Running Dark

by Joseph Heywood

  “Has the integrity of the chain of custody been maintained?”

  “You’ll have to take that up with the county.”

  “My client’s prints were not on the knife. Did you know that? How do you explain that, given the charges against her?”

  No prints? Nobody had told him this. Had Detective Kobera tried to call him about this while he was in the Garden? He kept quiet.

  Hegstrom continued. “No fingerprints, Officer Service. Again, what was your impression of my client’s emotional state when you entered the room?”

  “I thought she was out of it.”

  “Unresponsive?”

  “Out of it,” Service said. “Jacked up—on a long flight with no ETA.”

  “Is that a medical diagnosis?”

  “It’s a professional observation.”

  “You have no medical or psychiatric training.” It was not a question.

  “Obviously not. Is this a deposition?”

  “Do you see a recorder here? This is off the record, Officer. What we hear you saying is that you never personally witnessed the alleged stabbing, and you did not read Miss Aucoin her rights, or secure the evidence. You also appear to be unaware that no prints were recovered.”

  “You’re oversimplifying everything,” Service said.

  “Facts are simple by definition,” Hegstrom countered. “It’s the array and interplay of facts, the interpolation and interpretation that render them complex.”

  “Are we done?”

  “I didn’t mean to irritate you,” the lawyer said.

  “I’m not good at mind games,” Service said.

  Hegstrom tilted his head and smiled. “I would think a game warden would be especially adept at such games. I’ve never met a police officer who hasn’t bent the rules or occasionally broken them to make a case.”

  Service got to his feet. Was Hegstrom signaling that he knew he had been in the Garden? Had Lasurm told him? He left the room with a sense of dread and immediately began to try to replay the events of the stabbing. Who had removed the knife? Ambulance personnel? More likely it was someone in the emergency room. He hadn’t read Aucoin her rights because that fell to the deputies who had actually made the arrest. In the future, he told himself, he would make sure he did this and not depend on others. How could the knife have no prints? Hegstrom had asked if they had checked the window or closet, and whether there was an attic—why was he asking such questions? Most importantly, had Cecilia Lasurm betrayed him for the sake of her daughter?

  Hegstrom looked at him. “To paraphrase something, Grady—remember that faith in light is admirable at night.”

  Lasurm was not in the area of the room when he emerged. He found her out on the sidewalk, looking cold. “You want to let me in on what’s going on?” he demanded, barely containing his growing rage.

  “My daughter’s a junkie,” she said.

  “That excuses her behavior?” he shot back at her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. A substance abuser is responsible under the law.”

  “Do you doubt she did it?” he challenged.

  “It’s Hegstrom’s job to find out.”

  “No,” he said angrily. “The police determine that. Hegstrom’s job is to make sure we’ve done our jobs fair and square, and that his client gets a fair trial.”

  “That client is my daughter.”

  “Hegstrom intimated that he knew I was on the Garden.”

  “I don’t think for him,” she said. “He didn’t hear any such thing from me.”

  Service stared at her. “How far would you go to save your daughter?”

  “I resent that question,” she snapped at him.

  “Answer me.”

  “She deserves the best defense, but I would never betray a confidence. I thought you understood that.”

  “You don’t exactly have forever to let this thing run its course.”

  She bristled and furrowed her brows. “I’m well aware of my circumstances. You fight dirty.”

  “I have a dirty job.”

  “Which you chose to make dirtier in the Garden,” she said with a hiss. “I have no idea what Hegstrom is thinking, or what he said to you, or why. He’s got a job to do and, like you, he’ll do whatever he thinks he needs to do to win. If this sounds like a sermon, so be it. Anise is an adult, and if she’s guilty, she’ll pay. If I wanted to set you up, Grady, I could have told Hegstrom about you and let him spring it at trial to destroy your credibility.”

  “Unless you told him and he’s trying to steer my testimony and work a deal to avoid trial.”

  “I did not tell him, and I did not ask Odd Hegstrom to take my daughter’s case,” she said. “I understand you’re angry, but I don’t deserve to bear the brunt of your frustration. You tried to spread paranoia in the Garden. Maybe it’s getting to you instead.”

  He sighed in frustration. “I’d better go,” he said, wanting to avoid further escalation. He needed time and space to think and try to understand what this was about.

  34

  TRENARY, MARCH 16, 1976

  “Connie, she takes care of mosta dat.”

  “Joe, did you tell anybody about the flight?”

  Joe Flap squinted at him. “Da cap’n called me ’cause da airport people called him an’ complained. Dey assumed it was a department flight, and dey said it was stupid and dangerous. Dey’re a buncha pussies.”

  “Did you file a flight plan?”

  “Bare bones, basic VFR, out and back.”

  “The visibility was terrible that night.”

  “Remember what I said, if I could see my prop it was visual? Dat’s da pilot’s call.”

  “Did you list a passenger?”

  “Didn’t have none ta list, did I?” Flap said, obviously pleased with himself.

  “Stone figured it out,” Service said.

  “Len’s a smart guy. He knows youse, he knows me, an’ he knew your old man. It don’t take an Einstein to add two plus two.”

  Hegstrom was also smart. How could he know about such a flight, and, if he knew, how could he figure out what it meant?

  “You want a beer?” Flap asked.

  “No thanks. What does the airport do with flight plans?”

  “Dey twix ’em off to Air Traffic Control and send a copy down ta da District.”

  “The DNR district?”

  “Yeah, Escanaba.”

  “Why?”

  “Back a few years, dere was a budget crunch downstate, and Lansing cut pilots, planes, and flight hours. Da district believed da air patrols were cost effective, and asked for flight plans to be used in puttin’ together dere arguments wit’ da Lansing eyeshades.”

  “What’s in a flight plan that could be useful?”

  “Not a damn ting; I told ’em it was stupid, eh, but dey ignored me.”

  “They still do this?” The value of air patrols had long since been established and had become standard procedure at certain times of the year.

  “Far as I know. I told Cosmo and Edey about it, but bot’ of dem give me da brush-off.”

  Service called Len Stone from Flap’s house. “Do you get copies of DNR flight plans?”

  “I’m not da best inside guy, eh? Connie, she takes care of mosta dat. Why?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  35

  ESCANABA, MARCH 16, 1976

  “I’m a trashy kinda guy.”

  “Been a while,” Connie Leppo greeted him when he walked into the district office. “Your family situation okay?” As the district’s dispatcher-secretary, she took it on herself to monitor what was going on among district personnel.

  “All taken care of. And I got my equipment replaced. Thanks for asking.”

 
“Youse gonna make da party at Sheila’s tomorrow night?”

  Party? His expression must have shown his confusion. “Saint Paddy’s Day,” Leppo said. “Tomorrow?”

  If he’d ever known, he had forgotten. “Sheila?”

  “Sheila Halloran, a Troop secretary over to Gladstone post. Her boyfriend’s Al Eagle, da district fish biologist.”

  He hadn’t met either of them. “I guess I missed the invitation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s posted in da coffee room. Da party’s out to Al’s camp up da Tacoosh.”

  The Tacoosh was a fast, rock-bottom river that flowed into Little Bay de Noc near Rapid River.

  “Dere’s a map on da board too,” Leppo added. “You enjoy my mom’s bakery?”

  Connie talked a lot. “Great,” he said, trying to recall what he had done with the baked goods she had given him. “Len said I should talk to you about paperwork.”

  Leppo grinned. “Da poor man slouches like a prisoner when he’s gotta sit behind dat desk.”

  “What determines which papers get filed or thrown away?” he asked.

  “It’s called da file retention schedule. Lansing lawyers tell us what we gotta save and for how long. Anyting dey don’t classify we can decide what ta do wit’.”

  “What about DNR flight schedules?”

  She looked up at him. “Ah, dose. Dey’re local, an’ we pitch ’em.”

  “After somebody looks at them?”

  “Nope, I plunk ’em right in da circular file. We got enough paper in dis place, we don’t need more, eh. Somebody way back got da bright idea to have ’em sent here, but nobody looks at ’em, so I toss ’em.”

  “Edey didn’t look at them?”

  “Nor da guy before him. We get a new boss, I always ask, and dey always say toss it.”

  “What else gets tossed?”

  “Records Lansing says can go. We flag files, and on certain dates each year we clean ’em out or send ’em ta storage. An da wastebaskets, da janitor takes dose to da Dumpster every night.”

  “Do you cut the paper up or do anything to it before you toss it?”

  She looked puzzled. “Sometime we bag ’em and take ’em to da Dumpster. Why would we cut stuff up? It’s trash.”

  “The city picks up our trash?”

  “Nope—Bay de Noc Trash Haulers. Dere on contract wit’ city an’ county. Dis way city an’ county can keep down payrolls wit’ benefits and all dat. Times’re tough, eh.”

  “How often do they pick it up?”

  “Couple times a week.”

  “On a set schedule?”

  “Usually on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

  “At a specific time?”

  “Seems to me I see Gary in da mornings. Sometimes he comes in for a cuppa coffee. What’s dis about?”

  “Gary?”

  “Gary Aho. He’s a good guy, eh?”

  “I saw a BDN truck over by Garden Corners,” he said.

  “Probably Gary on da way home. Dey got a big operation, offices in Manistique, Gladstone, Escanaba, Menominee.”

  “Gary lives near Garden Corners?” He had seen the truck in the early morning.

  “Cooks, just north of dere,” she said.

  Cooks, Lasurm had told him, was part of the consolidated school district that included Garden. This made Aho an area resident. The hair bristled on the back of his neck.

  “The drivers take their trucks home?”

  “Way I understand it, da drivers lease dere trucks from da company. Da company does sales, negotiates contracts, and handles da bookkeeping an’ billing. Drivers have to take care of da trucks and pay for maintenance.”

  “Sounds like it would be hard for a driver to make any money.”

  “Gary says he does okay. He’s a bachelor, eh.”

  Service glanced at the calendar. Tomorrow was a pickup day. “Where does the trash get dumped?”

  “County landfill, I tink, but I’m not sure. Can’t just dump garbage anywhere, right?”

  “Do we have a copy of the contract?”

  “You betcha,” the secretary said.

  “Can you make a copy for me?”

  “If you watch phones while I run da copier.”

  “Deal.”

  When she brought him his copy, he asked her another question. “Gary comes in for coffee?”

  “He doesn’t come in every time, but he’s a regular vendor, and dey’re like part of da family, right? Is everything okay?” Her eyes showed concern.

  “Sure; I’m just trying to understand how we do things here.”

  She laughed. “Never had an officer worry about da trash before.”

  “I’m a trashy kinda guy,” he said with a wink.

  He took the contract and a cup of coffee into the district conference room and sat down to read. The contract had been renewed by Edey last July, and would come up for renewal again this summer. It called for two ten-yard trash bins and one weekly pickup. Service looked into the parking lot. There was only one bin.

  He walked out to Leppo’s desk. “The contract calls for one pickup a week,” he said.

  “Yah, but Gary said da company is shorta bins right now, so dey brought us one and he makes two pickups a week. I told you he’s a good guy. He takes good care of us, and he says we got da best coffee and bakery on his route.”

  “Have you watched him make his pickups?”

  “Sure. He usually loads, den takes da truck down da alley and stops dere for ten, fifteen minutes before he pulls on. Not sure if dat’s procedure or a timing thing,” she said.

  Or something more insidious, Service thought as he scribbled a note in red ink on the copy of the contract, and dropped it into Leppo’s wastebasket when she stepped away from her desk.

  36

  ESCANABA-FAIRPORT, MARCH 17, 1976

  “It’s bait.”

  “You wrote what on the contract?” Len Stone asked.

  “‘Cancel: July seventy-six. Connie, please file.’ I used your initials,” Service confessed. “It’s bait. I also threw in a copy of the weekly schedule for all officers.”

  Stone grinned. “Youse really want me to go along wit’ dis? We could look pretty stupid, eh?”

  “We could,” Service agreed.

  “All dis ’cause youse seen a trash truck over to Garden Corners?”

  “Not just that. Aho lives in Cooks. He violated the contract. He’s in and out of our office whenever he wants, which makes him invisible. How many times have you done surveillance and come up empty?”

  “Goes wit’ da territory.”

  “That’s my point,” Service said. “Knowing it might yield nothing, you still went.”

  Stone contemplated this briefly. “How do youse want to play it?”

  “We wait in the alley and see what happens. We leave your unmarked on the street. If he doesn’t stop in the alley, we jump in the unmarked and follow him.”

  “All da way ta da dump?”

  “If that’s how it works out,” Service said. “I’ll talk to Connie. If he goes into the building, she’ll bump us on the radio when he’s leaving.”

  The green truck pulled into the lot at 10:42 a.m. and backed up to the bin. The driver wore green coveralls, jumped down from the cab of his truck, and went into the district office. He came back out fifteen minutes later with a clear plastic bag, dumped it in the bin, and began hydraulically lifting the bin to dump the contents into the metal thorax of the truck.

  Connie Leppo called them on the brick radio. “Three one hundred, Elvis has left da building.”

  Stone smirked. “She tinks dis is a game.”

  The driver climbed back into his truck.

  “He’s coming,” Service said as the driv
er backed up. It wasn’t Connie’s job to detect security problems.

  “I got eyes,” Stone said. “Hair’s too long for Elvis.”

  “And he’s too skinny,” Service added as they stepped into the door of the DNR garage that flanked one side of the alley.

  The truck stopped in the alley twenty feet beyond them. The driver hopped down, climbed up the side, and dropped out of sight.

  “He’s carrying a gym bag,” Service said.

  “I seen,” Stone said. “Move.”

  The two officers waited at the rear of the truck on the side opposite where the man had disappeared. When they heard him beginning to climb out they moved around the truck, and when the man’s boots hit the slush, Service clutched his arm. “How’s business?”

  The startled man froze, but recovered with a sheepish grin. “How’s she goin’, guys?”

  “What’s in da bag?” Stone asked.

  “Trash,” the driver said.

  “I thought trash belonged in da truck,” Stone said.

  “I needed ta sort it out.”

  “Youse mind if we see what’s in da bag?”

  The man shrugged, unzipped the bag, and held it open. “Playboys,” he said.

  “From the district office?” Service asked.

  The man grimaced. “No, man; I saw ’em earlier, thought I’d fish ’em out before I dumped da load.”

  “You like da articles?” Stone asked facetiously.

  The man looked confused. “No man, da tits.”

  Service snatched the bag from the man, turned it upside down, and shook it vigorously. The magazines landed with a plop in gray slush, and papers fluttered down behind the magazines. The contract lay faceup, the red note from Service’s hand visible. Ink from the marker was smeared pink by moisture.

  “Geez, dose musta gotten stuck to da magazines,” the driver said too quickly.

  “Let’s go back to da office,” Stone said, holding the man’s arm.

  “Do we gotta?” the man protested weakly, but he went along with them without further protest.

  Connie Leppo shot them a worried look as they escorted the driver past her station into the district conference room. Service stepped back out to her. “Call the trash company, Connie. Ask them how many bins and pickups we’re supposed to have, and ask them if they ever run short of bins for customers.”