Deer Season (12 page)

“Damn straight. Three hours or thirty gallons, whichever comes first.”

“In my message I said that you didn’t have to come tonight,” Ray said.

“No problem, and I was just completing a service call near here. As soon as we get somereal cold weather, like now, the phone rings off the hook,” said Billy. “Most of the time it’s frozen pipes, nothing wrong with the well or pump. And it’s usually the goofy summer people who didn’t winterize yet. They come up for the weekend and can’t figure out why they don’t have any water.

“That won’t be the problem in your case since everything is protected, and it’s a heated building. I’ll have a quick look; it’s probably something simple.” Billy headed off toward the equipment room.

“What do you think?” asked Ray, when Billy returned.

“I should have the part in the truck,” Billy replied, “I’ll be right back.”

By the time Ray had put the plates in the dishwasher, Billy had reappeared and turned on the faucet at the kitchen sink. “You’re back in business,” he said, closing the valve.

“What was wrong?”

“Do you want an impressive answer or the truth?” Billy asked.

“How about the truth?”

“The pump pressure control switch failed. These units used to be completely mechanical. They occasionally needed some adjustment, but they lasted for years. Now there’s a little circuit board in the box, too. And that’s usually the problem. It’s nonserviceable, you have to replace the whole control.”

“And you did?” asked Ray.

“I didn’t have a new one, so I put the one I keep in the truck for testing purposes. It works fine. I’ll come back in a few days and replace it with a new one.”

“Want a beer?” asked Ray. He was pleased to know he could have a hot shower in the morning, and he always enjoyed Billy’s cheerful personality.

“Sure,” said Billy, going to the refrigerator, pulling one out. “You want one?” he asked Ray.

“I’m going to make some herbal tea.”

Billy collapsed into a chair at the table, unzipping a greasesmeared Carhartt jacket, his ample belly filling a faded red sweatshirt.

“You done with this pizza?” Billy asked, inspecting the half that remained in the box.

“Yes,” said Ray. “You want me to warm it up?”

“Warm food, now that’s a concept. This is fine, thanks,” he responded, fishing a piece out of the box with his large, thick fingers.

“Fork, plate?”

“Perfect,” he said, shaking his head, indicating that he needed neither. He quickly finished the first piece, and started on another. When Billy came up for air, he said, “Lots of excitement today. Everywhere I stopped, that’s all they were talking about, the shooting. How she’s doing, that TV woman?”

“She’s in critical condition.”

“She going to make it?” Billy asked.

“Don’t know,” said Ray, pouring some boiling water into a cup with a bag of chamomile tea.

“What a shame,” said Billy. “Pretty woman. Not enough of them around. Why would anyone want to shoot her?”

“Wish I knew,” answered Ray.

“Surprised no one ever shot Dirk,” said Billy, picking up another piece of pizza. “If they did, you’d have a shit load of suspects.”

“How’s that?” asked Ray, knowing that Billy was an authority on local lore.

“Back in the bad old days, when Orville was still sheriff, Dirk, his brother Danny, and Kenny Obermeyer sort of ran the department. They were all young then; I don’t think any of them were thirty yet. They played tough, made lots of enemies, and were dirty as hell.”

“I’ve heard stories,” responded Ray. “For over twenty years I was only up here occasionally. And I never knew if the stories about Orville and his deputies were just talk, or if there was more to it.”

“You know I went down on possession and sale?” Billy asked.

“Yes,” answered Ray. “I did hear that.”

“I was surprised when you asked me to bid on your job,” Billy said. “I thought you might not want to be associated with an ex-con.”

“Billy, that was decades ago. You’ve never been in trouble again.”

“Yeah, but it was stupid. I was twenty-one.”

“We really lost touch after high school. What were you doing then?

“I went down to Central to play football. I got into partying, joined a frat, had lots of fun, and flunked my ass out royally my sophomore year. So I came back up here, and my dad took me into the business. Then he had a heart attack and died, and I took over. He had built a good business, and I was young, working lots of hours, and making some real money. I was also spending it, too.

“I had this real fast Olds convertible, candy-apple red. Dirk nailed my ass a couple of times for speeding. Both times he tore the car apart, saying he knew I was dealing.”

“Were you?” Ray asked

“Not much, just enough to cover my costs, and just to friends. But Dirk said he was going to get me, and he did.”

“How?” asked Ray.

“Okay to have another beer?”

“Help yourself,” said Ray. “How did Dirk nail you?”

Billy returned to the table, settled in the chair across from Ray, and scooped up another piece of pizza. “I was stupid, just fucking stupid. I got a call from someone I didn’t know wanting to buy some coke. The guy was offering about twice the street price. I should have seen instantly that it was a setup. So I got some stuff and showed up at the place. As soon as the money and dope were exchanged, Dirk comes out of nowhere, cuffs me and takes me to jail.”

“What happened then?”

“I got convicted for possession and sale, went to the intake center at Jackson, and then got sent to the farm system. When I got out the business was still here. Herb Eibler—you remember him, he’d worked for my dad—kept it going. So that was it; I learned my lesson, I’d rather die than go back in. But, you know, every time I’ve run into Dirk over the years, he’s always had some smart-assed comment about how he got me.”

“The other two, Dirk’s brother and Kenny Obermeyer, I’ve heard some stories. What happened to them?”

“That’s one of the great mysteries. Kenny Obermeyer got gunned down late one night; it was July or August. The paper said it happened during a routine traffic stop, but one of the EMTs told me they picked up the body in the middle of a cherry orchard.”

“Any arrests?”

“Never. Orville put out the story that it was a random act, committed by someone from downstate, probably Detroit. They all wanted this case to go away. The rumor was that the three of them had worked out an arrangement with an out-of-state mob—Chicago, Miami, it depends on who is doing the telling. Anyway, those people got exclusive rights to sell in the region and protection in exchange for a percentage of the take. Word was Dirk and friends were getting too greedy. Kenny’s death was the mob’s way of canceling the agreement.”

“Then what happened?” Ray asked.

“Dirk’s brother, Danny, got real scared, moved his family up north. I hear he’s got a bar or a package store somewhere near Seney. But Dirk decided to stay around and take his chances. I think he learned not to mess with those people.” Billy took a long pull on his beer and started chewing on the last piece of pizza. Finally he said, “I bet with all the county records being destroyed in that rather suspicious fire, there’s no way you can research this?”

“Let me go back to one thing,” said Ray. “You said there are a lot of people who….”

“Would love to do great bodily harm to Dirk,” said Billy with a chuckle. “There are lots of rumors. And Ray, I don’t know how many of them are true. But those three guys were pretty violent, and Orville just let them run the department.” Billy paused and rubbed the stubble of his heavy beard with his left hand. “I heard about kids being slapped around at traffic stops. Drugs disappearing after arrests, I don’t know if they sold the stuff or used it. And there were a lot of stories about women, including ones that were being held in jail. I think people were sort of relieved when Kenny got blown away. Our local reign of terror was over.” Billy tipped up the beer and finished it. “I better let you get to sleep,” he said, looking across the table. “If the well isn’t working when you get up in the morning, give me a call. I’ve still got your key.”

“One more thing,” said Ray, “you don’t seem to harbor great bitterness toward Dirk.”

“I hate the fucker,” responded Billy. “But in a strange way, he might have saved my life. I was just a wild kid into drugs and booze. While I was inside the place, I finally started to grow up. But it was a hell of a price to pay.” He gave Ray a final wave and headed out the door.

After Billy left, Ray rinsed out the two beer bottles and his mug, flattened the pizza box, and carried it to the trash bin in the garage. The conversation with Billy had given him a second wind, but now he was feeling very tired and his leg was beginning to cramp.

He went into his study and pulled his journal and favorite fountain pen from under the top of his standing writing desk. Several years before Ray had had a local cabinetmaker design and build it. At the time he was plagued with back pains and was more comfortable standing than sitting.

Ray opened the journal and read through his last entry. Before he began to write, he reflected a few moments on how the focus of his life had changed since the first 911 call came in midmorning.

The account of events, including the interviews, that Ray typed at his office earlier in the evening had been clinical, the repetition of facts, and a timeline of events, all carefully documented. In his journal Ray was free to loosen the reins, to allow his emotions to blend with the facts, to give body and texture to the events, to reveal the tragedy that was unfolding. He described his feelings in the few brief seconds when he saw Lynne, her clothing soaked with blood, as she was lifted from the truck, moved to a gurney, and loaded into the ambulance. He wrote about holding Breanne, hearing her cries and feeling her tiny body in spasms of fear and grief. As he stood at the desk, Ray thought about the fact that he had not been part of his own daughter’s life when she was that age, but he wasn’t ready to write about that yet. He moved on to describing his frustration when he and Sue discovered that the crime scene had been all but obliterated when the snowplow had gone through the area.

He thought he would only write a few paragraphs, but once he got started and into the story, the words flowed onto the paper. By the time he finally screwed the cap back on his pen, he had filled more than five pages in his small, meticulous hand. With his last thoughts recorded, he felt his energy flagging. Before he went to bed he called Sue Lawrence’s voice mail and left a message that he had heard that Dirk’s brother, Danny, had a bar somewhere near Seney. If that were true, Danny would probably know how to find Dirk.

Sue crawled out of bed, filled and turned on the coffee maker, then showered, dressed, and toasted the last English muffin in the package, which she hurriedly consumed before filling a thermos with coffee and starting for the office. She stood for a long moment at the side of her car and scanned the horizon. The sky was still dark blue, brilliant with stars—the storm had moved east. Sue reminded herself that she needed to try to keep grounded in the emotions triggered by this scene of peace and beauty. She couldn’t allow the harsh realities she would be facing the rest of the day to dominate her psyche.

Settling at her desk, Sue switched on her computer and then checked her voice mail as she waited for the system to boot up. There was one message, Ray’s. The phone rang just as she set the handset back in the cradle. She waited for the second ring before she answered.

“Sue, this is central dispatch. I noticed you were in early.” “Hi, Jim,” Sue responded.

“We had a call from the Munising Police Department about fifteen minutes ago. They’ve spotted a silver Honda Pilot with a trailer attached carrying an ATV parked on a residential street. The vehicle is registered to Lynne Boyd, and the trailer is licensed to Dirk Lowther. They have the vehicle under surveillance with backup coming from the state police and the sheriff.”

Sue sat in silence; she could almost visualize the scene. “Sue, are you there?”

“Yes. I’ll be staying at my desk for a while. Direct all the calls here until I tell you otherwise.”

“Will do,” came the response.

Sue closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She wished she were up there, sitting in an unmarked car waiting for Dirk to return to his vehicle. She wondered where he was and with whom.

She thought about driving to the U.P., but that would take far too much time, especially with the current road conditions. All she could do was focus on work that needed to be done and wait for things to develop.

Sue created a folder on her hard drive, attached her camera to her computer, and started to import all the photos she had taken at the crime scene. When that was completed, she burned a CD of the photos, and checked the quality of the CD by opening several photos. After removing and labeling the disc, Sue placed it in her carefully ordered storage file of crime scene photographs.

Once the archival task was completed, Sue began looking at images she had captured the day before at the site of the Boyd shooting. She had hoped to see something new, something she had missed when was she was standing by the side of the road. But as she looked through the images, one by one, displayed on the large, high-resolution screen on her desk, she could see that there was little that could be gleaned from this data. The scene had been completely disturbed by the plow. Any pattern of blood that might have provided clues to the location of the shooter had been obliterated.

She viewed the image showing some of the mail that Lynne had dropped. It was half-buried and scattered along the roadside. Then she looked at the photos she had made of two possible sites where the shooter might have found cover. The first, while showing what appeared to be a path from the road, was drifted over by the time she found it. There were no apparent footprints or other recoverable evidence at the site.