Service waited for Doolin to lead him, but Doolin’s eyes had glazed over, so the conservation officer continued his testimony.
“The boot tracks led toward the hair on the ground, so I followed the tracks. There was a low ridge running south, and I figured the deer looped right and the shooter was trying to move on a parallel course, using the high ground to get a second shot.”
“What did you find?”
Welcome back, Service thought. “I heard a shot.”
“You heard a shot. A loud shot?”
“No, it was muffled.”
“Like it was a long way off?”
“No, it was muffled but close.”
“But a rifle makes a very loud sound. Even a plinker like a .22 makes an audible crack, am I correct?”
“Some make more sound than others, but this was baffled.”
“Baffled? You mean like a silencer?” Doolin’s face showed astonishment.It was an act for the jury. Doolin enjoyed the drama of the courtroom stage.
“Yes.” Service expected the defense attorney to object, but he was sitting silent in his chair, staring off in the distance.
“You have experience with silencers?”
“Yes.”
“During your tenure with the DNR?”
“I was a sniper in the Marine Corps.”
“Our U.S. Marines use silencers?”
“Yes, for some special missions and tasks. I’ve also worked with federal agencies that use silencers, and I’ve been through an FBI course on using and identifying weapons with silencers.”
“So you knew there was a silencer.”
“I knew a firearm had been discharged and that the sound was muffled.”
“What did you do after the shot?”
“I went toward the sound. Below and to my left I saw the buck thrashing around on its side. In front of me there was a man with a weapon in the position of port arms. I asked him what he was doing.”
“Then?”
“He turned in my direction and leveled the rifle at me.”
“How did you respond?”
“I turned on my tape recorder.”
“Your recorder?”
“Right. It’s attached to my belt. It’s Swedish-made and can pick up the sound of a butterfly running into a tree fifty yards away.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“No, it’s fact.”
Everybody in the courtroom laughed. Except the defendant and his attorney.
“Do all officers carry recorders, Officer Service?”
“I can’t speak for all my colleagues. I got the idea from videocams on state police cruisers. COs generally work alone and often among armed people. If something happens to me, I want there to be some record to give somebody a starting point.”
“You mean, if you were dead?”
“Or too injured to keep going.”
“Is it legal to record this way?”
“Yes.”
“Does the court have the tape?”
“It does,” Service said.
“Are you paranoid, Officer Service?”
“No, I’m careful. I saw the shooter’s rifle pointed in my direction. So I turned on the recorder.”
“Did you feel threatened?”
“The shooter told me to depart.”
“What were his exact words, please?”
“He said, ‘Split, fuckstick.’ ”
“Was there an ‘or else’?”
“He raised his weapon at me.”
“And what was your response to this threat?”
“I looked down toward the buck and yelled, ‘Run, deer, run.’ ”
“Run . . . deer . . . run?”
“I wanted to divert the shooter’s attention.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us what happened.”
“He looked away and I charged and tackled him high so as to get inside the rifle. That way he couldn’t use it. We collided pretty hard and we both tumbled down the embankment. The fall separated us, but it also separated him from his rifle.”
“What happened next?”
“He pulled a knife.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was going to cut off my testicles and stuff them in my eye sockets.”
“Were you afraid?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was a yapper. I’m not afraid of people who start talking when they try to threaten you. The dangerous ones don’t say anything. Besides, if it looked like I couldn’t handle him, I could always run away.”
“You’d do that?” Doolin feigned surprise.
“Lickety split, if that’s what the situation dictated.”
Observers in the courtroom laughed. Even Peltinen grinned.
“Where was your sidearm during all this?”
“In its holster.”
“You never pulled your sidearm?”
“No.”
“But he was threatening you.”
“Drawing my weapon is a last resort. We’re taught when we draw to shoot to kill. I didn’t think the situation required that. Besides, his leg was broken.”
“From the fall?”
“Yes, I could see how it was bent. He was so jacked up on adrenaline that the pain hadn’t hit him yet. And he was still on the ground.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him to set the knife down and push it out of his reach.”
“Did he comply?”
“No, he threw it.”
“At you?”
“It passed three feet to my right, chest high.”
“In other words, he was not complying with your order.”
“Correct.”
“Then what?”
“He put his hands up to his face and started to cry.”
“Cry?”
“Weep, bawl.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said none of it was his fault.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him to put out his hands. Then I cuffed him and read him his rights and told him I was going to call the county EMS.”
“Did he resist?”
“No, he kept yelling that it wasn’t his fault. I advised him to remain silent until he got a lawyer, but he kept yelling that it wasn’t his fault and that everything had been caused by intoxication brought on by sweets.”
“Sweets?”
“Hostess Twinkies.”
The people in court began to snicker.
“He actually said this?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Did you find any Twinkies?”
“No.”
“Any wrappers?”
“Just one, near the deadfall blind.”
“Did he say it was his?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I added littering to the charges.”
This time everybody in court laughed out loud and raucously. One individual even applauded.
Judge Peltinen pounded his gavel and said, “Order, please. Let’s not act like a buncha ridgerunners.” But even Peltinen was grinning.
“Any other . . . Twinkie . . . evidence?” Doolin asked, trying to subdue a smirk.
“No. I searched him, checked his trail and his blind, his vehicle. After EMS transported him, I got a search warrant and checked his cabin. No Twinkies. In fact, there were no sweets of any kind in his cabin except granulated sugar.”
“Did the defendant act intoxicated?”
“No.”
“Did you use the Breathalyzer?”
“Yes. It was normal, blood alcohol of zero.”
“Did you believe him, that sugar got him loopy?”
“Objection,” Bois said. “Not qualified.”
“Sustained,” said the judge.
Doolin moved on. “Officer Service, are you aware of a case in California where a jury found a man innocent on the grounds that he c
ommitted murder while temporarily insane from sugar intoxication?”
“I wasn’t aware of the case at that time. I am now.”
“Do you have an opinion on that defense?”
The defense lawyer jumped up. “Objection. The witness is not qualified to provide a legal opinion.”
“Sustained,” Peltinen said.
“As a citizen do you have an opinion?”
“Yeah, California ain’t Michigan.”
“Meaning?”
“If it smells like baloney and looks like baloney, it’s baloney.”
Several people in court snickered. Including some members of the jury, who sat in high-backed benches to the judge’s left. Peltinen shot them a hard look, but they kept smiling.
“Had you met the defendant before September twenty-ninth of last year?”
“No.”
“Officer Service, have you ever been wounded in the line of duty?”
“I have.”
“How many times?”
“Three times.”
“Firearms?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever shot anybody during your DNR duties?”
“No sir.”
“You showed admirable restraint, Officer Service.”
“I did my job.”
“If another officer had encountered the defendant, the outcome might have been dramatically different,” Doolin said.
“Objection!” Bois shouted.
“Sustained. Dammit Joe. You’ve made your point.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. I’m finished with the witness.”
The judge looked at Hardin Bois. “Your lick.”
The defense attorney straightened his tie as he stood up.
“Officer Service, did you see Mister Schembekeler discharge a firearm? Please answer my question.”
“I heard it.”
“Officer, I asked if you saw my client discharge his firearm?”
“No.”
Bois turned to face the jury. “In fact you did not see my client discharge a weapon. What you heard could have been another weapon, am I right?”
“It was his.”
“But theoretically it could have been another. Did you find spent cartridges?”
“No.”
“How do you account for that?”
“I don’t.”
“So you did not see my client discharge a firearm of any kind and you found no spent cartridges, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Officer, were rounds missing from the defendant’s clip?”
“No, because—”
“You’ve answered the question, Officer. Thank you.”
Doolin would circle back to this one.
“If you did not see Mister Schembekeler fire a weapon—any weapon—and you found no cartridges, then you must agree that theoretically there could have been another shooter.”
“Theoretically.”
Bois smiled at the jury. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Redirect,” Peltinen said, checking his watch.
Doolin asked, “Officer Service, how could there be no rounds missing from the clip?”
“Because there wasn’t any clip. It was a single-shot weapon.” Doolin was hokey, but he was good.
“Had the weapon been fired?”
“It had.”
“How do you verify this?”
“My nose and a test.”
“Was this test done?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“On scene immediately after the apprehension.”
“And the result?”
“It was positive. The weapon had been fired.”
“Thank you. Did you recover a slug from the dead animal?”
“Yes. It was the same caliber as the defendant’s rifle, but the bullet was too fragmented for ballistics.”
“Can you explain this to me? Our jury probably understands this stuff, but I don’t.”
Doolin played every angle. “This caliber with this powder load makes the bullet tumble. When it strikes something hard, it shreds.”
“Have you had previous experience with this caliber?”
“Yes, it’s poachers’ favorite flavor.”
“Did the defendant deny the weapon was his?”
“No.”
“Did the defendant say he had shot the animal?”
“No. He only said that it wasn’t his fault, that he had been intoxicated by sweets.”
“How did you interpret this?”
“He had shot the animal, but was not acting rationally.”
“And his weapon was equipped with a silencer, which is against federal statutes.”
“Objection,” Bois said angrily. “There is no charge on a silencer in this case.”
Peltinen grimaced. “Overruled. Answer the question, Officer Service.”
“Yes, silencers are illegal.”
“Officer, have you ever arrested other suspects when you did not see them shoot?”
“Many times.”
“And all those arrests stuck?”
“Objection,” Bois said. “Irrelevant.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“Did you hear any other shots that night?” Doolin asked.
“None.”
“If we are to believe the defense, there would need to be two poachers in the woods at that isolated location, both with the same weapon, same ammo load, and each with a silencer, is that correct?”
“That seems to be his theory.”
“What’re the odds of that?”
“Objection,” Bois said with a raspy growl. “The witness is not a statistician.”
“Withdrawn,” Doolin said. “Officer Service, in your twenty years with the DNR how many silencers had you encountered in the field before this situation?”
“None.”
“This was the first one in twenty years?” Doolin looked surprised. It was more playacting.
“Yes.”
“Your first ever, and defense counsel would have us believe that there were two?”
“Objection!” Bois shouted again. “Leading the witness.”
Doolin slicked his hair back with his left hand and said, “Thank you, Officer Service.”
“The witness is excused,” the judge said.
Doolin piped up, “Your Honor, the defense is going to haul in a battalion of medical experts, and I see no reason for Officer Service to remain here. He has plenty of other duties to attend to.”
“Fine by me,” Peltinen said, “but I would like for him to sit tight for a few minutes. Can do?” he asked, glancing at Service.
“Yessir,” the CO said, taking a seat in the gallery.
“Good,” Peltinen said. “Mister Bois, I know you got yourself some fancy tech-talkers all lined up to snow us rubes, but I’ve done some research myself. A friend of mine from the U of M, he’s a big-shot internist now, board certified, AMA, all that. He went to the AMA for some scientific information, and they said there’s no such thing as intoxication by sweets. Is your client a diabetic?”
“Yes, Your Honor, and he is insulin dependent.”
“Thank you. Since he didn’t go into shock, we can rule out that pesky Twinkie. See, a diabetic goes into shock and can get cuckoo when his sugar is too low. If the diabetic gets too much sugar, he goes off the air, not on a shooting spree. I know this is going to be a controversial ruling and naturally you’ve got the right to appeal, but we get too many folks trying to play games with the court these days and I don’t like it one bit.”
“Your Honor,” Bois whined, his voice strained.
“Put your butt on that chair, counselor. I am directing a verdict of guilty. We don’t play games up here and we’ve heard enough baloney. Out east this sort of thing is called junk science. Which means it isn’t science at all. I’m not going to insult the intelligence of this jury or waste anybody else’s time jawing over a buncha horsebleep.”
“This will be ov
erturned,” Bois said angrily.
The client looked dumbfounded, but Service knew it was an act. The jerk had concocted this whole thing before he poached, and it was a crime that the system had to take it this far. Even if the man appealed and won it was going to cost him a fortune, and right now all Service wanted was justice, in whatever form was possible.
“Maybe it will, but after you and your client get done talking to the feds, I doubt you’ll be singing that song. Bailiff, please take the jury to the deliberation room.”
They were out less than fifteen minutes.
Guilty on all charges.
When the verdict was announced, the judge set a date for sentencing. The feds were waiting to take custody of the defendant outside the courtroom.
Grady Service stopped by the defendant and leaned down. The man suddenly threw himself at the CO. The bailiff, a security guard, and two burly court employees pulled the two men apart.
The Duck Inn was a tavern at a dirt crossroads ten miles south of Marquette, a worn-out place where COs, rangers, loggers, cops of all flavors, and lawyers gathered after business hours.
“What did you say to him?” Doolin asked, hoisting a beer in salute.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No?” Doolin’s eyebrows popped up.
“I gave him a Twinkie.”
Doolin’s beer exploded down his chin as he began to laugh.
Sergeant Lisette McKower came into the bar thirty minutes after Doolin and Service arrived. She stood in the door and made eye contact with Service, who followed her to another table where they could have privacy.
McKower was five-five, 120, with short brown hair, a long neck, and tiny hands. The first time Service saw her he thought they’d sent him a cheerleader, but she had been twenty-four, had spent three summers as a USFS smokejumper, and it turned out that she was smart and as tough as moosehide. Nothing rattled her.
“You eat?” she asked.
“What happened to your diet?”
“Put your sarcasm away, Grady. How’d court go?”
“Guilty on all charges. Peltinen directed the verdict. The feds have him now.”
“Twinkie defense,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ve heard some strange ones in our day, but that’s a top-fiver for sure. I’m going to order, okay?”
Ice Hunter (Woods Cop Mystery 1) Page 5