“You folks okay? Need an ambulance? Bags deployed?” Deputy Crossbine said rushing up to the car as Dingman weakly opened the driver-side door and stepped out. Kottle and Porter followed from the other side.
“We are okay, thanks to seat belts. What riled them?” Dingman said, brushing imaginary wrinkles out of his clothes.
“Yours is the fourth encounter today. I’m thinking of blocking this stretch of the highway for a couple days. It appears the deer are on the run from the hunters and coming through this area.” Crossbine pointed to a deer-warning sign up the highway. “Whoa, he got you good. Damn, and he’s such a nice buck, too. Stand back,” he said, walking around the front of the vehicle to survey the damage. A large deer, fighting for a last breath, kicked helplessly in the ditch.
Pop. Pop.
Shots from the deputy’s revolver stopped the suffering.
“There were two of them. The other one ran off through those trees.” Kottle pointed downward into a ravine on the opposite side of the highway.
“At least you got one of them. Those two bucks have been crossing back and forth through here about once an hour today. Probably looking for their offspring. I don’t have the time to sit out here, but I’ve been able to make it about every three hours. We’ve received three calls this morning from scared motorists. I thought it was just the usual movement of spooked deer through here, but now I’m not so sure. I’ll call and get you some help. Hey, you’re the two reporters from last week, right? I read your story. Not what I expected, though. If I hadn’t been there, I’d never know the doe kidnapped the boy and acted so damn human-like. I understand why you played it down, though. Who’d believe it?” The deputy shrugged and walked over to his car.
“So he is the man who shot the doe in the woods?” Dingman asked.
“No, but he was there. A State-Police trooper was the shooter. He’s right, the doe acted beyond animal-like. There was emotional understanding there. His body language just didn’t make sense,” Porter said.
“Well, at least it’s a company car,” Dingman said, surveying the damage.
“Wow, look at the holes. Ever see those before?” Kottle said, brushing snow away from the damaged fender.
“Hmm, looks a lot like the pattern in Lickshill’s chest, doesn’t it?” Porter said.
“My thought as well. I wonder what they do with road-killed deer.”
“You can keep it if you want, I’ve heard.”
“Not my cup of tea. The sheriff can have it,” Dingman said.
“Okay, a wrecker should be here in about ten minutes,” Crossbine said walking back from his vehicle.
“What becomes of the deer?” Dingman asked.
“You want him? He’s yours.”
“We’ll pass.”
“Okay, then I’ll offer it to the wrecker driver.”
~ ~ ~
“Easy, easy,” Crossbine said, directing the wrecker driver as he pushed hard on a hydraulic lever, hoisting the damaged vehicle on the truck bed.
“Where do you want me to take this?”
“Take it to Lester’s garage on Main. All right with you folks?” Crossbine asked.
“I guess. Is it near the Medical Examiner’s office?” Dingman asked.
“A block away. They should be able to fix the tire, make sure there’s no other damage and you can be on your way in about four hours, I’d say. You folks can ride with me.”
“And the deer?” Kottle said.
“Oh, right. Joe, you want the buck? He’s a beaut. Just head damage, meat should be perfect,” Crossbine explained to the wrecker driver.
“Hell yes, I’ll take it,” he said.
Crossbine and the driver hauled the carcass onto the truck bed and strapped it down front and back.
“You owe me a venison dinner, Joe.”
The driver nodded, starting the truck engine.
~ ~ ~
“You know, we’ve been thinking. Maybe those deer are going crazy...have some virus screwing up their brains. Maybe it shouldn’t be eaten. People are dying from Mad Cow disease; maybe there’s something similar infecting the deer in this area,” Kottle said, sitting in the rear of the sheriff’s car with Porter. Dingman sat in the front seat.
Dingman briefly rolled his eyes at Crossbine.
“If there was a problem with the deer, I’d be the first to know. The DNR wouldn’t let it pass. They would close the area for hunting immediately as they’ve done over in Alpena County with the tuberculosis problem.
“DNR?” Kottle asked.
“Department of Natural Resources—the group who controls conservation of hunting and fishing resources,” Crossbine said.
“Oh, can we talk to them and maybe get some insight into what they know?”
“Sure, they’ve got an office in Roscommon. I’ll get their number when we get to the garage.”
“Hmm, good idea, we should talk to them,” Dingman acknowledged.
Kottle smiled. Porter turned and winked at her.
Chapter 24
“George, come on, it’s fifty-thousand dollars. How could we misplace that much? The auditor said it passed through petty cash. Thank God, he didn’t flag it as a tax issue. Where are the receipts? Who has access to petty cash besides you, me and Dillon?”
“Ah...Nora, of course,” Montagno said, hesitating.
“So how could she do it without you knowing? You’re supposed to be the CFO.”
“I think she took a thousand out of the account every week for a year, and ended up keeping whatever we didn’t spend.”
“Are you still letting her control that money? I hope you took her off that account.”
“I took her off two weeks ago, when I first suspected. I just don’t have any good evidence though, and I’m sure she’ll deny it and say I told her to do it.”
“Get her in here, confront her and get over this.”
Montagno walked out of Hermanski’s office and into the hallway to the receptionist desk in the main lobby.
“Jack wants to see you. It’s urgent,” Montagno said to a plump middle-aged woman wearing an overly tight black dress, showing cleavage. She brushed strands of dyed-red hair from her freckled face and grimaced.
“What now? I can’t get a damn thing done around here with all these interruptions. If I talk to him, this sales report is not going to get done by noon,” she said, shaking her head.
“It can wait.”
The frowning woman stood up, tugged down on her dress and followed Montagno.
~ ~ ~
“So, you’re saying you took a thousand out of the bank each week and kept it in an unlocked desk drawer and didn’t wonder why it disappeared by Monday?” Hermanski asked, arms crossed and rocking in his leather desk chair.
“Well, you guys come to me, and I hand you the money. Why is it my responsibility to know what you do with it?”
“Come on, Nora, you know you need a receipt for any cash going out the door regardless of who takes it. It’s standard office procedure.”
“I’m just doing what George tells me to do. I don’t have access to the account anymore anyway. Do you want your sales report done by noon or not?” Nora said, shifting from leg to leg while standing in front of Hermanski. Montagno stood, head down, about three feet behind her.
“It doesn’t explain where the money went.” Hermanski said. ”Get out of here and get the report done. But, I’ll tell you this; if I find out you took the money, you’re out of here. Get the picture?” He pointed a pencil at her, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t need this stinking job. Screw you all,” Nora said, raising her arms. She turned and marched out of the office.
“Do you think she’ll quit this time?” Montagno whispered, watching her walk out the hall to the lobby.
“She hasn’t yet. Son of a bitch, why did I let Dillon talk me into hiring her. Can you imagine having a thousand dollars in an unlocked desk in the lobby every day? Jesus, what was she thinking? Well, there go the bonus
es for this year.”
“Seriously? We pulled in twenty million in revenue; sales are up; we have little overhead and margins look good.”
“Yes, but Dillon closed the deal on new computer equipment, and I have to cut a check for it this year. The missing fifty thousand is all the cash we have left this year. You’re the CFO, why is this a mystery to you?”
“Shit,” Montagno said, under his breath.
“I know it really sucks. Well, you’re the finance guy. We have receivables just no money in the bank. Find us some cash.”
Montagno repeated several expletives and walked out of the office, shaking his head.
~ ~ ~
“This is Jack,” Hermanski said, picking up his ringing desk phone.
“Mr. Hermanski, this is Jim Pendleton from Saint Ignace Insurance. I need to talk to you about your claim.”
“Sure, Jim, did you have a chance to go over to the house?”
“I did, and...ah...well...”
“Is there a problem? Mandi said you talked to her yesterday and it sounded like you were willing to replace the whole carpet.”
“It’s none of my business, sir, but...well...”
“Spill it, I’m a big boy,” Hermanski said, now irritated.
“We can’t pay your claim, sorry. We don’t pay for damage done by obvious human intervention caused by a home owner.”
“You mean caused by the dog?”
“No, clearly caused by the home owner. Ah...er...your wife to be exact.”
“Mandi? What do you mean?”
“It’s none of my business. I mean, I have a drink now and then too, but, cutting up the furniture and the drapes with a kitchen knife and wanting them replaced is insurance fraud.”
“Huh? What?” Hermanski sat rigidly at his desk, dumbfounded.
“I’m sorry, sir. Very sorry. Ah...your wife, sir...she was a little out of it, if you know what I mean.”
“Thanks for getting back to me. Please let me get hold of Mandi and straighten this out. I’ll get back to you,” Hermanski said and hung up the phone. His face paled. Shit, she’s having another meltdown, he thought. He dialed his home number and let it ring ten times—no answer.
~ ~ ~
“Here, Mr. Hermanski. Here’s your report. All done by noon, just like you asked,” Nora said holding out a white binder as an offering to amend her previous outburst.
“No time. I’m heading home. Give it to George. I’ll follow up with him later.” Hermanski struggled to put on his coat as he walked out the lobby entrance.
“I quit; I quit. Nobody cares. I work like hell all morning to complete this report, and all I get is yelled at.”
Chapter 25
Deputy Sheriff Crossbine waved as the three reporters walked out the garage entrance. The Cadillac would be ready by four this afternoon. Lester, the owner, gave his word.
“You do not get this kind of service in Detroit. I think I will retire up here someday,” Dingman said.
“You want me to call the DNR and see if they’re available around five o’clock?”
“Be my guest. Do you know where Roscommon is?”
“It’s about forty-five minutes north.” Porter took out his cellphone and dialed the number Crossbine gave him.
“Did anyone call Sulkin and let him know we’re coming?” Kottle said.
“You did my dear. Remember the plan we wrote on the board yesterday morning?” Dingman said.
“Ooh...I forgot.”
“Great, now we have probably wasted the day.”
“They’re available to talk by phone after two o’clock,” Porter said, as he hung up his cellphone.
“At least it won’t be a total loss,” Dingman said.
“What do you mean?” Porter asked.
“Ask her.”
“Well?” Porter said, looking at Kottle.
“I forgot to call Sulkin and set up an appointment for today.”
Porter glared. “Let’s see if he’s there. Not much we can do about it now.”
“Follow up and follow through; write it down, we follow you,” Dingman said. “Remember this phrase, my dear. It’s your lifeline in this business.”
Asshole, she thought. She repeated the homily in her mind, memorizing it.
Porter mouthed the words in silence. Pillbock would surely bring up the phase and he would be prepared to respond with a comeback.
“What’s it mean exactly?” Kottle whispered to Porter as they followed Dingman on the sidewalk.
“It means you need to chase down things and write them down and get others to follow what you know, I think,” Porter said, leaning closer to explain.
“Okay, that’s what I thought.”
“Please share,” Dingman said, stopping and allowing the two to catch up.
“We’re discussing the questions we should ask Sulkin,” Kottle said.
“Good. Please enlighten me.”
Kottle hesitated. “Has he sent Lickshill’s brain sample in for testing? What are his thoughts about infected deer? Have there been any more accidents, deaths or bizarre incidents? You know, questions like that.”
“Good start. Keep it coming.”
Kottle tugged slightly on Porter’s jacket. Porter pulled a notepad from his pocket and read questions he copied from the storyboard the day before.
“There, my friend, you are going to make it—good follow through,” Dingman said, pointing at the notepad. “Plan the plan, write it down, then do the plan. Are you getting it now? No off-the-cuff questions. Spontaneity can get you into big trouble.”
“Look and learn,” Kottle said, blushing. I have to learn to keep my mouth shut, she thought.
~ ~ ~
“We are here to see Mort Sulkin,” Dingman said to the receptionist inside the funeral home. “Is he available?”
“I don’t know; you’ll have to go around back and check for yourselves. He doesn’t tell us what he’s up to or where he goes,” the teenaged receptionist said.
“Okay, let’s go around back,” Dingman said.
“Perhaps you should know, he’s a little...well, he hasn’t been himself lately...” She made an ear-winding hand motion.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh nothing, I just wanted to warn you. I guess I shouldn’t say anything.”
“Maria!” a voice shouted from a nearby office. “It’s none of your business.”
“Erk,” the receptionist mumbled, zipping her finger across her lips.
“Got it.” Dingman winked and escorted the reporters out the front entrance.
~ ~ ~
“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Kottle asked, as the three walked the sidewalk around to the back of the building.
“Do not know, but will find out soon, is my motto,” Dingman said.
Time to shut up, Kottle thought.
Dingman banged his knuckles against the metal doublewide service door behind the building. Seconds later, a disheveled balding man opened the door. Red blotches adorned his head and face.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Hi, Mr. Sulkin, we’re the reporters, Jeb Porter and Katie Kottle, introduced to you by Bob Sanguini of the West Branch Herald. Remember us from last week?” Porter said.
“Ah, the Detroit Times’ people, please come in.”
“Hi, I’m Louis Dingman.” Dingman offered his right hand.
“You’re the reporter who called late yesterday, right?” Sulkin said, holding out his right hand after he slipped off a rubber glove. Dingman nodded.
Kottle jabbed her elbow into Porter’s side. He called for an appointment. Damn it, I was supposed to do that.
“You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I had a little accident. Got some infected brain matter on my skin,” Sulkin said. Kottle reacted, jerking backward. “Don’t worry, it’s not catching.”
“We have a series of follow-up questions to ask you. Can you spare twenty minutes or so?” Porter said, taking out his notepad.
“Hold on,” Sulkin said, turning around to look at another white-coated person, hands busy inside a coffin. “What are doing? Get away from there, you idiot.” The person looked up and stuttered, “I...you told me...to adjust his face, and that is...what I’m doing.”
Sulkin walked over to the coffin.
“I told you to adjust the pillow lace, not his face. His lips look screwed up now. Get out, get out,” Sulkin said, waving the person toward an inner door into the funeral home. “Damn idiots around here. They don’t have the first clue how to finesse an embalmed body.” He gently worked his hands over the cadaver and patted its face. “Come here and take a look. Tell me what you think?” He motioned for the three reporters to join him.
“Aah...eee...who is it?” Kottle said, repulsed by the cartoon-like face, eyes open, staring back at her. A ball of straggly hair covered a missing portion of the upper skull. The face appeared flattened. The nose sunk into the skull, with lips pulled into a round smile.
“You don’t recognize our friend, Lickshill? Ain’t he a hoot? What? What did you say?” Sulkin lowered his head over the bizarre-looking face. “You like your new look? Of course you do. You must keep your eyes closed, though.” He gently rubbed his hand over the staring eyes, closing them.
Kottle glanced at Porter and Dingman. Each gave the other a concerned look.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. I’m a little crazy to put all this effort into making Mr. Lickshill look good, but he’s been a great source of pleasure to me lately. The man has literally changed my life for the better.”
“Huh?” Kottle murmured, blushing.
Dingman looked inside the coffin and pointed at Lickshill’s chest.
“Is this where he got hit? What’s your prognosis? Murder or angry animal? What happened to the brain? Have you tested it? Can we see the results? Mind if I record your answers?” Dingman slipped a small recorder from his jacket pocket, waited for a head nod by Sulkin, and then pressed the record switch.
“I’m convinced the chest perforations were made by deer antlers,” Sulkin said, making a ramming motion with one hand into the other. I sent a cross section of his brain to a lab in Lansing. You won’t believe what they found.”
Buck Fever Page 12