Service angled toward the figure as he heard Cullen, Denninger, and another voice all shouting angrily. He couldn’t make out words, but raw emotions were plain.
His mark suddenly angled downhill toward him and Service unholstered his flashlight. When the man was three feet way, he shone the beam up into the man’s face and stood up. “DNR, Conservation Officer!”
The man took a roundhouse swing at him, but missed and fell as his momentum carried him downhill. Service crouched, stepped toward the man, swept at his legs, dropping him to the ground, and immediately fell on him, mashing his face into the mud, jerking his arms behind him, and cuffing him. The man resisted, but every time he fought, Service pressed his face into the mud and hissed, “Stop resisting!”
When the cuffs were on, he got the man to his feet, but he kicked Service in his bad leg. Service flinched and reacted by punching the man in the head, not once, but twice, catching himself only as he drew back to strike again. “Asshole,” Service growled.
The man started struggling, trying to escape like a disabled worm, but Service grabbed the man’s arms by the cuffs and began trying to drag him uphill toward the dark buildings. His bad leg was on fire and his temper was melding with frustration, bringing him to a place where it felt like he was going to explode.
The farm sat on a plateau with its grass cut; there was a small barn, a tiny shotgun shack, an open toolshed, and a corral on the west perimeter. The door to the barn was open. “Get some lights on!” Service yelled. His prisoner continued to squirm. A horse nickered inside the barn and there was a crash. Lights came on, revealing an immense man on the ground, his nose and eye bloody.
Cullen and Denninger came out from the shadows, dragging another man with them—clearly, DeVoll. Cullen was bleeding from the forehead, and Denninger had a bloody lip that was swelling fast.
Cullen looked at Service’s prisoner. “Reverend Rhycough Kirbyson.”
“I was leaving the scene of sin,” Kirbyson said, spitting out mud. “I am a man of God.”
“Aren’t we all,” Joe Cullen quipped.
DeVoll suddenly tried to sweep Denninger’s legs, but she easily stepped out of the way. “You just do not learn, sir,” she said. “Assaulting peace officers, overbaiting, shooting before legal hours, untagged deer, resisting, attempted flight . . . You need to suck in a deep breath and cool it!”
“You ain’t no fucking cops,” DeVoll shouted as two sets of headlights came racing up the grass drive. Two state troopers dismounted.
“They are,” Denninger said.
One of the Troops said, “Bruno, you ignorant fuckstick, don’t you never learn nothing? First you pound knobs on a drunk dep, and now you take on COs?”
“Kick your ass next time,” DeVoll grumbled.
“Hey,” the Troop said, “these people are disciplined. You fuck with us, we’ll just kneecap your sad ass.”
Cullen and Denninger helped the Troops load the prisoners. “See you at the jail,” Cullen told one of the troopers.
Service lit a cigarette and leaned against the barn door. The horse continued to nicker and bump around inside.
“You a horseman?” Denninger asked.
“Not in this lifetime,” he said. Horses spooked him even more than dogs. She shook her head, turned on all the barn lights, went to the horse, unharnessed it, led it outside, and released it into the corral. The freshly gutted deer were stacked inside the buggy, both small bucks.
“Gotta get back to our trucks,” Denninger said.
“I’ll wait here. Pick me up and take me back to mine,” said Service. He stared at the two deer. Had Kirbyson really believed he could haul them twenty miles back to his place without being noticed?
Denninger said, “You made a collar; you’ll have to go to the jail, too.”
“Shit,” he said. He was trying to hide his injury, didn’t want to admit he could hardly move.
“This is fun,” Dani said as she and Cullen jogged off briskly down the grass lane, side by side and chattering. Service ate a trapper sandwich and lit another cigarette, found a log butt by a firepit in the grass yard, and sat down. He was drenched and cold and tired and hurting; and more than that, he was sick with the realization that this truly was a young person’s job and he was no longer young and there was no sense trying to fool himself. You’re gonna be a grandfather, he lectured himself, took out his cell phone, and hit the speed dial for Karylanne in Houghton.
“What time is it?” she answered sleepily.
“Don’t know,” he said. “You okay?”
“I was until somebody woke me out of the first deep sleep I’ve had in three nights.”
“Sorry,” he said, feeling like a selfish ass. Grow up, he told himself.
Damn leg, he thought. But then he found himself grinning with nobody to see him. Dani was right. This was the ultimate fun for a game warden. Piscova was there and waiting, but at least for one day, in the rain and cold and mud, he had gotten to do the job the way he had done it for more than two decades. All in all, it was worth a little pain to feel so useful, so alive.
40
Monday, November 15, 2004
SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY
They got the prisoners processed and lodged at the Ionia County Jail and were back to the resort by 11 a.m. Before Denninger dumped her truck and went with Cullen to finish the patrol, Service talked to them.
“Kirbyson had the deer in his buggy. Did he really think he could get all the way back to Palo without being seen? I’d go back out to DeVoll’s property and give it a slow, hard look. Is Kirbyson known for whacking any deer, or just big ones? The two in the buggy were pretty small.”
Cullen looked at him and nodded. “We’ll take a look.”
Leukonovich’s vehicle was back. He limped inside. She was sitting at the table with her laptop. He walked past her, went into the bathroom, stripped, got into the shower, and stayed there for a long time.
He limped over to his bag with a towel wrapped around him, grabbed some clothes, and went back into the bathroom to get dressed.
When he came out, Leukonovich looked up at him. “It was a difficult morning?”
He ignored her, poured coffee, and sat down at the table.
The IRS agent said, “A woman was here earlier and left her card, but she went on to Grand Rapids. I am to inform you she will return tomorrow morning.”
Service read the card: emma t. jornstadt, special investigator, michigan department of treasury. He dropped the card on the table. “You know, there are big companies, drug dealers, all sorts of assholes the IRS could be going after, so I’m wondering why you—and now the state tax people—are so damned interested in Piscova.”
Leukonovich propped her glasses up on the top of her head. “You are, of course, familiar with The Tax Shelter and Tax Haven Reform Act of 2004?”
“No. I don’t track legislation.”
“Perhaps you should learn to do so. Your Senator Levin introduced it. We in Washington and your people in Lansing are cooperating to prosecute Piscova and others. This is long overdue.”
“All you’re interested in is the money,” he said.
“Yes, of course; it is the most important thing.”
“Wrong,” he said, not bothering to enlighten her, and wondering if the actual charges with the eggs would somehow get overshadowed by tax issues in the course of the investigation.
“Where is your girl?” Leukonovich asked.
“Officer Denninger is on patrol,” he said. “She is not my girl.”
Leukonovich rolled her eyes. “It is clear to Zhenya that the girl worships you.”
He rolled his eyes and was contemplating a nap when his cell phone buzzed.
“You see what I wrote?” Beaker Salant asked.
“Heard about it.”
“I’m working on another piece, along the lines of undercover investigation revealing disturbing activities at Piscova, including the selling of contaminated eggs for human consumption.”
“The contamination is not confirmed yet,” Service said. “The hearing is Thursday in Bellaire.”
“What time?”
Service looked through his notes but couldn’t find anything. “Ten, I think, but I don’t know for sure. It’s the Eighty-Sixth District Court in Bellaire. Call the court administrator and he can give you the time.”
“You going to be there?”
“Hadn’t planned on it.” Initially he’d intended to go, but more thought led him to question the value of being there.
“The hearing is aimed at determining if the egg seizure at the plant was legal—is that accurate?”
“Yep.”
“Cool. Maybe I’ll see you.”
“You’re going to be there?”
“This is a cool story, dude. An important one. I’m gonna ride it all the way to the barn.”
Roy Rogers called five minutes later. “The FDA says the tests show it’s definitely mirex in all the samples.”
“That’s good—if we can use it. You talk to Fish and Wildlife again?”
“Every day. They’re still saying it won’t be until the new year.”
Service weighed calling the journalist back, but decided not to. If the court found in the state’s favor, the test results would be relevant; if not, the results were moot. He started to curl up on a cot when another idea struck him. He called Salant. “Here’s an update. An unnamed source, close to the Piscova investigation in New York, reports that FDA testing has confirmed mirex contamination in the egg samples taken from the Piscova plant in Elk Rapids.”
“What’s the source’s name?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Not to me.”
“I’m the source and I just talked to New York, but I prefer that you keep it generic. Can you get this published before Thursday?”
“I can get it out by Wednesday.”
“Good—and thanks.”
It occurred to Service that the court might interpret this as tampering with the case, but he didn’t care. He wanted as much incriminating information made public as possible to put pressure on Quint Fagan, Piscova, and their confederates. He called Chief O’Driscoll and told him what the FDA results had shown. “Our legal colleagues are not going to be happy,” the chief said.
Denninger and Cullen came back around 9 p.m., both of them sky-high. “We went back out to DeVoll’s property,” Denninger said. “Joe found an old wagon track and we followed it to a field and some ruins of an old homestead. The tracks led close to a Michigan basement with a locked door. Joe called a local judge and got a warrant. A dep brought it to us and we broke the lock. There were ten deer hanging, some of them real trophies.” She was so pumped that her words were running together.
Cullen said, “I never thought about the buggy and the deer in it. You experienced guys know so much good shit!”
Service pointed at the coffee. “Not fresh, but it’s hot.”
Cullen and Denninger sat together at the table, laughing, sharing moments from their day. Service said, “Any time you get a suspicious deer, think about what the perp is going to do next.”
Cullen nodded gravely. “I never made an illegal deer case before today, and now I have a dozen. Holy shit!”
“Chili in the fridge,” Service said. “You can use the microwave.”
Denninger said, “I feel so hot I think I can use my hands to warm the bowls.”
Service sat back and let the young officers celebrate. He had experienced many such moments over the course of his career and understood their jubilation. There was nothing so personally and professionally satisfying as taking down scumbags. To his great surprise he was as pleased for them as he once had been for himself. He wasn’t sure what these feelings meant. He had given them advice, they had listened and done what he suggested, and it had paid off big. There was something unexpectedly pleasing in this, and a feeling he thought he might even get used to, and suddenly the word leadership popped into his mind and he shut off the whole flow of thought. Fuck that leader shit. You’re the Lone Ranger. That’s how it works.
“What’s our agenda for tomorrow?” Denninger asked.
“You want to work with Joe again?”
“Ya think?”
“It’s the first week of deer season,” he said. “We’ll have a helluva hard time serving subpoenas to anyone. A lot of them will be out hunting.”
“Cool,” she said. Service knew from experience that deer season was split into two parts for law enforcement: November 15 to 17 was when the most hunters were out and the most activity was taking place, and the second part was from November 18 until season’s end. The first three days were the busiest and tended to yield the most cases.
“She’s yours through Wednesday,” Service told Cullen, who nodded agreeably and loaded a bowl of chili into the microwave.
Service went out on the porch facing the river to have a cigarette. It was cold, but the rain had stopped. Leukonivich stepped out beside him and wiggled her fingers. “Zhenya would beg a smoke,” she said. He gave her the pack and watched her light up and exhale gaudily. “I observe you are very good with these young officers,” she said. “It is clear they respect you and hang on your sage advice. Zhenya is a loner,” she said, “whereas you are a natural leader.”
A natural leader with a bum leg who couldn’t keep up, which was the only reason he had nabbed Kirbyson. It had been pure luck. “The temperature keeps dropping, we might have some snow in the morning,” he said.
Leukonovich looked at him and took another hit on her cigarette. “We are alike, you and I—both uncomfortable with compliments, unable to see ourselves as others see us.”
41
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY
Denninger left with Cullen at around 6 a.m., and Leukonovich departed a half-hour later. Service limped through half of his normal run, showered, and started to make his usual spartan breakfast. A woman walked in without knocking and a man came in behind her. She wore slacks, knee-high boots, and a knee-length down coat. He wore a black trench coat over a sport jacket with a loose tie, and old-fashioned black rubber galoshes. The woman came directly over to him and held out her hand.
“Detective Service, Agent Emma Jornstadt. Behind me is Detective Sergeant Aldo Zarobsky of the Michigan State Police. We often work together.” Zarobsky went to a mirror, looked at himself, and smoothed his hair with his hand.
“It’s Al,” the man said, turning to Service.
“Troop?” Service said. “Out of where?”
“Lansing, Michigan RICO task force, Treasury liaison.”
RICO was the acronym for the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, and Service knew it had been passed by Congress to provide law enforcement with a tool to prosecute the mafia. By adding mail and wire fraud statutes, it became pretty easy for attorneys to file civil claims in federal courts, and over the years the mafia had begun to disintegrate under sustained Justice Department pressure. U.S. Fish and Wildlife employed RICO statutes to combat international wildlife violations.
“You know, of course, that RICO is rarely ever applied to the old mafia anymore,” Jornstadt announced. “Today we focus on individuals and businesses.”
“There’s coffee,” Service said, pointing.
“I think we’ve had enough, right, Al?”
“Our back teeth are singing ‘Su-wan-eee River,’ ” the Troop detective said.
Service’s initial impression was that Zarobsky was vain and shallow, the tall, good-looking type who was better at schmoozing and sticking his face in a cocktail than
into the dirt of an investigation. Jornstadt was something else, though he wasn’t sure what. She looked good, talked smoothly, and radiated huge self-confidence.
“Anniejo tell you we were coming?”
“Leukonovich said you had stopped in.”
Jornstadt smiled and rolled her eyes. “Al and I are always together. Think of me, think of him; we’re one, a team, Frick and Frack. Right, Al?”
“Three years now,” Zarobsky said. “Frick and Frack—you bet.”
Jornstadt sat down. “So, Detective, where are we with the investigation?”
Service talked them through it while Zarobsky stood and looked inside the refrigerator and made faces. It seemed to Service that he was becoming a tour guide for the investigation rather than the lead investigator for the case, and this realization bothered him.
“You screwed up the seizure,” Jornstadt said. “Right, Al?”
“Fucked,” the Troop said. “Jumped too soon. Should have waited a bit. Timing is everything.”
Service felt hair pop up on his arms but fought to maintain a calm demeanor.
“The RCMP investigator,” Jornstadt said. “We’ve talked to her. Tell us more about the confrontation with Judge Bergey.”
“Boozehound,” the Troop investigator said. “Worthless on the bench. Once good, now . . . not so much.”
Service went through the meeting with Aline Bergey and her husband at the bank in Traverse City.
“Seem like a bit of an overreaction to you?” Jornstadt asked him.
“Pretty much.”
“Keeps a bottle in his private chambers,” Jornstadt said. “Right, Al?”
“Absolut. Belts it straight, at room temp—sure sign of a lush. Went to a couple of AA meetings, but dropped out. He’s got a lot of questionable investments and so forth.”
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