Figure Eight

by Jeff Nania

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  The Story Continues…

  Looking for more?

  About the Author

  Praise for Jeff Nania

  What do you get when you mix together a good guy who’s weighed down with heavy emotional baggage, a bad guy you love to hate, and a dash of romance? A page-turning read!

  Laurie Buchanan | Author of the Sean McPherson Novels

  Pain. Failure. Fear. Death. Natural beauty. Suspense. Sense of community. Conviction. Thankfulness. Respect. Hope. Love (maybe). That’s the rollercoaster readers ride in Jeff Nania’s exciting first book, Figure Eight. Along the way, Figure Eight’s earthy side draws on the Northwoods of Wisconsin’s spectacular scenery and time-honored traditions.

  Dean Bortz | Editor, Wisconsin Outdoor News

  Hard to imagine anyone more qualified than Jeff Nania to tell this tale of Northwoods intrigue. I’ve known him in his successive careers as both a police officer and a professional consultant on the restoration of wetlands—and as an avid sportsman with a deep veneration for our remaining wilderness. And now I find he’s a fine writer with a keen ear and eye for the cadences of speech and the pace of daily life we both grew up with on our home turf in Wisconsin, and it all rings true. It’s a serious story for our time, but also a page-turner and a fun read.

  Peter Egan | Best-selling author and Editor-at-Large, Road and Track Magazine

  Readers Love Figure Eight

  The author’s knowledge of Wisconsin’s Northwoods, fishing, and law enforcement techniques, brought me hook, line and sinker into the story, and I thoroughly enjoyed reading the books.

  Tim Eisele | Freelance Outdoor Writer and Photographer

  His attention to detail and character development is superb.

  John | Reader in Washington

  I got Jeff Nania’s Figure Eight as a present from a friend in the USA who said that America now had its own socially conscious crime fighter that I would love. And he was right. John Cabrelli is a guy you would like on your side any day. He struggles and fails, but his aim is true and he does right by people who have been wronged. Not only is Figure Eight a great crime story, but a story that is informative and draws a nuanced picture of society. I hope for more tales from Wisconsin.

  Solveig Jónsdottir | International Literarian, Iceland

  Every detail of the setting and plot is realistic, and the mental and emotional aspects of each character are so well described that reading places you right in the story. I now feel acquainted with the Northwoods although I have never been there.

  Dave | Reader in Washington

  Figure Eight by Jeff Nania is a strong read and a wonderful tale. It captured my interest quickly and sustained it to the end, with Nania drawing on his expertise in law enforcement and Wisconsin Northwoods, as well an insightful understanding of human nature.

  Judith | Reader in Florida

  A gripping page-turner, intriguing, breath-taking, convoluted (in a good way), funny (where it needed to be), and even heart-warming. I’m a great fan of good mysteries and crime novels (Grisham, Baldacci, etc), and this (first!) novel was right up there with the best of them.

  Rich | Reader in Washington

  “Loved it!!! Definitely a page turner from beginning to end… The writing was suspenseful, the vernacular relatable, and the storyline addicting!!”

  Melissa D. | Reader in Wisconsin

  Figure Eight

  A Northern Lakes Mystery

  Jeff Nania

  Little Creek Press®

  A Division of Kristin Mitchell Design, Inc.

  5341 Sunny Ridge Road

  Mineral Point, Wisconsin 53565

  Copyright © 2018 Jeff Nania and Feet Wet, LLC

  Cover Design: Chris Nania

  First Printing: January 2019

  Printed in Wisconsin, United States of America

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contact office@feetwetwriting.com for permission requests.

  For more information or to contact the author, visit www.feetwetwriting.com.

  To order books from the publisher, visit www.littlecreekpress.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018964361

  ISBN-10: 1-942586-55-8 (Paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-942586-55-5 (Paperback)

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, place, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or place or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This is dedicated to my family and friends near and far, here and gone; you have made me rich in every way that really matters.

  * * *

  John and Jay, I hope you enjoy the story.

  If need be, I will read it to you when I get there.

  Acknowledgments

  This book could not have been completed without valuable contributions from many people in my life. My appreciation goes out to many who, in the interest of brevity, are not listed here.

  There are a few individuals, though, who spent countless hours in the trenches with me.

  First, I would like to thank three beautiful Nania women: Victoria, Rebecca, and Christina for their editorial help and relentless encouragement, and my sons, Christopher, who lent his considerable skill to creating the cover art, and Jimmy, who provided honest critique of the story. Thanks to Dr. Michael Chalifoux whose medical knowledge was invaluable in making John Cabrelli’s treatment as accurate as possible; any mistakes made are mine, not his. And thanks to Jay John Nania for continually stealing the number two key while I was trying to complete this project; you are the light of our lives.

  A special thanks to my early readers, the Huffaker Five, Tanya and the Bear, Mrs. Doc O’Malley, Marilyn, Dr. Jim L., Charlie, Peter E., Miller Law Office, and the whole Nania clan. I am thrilled that you enjoyed the story.

  Finally, I would like to thank the professionals who provided their expertise to make this a better book. Kelly Dwyer, your unbiased, editorial assistance was much needed and greatly appreciated. I am indebted to the entire team at Little Creek Press for providing coordination and design, professional proofreading, and guiding me through the entire publication process to make this book a reality.

  1

  Hospital

  A faint, polite knock on John’s door let him know someone was visiting. The nurses, doctors, and the maintenance guy never knocked; they just walked in. Most of the time he didn’t care. They were pumping enough pain medication into him to seriously impact his ability to be concerned with his dignity, or reality for that matter. It also made it impossible to pee, which resulted in yet another personal assault.

  Only visitors knocked. He didn’t get many visitors. Doctor’s orders, enforced by Nurse B. Holterman, a very tough old girl with the bedside manner of a night shift jailer. She was probably over a hundred and had clearly made her bones in a tent hospital in World Wa
r II cutting off limbs. People had tried to get in to see him several times, but she scared them off, never to return. They were feeling bad for old John, but not bad enough to run the B. Holterman gauntlet.

  Today John was getting a visitor, and Nurse B. Holterman had attempted to intercede but finally relented. Probably based on everyone’s unspoken assumption, John was on his way out, and even if he did survive, his probable future looked like something between bad and plain dismal.

  The knocker now had a face and a voice. A young guy pushing 35 or so, good shape, healthy looking with tanned skin and probably wearing his best pair of jeans. He was carrying a notebook with a pen shoved into the spiral binding, tools of his trade, and didn’t look like the kind of hard nose reporter from the crime beat John had come to know.

  “John Cabrelli? My name is Bill Presser. I’m a reporter from the Namekagon County News, in Musky Falls, Wisconsin. My editor sent me to talk to you. Ah … he said you requested me.”

  Cabrelli looked up from his hospital bed. He looked drawn and tired. Pain had taken its toll on the usual smiling face. His black, curly hair had begun to show threads of silver and was plastered to his forehead from the sweats. Tubes and wires were attached everywhere, and a monitor beeped quietly in the background. John Cabrelli truly looked like a man on his last legs, with one exception. If you looked close, you could still see his eyes were steeled in grim determination.

  John answered, his strong voice shaky, but clear.

  “Hey, thanks for coming. I know you’re a busy guy. I’m glad you could make it. I think you’ll find it worth your time. If not, oh well, it looks to me like you got a hell of a lot more time left than I do.”

  Presser was clearly uncomfortable. Even for the most detached, looking at someone who is struggling between life and death is tough. Where do you look? Their eyes? The tubes? The wires? The bandage? Presser picked the ceiling and the window. If John chose to die at that moment, it was clear Presser did not want to see it happen.

  “Mr. Presser, it is my hope that we are going to spend a fair amount of time together. Time, again, is the operative word; I may not have much. You need to make eye contact, get over my current physical appearance, and listen to my words. Ask whatever you need to ask so we can get on with this. Try and make yourself as comfortable as you can.”

  Presser looked at John. “I understand. I’m sorry. Actually, you look pretty good for all you’ve been through.”

  “That’s okay, Bill, I know I look like hell. Wounds like this tend to put you a little off your game.”

  “Can I ask what the extent of your injuries are?”

  “Sure. I have one bullet still lodged near my spine. I took another one in the kidney, and that is the reason for all the machinery you see plugged into me. They removed one kidney and are hoping the other one will take up the slack. From the sounds of it, I was pretty torn up inside, and the surgeons had their hands full. Mainly though I just feel like shit; getting shot kind of does that to you. But I want you to know that I haven’t had my usual doses of pain drugs today, so I can make some sense.”

  Sometimes identifying the elephant in the room is the best way to get something rolling. The straightforward answers from Cabrelli in an odd way made Presser feel more comfortable.

  “Well, my big question is why would you request me? I’m just a jack-of-all-trades reporter for a small-town newspaper. You’re a pretty famous guy now, a hero. There are a lot of folks that would kill for this exclusive. Why me?”

  “First of all, I’m a little sick and tired of the whole ‘let’s try and kill John thing.’ Secondly, you’re honest, you’re from Musky Falls, you write pretty well, and this story for you is a big deal. I need somebody to hear my story who thinks it’s a big deal. Make no mistake though, I am no hero, and never refer to me that way. I have met real heroes, and I don’t hold a candle to them.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I appreciate you letting me know what’s off limits. I will try to respect that. I need to say up front that we have no budget to pay you for this story. If your story is anything like it appears, I am sure one of the tabloids would compensate you very well.”

  “Yeah, Laura the Lawyer has had a few calls. Being a lawyer with a sharp eye for the bottom line, she’s been pushing me to take the money. Right now money is not much of a concern to me. Don’t think for a second this story is free, not a chance. You just aren’t paying me with money. Here’s my deal: I want you to hear the whole story start to finish. How I ended up here comes at the end. There is a lot in between. I need you to hear the in-between.”

  “You mean your life story, a biography?”

  “No, just the last couple of years.”

  “Do you want me to write a newspaper story or a book? I’m not an author in the book sense. I can recommend a couple of guys from the cities that …” John cut him off.

  “Look, I am lying here full of bullets and not full of hydro-morphone. According to this doctor who looks like he doesn’t shave yet, the clock is ticking. I am sure he will be here to harass me as soon as his mother gives him a ride to work. If we are going to start, let’s start. Otherwise, on your way out, tell the nurse to bring me drugs.”

  “I-I, I just don’t know. I’d like to think this through. I just need some time.”

  “Again, let me restate the obvious; time is what you’ve got plenty of, not me. We start, or you go. I am not trying to be difficult, but like I said, getting shot makes me very cranky.”

  “John, to be honest with you I am not sure that I can do you and your story justice. I write about the winners of the Lion’s Club fishing contest and the Musky Queen pageant for a small newspaper. There are going to be a lot of people reading this story, people from all over the country probably. I have never done anything like this before.”

  “Well, Bill, if you stick with that chickenshit attitude, it’s likely you never will. Here is your chance, take it or leave it. Your choice, you make it. It’s a hell of a story you’d be missing.”

  Bill Presser sat deep in thought, and Cabrelli didn’t press him. He just waited. It was up to Bill now.

  Presser finally found his voice, “My grandmother was a card player. When we were kids she used to tell us, ‘Know when to hold, know when to be bold. If you’re never bold, you’ll always be playing someone else’s cards for them.’ I am guessing she was referring to situations just like this. I am honored that you want me to write your story John. I will give it my very best.”

  John was obviously relieved, “Thanks, Bill, I’m glad. I will try to make it as easy on you as I can.”

  “Can I record our conversations?”

  “Please do. Let’s get it right.”

  “My usual format is to ask questions and record the responses, using the information in the responses for more questions. Will that work for you, John?”

  “No. Here is the format. I am going to tell you a true, but very hard to believe story. You can ask questions. I’ll do the best I can to answer them. You are going to want to be able to corroborate my story. I will give you sources. I also have documents. They are hidden. When we are done, they are yours. My goal is simple: tell my story, expose the bad guys, and get justice for my uncle Nick.”

  “Fair enough. I guess we better get started.”

  “Thank God, tempest is fugiting.”

  John Cabrelli began, changing Bill Presser’s life forever.

  2

  Cabrelli

  “I’ve always been a pretty happy person. I’m lucky; I was born believing that life was the journey, not the destination. When I was a kid, I was plenty wild, but I never victimized anyone. I just raised a lot of hell: drinking, fighting, driving fast. Normal youthful behaviors in my neighborhood. Somewhere along the line I decided that I was going to become a policeman. Once I decided, I never really looked back. During my junior year in college, I was recruited. I finished school through the Law Enforcement Educational Assistance Program, better known as ‘nobody w
ants dumb cops program,’ and began my career as a full-fledged crime fighter for the Madison Police Department.

  “I can remember the first day on the job. I had this overwhelming feeling that this was right; I was where I belonged. The whole thing was so exciting. But, not the shoot ’em up, badge heavy tough guy way… . I just felt like I belonged, maybe for the first time in my life.

  “Some people, when they enter law enforcement, go through major life changes; some just can’t do it. They’re good people, but they can’t make the adjustments necessary to survive working night and day in a very busy jurisdiction, most always seeing people at their worst, barging into their families, changing their lives, sometimes forever. I didn’t have much of an adjustment period. I just wanted to get to work. Night shift patrol in a high-crime area was fine with me. I couldn’t sleep very well mixing my days and nights up like that, but I never had a shift that dragged, and there was always plenty to do, things going on. First chance I got, I took the 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. shift. It was the busiest shift, but at least I lived my life in some semblance of normality.