Riverwatcher

by Ronald Weber

  “This letter,” Stroud asked, “how’d Charlie know where to send it?”

  “It was sent to the magazine’s editorial office in New York. The envelope was forwarded to me.”

  “Anybody else read it?”

  “No reason they should.”

  “But you kept it?”

  “For a time I did.”

  “For a time,” Stroud repeated.

  Proffit nodded. “I realize an explanation is needed. I let the letter remain on my desk, rereading it now and then, mulling over its possibilities for a piece. That’s how I operate—letting ideas percolate, seeing if my interest holds up. I’ve learned over the years not to trust immediate enthusiasms. With Charlie’s complaint about poaching, my interest eventually waned. I burned the letter. I always do with letters from readers. I don’t want my correspondence ending up in a public landfill.”

  “So if your interest didn’t hold up, I don’t suppose you answered the letter.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yet here you are—out in Michigan. Now why’s that?”

  Proffit offered a fleeting smile. “Try to understand. I burned the letter but remembered it perfectly. It was gone, but I couldn’t get it out of my mind.”

  “Your interest returned.”

  “Exactly. You think you’ve dismissed an idea, but it stays with you. You reach a point where, almost despite yourself, you have to pursue it. So I got in my car and drove out. I had to see if I really had a piece to write. That’s one of the marks of the column. I don’t stay glued to a word processor, describing what other people have seen. I came here to find out if Charlie knew what he was talking about. He said he camped through the summer at a place called Rainbow Run, fished mostly at night, and that was how he knew about poachers. It seemed unusual, camping the entire summer, so I wanted to check that out too. I needed to get a firm fix on Charlie, make sure he wasn’t a crazy of some sort, before I went fishing with him, saw his evidence. So I set up camp for myself at Rainbow Run.”

  Stroud put a hand to his chin, looking at Proffit, silent. Finally he said, “That’s very interesting—how you work and all. But it leaves a problem. Charlie’s not here to tell about this letter, and you can’t produce it. I’m left to take your word for it.”

  “There’s absolutely no reason, sheriff, not to.”

  “Is that so?” Then Stroud said, “Let’s move on. You’re in the campground and you’re making notes about Charlie.”

  “I assumed you’d find them. I didn’t plan on leaving my camp so soon.”

  “And went down to Big Rapids, made more notes.”

  “I investigated Charlie’s background before I left Vermont. I knew the town he came from. I went there, looked around before I came up here. As I say, I wanted to make sure Charlie wasn’t crazy.”

  “All right. You were at Rainbow Run and checking on Charlie because of this letter he wrote you about poaching. Go ahead.”

  “When he went out fishing in the evening, I followed his pickup from the campground, ended up on the wilderness stretch along the South Branch, all flies-only, catch-and-release water. I knew about the Borchard—I had read about it—though I’d never fished it. I wasn’t entirely lost on the South Branch. I saw where Charlie left his pickup, parked myself at the next access point, fished the river in the general vicinity of where he was fishing. A couple times I passed around a wader I thought might be him. In the dark I couldn’t tell for certain. But I could tell about the poachers.”

  “Wait,” Stroud interrupted. “You never spoke to Charlie?”

  “I never had the chance. I observed him, made notes, but—”

  “He was killed before you could?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you found out about poachers?”

  “There on the South Branch at night you nearly stumble over them. Flashlights on, threading worms on hooks, brazen about it. I saw stringers of fish. They’d sit on the bank, toss out lines with spinning rods, start campfires, drink beer. You could come up on them, stay back in the pines, watch. Charlie was right on target. Poachers are savaging the Borchard.”

  “And you think one of them killed him?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Until now,” Stroud said, “I didn’t know Charlie was worked up about poaching on the river.”

  “He was enough to write me. Look, it stands to reason a poacher killed him. He observed them on the river—same way I did. He’d been observing them for a long time. Someone could have noticed.”

  “Charlie wasn’t killed on the river.”

  “I know where he was killed. But what difference does it make? Poachers had reason to kill him. He knew what they were doing. It’s against the law.”

  “So is driving over the speed limit. Someone sees you do it, that adds up to reason for murder?”

  “Charlie was doing more than watching. He was blowing the whistle by writing me a letter.”

  Stroud said, “A letter you didn’t show to anybody else.”

  “But Charlie might have told someone about it—and that got back to some poachers. What’s more likely is that poachers knew nothing about the letter. They probably noticed him watching them, watching them night after night. Then one of them put two and two together.”

  “And concluded he needed to get rid of Charlie.”

  Proffit settled back in his chair. “We’re not talking, sheriff, about sensible people. We’re talking about total scum.”

  *  *  *

  STROUD TOLD ZACK Cox to switch off the recorder. Then he told Alec Proffit he needed to speak with his secretary. He wouldn’t be gone long.

  “Get Mercy on the phone,” he said to Elsie. “Tell her I want her over here quick as she can make it. Put her in my office when she comes.” He was moving back down the hallway when he said over his shoulder, “Fitzgerald, too, if you can find him. Tell him the same thing.”

  In the interrogation room, Stroud resumed his place behind the table, indicated to Zack to start the machine. Alec Proffit was in the same position in his chair, the same confident look on his face. It was a face, Stroud realized, that contrasted with his wrinkled shirt: It had the sheen of a fresh shave. Proffit had been missing from his campsite, but he obviously hadn’t spent the time wandering in the wilderness along the South Branch.

  “Go back. You were at Rainbow Run and keeping an eye on Charlie. You wanted to make certain he wasn’t a mad man of some sort before you talked to him about his letter. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you said you left the campground before you planned to. And you left gear there and your notes about Charlie. Now why was that?”

  “The night he was killed was the third night I’d followed him around on the South Branch. I knew his routine now on that part of the river, and I knew he was right about the extent of the poaching. The next day, at the campground, I was going to introduce myself to him. The way I was thinking about the column I’d write, it would be a personal narrative—a night of fishing with Charlie, seeing poachers at work on the same water, the next day the two of us going together to the DNR, asking why they weren’t cracking down. The whistle-blower, in other words, would now have some clout behind him.”

  “Will Woodsman.”

  “Exactly.”

  Stroud said, “But that doesn’t sound like Charlie, wanting himself written up in a magazine.”

  “He sent me a letter, remember. It was his initiative. He wrote to call attention to the poaching problem.”

  “Call attention to himself, I meant.”

  “Yet that was the whole point of the letter. One man taking action when the DNR wouldn’t.”

  “All right,” Stroud said. “We’re talking about why you left your camp.”

  “The night I’m talking about, the third night, I got into a couple decent-sized fish. I wasn’t fishing seriously, just going through the motions. I wanted any poachers who were noticing to take me for just another fisherman. One of those oddball
s who used flies, released fish, obeyed the regulations. You know how it goes. You aren’t serious, but you have good luck. After I hooked a pair of browns, I got more serious and largely forgot about Charlie and the poachers. The next thing I knew, the sky was lightening up—and I was hungry. Driving back from the South Branch I found a café that was open, a place called the Black Duck, and I stopped in. The place was full of fishermen who’d been out all night, some still in waders. I had a big breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast, the works—and by the time I got back to my car, the sun was up. The combination, big breakfast, sun . . . Well, I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, it was the middle of the morning.”

  “Somebody would remember you in the Black Duck?”

  “A waitress would. Maybe one of the fishermen.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I got to Rainbow Run, the campground was closed off, your people were there. I asked a deputy out on the road, he told me Charlie Orr had been shot to death in his tent. That was when I made a mistake.”

  “Oh?”

  “I should have told the deputy I was camped there, gone in, told you what I’m telling you now. Frankly, all I could think about was my column. Now with Charlie dead, it had suddenly gone up in smoke. I needed his cooperation, and now I couldn’t get it. I’d wasted my time in Michigan. I wasn’t thinking about why he had been shot, about who had done it.”

  Stroud let himself smile. “You were thinking about yourself.”

  “And something else. I remembered the notebook in my tent, what I’d written about Charlie. I knew your people would be searching the campground, that they’d likely find it, that it wouldn’t look good.”

  “For you.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you could have come in, explained about the notebook. Like you’re doing now.”

  Proffit lifted his hands in a gesture of agreement. “What I did was get back in the car, leave. I can’t explain why—except that it had something to do with disappointment over losing the column about Charlie. You get wrapped up in those things. They take you over. And there was something in the back of my mind, something—right then—I couldn’t quite get a hold on. At any event, I left the campground, drove into Ossning. I needed a shower and shave. And time to think. I stopped at the first motel I saw, the Wolverine, and got a room.”

  “Somebody would remember you there?”

  “The desk clerk would. And I can show you a receipt. I meant to stay long enough to get a toothbrush and razor, clean up, then—I stayed until this morning, as it turned out.”

  “We were looking for you. All the time you were there, in the Wolverine, vehicle parked outside your room?”

  “Yes.”

  Stroud glanced sharply at Zack Cox, then looked back at Proffit. “Why’d you come in now?”

  “Because I finally realized what was in the back of my mind, trying to get through the disappointment I felt over losing the column. Actually, Charlie’s death would make for a better column. I wouldn’t have his cooperation, but I’d have a hotter story than either he or I had bargained on.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Think about it. Charlie believed poachers were destroying the quality of fishing on the Borchard—and he was right. That was the column I was going to write. Then Charlie is murdered before I can do the column, and that ups the ante, poachers going so far as to kill him to cover up their activity. But the story, I realized, gets even better. Charlie’s letter to me was about the DNR as well as poachers, about the unwillingness to crack down. So—”

  “So you’re saying what, exactly?”

  Proffit said evenly, “What I said when we started. I know the types who had reason to kill Charlie Orr. Poachers, for one. DNR types, for another. If he complained to me about poaching on the river, he must have done so to others—others here in Michigan. You’d think writing to me would come only after he’d complained locally. He told me, remember, that the DNR wasn’t taking the poaching seriously enough. That could get back to people in positions of authority. They could understand it as dereliction of duty. They could want to cover that up.”

  Stroud waited a moment before he said, “That’s what you figured out at the Wolverine motel?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That Charlie Orr was killed by either poachers or the DNR?”

  “Imagine Will Woodsman saying that in Angling World.”

  “I’m trying to,” Stroud said.

  17

  “HE DO IT?” Mercy asked the moment Stroud entered his office.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. The guy from Vermont. Elsie said he turned himself in.”

  Stroud slowly released his breath, shook his head. “You know those big electronic bulletin-boards signs? We should stick one in front of the building, keep the town up-to-speed on law enforcement.”

  “It’s our fault,” Fitzgerald said. “We quizzed Elsie. We wondered why you wanted us over here.”

  “Well?” Mercy said.

  Stroud closed the office door, eased himself into the swivel chair behind the desk, absently patted a shirt pocket that once held cigarettes. “Any possibility we could keep this conversation among ourselves?”

  “Bonnie just went through with rolls from the bakery. What do you think?”

  Stroud shook his head again. “No point having a sign, not when we’ve got Elsie and Bonnie.”

  “Come on,” Mercy said.

  “Alec Proffit hasn’t been hiding out. He’s been staying in the Wolverine motel, presumably eating in some restaurant in town, driving a big Toyota Land Cruiser with Vermont plates, in full view of everybody except my deputies and the state police looking for him. This morning he waltzes in here, tells his story. We got it recorded on a cassette.” Stroud paused, looked at Fitzgerald before settling his gaze on Mercy. “Story about poachers.”

  “What?”

  “Proffit came out here because he claims Charlie wrote him a letter saying poachers were ruining fishing on the Borchard. He sent the letter to Angling World, and the magazine forwarded it to Proffit.”

  “Charlie read the magazine,” Fitzgerald said. “He’d know Will Woodsman.”

  Stroud held Mercy’s eyes. “You didn’t tell me Charlie was worked up over poaching on the river.”

  “I never thought about it,” she said.

  “Think about it now.”

  “He was concerned about it, yes, but I never made a connection between that and—” Mercy paused.

  “His murder?”

  She nodded and continued, “Every now and then he sent me a note in the mail about some poaching he’d seen. And he’d collect those empty worm containers along the river. When he had a plastic bag full, he’d leave it by the trash containers in the campground for the maintenance people to pick up. It was sort of a thing between us. The containers were evidence of what he was telling me in his notes, the poaching going on.

  “When I’d see him, I’d tell him I knew there was poaching—there always is—and our enforcement people were doing the best they could. We never argued about it. But we did have a difference of opinion. Charlie thought bait fishing in regulated water was a big reason fewer big trout were being caught. At best, it’s part of the reason. I agreed with him that there’s probably more poaching going on these days. More worm containers showing up, our enforcement people making more arrests. I don’t know why that is. Maybe it’s just more lawlessness in the country, especially in regard to government regulations. But the bottom line is that poaching isn’t the huge deal Charlie believed.”

  “Wait,” Stroud said. “Why would Charlie send you notes? Why didn’t he call or come to see you?”

  “He didn’t have a cell phone, though I told him he ought to. He shouldn’t be alone all the time without one. And it wasn’t his way to make a fuss directly. You know how soft spoken he was. He had opinions, but he wouldn’t push them on you. A note in the mail was Charlie’s way. Other peopl
e got them, too. The canoe liveries in town, for example. Charlie would send the owners notes suggesting they space out rentals at longer intervals, reducing congestion on the river. You know what Charlie was like. He was a natural-born riverwatcher.”

  “Okay. But when you and Charlie talked about poaching, what would he say?”

  “He’d hear me out, smile, turn the conversation to something else. A couple weeks later I’d get another note, and there would be a bag of worm containers in the campground. It was almost a running joke between us.” Mercy paused, glanced at Fitzgerald before looking back at Stroud. “At least I thought it was.”

  “According to Proffit, Charlie was serious enough to write to him. And Proffit took it seriously enough to come out from Vermont, camp at Rainbow Run, look into it. He says he decided Charlie was right about the poaching.”

  “Then Proffit’s wrong, too. Look, I’ve gone the rounds with other people about this. Calvin, for one. Poaching makes me as mad as anyone. Maybe more so. I know the harm it does the river. All I’ve ever said is not to go overboard, blame everything on it.”

  “Charlie was a reasonable man. How could he be so mistaken?”

  “He wasn’t mistaken. Not from his own perspective. Fishing at night, usually in the wilderness section of the South Branch, he saw poaching going on. He really saw it. But that, his closeness to it, got in the way of drawing back, putting poaching in the context of the entire river system and the fishing that takes place. From that perspective it’s not a major matter. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Stroud nodded, rubbed his chin, said, “Proffit’s got the notion some poacher killed Charlie. Charlie was blowing the whistle on the activity. The poacher wanted him stopped.”

  “But Charlie had been complaining about poaching for a long time. That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

  Fitzgerald said to Mercy, “If the complaint appeared in Will Woodsman’s column, think of the attention it would draw. There might be a big crackdown.”

  “That makes it sound like a conspiracy—poachers out to suppress magazine stories. Poachers aren’t an interest group. And how would they even know Charlie wrote Proffit? If he really did. Where’s the letter?”