexican gray wolves, coyotes and more).
In Minnesota we are not only blessed with the largest population of wolves in the lower 48, but also a robust public discourse about how best to manage wolves, a conversation that involves hunters, trappers, environmentalists, outdoors enthusiasts, and everyone in between. Our media gives ample coverage to this discourse, and this book has been better informed because of it.
Finally, five percent of the author’s proceeds will be divided equally and donated to the Wildlife Science Center and the International Wolf Center.
Part I
Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
Matthew 7:15
Chapter One
January 27th, after midnight—the Winthrop family farm outside Defiance, Minnesota
The farmhouse lay 12 miles outside Defiance, at least as the common raven flew. The house was a compact two-story peaked square with peeling clapboard sides and a tar paper roof. Behind the house a stand of red pines marked a short ridge and the start of wilderness that stretched all the way to the Canadian border. To the right of the house was a barn where three feeder calves huddled, protected against stray wolves and the deep cold. The field beyond the barn lay blanketed in fresh snow. It was January 27th, one of the coldest nights of the year.
Sheriff Dean Goddard and Deputy Smith Garnes turned into Williston Winthrop’s farmhouse drive. The house was lit up like a Chinese lantern. The drive was long and narrow and they pulled up and parked behind two trucks, an SUV and Bill Grebs’s patrol car.
“Looks like a damn party,” Garnes commented.
“That it does,” the sheriff agreed.
When they got out of their cruiser, Bill Grebs opened the farmhouse door, stepping into the cold. He was dressed for the weather, which was well below zero. Thankfully, there was no wind and the nearly full moon was high and clear. While Grebs walked up the plowed path, the sheriff watched him zip up his policeman’s jacket, then his down parka over the jacket. He flipped its hood over his short-cropped gray hair. The sheriff guessed Grebs was near retirement; he hoped so, anyway.
“Sheriff,” Grebs nodded as he came forward.
“Grebs,” the sheriff answered. “You know Smith Garnes?”
“Sure,” Grebs said, nodding at Garnes who reached forward and took Bill Grebs’s gloved hand.
The three men were tense in the cold. It wasn’t just the weather, or the corpse beyond the house and barn. Grebs, Defiance’s town cop, had long made an effort to keep Sheriff Dean Goddard out of Defiance’s law enforcement affairs, which was fine by the sheriff, who kept the rest of the county to himself. The sheriff’s office was ten miles east of Defiance, in Vermilion Falls. There had been times the pissing contest crossed borders, requiring the two men to work together, which neither did well or enjoyed.
From the sheriff’s point of view, Bill Grebs had never quite passed the smell test, and that was one reason why small-town cops were best limited to the narrow confines of their own city limits, particularly when it was a Minnesota Iron Range town like Defiance. On more than one occasion the sheriff had received complaints about the graying lawman. But he had been forced to back off when Williston Winthrop interceded. Now that he thought about it, the only thing Sheriff Dean Goddard appreciated past midnight in cold like this was being rid of that son of a bitch Winthrop, if the reports were true. He would no longer have to worry about pulling his punches with Bill Grebs, providing Williston hadn’t shared their little secret. What made the sheriff edgy was his doubt that the dead man had kept his word.
From up the road another pair of headlights opened over the rise. The three men watched a red Explorer approach and turn into the drive.
“Coroner,” the sheriff observed.
“You have headgear?” Grebs asked Smith Garnes. “It’s over a quarter mile to the site.”
“I got it,” Garnes said.
Sheriff Dean Goddard was much taller and younger than Bill Grebs. He was also a better politician, having just won his second four-year term in a landslide. Smith Garnes was near retirement. Garnes was long and wiry, lined in the face and lean in body. He still moved like a man half his age. He was the best investigative deputy on Goddard’s staff, which is why he was the first person the sheriff contacted when the call stirred the sheriff out of bed.
“Sounds like a hunting accident at Williston Winthrop’s place,” the sheriff said, still coming awake. “Not sure I know how to get there. You remember the place?”
“I remember,” Garnes said.
Didn’t sound like he’d been sleeping. It was almost 11:00 p.m.
“How bad?” Garnes asked.
“Winthrop’s dead,” the sheriff managed. “I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
The second person he contacted was Dr. Susan Wallace, the Coroner.
“Dr. Wallace?” he started.
Belinda, Sheriff Goddard’s wife, lay in the adjacent bedroom. Although it was late, she sometimes stayed up reading the Old Testament.
There was a pause. “Hi,” Susan said, surprised, still sleepy.
“Business,” he said, low. Then he told her about Winthrop’s accident.
“You don’t think,” she started.
“No goddamn idea. Hard for me to believe a man like Winthrop would take his life. Even with the assistant DA breathing down his neck.”
“I’ll follow,” she said.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she sounded pleased.
Now the Coroner parked her Explorer behind the squad car. The three men waited while Dr. Wallace stepped into the cold and zipped up her heavy down coat, pulling the hood over her head.
&nb
sp; “Who’s in the house?” the sheriff asked.
“The Club,” Grebs said.
“Card club?”
“Gun club, but mostly we play cards.”
The sheriff nodded, remembering. “Remind me who’s in it,” he said.
“There’s Hank Gunderson, Hal Young and Angus Moon. We were supposed to play cards tonight, over at Moon’s place. Williston hasn’t missed a game since I can’t remember when. And no one heard squat. So after a couple hands of poker we decided we’d better come have a look. Found his trail in the snow, his shotgun missing. Followed the trail out to the slough,” Grebs pointed. There was a well-trodden path turning around the barn, disappearing into dark.
Susan Wallace approached as the men looked toward the trail.
“Doctor,” the sheriff nodded.
“Sheriff,” she said. “It’s a cold night.” She looked at Grebs, then Garnes, nodding to each in greeting.
“Yes it is,” Smith Garnes agreed. “You dressed for a hike?”
She nodded. “I guess.”
“Let me take that,” Garnes said, stepping forward to shoulder her bag.
“Thanks,” she smiled.
Susan Wallace had been an Iron Range doctor her entire professional career. A year ago Sheriff Dean Goddard recruited her to be the county’s coroner, an effort he came to appreciate more than he’d expected. What he saw, when she wasn’t bundled up and looking like a marshmallow, was a fit blonde just past forty with a professional demeanor that had taken some time to crack.
Dean Goddard was still surprised by the absence of judgment that had, over the last six months, put him in the doctor’s bed (or at least on numerous occasions a bed in the Vermilion Falls hotel), where they had finally decided they had something they could not live without.
The Club decided to remain in Williston’s farmhouse. The sheriff asked them not to leave, he’d have some questions. Past midnight they hiked out to the narrow slough. Garnes brought along a sled they could use to return Williston to the doctor’s Explorer, for transport to her makeshift morgue. First they would have to make a cursory examination of the scene and take some photographs.
Moonlight helped, though by the time they reached Winthrop’s body Sheriff Goddard was ready for a rest. Smith Garnes was barely breathing. Susan was in the same shape as Garnes, proof you could work sixty hours a week and still have time for exercise, providing you had the doctor’s energy. The sheriff was comforted by Grebs’s heavy exhalations, much like his own. Dean Goddard wasn’t Vermilion County’s only out-of-shape law officer.
“Should have used the Cats,” the sheriff remarked, thinking snowmobiles would have made hauling the body back a hell of a lot easier.
“It’ll be OK,” Garnes assured.
The sheriff disagreed.
Grebs explained the scene. Williston was hunting snowshoe hares, approached the slough after last night’s snowfall. There’d been a clear, solitary path to the heavy cover of this ravine, trampled over now by Grebs and the others. They’d followed it to the fallen birch, searching for their poker partner. Just this side of the birch Winthrop’s body lay with his back in the snow. By now the front of his head was a grisly visage, frosted over and staring faceless into the night sky.
“That’s a damn unfortunate accident,” Smith Garnes observed.
“Awful,” the sheriff agreed.
Susan Wallace, familiar with death, had never seen this kind of massive gunshot trauma. But she didn’t look away.
The sheriff took a minute to examine the scene. There was a wide area of trampled snow. The shotgun lay on the ground near the fallen birch, in front of Williston Winthrop’s body. Williston wore a heavy camo orange down coat with orange camo coveralls beneath them, both frosted over in the cold. The sheriff recognized the shotgun and coveralls. He’d seen both hanging in Winthrop’s office last Sunday, when they’d had their meeting. Before Winthrop told him why he’d asked him to visit, the sheriff had asked about the shotgun, which was oversized. Winthrop told him there were two, nicknamed the Decimators: ten gauges handcrafted near the turn of the century, one of them missing, though the dead man claimed he knew who had it and swore he would get it back. Now the sheriff guessed it didn’t matter.
The sheriff didn’t like to remember their meeting, where he had to betray one friend to protect another. Now he might not be losing any more sleep over the dead man, providing Williston had kept his secret to himself. Sheriff Goddard had been robbed of revenge, but under the circumstances he was willing to accept it.
“Did you check the pockets?” the sheriff asked.
“We didn’t touch anything,” Grebs said. “Once we saw there was no point.”
The sheriff patted down the pockets, felt the outline of four shotgun shells. He felt inside, pulled them out, put them back. He unzipped the heavy down coat and saw a billfold bulge in the top right coverall pocket. He unbuttoned the pocket, parted it and extracted the billfold. Deputy Garnes held out a plastic bag and the sheriff dropped it in. The rest of his pockets were empty.
The entire scene looked like they’d walked into some kind of deep freeze. It was laid out exactly the way Bill Grebs described it.
Sheriff Goddard used a pair of heavy tongs to lift the shotgun out of the snow. “Damn big gun,” he said.
Smith Garnes helped him crack open the double barrel and look inside. One shell fired, one ready. He sniffed around the opening. An acrid burn. The safety was set to off.
“One hell of a gun for snowshoe,” the sheriff observed.
“That gun’s been in Williston’s family for years,” Grebs explained. “You get anywhere near a hare, it drops it. The spray’s so big only a few pellets usually hit, but it’s plenty, coming from a gun like that.”
“It’s a wonder anything’s left of a hare after a shot from a gun like that,” said Garnes.
They retrieved what was left of the orange-billed hat from behind Williston’s body. Garnes took the necessary photos, the brilliant flash illuminating the carnage and the trampled snow.
“You could have been more careful,” the sheriff said, turning to Bill Grebs.
“Sorry about that, sheriff. All of us came out to find him. We were practically on top of him before we saw it. Then we rushed to his side before we knew what happened,” Grebs explained. He wasn’t looking at Williston Winthrop. He was contrite and solemn, which Dean Goddard understood, given the presumed accidental death of one of Grebs’s oldest and closest friends.
There was no reason for Sheriff Goddard to doubt the events, but it was hard not to feel they were peculiar, given what he knew. It wasn’t only the hour, the cold and the accident. The sheriff wondered if his disclosure of the subpoena’s contents might have precipitated Williston’s demise. He wasn’t sorry to see the man dead. He was sorry to see the man escape justice. Williston Winthrop, the sheriff guessed, had paid the ultimate price. But assistant DA Jeff Dunlap would be disappointed. Given the markings along the birch bark and Williston’s bulk lying frozen in the snow, Dean Goddard wasn’t going to push it. It was too damn cold, too late and he was too tired. And when he stared at the body, he could not help but feel some measure of reprieve.
The hat’s bill had been torn clean off. Smith Garnes also examined the fallen birch, saw where the barrel slid across the waterproof bark and discharged. “Damn odd,” he said.
“What?” the sheriff asked.
“Man like Williston sitting down a gun like that with the safety off.”
“Probably saw a hare jump. Wanted to be ready,” Grebs suggested, reasonable enough.
“I guess,” the sheriff said.
“Can we turn him over?” Susan Wallace asked. “I should at least try and figure out when this happened.”
Goddard and Garnes bent over the frozen body. It turned over stiff and awkward in the fallen snow, as though they were flippin
g a fallen log. The dead man fell over with a heavy whump.
The sheriff checked the back pockets, found three of the dead man’s business cards—Williston F. Winthrop, Attorney at Law, with his office address in Defiance. There was nothing else on them. No writing. Nothing. The sheriff added them to the bag with the wallet.
Susan Wallace worked a long thermometer needle out of her bag. She tried to insert it through his lower back, trying to probe an internal organ so she could get a temperature reading. She could use the dead man’s internal body temperature to determine the approximate time of death. But the body was already frozen.
“Can’t get it in,” she said.
“Seem reasonable?” the sheriff asked.
“In this cold?” she said. “Sounds like the body’s been here for more than five hours. It’s like a deep freeze out here. That’d be enough time.”
The sheriff looked back to the body. “Alright. Let’s get him in that bag and put it on the sled.”
The scene was clear enough. By the time they returned to the farmhouse it was just after 2:00 a.m. When they approached they noticed a Datsun pickup added to the covey of cars.
“The Gazette,” Garnes said.
“That Diane’s truck?”
“Looks like it,” Garnes observed.
Diane Talbott, the Vermilion Falls Gazette reporter, was already inside the farmhouse interviewing the other members of the Club. She’d just about finished when the sheriff entered the house.
“Diane,” he nodded.
“Hi, Dean.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Couldn’t sleep and I was out. Saw your patrol car. Then I saw Dr. Wallace’s car. Looked official. Just a hunch,” she said.
Over the last few months there had been too many hunches, the sheriff thought. He suspected Diane was monitoring their official radio channel. Scanning wasn’t illegal, but if the office knew she was scanning they’d probably return to a stricter adherence to the use of codes, or start scrambling their signal. “You could get in trouble, following me around.”
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