Then, he called Friday. “That vet, Anna Tork. Did she keep any hair samples from Sean Nepo’s place?”
“I don’t know, and I’m kind of busy. Where are you now?”
“Passing Three Lakes. Be there in no time.”
She hung up.
Service called the biologist again. “Twenty Point Pond, mouth of the Little Huron, Ketchkan, and Bulldog Lakes—moosewise and deerwise, how do those places match up?”
“Not a lot of moose anywhere up there, but more at those locations than most places.”
“Deer?”
“Good mast crops for fall, extreme isolation, minimal human interference . . . not a lot of deer, but conducive to growing some big ones.”
“Low hunter pressure?”
“Probably nonexistent in all but Twenty Point Pond, and there aren’t many deer there.”
“What about Beaver Lake in Baraga County, south of Parent Lake?”
“Yeah, Haley Creek, Lateral Creek—lots of good swamp and moose food. That’s pretty good moose country, not like those other spots.”
“Thanks,” Service said.
“What about that tooth?”
“Soon as I get a chance. You know a vet from Trenary, Anna Tork?”
“Know of her. She’s fairly new.”
“Give her a bump, ask her if she kept any hair samples from the Nepo crime scene. That’s N-E-P-O crime scene, near Sands; got it?”
“I’ll call her. And if she’s got the samples?”
“Ask if you can see them, see what you think.”
“I’m on it,” Pilkington said, ending the call.
Service pocketed his phone.
“Pipple say ain’t safe talk cellphony driving,” Allerdyce said self-righteously. “Sonnyboy.”
“Bite me,” Service said.
20
Saturday, November 8
BEAVER LAKE, BARAGA COUNTY
The road to the small lake was flanked by a tamarack-fringed marsh beyond a cedar tree line on the east side, and a series of marsh ponds and low jack-pine scrub country to the west. Emergency vehicles were all nosed into the trees on the southwest part of the lake. Service parked and made his way through the maze to Tuesday Friday, who was sitting on a picnic bench staring off into the distance. The table was beside a small cabin that looked like it would fall over if a hummingbird crashed into it.
Service saw a grassy, open area across the lake, and some dwellings, signs of civilization, however small and remote.
“I’m guessing this is the other side of the tracks,” he greeted Friday. “ME here yet?”
“Still waiting on him,” she said. “Jerry Dove; you know him?”
“Nope.”
“Lucky you. He’s an officious, lazy little prig. The body’s inside. Lucky us: Seems the perp left everything this time,” she added. “He wants this one identified.”
Or doesn’t care, or this one’s not connected, Service told himself.
One-room cabin, outdoor privy, well water through a red pump handle at a sink, ancient woodstove in the middle of the room. Old fireplace on one end. Some mattresses on the floor. Paper bags tacked inside windows, distressed wood board walls, spiderwebs in corners, piles of dessicated fly corpses everywhere, not to mention live ones buzzing over the female remains. The perp had left all the parts—just not attached to each other. Jen Maki and a tech were marking evidence against a string grid they’d assembled.
“Yo,” Service greeted her.
“Back atcha,” Maki said. “Can you believe I went to school especially so I could do this job?”
“I hear you,” he said. But he didn’t really understand. His work was a calling, not just a job. He’d assumed Maki’s work was similar. “Look like the same perp to you?”
“They don’t pay me to think about things like that,” the woman said.
“What if they did?”
She shrugged. “Just as violent, but all of her parts appear to be present or accounted for. How do you add up all this shit?”
He had no idea, didn’t care to push anymore, went back out to Friday. “Think we’ll need another vet?” she asked, her tone edgy, words clipped, and charged.
“I was just following the rules, Detective. Nothing personal.”
“It felt personal to me,” she snapped, “like you were trying to tell me how to do my job.”
“Not in the way you mean,” he said. He didn’t want another argument.
“I floated an idea and you kicked the shit out of me.”
“I kicked the idea, not you.”
“The idea was mine. You kick it, you kick me.”
“Bullshit. You have to separate the dancer from the dance. You want me to keep quiet even when you seem to want an opinion, yes, B’wana?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she said, grinning. “Did you vote?”
“Absolutely.”
She rolled her eyes. “And we’re supposed to provide positive role models for good citizenship for our kids,” she said.
“Did you vote?” he asked.
“Yeah, I was in line right behind you.”
They both laughed. Service said, “I asked our moose guy to call Anna Tork, see if she kept any hair samples from Nepo’s place.”
Friday looked up at him. “Why?”
He took out the bag with the tooth and showed her the dead moose photos on his camera.
“This stuff relates to my cases how?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Maybe not at all,” he said. “But my gut tells me to press it. I heard there was some dogman coverage on Detroit TV.”
“ ‘Is legendary dogman on a U.P. killing spree? Story at eleven.’ That kind of shit,” she said. “God, what assholes.”
“Where’d the story come from?” he asked.
“Unknown. No sources cited, much less alluded to, this being the golden age of sourceless news we used to call tabloid fiction.”
“What kind of crime details?”
“Minimal: Four dead, some bodies mutilated, investigation a high priority, DNR involved.”
“Four? They know about Nepo?”
“Maybe.”
“This last one?” he pressed.
“I don’t know, Grady. Good God.”
“Got your way then,” he said.
She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Why doesn’t it feel better?” she complained.
“Never does.”
“This going to make it tougher on you?” Friday asked.
“Don’t know yet. Maybe, maybe not. But how Nepo and this one get reported could make a difference. If it supports earlier rumors, we could be piling on.”
She said, “I’m thinking we’ll call this one a suspected homicide, but not the same as the others; probably different perp, different MO, no evidential links to previous cases. We’ll call Nepo a suspicious death.”
“You believe that?”
She waved a hand. “Does it matter? I’ll just wait for the tox results to see what science can deliver to law enforcement.”
“Are we all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Peachy. We’re just fine,” she said. “There’s a lot of pride and attitude in both these houses.”
He nodded. “Truer words. Too much testosterone. This body staying with Baraga County?”
Friday smiled. “No, I want everything in Marquette to keep all the evidence close, and, by the way, you need a shower. Bad.”
“I know. Uphill hiking and tent life—lethal combo on BO.”
“You look at the body in the cabin?”
“Not piece by piece. Did the perp butcher her?”
“Probably.”
“Anybody recognize her?”
“Not yet. We may issue a face photo.”
; “No ID?”
“Empty purse; it’s with the evidence.” She pointed behind her with her thumb.
Jen Maki and another tech had set up a table to record and coordinate each piece of evidence from the scene. Service went to the table, found a clear bag with a black purse, and picked it up. There was a smaller bag in the bottom of the bag. “What’s this gizzy?” he asked Maki when she came outside.
“It was attached to the purse handle. Musta come loose.”
Grady Service stared. It was the same small bag, with the same symbols as the one on Kelly Johnstone’s trailer at the gorge. What’re the odds of that? He waved for Friday to join him and she sauntered over.
“What?” she asked.
“See the little bag in here?” he held up the big plastic bag with the purse.
“Decorative,” she said.
“I’ve seen another one just like it,” he said, and explained.
Friday asked, “Should I call Johnstone, ask her what it means?”
“She’s not the cooperative type.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like men,” Friday said. “We all have days like that.”
“All men, or certain men?” he asked.
“Both,” she said.
Service opened the evidence bag and took photographs of the pouch.
“Outta here,” he told Friday, who nodded, touched his leg behind his knee, and patted him gently.
21
Sunday, November 9
SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP
No call from Pilkington, and no answer when Service tried to call the biologist. Not a surprise; it was mostly COs who worked weekends and nights in the DNR. Limpy took Donte DeJean home and said he had to check his own place before coming back. This left the three musketeers, a nasty cat, and giant mutt.
Service awoke to gunshots and ran into the living room to find Noonan and Treebone on the front porch, pouring .40 caliber rounds into a target on a tree. He yelled, “Somebody declare war?”
“Just stayin’ ready,” Noonan said.
“It’s Sunday,” Service said. “Nobody declares war on a Sunday in the U.P. It’s a rule. How about you get your butts inside and make coffee, not bulletholes.”
A white Ford Ranger pulled up in front and Cale Pilkington, all three hundred pounds of him, squeezed out and waddled to the front door. He was carrying a brown leather briefcase, slung over his shoulder.
“Tried to call you,” Service greeted the man.
“Range and reception issues. Remember when ‘R and R’ meant rest and recuperation?”
Service laughed.
Pilkington said, “I went to see Tork. She had extra hair samples.” He tapped his briefcase. “What about that tooth?”
Service showed him to the table, got him seated, gave him coffee, introduced Noonan and Treebone, and handed him the plastic bag with the tooth.
The biologist put on rubber gloves and took out the tooth. “Jesus,” he said.
“Freak, maybe?” Service offered.
“No, they’ve shot and trapped some massive specimens up in northern Canada, two hundred pounds plus, but the teeth of two-hundred-pounders aren’t appreciably different than the choppers of an eighty-pounder. Freak size doesn’t provide a biological explanation.”
“What does?”
“Start with DNA, see where it takes us.”
“Where?”
“Ashland,” Pilkington said.
National Fish and Wildlife Forensics Laboratory in Oregon. “They’ll take it? There’s no crime involved.”
“Scientists,” Pilkington said. “We can’t ignore something like this, even if it turns out to be nothing. This tooth and your photos will get their attention.”
“We’ve got meat, hair, and some bone from both kills.”
“Great; that enhances the package.”
Service got the evidence out of the freezer in his garage, put it all in an ice cooler, and brought it to the biologist. “What about the hair?”
“She had quite a bit extra, four different samples. I’ll send a couple of hairs from each batch.”
“Turnaround time?”
“Not fast, but first we need to get accepted into the system and queue. We’re talking weeks on the short side, months on the other end.”
“Won’t hold our breath,” Service said.
The biologist finished his coffee, said good-bye, and left.
Treebone looked at his friend. “Where your head?”
“You were going to get me a name, the head street shinob in Detroit?”
“Down through a crack,” Tree said. “Suit, you know the secret tom-tom for Motown Shinobs?”
“No, but I can find out quick-like.”
“How fast?” Service asked.
“Drive down to D, ask Tonia Sorrowhorse?”
“Can’t call her?”
“She believes all technology is from the devil or some such shit.”
Service knew the woman from way back. He thought she was Oneida and Cree, tall, elegant, sinewy, uber smart (both book- and street-), and fearless, street name of Bambi. He’d first met her at an all-night honk run by a Delray bohunk, a placed called Stozely’s. She hung there sometimes, but lived in a fortified house off West Jeff, the air there once sulfurous from nearby plant emissions. “How old is she now?” Service asked.
Noonan tilted his head and squinted. “No idea. We driving or staying?”
“Tree?”
“I go back to D, I got to see Kalina, she’ll honey-do-list me. I’ll stay right here. You boys have fun.”
“Play nice if Allerdyce comes around,” Service told him.
“Hey, we can talk about election results.”
•••
Noonan took a deep breath and scowled as they drove toward the bridge. “Clean air up here will kill a motherfucker,” he complained.
“Fresh air, no pollution—light, sound, or air—great scenery . . . This is paradise, Suit.”
“Man, I found this hooker floatin’ titties up in the Rouge one morning. Somebody capped and dumped her. She got hung up in the effluent of the JAP, the Jestrom Avenue Plant. Chemicals turn her skin color of egg yolks. Water was all chartreuse, smell like old socks, blue smoke hangin’ over the river. My idea of true beauty, not two fucking thousand different shades of green, like this shit up here. Others come see that body, they power-yack Olympic distances, even the damn EMTs. Me, I liked that shit. Good reminder what my job was. I hate Detroit and she hate me. Perfect marriage. Why destroy such good chemistry and balance? Bad cop is a great quality in a cop in a bad town, and D, she be the worst. Get back there, it’ll be like fresh oxygen up my nose, man.”
Service grinned. “Any reason to check in with 1300 Beaubien, let them know we’re in their patch?”
Noonan said, “Multiple floors of assholes at 1300, all working political mind-fucks. Got four thousand cops on the payroll, and lucky to get five hundred to show for duty every day. Nobody give a shit, man. Call 911, you might get a response in eight hours—on a good day. Back in the seventies and eighties, all the city fathers blabbered on about Detroit Renaissance, and I think, What the fuck is sixteenth-century Europe gonna teach a giant clusterfuck on a death roll? Fuck that 1300 Beaubien shit.”
22
Monday, November 10
DETROIT
Friday telephoned Service as they made their way south. “I’ve been trying to call Johnstone since I saw you Friday. No luck, no call-backs, no dice.”
Service promised to follow up, and called Dani Denninger right away. “You been watching Johnstone’s place?”
“Not in several days. I’ve been scouting, trying to get myself ready for the deer opener.” This meant finding illegal bait and blinds, and other suspicious setups to visit opening morning. It was one of the busiest t
imes of year for most game wardens. He couldn’t blame her for making it a priority, and it was a reminder that he’d prefer to be doing the same.
“Check it out, will you? See if she’s around. If not, ask neighbors.”
“Something make you think she boogied?”
“Maybe. Also, look and see if there’s a little bag hanging on her door.”
“Like last time?” Denninger said.
“Yeah.” Good. She’d seen it, too.
Noonan directed him into southwest Detroit, West Vernor near Marshall: Latinoland, Voodoostan, Geekville. Someone had spray-painted a wall: detroit: where the weak are killed and eaten. The people of the city had never had any false illusions about their burg.
His thought: Finally, truth in advertising. All he could think about was the old joke about how Detroit looked like Beirut. Bullshit. Beirut looked like Detroit, and was the worse for it. The city of soul had little left, had squandered most of what it had in the sixties, and never recaptured it. Diana Ross had cut and run, which should have rung alarm bells, but the city’s leaders and denizens, then as now, were mostly blind to the obvious. Even if they had been able to read the tea leaves, what could they have done about major social upheaval?
A red van in front of them had a bumper sticker that read have you hugged your bitch today? Not necessarily intended for dog lovers, he thought.
Their destination was Lucy Rommey’s joint, appropriately called Lucy’s. Long ago it had boasted the best black bean soup north of Havana.
Noonan said, “Eighty-nine, Eulogio Protracio commence whacking people he found disagreeable, which pretty much took in everyone. He’d snatch ’em, put plastic bags from his old man’s bakery over their heads, and suffocate their asses, drop the bodies near relatives’ houses. Eulogio’s other indulgence was PCP, which he popped like Jujubes.
“One Christmas morning I’m souping with Luce and I get a call: Some douchebag is down in the park half-mile away banging away with an AK-47, trying to off a buncha brothers and their Latin competitors. Park was DMZ, no violence zone, by agreement between two bent-ass crews, Latino Lords and the African Rangers. I run down there and what do I see but this asshole blasting away on full auto: It’s my boy, Eulogio. I get up behind him, grab the wep, kick him in the balls, and beat his face so raw he pukes his spleen. Uniforms haul his ass away. That day I got points all the way around. Fine day, best day in long time.”
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