Red Jacket (32 page)

86

Eagle River

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1913

Bapcat wanted to go into the woods to search for pockets of Canady yew and deer, but the whole Nesmith affair continued to weigh heavily on his mind, especially when he took into account the possible involvement of the two lawmen, Houghton County Deputy Sheriff Raber and the still-unidentified Waddell-Mahon man. Bapcat found himself anxious to talk to John Hepting, who usually served as a reliable compass.

Hepting greeted them at his house, which looked out on Lake Superior a hundred or so feet below the hilltop. The sky was spitting sleet and snow and the water looked the color of sludge as large yellow clouds scudded across the roiling sky.

“Haven't seen much of you boys,” Hepting greeted them.

“Training in the Soo,” Bapcat said. “Cruse has a deputy by the name of Chunk Raber. You know him?”

“One of Cruse's top muscles. You have an encounter with him?”

“Is he in Cruse's pocket?”

The sheriff answered with a shrug and listened attentively as the game warden related the tale of the boxes and their movement from Champion to Nesmith Victuals in Houghton.

“What're your intentions?” the sheriff asked after Bapcat finished the telling.

Bapcat had been thinking furiously about the situation since leaving Houghton. “We can't arrest him for shooting deer out of season. One, we didn't witness him shoot anything, and two, if others are doing it for him, we have to catch them in the act and have them point fingers at him. Thirdly, we aren't enforcing the law in our two counties, so we can't very well charge him on that, but we could charge him with the illegal sale of meat and participation in commercial hunting, and conspiracy.”

“On what evidence—a few deer hairs?” Hepting asked, playing devil's advocate.

“We got hair off the wooden boxes, and my hunch is that railroad men, including the baggage-car man, Davidov, are part of the whole thing. We can arrest everyone and throw heaviest pressure on the lowest ones to force them to turn on the others with more to gain.”

“That's a half-baked plan at best. What evidence do you have? A few hairs on boxes in a public baggage compartment aren't especially compelling. We need to get Hyppio Plew into this conversation. You're talking felonies in terms of scale, which will bump all proceedings into the circuit court. Plew will give us a reasonable evaluation of your chances in that venue.”

•••

Plew's ornate beard was neatly trimmed, and he wore a pressed silvery-striped vest over a white shirt.

Hepting poured whiskey all around and Bapcat retold his story, omitting nothing.

“If O'Brien's sitting, you might have a fighting chance,” Plew said. “Any other jurist, your chances are remote at best. They have bigger fish to fry than deer, if you'll pardon my mixing of metaphors. The trick here is evidence. Houghton County has an assistant prosecutor named Echo. Ever heard of or worked with him?”

“No,” Bapcat said.

“Exactly,” Plew told them. “Roland Echo's a real backroom, keep-his-puss-out-of-the-papers man. He and prosecutor Tony Lucas were boyhood friends, went to the same law school, been together forever. Echo does the heavy lifting and thinking, and Tony works out front in the spotlight and takes the public heat. Echo has no design on Tony's job. When Tony leaves office, Echo will go with him to whatever is next, but Tony listens to everything Rollie Echo whispers in his ear, and if Echo thinks Tony can get something up on Fat Man Cruse or one of his thugs, he'll do it. Tony's the public face: Echo's the engine and brain.

“After the Seeberville killings, Lucas arrested two of Cruse's deps, but they made bail, and Cruse still has them on duty, and on the payroll. The Waddies involved disappeared. Tony Lucas was outraged at Cruse's utter disregard for the law, but you'll never hear him say so publicly. Mark my word: When all's said and done, justice will be served, and when that happens, you can bet your bottom dollar that Rollie Echo will have been the legal architect.”

“Echo might listen favorably to a request for warrants?” Bapcat asked.

“Persuade him that it puts Cruse in a bad light, and he'll convince Lucas and you'll get your search writs. If your search uncovers good evidence, they'll authorize arrest warrants and look for a way to take the case forward. Neither Lucas nor Echo can tolerate the incompetent Cruse, and if they can nab one of his key cronies, they'll do it.”

“Cruse sprang his deputies on the Seeberville murder charges,” Hepting pointed out.

“He did indeed,” Plew said, “and he may well do that in this case as well, but once you've got the county prosecutors in your corner, you can be sure that charges, and the case, will eventually go forward, no matter the resistance and shenanigans from Cruse. Meanwhile, what advantage does newspaper coverage offer?”

Bapcat had never considered such a thing, and Harju had never mentioned it. He had no immediate answer, but John Hepting did. “You file charges on Raber and the unidentified Waddie, if evidence warrants. But you leave the railroad men and the operator of Nesmith Victuals alone. At the same time you make sure the newspaper knows that the case is a lot bigger than it appears, and that you expect the ongoing investigation will identify additional conspirators and bring forth multiple arrests.”

“This lets the free ones cook in the fetid juices of their own imaginations,” Zakov said. “It encourages them to come forward with information in order to minimize their own roles and culpability. This is truly brilliant, Justice Plew.”

The JP grinned and downed his whiskey. “Making the laws work is a hell of a lot more complicated than printing them on paper. You boys recognize, of course, that if you get the warrants and fail to uncover evidence, your case dies right there?”

Zakov said, “We are not enforcing the deer laws in these counties, but surely this is not so in Marquette County. The boxes were loaded there.”

“All things are possible—with evidence,” Justice of the Peace Hyppio Plew said. “I would advise you to move as quickly as possible for search warrants. Any delay enables the guilty to rid themselves of evidence. Time is the key to your success, lads.”

Should have followed my hunch
. Bapcat told Zakov, “We need to sit on Nesmith from now until we serve warrants.”

“By
we,
you mean me, I presume,” the Russian said.

“Get Georgie to help you, and tell him we'll pay him for his time and help.”

“You?”

“I need to make another black-of-the-night visit. You and George can drop me and head for Houghton. I'll catch the electric when I'm done.”

87

Laurium

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1913

Night had come, and Judge O'Brien was in a contentious, argumentative state and looked like he had been pulling hard on a bottle. He shook his head at the sight of Bapcat on his porch and said angrily, “Git your arse into me fookin' office.”

O'Brien sat in silence, sullen, face dark, hair sticking out at angles. He was wound up like Bapcat had never seen before.

“Fookin' blind, greedy fookin' fools,” he finally mumbled, taking a swig from a glass. “The operators demand an injunction, and I've no choice but to grant the bloody thing. The whole bloody lots are driving me to an early grave, they are, the whole damn buncha them,
both
fookin' sides.

“I've told them all, on numerous occasions, that I won't stand for no more bloody head-cracking, fookin' gunplay and such shite. They want this settled, they have to do it like civilized humans, not a bunch of two-legged hyenas. I want this settled with words, not guns.

“When the strikers began roughing up men, trying to go to work, the operators came to me. I had to give them the injunction against the strikers to stop the bloody harassment. What happens? As soon as the operators have the upper hand, they turn up the heat and start pounding on the strike parades. Result: I lift the injunction and the whining bastards appeal to the state supreme court, which takes it out of my hands.

“Two weeks ago, the State crowd overruled me, and reinstated the injunction in favor of the operators. Strikers can have their parades, but they can't stop men from working if that's what they want to do. How do the strikers react? They ignore Lansing and are at it again. Later this morning I'm going to have to order mass arrests in Allouez and Mohawk . . . Damn them all.”

“Those are Keweenaw locations, Judge, not Houghton. Sheriff Hepting, does he know?”

“Nah, tomorrow's soon enough. John will be pissed at me because his heart's with the strikers, but I've got three Pullman cars being hauled out from Houghton to house prisoners and take them back to Houghton, to the jail.”

“What about Eagle River?”

“What about it!” the judge howled. “It's a two-bit one-room jailhouse. Truth is, the damn place is no more than a lame joke. There's no damn reason for two counties up here; my circuit covers both.” O'Brien ran his hands through his greasy hair. “This thing is ready to really blow—more guns, more fighting, more deaths. It has to stop
here
.” The judge glared at Bapcat. “What in hell are you doing here? At night.
Again?
”

“Same as you—looking for peace and fair play.”

The judge sneered. “I'm listening.”

Bapcat laid out the scenario involving the boxes and Nesmith Victuals.

“For God's sake, boyo, the hairs could have come from anywhere, at any time.”

“But the manifests say that each Norway pine box contains fifteen hundred pounds of ore. I personally watched three men lift each box easily, and all twelve in short order, so I am wondering why the manifest weights are so inaccurate. The railroad man who escorted the shipment seemed not the least bit concerned about the discrepancy.”

“Norway pine?” the judge asked. “Worthless stuff.”

“Exactly, and when we buried Moilanen, it took eight of us to carry his coffin and with him in it we're talking only seven hundred pounds. There's no way three men can handle fifteen hundred in Norway pine. If we search and find nothing, we can just say we're sorry and depart.”

“You think Raber's part of this—whatever
this
is?”

“Speak freely, Your Honor?”

“You always do, Deputy. Spit it out.”

“The mine operators are attempting siege tactics—poisoning streams, flooding animal dens, killing deer, and leaving them to rot. They want to starve the miners and their families.”

“No chance that will succeed,” O'Brien said. “The union opened a cooperative in Red Jacket. I think there are plans for a couple more in towns to the south.”

“How long can they afford to operate?” Bapcat asked. He had very little notion of economics and money, and again felt a hole where knowledge ought to be.

“Keep going,” O'Brien said, rubbing the stubble on his face.

“I don't know if Cruse is involved, but he damn well knows what the operators are up to. It could be that Raber is working on the sheriff's behalf with this Nesmith thing, I don't know, but it's also possible Deputy Raber has found a way to line his own pockets, independent of the sheriff. Frankly, Your Honor, I don't care what direction it goes, as long as we can get into Nesmith Victuals, the rolling stock, and the rail depot in Champion.”

“That won't work. Champion's out of the question, as it's not part of my jurisdiction. It comes under the circuit court in Marquette. But I can order Echo and Lucas to issue a writ on Nesmith, and I'll sign it and make sure there's a second signature, which will allow you to enter at night. But you get nothing on the rolling stock unless you come up with something at the warehouse, understand?”

“Yessir. Can you call Lucas now?”

“Don't push me, dammit. Don't you have the slightest interest in the distasteful things I have to do today?”

“Honestly, Your Honor? I don't.”

“God help me . . . an honest man,” the judge said with a grand smile. “You're fast learnin' the unwritten rules,” he added, pulling papers out of his desk and sliding them across. “Warrant forms.” He took a pen and signed and held them out, then reached for the telephone and cupped the mouthpiece. “Take the forms to Lucas's office tonight. He and Echo can use your information to create the warrants. I'll dictate the language so you won't need to worry about it. Just get into Houghton as fast as you can get there. Now git!”

Bapcat heard the judge say into a telephone, “Tony, it's Patrick. I've got a little late-night work that might gain you some ground against a certain fat bastard with a tin star.”

88

Houghton

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1913

Bapcat found the Russian and Gipp, and showed them the search warrant. “The boxes and any surrounding areas and any suspected or confirmed storage spaces or areas, attached and unattached. O'Brien and a JP named Peters signed the warrant, which gives us the power to go in tonight, right now. The prosecutor's already summoned Nesmith, who is on his way to open up.”

“If he refuses?” Gipp asked.

“We break down the door,” Bapcat said, adding, “but only if we have to.” Assistant Prosecutor Echo had given him a thorough briefing on what he could and couldn't do, and having recently worked through
Tiffany's,
he felt almost confident.

The three men jogged down near the dark entrance and waited. There were street lamps up on Shelden Avenue and down by the rail depot, but few along the canal, and none in this area, which sat in total darkness. Snow was falling softly.

Nesmith arrived in a Buick roadster and centered his lights on them, jumped out, and shouted defiantly, “Nothing happens until my attorney is present, and he and I have the opportunity to read all paperwork!”

Bapcat said, “Just open the door,” and handed the warrant to the man.

“Not until I can digest this in good light.”

“Open the door and turn on the light,” Bapcat said.

“I will not!”

“We're authorized to open the door by force if necessary.”

“Like hell. This country's got a constitution. Who signed the damn warrant?”

“Judge O'Brien and Justice Peters.”

Nesmith made a hocking sound. “Raging socialists, the both of 'em.”

“Open the door,” Zakov ordered sternly. The man sighed deeply and took out a key.

Bapcat stood while the man read the warrant and Zakov and Gipp went through the area, looking for the wooden boxes, which did not appear to be in the warehouse. What they found was a door to a room built into the back of the warehouse with the label
cold
.

“What's in there?” Zakov asked Nesmith.

“Supplies.”

“What about ore boxes?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” the man said.

“We watched your men pick them up yesterday at the depot and we saw them delivered here,” Zakov said. “Open the door to the room.”

Nesmith's lawyer arrived looking sweaty and half-dressed, his hair tousled, eyes red. Deputy Sheriff Raber came in behind the lawyer, revolver in hand. “What's going on here?” the deputy shouted in a stentorian voice.

Zakov calmly showed him their shared badge while Bapcat presented the search warrant. “Holster your weapon, Raber,” Bapcat said.

The sound of his own name seemed to deflate the man's bravado.

“Open the door.” Zakov repeated.

Nesmith's attorney pored over the warrant. “There's no mention of a cold room in this writ,” he said.

Bapcat said, “I quote, ‘wooden boxes, surrounding areas, and all storage facilities, known or suspected on the premises or adjoining thereof,' end quote.”

The lawyer, who gave his name as Elliott Fasman, took Nesmith's arm and said firmly, “Open the cold room for these gentlemen, Michael.”

Inner door open, there sat the boxes, spread out, no longer stacked.

“Open them,” Bapcat told the owner. “And turn on some lights in here.”

“If you boys have everything under control,” Raber said, backing out of the room and disappearing.

Dim lights came on. There were ice bins on the floor in several locations, filled with massive ice blocks that were covered with sawdust. They could see their breath hanging in the air. Shelves lined the walls, and packages wrapped in pink-brown paper were stacked on the shelves, the paper caked with frost. A metal table in the room had butchering tools, knives and grinders, cleavers, rolls of paper, balls of string, and the floors were stained with dark marks.
Blood.

Nesmith said, “There are no box keys.”

Attorney Fasman said sharply, “Michael.”

Bapcat stepped up with his rifle and used the stock to strike the lock off the first box, metal bits skittering across the floor. He opened the lid and found meat, which looked hurriedly butchered, bones still in place, loose hair clumps here and there.

“Not mine,” Nesmith said, raising both hands. “Don't even have keys. We store them for a client.”

Fasman said, “Don't.”

“Client?” Zakov said. “
Client
is by linguistic syllogism someone you have regular transactions with. What is your client's name?”

“We're paid by many to store their things,” Nesmith said.

“Including contraband,” Zakov said.

Bapcat left Zakov to question the man while he opened other boxes, eight of which also contained meat. The final four contained deer heads, which caught him by surprise.

Attorney Fasman started to walk over to Bapcat, who in turn went toward the lawyer to block his access to the last four boxes.

“My client wishes to cooperate,” Fasman announced.

“He's got a funny way of showing it,” Bapcat said.

“He's an honest businessman who has never been in trouble. He is nervous—a phenomenon I'm sure that you, an experienced lawman, can understand.”

“We want information.”

Fasman took his client by the arm and led him away. Once they had left the cold room, Bapcat showed Zakov and Gipp the boxes with the deer heads.

“Perhaps our entrepreneur is double-spooning,” Zakov said. “He sells venison meat,
and
takes heads for bonuses.”

“I'm not moving anything,” Bapcat decided. “George, I want you to get over to the county building. Assistant Prosecutor Echo is in his office. Explain what we've found. Tell him we need a locksmith to seal the building, and we need to set up some kind of security arrangement.”

“You want a locksmith to change the locks on this room?” Gipp asked.

“No, I want the whole building sealed off. We're confiscating Nesmith's entire operation.”

“He'll fight,” Zakov said.

“Let him explain that to the prosecutor when he gets here. Information can open minds, cells, and doors.”

Zakov grinned. “Very poetic, not to mention truly philosophical.”

“It must be the company I keep,” Bapcat said. “Go find Davidov, and get heavy with him if you have to. Call Harju and tell him what we've found here, and that we'll need a warrant for the Champion depot. Are those Nesmith employees over there? Tell Harju we need him to rattle the cages of all the railroaders in Champion's baggage operations, to find out how they are connected with Nesmith and to Davidov.”

“
Da
,” Zakov said, and departed, limping slightly. He had been off his crutch for some time now, but soreness sometimes hit him.

Fasman soon came back, leading his sheepish client. “The meat belongs to my client,” the attorney said. “The heads do not. We have no idea where they came from, or why.”

“Who killed the deer?”

“My client.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. He has an insatiable desire to hunt.”

“And make money from it,” Bapcat added. “There are laws against shipping contraband through the US Mail.”

“There is no US Mail involvement here. The railroad is private and offers a private shipping service. A noble try, Deputy, but you have no grounds with that line.”

Bapcat took a moment to clear his mind and focus. He had not mentioned the deer heads to Nesmith or his attorney, and there was no way they could have seen them, which meant they already knew what was in the final four wooden boxes before they were opened. Or at least Nesmith knew.

Gipp came back, followed ten minutes later by Houghton County assistant prosecutor Roland Echo, a locksmith, and a reporter for the
Houghton-Calumet
Mining Journal
.

The reporter pompously introduced himself as Lars Allan Bernard Petersson, Esq. Following the plan he'd worked out in his mind, Bapcat told the newspaperman that more arrests were in the offing. On an impulse, he told the story of deer being killed and left to rot by persons—and reasons—unknown, which seemed a terrible and tragic waste of the state's resources, and that further, the State had credible information that certain persons were paying hunters to kill deer, solely to deny legal hunters the chance to hunt them—especially miners in need of food because of the strike.

The reporter was short and wide, with a square, bristling black beard and long, stringy black hair. “Who would author such a nefarious scheme?” the man asked.

“Well, we don't know for sure, Mr. Petersson, but the way we come at things like this is to ask who benefits most from a crime.”

“Nobody benefits from deer left to rot,” the reporter said.

“Really? What about someone who doesn't want others to have access to food?”

The reporter looked stumped, and Bapcat decided to say no more, although before parting, added, “We can't yet say who is responsible, Mr. Petersson, but we have some very strong leads, some growing evidence. A team of investigators from different agencies is working on this case, and anyone who comes forward now with new and relevant information will certainly find the prosecutor in a cooperative spirit.”

“Will there be a reward?” the reporter asked.

“Yes, of course, but I'm not at liberty to reveal the source, or the amount. Let's just say that a wealthy, community-minded individual is appalled by the killing, and has stepped forward to provide an incentive to help us find the guilty parties and close the case.”

It was noon by the time new locks had been installed and the building secured by a private guard brought in by Prosecutor Echo.

Bapcat said, “C'mon, George, let's head for home and get us some food.”

“What about Mr. Zakov?”

“He'll join us later. George, have you seen your uncle Herman lately?”

“No, but he's working again, this time at Citizens Hardware in Laurium.”

“Fig get him the job?”

“I don't know; why?”

“Let's stop and talk to Herman about deer hunting.”

“Has he done something wrong?”

“Not at all. I just want to ask him something. He knows a lot about hunting, right?”

“Just about everything,” George Gipp said.