The Fed Man (2 page)

When he turned off the county road and entered the gravel pit, he noted the numerous mounds of asphalt that had been
hauled in when the freeway was being resurfaced. The asphalt was interspersed among the huge piles of gravel that remained when the pit was vacated. As he wound his way along the trail between these piles of gravel, he saw Dr. Anthony’s county coroner’s vehicle with its blinking red lights sitting next to the chief of police’s vehicle. Chief Ron “Naldie” Bushmiller was standing next to the old, black, unassuming Crown Vic talking on his cell phone when Doc pulled up. When Doc exited his near-mint ‘97 Tahoe, Naldie pointed to a narrowing between two piles of gravel.

With his hand over his cell phone he said, “Hey, Doc. Dr. Anthony’s in there. But prepare yourself. I’ve never seen anything like this in all my days.”

As Doc walked down the narrow trail between two large gravel piles that were freckled with clumps of weeds, he saw a few flecks of dried blood on the ground. After walking about thirty feet, he finally saw his longtime acquaintance, the bearded Dr. Joe Anthony, and his assistant, Leo Holmen, kneeling next to a body. But his years of working in the morgue in Minneapolis had not prepared him for what he saw. Lying twisted and contorted was the body of a young female who had been scalped, had her right hand amputated, both eyes enucleated, her nose severed, and had a camping axe stuck in her chest.

Recovering from the initial shock, he said, “Hey, Joe. What in the world happened here?”

“Hi, Doc. Some weirdo perp was obviously pretty ticked at this young woman. I can’t imagine what anyone could do to cause someone to do this sort of thing. Hopefully, you watched your step
coming in here,” he said, waving his hand in the direction from which Doc had just come.

“Leo and I are going to have to grid it and scan it to see if we can find anything to assist with our investigation. I had Naldie call you just in case you might have seen something similar in Minneapolis that might help up us make some sense out of this.”

Shaking his head in amazement and frustration, Dr. Anthony said, “What I don’t get is the wounds. Why not just kill her? Why the scalp job? And it’s not like how the Indians did it on the plains when they scalped someone. My God, Doc, the entire scalp is gone! And why the eyes? And the nose? So far we have not been able to find them. And the hand does not look, at first glance, like it was severed with an axe. It appears to have been very neatly amputated, not just hacked off. And if you’ll notice, the long finger is also amputated and is missing. And then there’s the coup de grâce; what’s with the goddamn axe?”

After gathering himself, Doc asked, “Do you know who she is, Joe, and is there any obvious evidence of rape? And who found her?”

“No clue on the ID, Doc,” he responded, “and we’ll need to get her to the morgue and do further studies to determine if this was a sexual crime as well. Apparently she was discovered by some teenagers riding their ATVs this afternoon. They called Naldie and, well, here we are.”

Turning to Leo, he said, “Okay, Leo. Let’s take all the photos we need, then bag and tag her and get her to the bus.” He turned to Naldie and added, “Well, Chief Bushmiller, you’re in charge. I’d
suggest you grid this site and that you rope off the entire pit. Have you called the county sheriff’s office yet?”

The chief assumed his usual posture when either anxious or agitated: He doffed his old golf cap and began running his fingers through the remaining strands of hair and said, “Yeah, I called the county. I was told that because of that large fire in the Boundary Waters they are on a skeleton crew and I’m supposed to do what I can. They gave me the number for what they called their liaison officer in case I have questions.”

Returning the cap to his head, he began his other subconscious behavior, rubbing his protuberant abdomen. “Big damn help if you ask me.”

Turning to Doc, he said, “Doc, how about you call that young fed who works at the golf course. Perhaps with his FBI training he might be able to help us.”

“You mean Nube Lawson?” Doc said. “Yeah, I can give him a call. I’m not sure how much training in this type of thing he’s had, but it’s worth a try.”

“How in the world does anybody get a name like Nube? Strangest name I’ve ever heard,” said Joe as he stroked his beard, which was in various shades of gray. Friends and acquaintances always knew Joe was pondering something when he began to stroke his unshaven chin.

“Well,” Doc replied, “Nube said his dad hung him with that moniker when he was a kid.” Shrugging his shoulders, he continued,
“I guess we could ask Naldie that same question. Apparently, one day he went from Ron to Ronald to Ronaldo to Naldo to Naldie.” Shaking his head, he added, “Weird.”

His room was very dark, as it always was, and especially after “taking out the garbage.” The thought that came to his mind while reviewing the photos he had taken of his latest “good riddance” was that the world was filled with just a few types of people. There are those who ought to die, those who should die, and those who need to die. And it was the job of just a chosen few, such as him, to make that determination.

“Like this little obnoxious twit,” he mused out loud. “Who did she think she was? Hanging around the mall and outside bars at her young age. And dressed like a slut. She shouldn’t have had her hair done like that. And the god-awful eye makeup. Looked gaudier than a French whore. And when I told her that very thing, what did she do? She had the gall to flip me off and tell me in no uncertain terms to get screwed! Bitch like that needed to die. So I fixed her. No more hair. And no more eyes. She can’t even give the devil the finger. And I took her hand so she can’t even hitch a ride
to hell. Showed her. Worst part of the whole deal is that I lost my favorite axe. Well, they make more.”

As he sat and looked at the photos, he became sullen, finally taking his head in his hands and rocking back and forth, listening to Bob Dylan in the background drone on about everybody getting stoned.

After completing a few tasks, including the cart path repair, Nube stopped at the maintenance shed where he filled the fertilizer spreaders, knowing that tomorrow’s workday would come early enough. He had just returned to what he referred to as his “humble abode” at 474 Cleveland Avenue, which was actually a small, three-room cabin just off the eighteenth green, when his phone rang. He flipped open his cell without looking at the caller ID and flippantly said, “Yeah. This is Nube.”

“Nube, this is Doc Allen. I’m out here at Whitsell’s pit with Dr. Joe Anthony, you know, the county coroner. There’s been a grizzly murder. I’ve never seen the likes of anything like this. It’s truly macabre. Dr. Anthony and I were wondering if you’d care to drive out here and take a look. Perhaps with your FBI training you might be able to shed some light on what’s happened.”

“I’m sorry, Doc. That was another lifetime. Besides, my field experience was minimal. And I’ve kind of hung up my badge, so to speak.”

“Yes, we know that. But we sure would appreciate it, Nube. This, in all honesty, just plain scares the hell out of us.”

“There are two things that come immediately to mind, Doc. One is why isn’t the county assuming control? And the second is that before I can do anything I need to check in with my boss, since I am still officially an agent of the FBI.”

“The answer to the first question is that Naldie, Chief Bushmiller, did call the county and because of that BWCA fire they’ve told him to just proceed and keep them in the loop. With regard to the second, when are you going to call him?”

“Her, Doc. My boss is Supervisory Special Agent Allessandra Corrales and I guess I can give her a call right now.”

“CORRALES,” HIS BOSS
said after the phone rang once.

“Good morning, ma’am. This is Nube Lawson and I have a bit of a quandary here.”

He spent the next five minutes giving her an update of his life and presenting the case as he knew it. When he was done, Corrales did not hesitate. “Agent Lawson, and I use that address endearingly, I sense a hint of exhilaration and enthusiasm in your voice. And your speech is a bit faster than usual. Sounds like your blood is running warm. I’ll have to run this by the director, of course, but my opinion is that you should work ex officio. Now get to work and I want regular updates. I’ll get back to you after I speak to the director.”

With a hint of a smile and a fist pump, Nube hit the redial button. “My boss gave me the green light, Doc. I need to let Ms. Abby out of her kennel so she can stretch her legs and do her business, then I’ll change and drive out. But I won’t promise you anything.”

“You just being here is all the promise we want. Just find Naldie when you get here and he’ll bring you to the scene.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.” As he went about changing into some old clothes, he started to wonder what he had just done. Staring at himself in the mirror, he questioned himself, “What on God’s green earth would ever prompt you to say yes to such an insane request? And what could you possibly do to help? Do you even remember anything about the protocols regarding a crime scene investigation? Do you really think you’re ready for this?”

Nube had always believed in the Pollyanna theory, which to him meant that in everything bad there was always something good. The good this afternoon, he rationalized, was that he would be able to enjoy one of his passions—driving his black 2004 Audi TT with its 225 hp motor and its six-speed manual transmission. No automobile, in his opinion, matched the ride and thrill of this beauty, especially the way it cornered. It was only six miles out to Whitsell’s pit, but the road had numerous curves, much to the delight of Nube and his Audi.

When he arrived at the pit it wasn’t difficult to find the correct spot. He just headed for the throng of “lookie-loos” that had already begun to gather. Nube approached Naldie’s deputy, Pete Mohr, who had blocked the entrance to the murder site with yellow crime scene tape with its bold letters: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

Pete saw Nube and said, “Hey, Nube. Naldie’s waiting for you. Jesus Jennie Lybeck but I’ve never seen, or dreamed I would see,
carnage like there is back there. Where the hell do we get these weirdos? Chicago? Certainly ain’t one of ours.”

“Not sure what wire gets twisted, Pete. How’re things with you? Been hunting lately?”

“Nah, no time. Not with the honey-do list my bride has for me and the tight leash Naldie keeps us on. Besides, I’m looking at a new bow, but need to get some cash. Just be careful where you step. Hey, Nube, can I ask you something personal?”

With just a slight, almost imperceptible nod of his head, Nube gave his permission, but immediately wished he had just ignored the request.

“Where’d you ever get the name Nube? Story around town is that your dad hung you with it. Never heard anybody called that before.”

“My real name is Norbert, but my little brother couldn’t say Norb so he kept calling me Nube. And you’re right, my dad just wouldn’t let it go. So I’ve been Nube to my family and just about everybody else ever since.”

Nube surveyed the scene as he walked around the gravel piles. The piles of sand, class five gravel, crushed asphalt, and concrete that made up the vacated pit seemed to be in no particular place or order. There were varying widths of space between the piles, with the expected ATV ruts from the weekend riders. Some long-standing piles had clumps of weeds and small trees growing from them. He noted a few water puddles, but only one seemed to have recently been disturbed with exit tracks that appeared to be from a small
vehicle. When he came around a pile of crushed asphalt, he saw the trail that led between the two large piles of poor-looking gravel.

He spotted Naldie standing with his coat open, showing buttons on a blue police shirt that bulged as it tried to cover his cheeseburger-endowed abdomen. He wore a mustard-stained dark tie open at the neck, and a U.S. Open golf cap with a frayed bill crowned his balding head. The two doctors were standing with chins in hand, staring down at a mutilated corpse. And another guy he didn’t know was standing off to the right of Dr. Anthony.

“Hey, Naldie. Hey, Doc. Hello, Dr. Anthony. What can I do to help?”

Turning, Doc grinned as he recognized the young man he had come to like and admire. He had always thought that it was unfortunate that Nube had his promising future crushed and was now spending time in his own self-imposed limbo as a golf course caretaker.

“Hi, Nube. Thanks for taking the time to come out tonight. We’re just not real sure what all this means and how to proceed. Anything at all you can add would be appreciated.”

“Well, if I remember correctly, there are some protocols that need to be followed at a crime scene. First, you need an investigative leader and I would suggest that would fall to you, Naldie.”

“Jeez, Nube. I’ve never done or seen anything like this before. Why me?”

“Because, Naldie, you’re the chief.” With a small grin he added, “It’s going to be more work than eating donuts and cheeseburgers,
but don’t get too nervous. I’ll help you. The first thing we need to do is keep the bystanders out, so have Pete tape off the entire pit. Then you need to establish a command post that should be away from the actual crime scene, but within the perimeter. And I would suggest you have him call in some of your other deputies to help him secure the area.

“You’re going to need a photographer to take pictures of the entire pit, mid-range and close-ups. And they will need to be taken with a measurement scale. Does your department have its own photographer?”

“No.”

“Then I suggest you have Pete call that new photographer in town, what’s his name, Dick Young, and have him come out. Tell him to bring his best camera and we’ll give him his instructions when he arrives. You’ll also need someone to sketch the scene. How about that retired art teacher who hangs around the golf course sketching possible changes to the course? I think his name is Jim Plooter. Be sure to tell him that the sketches should be drawn to scale and if it’s not possible, then that needs to be documented. If you want, I will function as your assistant and as your crime scene reporter.