Ice Hunter (Woods Cop Mystery 1)

by Heywood, Joseph

  Service didn’t want to talk hockey. That life was done, just like Vietnam, and he wasn’t one to dog-paddle in the past. His old man had played for the Chicago Black Hawks in the 1940–41 season and had started the next year in Chicago, but the morning after Pearl Harbor he had gone down to the recruiting office on State Street and joined the Marine Corps, not returning until 1945. His old man never went back to Chicago; he had returned to the U.P., married, and three years later Service was born. But it was a hard delivery for his mother, and within a year she had died. The old man had become a CO when he got back from the war and, after his wife’s death, had begun to drink too much and bury himself in his work. The old man had done his best for him, but Service knew that playing mother and father was too much for him. Often when the old man was out all night chasing bad guys or drinking, Service was dropped at various neighbors. Or with his Grandmother Vonnie, who thought he was crazy. Even before the shotgun deal.

  He didn’t like thinking about his past, except as it related to his job. What was it about work being a living and not a life? He tried to block out his ex-wife’s words and refocus on his purpose in meeting with Lemich.

  “Maybe we can take in a game sometime,” Lemich said.

  Service agreed, only to get the subject changed.

  Lemich chewed his cigar. “Okay, if this isn’t about hockey, what the hell do you want?”

  Service opened a plastic bag and put the aerial photos on the professor’s desk. He had never owned a briefcase. He used grocery bags to haul around what he needed.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  Lemich drummed his fingers and leaned down close to the photos.

  “Granite. Was there a fire?”

  Service nodded.

  “Geologists are dirt-grubbers, not flyboys.” He pushed the photos back to Service. “Circular formation, but it’s hard to say if that’s significant or serendipity. I need to analyze the rocks chemically. Rocks are real. Appearances can mislead you, but chemicals rarely lie. If you make a mistake, it’s your fault, not the rocks’. They are what they are. At an eyeball, this stuff looks vaguely volcanic, but I just can’t tell for sure. Have you got magnometer readings?”

  “What’re they?”

  “They measure the strength of magnetism. You chart the lines, you can pick out highs, lows, shapes of magnetic structures. Good shit, can tell you heaps.”

  “How do you measure?”

  “Well, first it has to be a planned, methodical survey. A chopper carries a package of instruments, and the pilot goes up and down the plot. Then the readings get translated and mapped by a computer.”

  “Always by chopper?”

  “Usually. It’s the fastest and most economical way.”

  “What’s the instrument package look like?”

  “I can show you,” Lemich said. He went to a file drawer and pulled out a pamphlet. “This is a book about geology for kids, but there’s a good photo.”

  Service blinked when he saw what the professor was pointing to.

  “Weird, eh? A lot of people in the business call it a bird, but I sure as hell don’t see a resemblance to any bird I know of.”

  “Canada goose,” the conservation officer said.

  Lemich looked. “A honker? I’ll be damned. You’re right.”

  The chopper over the Tract had been measuring magnetism. Right where the gems had been found. Not a coincidence, Service thought.

  “That’s a Huey in the picture,” Service said. “Do they always use Hueys?”

  “Not always, but pretty much. They’re old pieces of shit, but they’re roomy, they still fly, and they’re cheap and fairly reliable if you don’t push ’em too far or too high.”

  “Does the university do magnetic surveys?”

  “Shit no. Can’t afford to keep a chopper on staff, or even the magnometer. We rent what we need and bring it in. Some of the faculty do some as part of their work, but we always have to go get most of what we need.”

  “Including the instrument package?”

  “Yep. We have the computer programs to translate, but not the hardware.”

  “Are there places that rent this stuff in the U.P.?”

  “Nope. I know outfits in Boulder and Butte. There might be half a dozen in the whole country. ’Course, if you get one of them in, you still need a technician to calibrate the instrument package and make sure you have an accurate interface with the computer program. That stuff can be touchy, especially in a chopper, shaking all over the sky. Otherwise, you get gobbledygook and pixel snaps.”

  “Do the companies have these kinds of technicians?”

  “Most do, but when we do surveys, we use our own people.”

  “Tech has such people?”

  “Three, I think. What’re you after?”

  You had to read people, Service thought. Take a chance.

  “It’s complicated,” the conservation officer said. “Might be easier if I showed you. Got a couple of days for some fieldwork?”

  Lemich grinned, dug a specimen hammer out of a desk drawer and held it up. “Can I crawl around in the dirt and whack some rocks?”

  15

  Gus Turnage was waiting for Service at Shark Wetelainen’s motel office. Shark had a fly-tying table crammed into his office; hackle capes, snowshoe hare fur, jungle cock feathers, and tail feathers from turkeys and pheasants, patches of moose, deer, and elk hair were scattered all over the place. It was a pure sportsman’s chaos, no place for everything and nothing in its place, but it only looked a disaster to others. He was actually meticulously organized and always operating a season ahead in preparing his equipment and tying flies.

  “Good meeting?” Turnage asked, offering a cup of fresh coffee.

  “Ain’t no good meetings!” Shark barked, not bothering to look up from a tiny vise where he was fashioning a gaudy steelhead fly with holographic flash above.

  Service gave Turnage three names. “These people are technicians. They measure magnetism and they all work for Tech. I need for you to talk to them. I want to know if they’ve done a job recently on the Mosquito, either for Tech or freelance. All these university types freelance and consult.”

  Gus grunted. “Can do. Posthaste?”

  “Please.”

  “Piece of cake,” Turnage said.

  “Cake?” Shark said, looking up suddenly. “Who’s got cake?”

  As soon as he left Shark’s place, Service got on his phone and dialed Harry Digna. A woman answered the phone.

  “DNR, Officer Service. Is Harry there?”

  He heard the woman pass the phone. “DNR. What have you been up to this time.”

  “Nothin’, just keep your nose out of my business, eh?”

  The woman cursed and her voice receded.

  “Yeah?” Digna answered.

  “You’ve been quiet, Bird.”

  “I’ve been asking around,” Digna said. “It’s not easy, eh?”

  He didn’t expect Digna to come up with anything, but pushing helped keep him in line and there was always the possibility of luck. Birdman ran with lowlives with loose lips.

  “Tougher than the alternative?”

  “I told you I’d do it.”

  “That your wife who answered?”

  “Don’t push,” Digna said nervously.

  “This is a friendly chat,” Service said. “When I push, you’ll feel it.”

  “You get your rocks off fucking with people’s minds?”

  “Only if they have minds,” Service said. “Be in touch, Bird.”

  Near Assinins, Keweenaw Bay nearly touches Old Des Rochers Road, now a segment of US 41. The morning was sunny with some clouds, the wind calm. Cloud shadows moved majestically over the calm water of the bay. As Service drove south he looked toward the water’s edge and saw a man walking with a rifle. He parked immediately, got out, and walked down to the gravelly beach.

  The rifle had a scope. The man carried the weapon in one hand; the sling drooped, dragging the
stock along the gravel. The man was stark naked, moving slowly. Service used his handheld radio to call the state police post in Baraga, identified himself, told the dispatcher the situation and location, and requested backup. “Tell them no bells and whistles.” A naked man stumbling along a beach suggested mental illness, perhaps even a potential suicide. A siren might push him over the edge. Take no chances, he warned himself, stumbling along.

  Backup on the way, Service paralleled the man’s route and observed. The man’s feet were bloody from the sharp edges of the rocks, and he walked stiff legged.

  When the man halted, Service stopped and looked back to see if backup had arrived. It hadn’t.

  A seagull soaring overhead let out a grating squawk. The man fumbled with the rifle and aimed it in the air. He tried to pull the trigger several times, but the weapon didn’t discharge. Drunk, Service decided. The rifle’s safety was on and the man couldn’t figure it out. This was good.

  A glance told him that backup was still not there.

  “Sir?”

  The man didn’t react.

  “Sir?”

  The man looked over his shoulder at the conservation officer. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Sir, please put the rifle on the ground and step away from it.”

  “My rifle.”

  “Place the rifle on the ground, please.”

  Another seagull sound caused the man to swing the rifle skyward again.

  “Sir, don’t shoot. Just put the rifle down.”

  The man jerked at the trigger and, when nothing happened, took the rifle by the barrel and flung it spinning into the water.

  At least he was unarmed now. “Sir, I want to help you.”

  “Got mead?” the man asked.

  Mead? “No sir, just sit down. Your feet are bleeding.”

  The man lifted a foot and looked at the blood. “Who took my shoes?” he asked.

  “Sir, sit down so you don’t cut them anymore.”

  Service looked back and saw a state trooper jogging toward them. Service moved cautiously toward the man on the cobbled beach. “Sir?”

  “Okay, okay.” He bent his knees to sit and fell backward. His head hit the rocks with a loud thunk and the man’s arms spread out.

  The trooper caught up. Service pointed. “He had a rifle and threw it in the water.”

  “I saw.”

  Service nodded and approached the prone man.

  “Sir?”

  “Yah, I can hear.”

  Service knelt nearby but did not get close. The trooper traipsed into the water, found the rifle, and picked it up. He stomped over to Service. “I hate getting wet. Now I’ll have to change uniforms.”

  “Call EMS. He’s cut bad on the feet.” The trooper talked into the radio microphone attached near his collar while Service spoke calmly to the man.

  “We’re gonna get you a doctor, sir.”

  “Got no insurance,” the man said.

  “Don’t worry about that now.”

  The trooper stood behind Service. “I don’t need this today.”

  “You know him?”

  “Unfortunately. Name’s George Stix. He used to be a lawyer, but he lost his license. He’s psychotic. Last we knew he was in a rubber room in Grand Rapids. Let’s get cuffs on him. He can be unpredictable. Don’t let his age fool you.”

  The naked man suddenly sat up. “You may not touch royalty.”

  Service looked at the trooper, who said, “He thinks he’s a king.”

  “George the Forty-Third,” the man said haughtily.

  “Your Highness,” the trooper said, “roll over on your stomach and put your hands behind you.”

  “I only obey God,” George said.

  “Which god?” the trooper said.

  “What day is this?”

  “Roll over, George.”

  The prone man exhaled deeply and started to roll, but he quickly changed positions and shot forward like a crab, catching the trooper just below the knee and knocking him down.

  Service grabbed the man by the hair and dropped on top of him, but the man pulled away and head-butted the conservation officer in the face. The pain blinded Service, but he still had hold of the man and pushed him down. The trooper yelled, “Roll him over!”

  When the man was over, the trooper cuffed him and stood up.

  Service was still seeing stars when the trooper said, “Shit,” and fell beside him.

  “My fucking ankle,” the trooper hissed. “I think the bastard broke it.”

  Service rubbed his face. His hand came away covered by bright red blood. He felt his nose and knew it was broken and off center. The pain in his face was not relenting. He pulled up the trooper’s wet pant leg and felt along the bones. The man winced.

  “We’ll let EMS take care of it,” Service said. “Don’t move.”

  The trooper said, “Your faced is fucked up.”

  When the Bay Ambulance Service vehicle arrived, the techs gave Service a towel to hold against his face while they worked on George the Forty-Third and strapped him onto a stretcher. One of the emergency techs went for another stretcher for the trooper.

  The EMS team wanted Service to ride in the ambulance, but he refused. The blood had stopped flowing. Now he felt numbness in his cheek and a headache taking root. He followed the ambulance to Baraga County Memorial Hospital on Main Street in L’Anse. When he got inside, the trooper and George were already in examining rooms. A nurse looked at Service and shook her head sympathetically. “Bad day?”

  “It’s just beginning,” he said.

  “A doctor will be right here.” She showed him to a small room, sat him on the examining table, and attached a blood pressure sleeve. “We’re going to need some X rays.”

  “I’ve had broken noses before.”

  “It’s your cheek I’m worried about,” she said. “Your blood pressure’s up,” she added, storing the sphygmomanometer after she had taken his pressure.

  The red-haired doctor wore a pale green smock and sandals with no socks. The exam took about fifteen minutes. “I need to get moving,” Service said.

  “Let’s just get some pictures, then we can talk, okay? Meanwhile, stay still and remain here.”

  “What about the trooper?”

  “His ankle’s broken. We’re setting it now.”

  While Service was in X ray, a logger was brought in. He had severed his hand with a saw. The entire emergency team focused on that.

  Service was taken back to the exam room, where he lay down. His headache got progressively worse. He lost track of time and felt sleepy.

  The next thing he knew, he was on a gurney and being taken somewhere. He tried to ask questions, but words wouldn’t come out.

  When he awoke, the doctor was beside his bed. “You’re back.”

  Service looked around. “When did I leave?” The doctor laughed. Service looked around the room, which was a sterile white. There was an IV stand beside the bed. A clear plastic line snaked down into his arm. “What happened?”

  “Concussion,” the doctor said. “Moderate. Your nose is broken, but that should heal if you don’t bang it again. There’s a hairline crack in your cheek. You’re gonna need to stand down for a few days.”

  Service lifted the arm with the IV. “Get it out.”

  The doctor nodded to a nurse and she set about freeing him.

  “When you get home, see your own physician,” the doctor said. He placed two prescription sheets on the table by the bed. “Get those filled. They’re for pain. If headaches persist, get to your physician. Concussions aren’t minor injuries.”

  When Service got outside, the sky looked wrong. He checked his watch. It was the next morning. “Shit,” was all he could say.

  On his way east, he called Sergeant Parker and explained what had happened.

  “You’re okay to drive?”

  “I am driving.”

  “You will see another doctor before you return to duty.”

 
“Right,” Service said, signing off.

  Kira was going to be worried.

  Newf raced out of the house when Kira opened the door and Kira came flying right behind the dog. She stopped when she looked at his face. “My God, Grady!”

  “I had a problem,” he said.

  She showered him with gentle kisses. “You’ve been gone a month. No, a year!”

  “It was just two nights.”

  “I was worried,” she said in a tone he couldn’t read. Was she criticizing him?

  She insisted he go to bed and made an ice pack from plastic bags.

  After his nap, she made a salad of romaine lettuce, arugula, and avocado, and a small pizza with yellow squash, mozzarella, and lemon thyme on a crust no thicker than paper. He took a couple of sips of a glass of beer, then pushed the glass away.

  He told her about the mother wolf and her pups and eating fresh trout. He was about to tell her about his encounters with the grandmother, teacher, Lemich, and all the rest, but the telephone interrupted him.

  It was McKower. “Rollie Harris died this afternoon.”

  Service felt weak and grabbed the chair for support. Harris was the district’s lieutenant, a forty-year-old who led his people intelligently and held his ground against the muck-a-mucks in Lansing with diplomacy, never selling out his COs.

  “What happened?” Rollie had been a fanatic about conditioning and was always on everybody’s ass to keep in shape.

  “He was fishing with Lanny and had a heart attack. They were up on the Yellow Dog. Lanny used their cellular to call for help and gave him mouth-to-mouth, but he was dead when the emergency team got there. Poor girl,” McKower added.

  “Damn,” was all Service could say. Lanny was Harris’s fourteen-year old daughter, his only child. “How’s Jean?” Rollie’s wife.

  “Strong for the moment. You know how she is. The burial will be at Big Bay the day after tomorrow, no church service. Jean and Lanny want you and me to be pallbearers.”

  “They can count on me,” Service said.

  “We all count on you, Grady.”

  Why did she have to say that? As long as he had known McKower she had always put him on a pedestal and tried to make him out to be more than he was.