Death Roe (17 page)

38

Sunday, November 14, 2004

SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY

There was a gray sedan parked at the resort, black letters on the door,
united states intra agency
.

He found Zhenya Leukonovich inside, tapping furiously on a laptop. “I sent your girl away,” she announced. “I told her we have important business, you and I.”

“That's not your call. And she's my partner, not my girl.”

“Nonsense; she is a mere child. Zhenya will, of course, domicile here. She has subpoenas to deliver, interviews to be made. This will be a most convenient arrangement.”

“How did you find us?”

Leukonovich flashed a sly smile. “I am employed to find the unfindable.”

Service made a pot of coffee and brooded. The woman was a pain in the ass. “Fagan has two places in Florida,” he said, sitting down with her, “one in Panama City, one in Key West.”

“Also a house in Grand Forks, North Dakota,” she said, “which is in the name of his spouse. There is another in northern Michigan.”

“You ran a background check on me,” he said, still yanked about that.

“Routine,” she said.

“You can do this on others?”

“Only if there is probable cause for their involvement in the case.”

“But you ran one on
me
.”

“Zhenya must know those she is to work with. This is a matter of prudence.”

“What about other DNR employees?”

“Investigators?”

“Fishery personnel.”

“This I believe would be most difficult. We have no interest in the state contract aspects of this case, only federal tax implications.”

“The RCMP is investigating Fagan,” Service announced, to see how she would react.

She showed no emotion. “I have heard this.”

“Are you working with the Canadians?”

“I am unable to confirm or deny.”

“Unable or unwilling?”

She smiled. “Language and semantics are interesting. Zhenya would tell you she admires how you learned from her about her agency's interest in Andriaitis. You are clever and she underestimated you. Zhenya reserves admiration for few. I will not underestimate you again, Detective Service.”

“Specifically, I would like to know if certain individuals are living within their means.”

“Zhenya is regrettably unable to provide you with such an audit,” she said. “Do you wish me to find other accommodations, or will my presence be satisfactory?”

“Here will be fine.”

She nodded.

“Are you aware of Piscova's contracts with other states?”

“I am in the process of constructing a picture.”

“The IRS charged Fagan in Florida.”

“Illegal cash transactions of a personal nature. There were five counts and he pleaded guilty to two, which made for me a disappointment.”

“Did you notify the other states where he has contracts about the Florida convictions?”

“Florida was a personal fiscal transgression. Where will Zhenya sleep?”

“You can join Dani in the loft; there are two double beds up there.”

“You do not sleep there?”

“I'm down here.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“I can't quite make out your accent,” Service said.

“I was born in Gdansk. My parents brought me to America when I was fifteen. I have worked to eliminate all traces of a foreign accent, but vestiges remain. Most people do not notice.”

“I think they notice, but they're afraid to say anything.”

She smiled. “You are not intimidated by Zhenya?”

“No.”

“You are a unique man, Detective. Zhenya prefers blunt and direct people. This is why she chose forensic accounting. There are no secrets, no ambiguities. Columns must tally, reasons must be clear and legal. It is neat and tidy.”

“Unlike people.”

“As Zhenya is so painfully aware,” she said. “Now, may she return to her work?”

“Don't let me get in your way.”

“It is impossible for you to get in Zhenya's way,” she said, returning to her laptop.

“How long will you be with us?”

She looked up. “A few days, perhaps. Is this question of a personal or professional nature?”

“When you can, we'd appreciate a list of Piscova's contracts and Fagan's properties.”

“As you wish.”

“Are you looking at Shamrock Productions?”

“What has this to do with Piscova?”

“It's a Fagan company.”

“There is no mention of this in the files.”

“Alma DeKoening mentioned it the day we were at the plant, and Andriaitis confirms it.”

“You have spoken to Andriaitis?”

“I have.”

“He avoids me.”

“He alerted you to the Piscova Michigan–New York connection.”

“He pointed and went away.”

“I'm sure he has his reasons.”

“Which, of course, makes Zhenya wonder what he has to hide.”

“Are you suspicious of everyone?”

“All people harbor secrets,” she said.

“Privacy and secrecy aren't synonymous,” he countered.

Zhenya Leukonovich pursed her lips thoughfully, and went back to work.

Later, when Dani returned from delivering subpoenas, they had a moment to talk about the deer opener, which was the following day. He promised Dani they would get out on patrol and see what they could find. She nodded. He was excited beyond words.

39

Monday, November 15, 2004

IONIA STATE RECREATION AREA

CO Joe Cullen showed up unexpectedly a few minutes after midnight. The temperature was in the mid-thirties and it was sleeting again. Zhenya Leukonovich was gone—whereabouts, destination, and ETA unshared. Denninger was already asleep in the loft. Service was sitting at the table poring over Piscova files and checking lists of people and case events.

Cullen knocked and Service walked to the door and let him in. The young CO's Gore-Tex coat and overpants were shedding ice pellets, his face the texture and color of a Spanish onion. “Sorry to barge in,” Cullen began.

Denninger came down the steps looking half-asleep and yawning.

Cullen glanced at her and looked back to Service. “Er, ah . . . I wondered what you guys were doing for the deer opener?”

Service said, “We thought we'd go out in our trucks and see what we could get into.”

“Wha—got?” Denninger mumbled.

“I guess what I'm saying is that I could sort of use some help,” the young officer said tentatively. “If that doesn't screw up what you had planned.”

Denninger looked to Service for a reaction. “Coffee?” Service asked Cullen.

“Yessir.”

“It's fresh, over there,” Service said, trying to sort out his thoughts. The firearm deer opener was the most significant period of the year for most conservation officers, many of whom even marked their careers by how many deer seasons remained until they retired. It had always been a highlight for Service, and he had been jacked up to get into another deer season. Now that Cullen was here, he would feel even better about stepping away from Piscova for a little while.

“We going to rescue the officer?” Denninger asked.

“Tell us what you need,” Service told Cullen.

“You rolling now?” Denninger said, interrupting.

“No, I just wanted to talk to you guys and catch some sleep before an early start.”

Service asked, “You got blinds to check in the morning?” Most officers monitored deer blinds in their areas, marked the illegal ones on their AVL computers and handheld GPS units, and visited them opening morning.

“Not so many.”

“So what's your plan?”

“I've got this guy, Rhycough Kirbyson, lives up in Palo.”

“Pay-low?”

“Spelled P-A-L-O,” Cullen said. “Got a beard like Noah, wears Amish clothes and a wide-brim straw hat. Kirbyson has his own little church in a tarpaper-and-haybale shack, with a few hardscrabble parishioners. Claims to be an Olap minister. He hunts and fishes for everything. I've heard from several sources he whacks eight or ten deer a year. The retail sales system shows he's got the right to two. I've sat on this guy several times, but I just can't seem to catch him. Now I'm hearing he's gonna be hunting the Ionia State Rec this morning.”

“Olap?” Service asked.

“The way I heard it, early in the 1800s there was a community of religious people up north of Ionia. There's not much information about them, but they kept separate from other locals and pretty much looked out for themselves,” Cullen said. “Eventually the community disappeared—even the old post office is gone, though the area still has its own zip code. It's just a convenience store, a few families, and Kirbyson with eighty acres along Prairie Creek. He travels in a buggy with a horse—like the Amish. Two days ago somebody saw him on Eddy Road on the west side of the rec area. That's twenty miles from his place, which is a
long
haul in a buggy. I talked to some landowners around the area and they tell me they've seen him several times since September.”

“Many deer there?” Denninger asked.

“Deer are in the park woods in summer and move out to farm fields to eat. Once the shooting starts today, the big bucks will book it for the Grand River to hide in the thicker cover on the floodplain.”

“What do you have in mind?” Service said.

“I think we need to look for the buggy. A couple of local deps are willing to drive around out here, but with us, we'd have three more vehicles and our AVLs. Once we find the buggy, we can assess the situation.”

Cullen finished his coffee and got up to leave.

“Where do you live?” Denninger asked.

“South of here . . . Lake Odessa.”

“Why don't you crash here?”

“It's not that far,” he said.

“Save yourself the drive time.”

Service pointed Cullen to the folded cots and went back to his paperwork.

The three were patrolling separately around the perimeter of the 4,500-acre state area by 5 a.m., each of them armed with a thermos of coffee and trapper sandwiches Service had put together for them. The temperature was hovering between 36 and 37 degrees, and it was raining.

Denninger went east on Riverview Drive toward South Ionia. Service worked the southern perimeter along David Highway. Cullen worked through the roads inside the area.

At 5:45 a.m. Service's cell phone buzzed. It was Cullen. “There's a fallow-field farm on Tuttle Road, which cuts the bottom of the rec area. It belongs to a guy named Bruno DeVoll. He used to be a guard at Deerfield Correctional Facility, which is a few miles east of his place. He got canned a couple of years back for beating up an off-duty dep in town. Nasty temper, bully, crooked as they come.”

“Kirbyson?” Service said, checking his notepad and trying to get the young officer focused.

“Oh yeah. I got a call a few minutes ago from one of DeVoll's neighbors. He says there were a couple of shots on No Name Creek around zero four forty-five.”

“Any lights?”

“No, but he saw an Amish buggy turning into DeVoll's entry road around midnight last night. DeVoll's place is close to where the shots came from, and there's an old quarry just to the west.”

Service said, “There's more than one buggy around here, I assume.”

“Yes, but my gut . . .”

“Always go with your gut,” Service said. It had taken him a long time to learn to trust his own instincts.

“We can stash trucks west of DeVoll's, off Highland Drive. That will put us about a half-mile east of DeVoll's place.”

“Tell me how to get there,” Service said. “You call Denninger.”

Seven minutes later the trucks were hidden and they were outside, saddling up in the cold rain and mud. Service saw the bursts from Cullen's exhalations and knew the young officer was nervous and excited. Denninger seemed fairly calm as they put on their orange hats and vests. Service was experiencing his own adrenaline rush and trying to hide it. No more lists and shit today. This was
real
game warden work!

They made their way a quarter-mile through young oak and maple to the base of some small hills sloping south, and stopped. The land was rolling and slippery. “DeVoll's land starts here,” Cullen said, and led them for another fifteen minutes and stopped them again. “The creek is down that way eighty yards or so. DeVoll's place is north of the creek about three hundred yards. I'm going to cross here and move south to creep the buildings.”

“We'll sweep the creek,” Denninger said.

It was the right approach, but he reminded himself he was working with kids, relatively new to their jobs, and talking and moving like they had been doing the job forever, even though they were both relatively green. Still, it was a little depressing to think the old guard was being replaced by young people as competent as their predecessors; in the bigger view, he decided this was a damn good thing.

When the modern DNR academy had been established a few years back, a lot of longtimers and retirees had bad-mouthed it, but from what he was seeing the graduates were damn good, and he felt an odd sense of pride in them. Nantz had wanted desperately to be a CO, but that would never happen now. The realization made his heart feel empty. In his day it had taken two full years to learn your territory and become fully effective. This was no longer true of new officers, who stepped out of training ready to charge full speed ahead.

“What do you think?” Cullen whispered to him.

“I'm just along for the walk.”

Cullen slid away silently.

Denninger moved close to Service, nudged him, and started down toward the creek. Service checked his watch. Last night they had checked the sunrise chart. It would come up this morning around 7:40 a.m.; shooting hours would be about thirty minutes before that, which meant there was a period of three-quarters of an hour before hunters could pull triggers legally.

They moved along a ragged line of sumac above tag alders. He stayed high and the limber, younger Denninger steadily wriggled through the heavier cover. Rain helped mask their sound.

“Twenty Five Fourteen,” Denninger whispered over the 800 MHz. “I'm within five feet of the creek. I'm going to wade across. You want to move down here and parallel my line on this side?”

“Affirmative. Twenty Five Fourteen clear.”

He started into the tags but his boot got caught, and as he extracted his leg it twisted and he felt the muscle in his calf pop again.
Goddammit
. The pain wasn't as sharp this time as it had been at Cedarville, but it had gone for sure, and he knew it would tighten up if he stopped moving for long. He stopped and dry-swallowed 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and moved on.

“Twenty Five Fourteen, I've got two blood trails. Can you cross over? The water's about three feet deep, semi-firm bottom.”

“Twenty Five Fourteen clear.”

There was a slight current, and the spot he chose to enter had a soft bottom. He felt the pain shoot up his leg from the suction holding his boot when he tried to move. He leaned back to the bank, took out his knife, cut a length of tag alder to use as a walking stick, and started across, grimacing with the pain of each step. “Give me one green,” he said on the 800 as he stood next to tag alders on the far bank. He saw a small green light blink to his left, crawled onto the bank on his knees, and used the stick to get back up to his feet.

Looking over his shoulder he could see gray blades of morning twilight beginning and ahead of him, Denninger's silhouette.

She waited for him and whispered, “Two gut piles and two bait piles, about a hundred gallons each—a little over the limit,” she said sarcastically, and pointed. “Two blood trails lead to a fresh off-road vehicle trail.”

“Cullen?”

“Nothing so far,” she said. “You love this as much as we do.”

“Keep your mind on the job,” he said softly.

“
Me
? What about Piscova. Should we even be here, helping Joe?”

“It will help remind us what real COs do.”

“Detectives aren't real COs?” she asked.

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“You took the job.”

“I wasn't exactly given a choice,” he admitted. “Let's stop yakking and do our jobs.”

The ORV trail led west-south. As the light improved, Service could see the outlines of a shack and a barn higher up. No lights. Once the ground firmed up, he dropped his stick. They were climbing uphill.

The first voice they heard was Cullen's.

“DNR, Conservation Officer!”

A second voice boomed, “
Cocksucker!
”

Denninger flew toward the sound. Service tried to speed up, but could only shamble and hop. As he moved along he caught a glimpse of movement to his right and immediately dropped to one knee. Someone was moving downhill toward the stream. He waited until the figure was closer and studied it through some saplings. No weapon in sight. The figure paused before pussyfooting forward.

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.