Killing a Cold One

by Joseph Heywood

  “You know about the killings.”

  “Everyone knows,” Varhola said. No reaction, no flinch; flatline all the way.

  “Are the people in your congregation talking about them?”

  “I am far from kosher in my approaches, but I draw the line at abomination. Whatever they’ve learned, I’m forced to try to undo. I don’t believe in evil spirits inhabiting human bodies.”

  “But Rome believes in demonic possession, exorcists, all those things.”

  “The church is large and encompasses a wide spectrum of opinions, not all of them with equal merit, intellectually or theologically.”

  Tinge of annoyance in his tone, just under the surface. “I’m just trying to understand,” Service said.

  “I have no time or sympathy for superstitions and their adherents. I’m trying to lift people to the simple glory and grace of God.”

  Service decided to go right to the heart. “Is it possible—for those who believe in such demonic possession—for such a thing as a windigo to exist?”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  “But you don’t reject it out of hand?”

  “Only in the sense that certain phenomena may be interpreted and embraced as messages from the other world. Erroneously, of course. People tend to see what they want to see.” Varhola kept chipping away at the pole, not looking up, focused on his hands.

  Vague response. “Possible in this case. Here?”

  “Quite unlikely,” the priest said, putting down the chisel. “I’m not an expert in such matters.”

  “What about Grant Lupo?”

  “What about him?” the cleric asked.

  “You know him?”

  “He’s been all over the television, hasn’t he?”

  “Have you met him? That’s what I’m asking,” Service pressed.

  “Perhaps. I meet a lot of people, and my memory isn’t what it once was.”

  “We all have our failings, Father. Have you got an opinion on the windigo?”

  Varhola shrugged. “I think Lupo is a self-promoter.”

  “To what end?”

  “The end of every self-promoter: glorification of ego.”

  “Or he might be trying to perform an actual public service. You know, in the public’s interest.”

  “If the man has that kind of knowledge, why doesn’t he move in to stop what’s going on?” the priest asked rhetorically.

  “He may very well do that,” Service said. “With his assistance we’ve identified a suspect. We’ll make the identity public soon, after we apprehend.” Pulled that out of my butt. Too far? How’s he reacting?

  Varhola said nothing, gave no indication he’d even processed what he’d heard.

  “I’ve always thought of the church as contrapuntal,” Service said.

  “You know music?” the priest asked.

  “Not really, but it seems to me the church represents a refuge for balance against the irrational and inexplicable.”

  “I would generally agree with that, but much of what we Catholics believe is itself irrational—anti-logical, if you will. That’s where faith comes in.”

  “Law enforcement has to continually measure the pulse of the communities they serve,” Service said.

  “My vocation, as well,” Varhola said. “The shepherd’s role . . . so your metaphor holds.”

  “People are scared, Father. Scared people do desperate things.”

  “I would agree.”

  “But the good news is that it will soon be over.”

  “That’s very encouraging, I’m sure,” the priest said.

  Said in a flat tone, no emotion, and no follow-up questions, despite a virtual invitation to probe. “Closing the loop,” Service said. “We have a profile and an identity. The killings are getting closer together. It’s only a matter of time now.”

  “The end will no doubt be a great relief to all,” Varhola said.

  Service dawdled. “I wanted you to know in case you hear anything.”

  Varhola tensed. “You’re not suggesting I violate the trust of the confessional?”

  “Of course not. I’m just saying that if you see or hear anything that seems out of place or odd, give us a call.”

  “I can do that much,” the priest said.

  Service handed the man his card and one of Friday’s. Varhola stuck them on a shelf, did not look at them.

  Allerdyce, who had said nothing and had disappeared for several minutes, moved over toward the shelf with the large black block. It read quintal on the side. Service saw the old man rest his hand on one side of the block. The hand tensed and withdrew in almost the same motion.

  Varhola saluted with his mallet. “Be safe.”

  Allerdyce got into the passenger seat.

  “You were quiet in there.”

  “Dat guy give me creepie-jeepies.”

  “You see the handles on his tools?”

  Allerdyce produced a wood-handled chisel from his coat. “Like dis?”

  “Jesus. Where’d you get that?”

  “Ootside on ground. Saw stick up from snow.”

  Service doubted him. “We’ll have to give it back.”

  “Was outside,” Allerdyce countered. “Din’t even know wass his.”

  “The wood looks the same.”

  “Yeah, I seen dat,” the old poacher said, holding the tool out to Service.

  “I guess we can return it later,” Service said. There was a catch-bag between the seats. “Put it in there,” the CO said, pointing.

  “You see dat big sex toy in dere?”

  “What sex toy?” Is he serious?

  “Dat big black t’ing.”

  “That’s not a sex toy.”

  “Is, too. Says ‘quimtail’ on it.”

  “Quintal, not quimtail,” Service said. Old fool.

  “You see how he move dat t’ing?”

  Service had.

  “I tried, cou’n’t move it inch. Made metal, eh. Old creepie-jeepie, he move dat booger like iss marching mellow, eh.”

  “Heavy, huh?” Service asked.

  “Real heavy, and I ain’t weak. What means quimtail?”

  Service had no idea and made a mental note to check when they got back to camp, but he grew impatient and called Friday. “Can you look up a word for us?”

  “Of course. I’m not doing anything else.” Dripping sarcasm.

  “Q-U-I-N-TAL,” he said. “Quintal. I’m guessing on pronunciation.”

  Service could hear her typing. “Got it. Means a hundred kilograms, about two hundred and twenty pounds. Why?”

  “It’s a thing in Varhola’s workshop. Limpy and I saw him lift it with his arms extended and move it like it weighed nothing.”

  “What’s the punch line?”

  “There isn’t one, yet.”

  She said, “Jen Maki called. The paint flakes are from a 1996 Volvo 850R.”

  “How many of them in the U.P.?” he asked.

  “Seven we can pinpoint.”

  “Any link to Varhola?”

  “Nopers.”

  “Shit,” he griped.

  “Varhola give you anything?”

  “Not really, but to catch a big fish you often have to make a lot of casts.”

  “This isn’t fishing,” she said.

  “There’s plenty about it that is,” he said, and hung up. Then, he turned to the old man.

  “What was your problem last night? I thought somebody sewed your lips together. You ever hear of glory pine?”

  “Sure, wort’ more’n curly or tiger maple.”

  “Seen it?”

  “When I was kittle. Real rare now.”

  “Where was it back then?”

  “Middle Manistique, all along Menominee,
an’ some on down Esky. Likes floodpans.”

  “Floodplains.”

  “Right—low banks, river-bottom wood.”

  “What about up this way?”

  “Ain’t never seen none, but I know guy might know.”

  “Who?”

  “Chenk, name a Ulupov.”

  “Czech?”

  “Just said—Chenk.”

  “He still around?”

  “Hard ta find, sneaks ’round.”

  “Like somebody else I know?”

  The old man cackled. “Corbin Lake, last I hear.”

  There were hundreds of lakes in the U.P., perhaps thousands if you counted beaver ponds and such. Only some were named, and Service knew only a small portion of those. “Where’s that?”

  “Nor-wess Sidnaw, mebbe t’ree, four mile.”

  “This Ulupov would know?”

  “If anybody does.”

  “You talked to Krelle recently?”

  “Come back April, check for dens.”

  “Pilkington know?”

  “Didn’t talk ta fat boy,” Allerdyce said.

  “How do we see this Czech pal of yours?”

  “Ain’t no chum a’ mine. Go dere, hope he don’t shoot. Commie Reds drove ’im out, ’68. Been ’round here since ’71.”

  “Plays by the rules?”

  “I guess. He don’t like guv’mint.”

  “Do any of us?” Service asked.

  Allerdyce laughed out loud and smacked the dashboard with his hand. “Youse jes like youse’s old man!”

  65

  Saturday, January 17

  WOLVERINE JUNCTION

  Service called Friday first thing that morning. “I want to go back out to WoJu,” he told her.

  “Why—do you think we missed something?” There was a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

  “Don’t know, but I want to take Limpy, Tree, and Suit with me. If we missed something out there the first time, one of us might spot it this time around.”

  “Why now?”

  “Campau said something came down on her from the trees, and Limpy made the same observation at Sean Nepo’s place.”

  “I don’t remember the Nepo thing.”

  “Limpy said it looked to him like someone may have come out of the trees. And did Campau mean someone emerged between the trees and the ground, or that someone dropped down from the trees?” Service asked.

  “Reasonable question, I guess,” Friday said. “That whole thing went right past me that day.”

  “It went past all of us, but it keeps nagging at me.”

  “I’ll go see Anne and call you. Meet you at WoJu?” She asked. Then, after a pause, “Why would Varhola do—”

  He cut her off. “Don’t go there yet, Tuesday. Baby steps, okay?”

  “More on the paint chips from the Volvo,” she said. “Black undercoat, but Jen had the samples under an electron microscope and found evidence of white and green—like camo olive drab.”

  “Repaints?”

  “She thinks.”

  “Which color we looking for now?”

  “Probably white, she says.”

  Black, white, green? “Maybe he repaints to match the time of year. Glossy, enamel, what?”

  “Flat or matte, like primer.”

  “To dull reflection,” Service said. “We’ll be out at WoJu. Tree and Noonan are already rolling, Limpy and me right behind them. We’ll call if we trip anything.”

  •••

  Once on scene Allerdyce and Noonan got a notion to climb some trees near where the body had been, “Just to look around, sonny,” Allerdyce had said.

  Service overhead Noonan’s voice: “You climb like a fucking spider monkey, old man.”

  Allerdyce: “Back in day, di’n’t drive ’round, waste gas. Scout sign, climb tree, wit’ twinny-two horny, turn on light, pop pop, put deer down, get down, t’row in truck, meat in larder, feeds kids, eh.”

  Service shook his head. How many violators operated like Limpy, climbing around in trees while COs sat on their asses in their trucks, watching open fields near roads? Disturbing thought.

  “Pulleys,” Noonan said from above.

  “Wass ropes, look bark ’ere, all barked,” Allerdyce said.

  “You guys got something?” Service yelled up to them.

  “Sonny, we t’ink mebbe guy use pulley, yank body up tree.”

  “Pretty good guess,” Noonan chimed in.

  “Old ground, this, but good to reconfirm,” Service said. “Do us a favor?”

  Noonan reached down and Service handed his digital camera up to him. “For the record.”

  Treebone stood nearby. “The deceased was a big woman, Campau and the others said. Even with pulleys, this wouldn’t be so easy. Would take some real strength. Me, I couldn’t do this alone, and neither could you, Grady.”

  Tree had a bear’s strength, and his own was close to his friend’s. “You thinking two perps here?”

  Treebone shrugged. “Speculating is all.”

  Noonan came sliding down right beside them, but Allerdyce descended almost forty yards away. “How’d you get way the hell over there?” an astonished Noonan asked the old man.

  “Iss like bloody sidewalks up dere,” Allerdyce said matter-of-factly.

  “Not for me.”

  “You a city sicker.”

  “Slicker,” Service corrected.

  “What I said,” Allerdyce insisted.

  Friday called. “The WoJu vick may have been identified,” she began. “Norma Carlock from Pipestone Road. Neighbors just came forward to report her missing. The night of December second they heard a ruckus in the house trailer next door, a woman screaming. I’m at the place now. We’ve got dried blood inside, but not much. Her car’s here, parked outside, covered with ice. No tracks. No trees near the trailer.”

  “The neighbors call it in after nearly six weeks. Makes you wonder how many haven’t been called in.”

  “I don’t even want to consider that, Grady. We’ve got a potential ID, and I’ll take that. People are really spooked,” she concluded. “You guys still at WoJu?”

  “About to wrap up, head for the barn,” he said.

  “Get anything?”

  “A theory, maybe.” Although her report of no trees at the Carlock place didn’t exactly contribute to the theory, so he clammed up.

  “I guess a theory beats nothing,” Friday said.

  Service told the others about Carlock.

  “Snitches,” Noonan said quietly.

  “Neighbors,” Service corrected him.

  “Call the bulls, you’re a snitch,” Noonan shot back.

  Allerdyce lit a cigarette. “Carlock? T’ink I know dat fambly. Old man Gus used ta hang out over Kewadin, get self fried, steal purses offen old womens in parkin’ lot.”

  “You one of his character references?” Treebone quipped.

  “Was t’ief, not no carkature,” Allerdyce said.

  “Ad rem,” Treebone said. “To my point.”

  “What the hull youse talkin’?” the old poacher asked, squinting.

  “Latin.”

  “T’ought we spick Englitch.”

  We’re all getting loopy, Service told himself.

  Friday called again. “Just talked to Limey. She’s at Lupo’s house. There’s a body.”

  “Lupo?”

  “She thinks. She’s guesstimating height at six-six, six-seven.”

  “No head?”

  “Nor hands.”

  “This one’s strictly for show,” Service said. “It’s a message to us because he knows we’ll get an ID off this one without the head or the hands.”

  “It’s Lupo,” Friday said. “He had a tat on his ass. Student who f
ound him had seen it before, identified him.”

  “Time of death?”

  “They only got there an hour ago. She’s guessing less than twelve hours.”

  “Anyone in the area see anything?” There were no close neighboring houses.

  “Canvassing now, but you know how isolated the place is. She’ll forward everything to us.”

  “You headed over there?”

  “No need. Limey’s got it. She knows her job.”

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  Service tapped in forester Larry Holemo’s personal cell number. “Service here. Where you at?”

  “Bell Forest Products.”

  “Ishpeming?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long you there? I need to get your opinion on something.”

  “Half-hour.”

  “Meet us at the Westgate Shell on 41. We’re north of town now, heading in. See you when you get there.”

  •••

  Holemo got there a half-hour later and they took him inside for coffee. Service showed him the “outside” tool from Varhola’s workshop.

  “Glory pine, no question,” Holemo said. “Where’d you get it?

  “You know anyone who makes tools with this wood?”

  “No, sorry, but that is definitely the handiwork of a highly skilled wood craftsman.”

  “We found it in the snow,” Service said, and Holemo said nothing.

  Service paid for the forester’s coffee, went outside, and tapped in the phone number for Crow’s Flesh in Minnesota. Lynx answered. “He there? This is Grady Service,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Service. I am walking the phone to him now.”

  “I dreamed you would call,” the old man said happily, and Service cringed. He was no more comfortable with Native American spirituality than the mumbo jumbo spouted by white churches and creeds.

  “Did you actually know Lakotish?” Service asked.

  “Yes, as a boy, and until he went to become a warrior. I don’t know him now.”

  “Was Lakotish a woodworker?”

  “He carved wood as a boy, loved finding the spirit in each piece he made.”

  “Totem poles?”

  Crow’s Flesh chuckled quietly. “We Anishinaabe don’t carve totems poles, except for tourists, but the word totem is from the Ojibwe, o-doo-den-an. The French heard this and called it acoutem, and the English changed acoutem to totem. When he was a boy Lakotish carved small, but not large, o-doo-den-an. Lakotish was a clever boy,” Crow’s Flesh said, “but secretive and difficult to warm to.”