Shadow of the Wolf Tree (17 page)

24

Iron River, Iron County

TUESDAY, MAY 30, 2006

Millitor was already in their cubbyhole at the MSP post, feet propped up, unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, coffeepot full. Service poured a cup. Friday sat down, looking smug, and Service wondered if the look related to last night.

Nothing happened,
he told himself.
Really.

“I was busy over the weekend,” she said, opening her briefcase and hauling out a sheaf of papers. “There's this man I sort of know? He grew up in Negaunee, went to U of M, Stanford, and retired as vice chairman of Northern California Equities. He moved home for his so-called golden years. He's only fifty-five, but came home with a whole lot more than he left with. I asked him if he's aware of the Van Dalen Foundation. He is, and he told me it's the most complex organization in the country—that California Equities had done an in-depth study of it, and he can get us a copy of the Van Dalen Foundation's organizational charts, including contact names and numbers, current as of three years ago. It will take him a week or so. He's got to go to San Francisco next week for a board meeting and will bring the information back with him.”

“Did he offer an opinion of Van Dalen?”

“Too long in big business politics, too diplomatic, but he's eager to help, and maybe that says something?”

A week's not bad,
Service told himself.

“That's my
first
item,” Friday said. She gave each of the men some papers stapled together. “Here's the second: Provo's transcript from Adams State College. I used a highlighter to mark some of the more-interesting courses she took.”

Service read through the transcripts, trying to categorize. Under history: Twentieth-Century Revolutionary Movements; The Lessons of Sun Tzu: Direct Action and the Global Environmental Movement; Roots and Antecedents of the French Revolution; Guerrillas, Resistance & Public Opinion in Open and Closed States; Trends in Counterrevolution; and the History of Colorado Copper Mining.

Under anthropology: Native American Culture and Aboriginal Healing Practices.

Under geography: Advanced Map Reading for Outdoor Professionals.

Science: The Ecology of
Salmo Trutta
, and Botany of Midwestern Lacustrine Ecosystems.

General studies: Community Action Workshop.

From physical education: Orienteering in Extreme Environments and Climates.

The rest of the classes looked like basic college requirements that all students had to complete, and a heap of ambiguous, stupid-sounding education courses for her major.

Provo's final GPA had been 3.87.
Not an average student.

“The curricula have changed since my day,” Service said.

Millitor quipped, “Curricula—is that a Cuban dance, or what?”

Service found Friday watching him. He said, “Sort of reads like a blueprint for activism, eh?”

“Ya think?”

Pleased with herself.

“How'd you get this?” he asked.

“I called the college last week and made nice with Shirley in Records. We're pals now; you know, sisters in an increasingly oppressive male world,” she said, looking directly at him with a conspiratorial grin.

“The last item isn't written down,” she said. “The only Army Guard Military Police Unit in Colorado is the 220th MP Company out of the Denver-Globeville Armory, unit strength two hundred souls. Denver's less than two hundred miles from Alamosa, easily doable for weekend Guard drills.”

“Call them and see if they'll confirm the dates she served. If not, we'll talk to Sutschek in CID and get him to run interference for us.”

“Heckuva job, kiddo,” Millitor said.

“Thanks, Mike.”

Service nodded, saw her grinning at him.

After the meeting he took Friday with him to the Iron River Community Hospital to find the ME. “Who's your corporate snitch?” he asked as he negotiated the streets.

“Jinger Flamms—and I wouldn't call him a snitch. Right after I moved to the U.P., his wife and eighteen-year-old son were in a rollover south of Marquette. I was first on the scene, smelled gas, and pulled them out. It never really ignited, but the husband thinks I'm a hero.”

“I saw scars on your hip and arm,” he said.

She blushed. “I show you everything under the big top, and all you look at are the
sideshows
?”

“Tuesday,” he said. “Focus.”

“Okay, maybe it went off a little, but it wasn't like a conflagration or anything. Ever since then he's been trying to reward me—a week in Cabo San Lucas, an invite to join the governor for the Mackinac Bridge Walk, weird stuff. He's constantly telling me he wants to help me. What is it with men—they find a woman who does the same things men do, and it turns them on?”

She's ducking.
Obviously she had acted heroically and gotten burned in the process.

“The wifey's a dingey-thingey, cling-on type,” she continued. “I think Mr. Flamms wants to get in my little cop pants, but I called him when I got back Friday and told him he could help me by getting me the Van Dalen Foundation information.”

“I bet that went over big.”

“Men and hope,” she said. “Go figure. Said he'd take care of it, and that's what matters, right? Aren't you happy with all this?”

“Absolutely, but I'm also wondering why a reportedly bright, obviously gifted student and future activist creates a course trail that screams, ‘Here I am, look at me!' ”

She tilted her head. “Maybe there was a magic transformational moment, but I hear what you're saying.”

They found the ME in his office, drinking chai. Service said, “Are we keeping you from your work?” The doctor did not offer to share.

“Lab time is minimal,” the ME said. “The important work is intellectual.”

Yogi Berra,
he thought.
Baseball's
90 percent mental and the other half is physical.
The ME was a pretentious asshole, and Service thought about shooting the Yogi quote at him, but decided to behave.
After I jab his ass.
“Intellectual, as in guessing TSH?” he asked.

The ME looked irritated, but Service pressed on. “That's Total Skeleton Height, right, Doc? You're right about needing long bones, but using which estimation method—Bach-Breitinger or Trotter-Gleser? Am I reading this crap wrong, or are these more or less algorithms for educated guesses? Am I off base here?”

“It's extremely complex,” the ME said defiantly.

“Including the fudge factors used to account for bone density loss? Doc, we're not trying to yank your chain, and we respect what you do, but please don't be blowing smoke up our asses. We get enough of that every day from the bad guys. We're supposed to be on the same side. We stopped by to see if you might have a ballpark . . . measurement.”

“Six-seven, at least,” the ME said, his face flushing to the color of a ripe plum.

“Great—thanks. Listen, did you happen to look at vick one to see if he's one-armed?” he asked, adding a slashing motion for emphasis.

The doctor opened a folder, browsed, looked up, and said, “No bones from the arm or hand.”

Service said, “You might want to look at the left elbow socket or whatever you call it and see if there was an amputation.”

The ME began looking through the folder and didn't look up. “I'll call you,” he said. He closed and picked up the folder, gathered his lab coat like a skirt, and disappeared down the hall.

“Adroit,” Friday said.

“Is that like using a jackhammer to drive a carpet tack?”

“Pretty much,” she said.

Millitor looked perturbed when they got back to their office. “I talked to the MP commander out in Denver and he kicked me upstairs. He says the Army JAG is concerned about privacy matters.”

“Provo's RFD,” Service said.

“Don't matter. She ain't separated from the service, which means she retains a right to privacy,” Millitor said.

“Did the CO give you any sense that there might have been problems with Provo when she was in the 220th?”

“That was before his time. He just took over. Seems more a policy deal than anything personal.”

New-guy-in-charge syndrome.
Service gave the detective Major Sutschek's telephone number. “Tell him we need his help.” Then, as an afterthought, “Fax Provo's transcript and ask him what he sees.”

Millitor headed for a fax.

“Why the transcript?” Friday asked.

“If you were doing a background on Provo for Troop School, wouldn't you have some questions about her motivations and intentions?”

“Point taken.”

“In my experience, investigators need to look at every angle, not just those that support what we think.”

“Even if it destroys our hypothesis?”

“Especially then. Better to know we're wrong now than way down the road.”

“Pearls of wisdom?'

“More like grains of sand that need to irritate a clam's guts to become pearls.”

“Are you thinking we're off course?”

Not thinking. But possible.
“This is about doing all the work.”

The ME called later. “Definitely an amputation on vick one. I should have seen it, but didn't. Glad you said something. I'll have TSH on vick two tomorrow morning.”

Attitude transplant?
“Thanks, Doc.”

He looked over at Friday after turning off his cell phone. “Amputation on vick one.”

“Washington Lincoln?” she said.

“Two skeletons: a one-armed African American, and a very tall Native American, alleged partners in life, found together in death. What're the chances it's
not
them?”

“Do we publicly release tentative IDs on the two vicks?”

Good question.
“Let's leave it as is for now, and wait for the TSH from the ME. Meanwhile, what can we do to get a background on the two men? Place and date of birth, police records, whatever. I know it was eighty years ago, but there had to have been some records kept, somewhere, sometime.”
I hope.

“There's not much of a physical component to detective work, is there?” she said.

“In the old days it was fallen arches and worn-out shoes,” Millitor said. “Now it's carpal tunnel, hemorrhoids, and calluses on your fingertips.”

“Is there an upside?” Service asked.

“We burn less taxpayer gas?” Millitor said.

• • •

Elza Grinda came by the office late in the afternoon, poured a cup of coffee for herself, and sprawled in a chair. “Any progress on the Paint River vick?”

“Zero,” Millitor told her. “Wrong place, right time, or vice versa. Fickle-finger-of-fate shit.”

“Shame,” she said. “Fate works for me. His fishing partner seemed like an okay guy. He calls me every day asking about progress. He's really broken up by this, told me they'd never even heard of the South Branch of the Paint until they got a flyer in the mail about how it's one of the best early-season trout streams in the Midwest.”

“Flyer?” Service said.

Grinda went out to her truck and dropped a folded leaflet on the desk. Service read through it quickly. Sent out by a man named V. Korov, owner of the Mad Russian's Guide & Outfitting Service. Address in Amasa, fifteen miles north of Crystal. Service read out loud, “Guided fishing trips, either float or walk-in, $400 a day, results guaranteed.” He looked up at his colleagues. “Trout fishing guide?” Service said.
“Here?
”

“It's a big deal below the bridge,” Grinda said.

“We're not below the bridge. We're up
here.
Did the dead guy and his pal talk to this guide?”

“Nope. They got the flyer and came up on their own.”

“Have you talked to this Korov?”

“Thought about it,” she said, “but you know how it goes. If it's not on the front burner, it doesn't get done.”

He knew exactly what she meant and held up the folder. “Can I keep this a while?”

“All yours,” Grinda said.

Service looked at Friday. “Take a ride?”

“Lunch along the way?”

“Deal.”

He started to pull into McDonald's but she said, “No way, buster. Pull into Angelli's and I'll run into the deli. You won't even have to get out of the truck.”

“I hate waiting,” he said.

“Be good practice for you then,” she said as he pulled into the grocery store's huge lot and watched her hurry through the revolving door.

25

Amasa, Iron County

TUESDAY, MAY 30, 2006

They took three trucks, Service's, del Olmo's, and Grinda's. The address from the mailer was a fire number on Basillio Road, a little more than four miles north of Amasa, a former logging town that in its day had been one of the rowdiest, most lawless places in the western U.P. Basillio Road had been bypassed by US 141, was no longer in use and showed it, the old macadam bed peeling likes scabs under the assault of seven-month-long winters.

It was almost noon. The cabin had not seen paint in a long time, but the roof looked new, as did several windows. A slender, low-slung wooden boat of at least twenty feet in length was on an as-long trailer in the side yard, both of the trailer's tires flat, and a gaping wound in the side of the boat. The boat's state registration sticker was good until next year.

“You know this camp?” Service asked Simon.

“Been by it once in a while, but I've never seen anyone here.”

The front door was boarded up, and before they got to the back door a muscular man in jeans, boots, and weathered brown Carhartt overalls stepped outside and glared at them. He had long matted blond hair and a full beard that shone reddish in the daylight. “I am here, by God!” the man shouted. He wore a large handgun in a holster on his right hip.

Service held up the brochure. “We're looking for V. Korov.”

“Korov stands before you and God almighty!”

“Korov . . . the fishing guide.”

“You think Venyamin Korov writes lies?”

The man's voice was deep and loud, his neck veins taut. Service held out his hands in a gesture meant to placate. “We're just interested in talking about your business.”

“Business! You see boat, trailer! What business is it you wish to discuss?”

“You hit a rock or something?”

“I am making wood at Fence. I come home, you see what I find!”

“Somebody did this while the boat was here?”

“Yes, of course!”

“When did this happen?”

“Why do you wish to know this? I called no police. Let me see badge!”

“Boy, this is fun,” Friday whispered behind Service as he took out his wallet and showed the man his shield.

“Umm,” was the man's sole response. Then, “The others with you! You are responsible for them?”

“We're together . . . partners,” Service said.

“I think I am reading state of Michigan is low on fish militia. Yet you are here—I count one, two, three—what is the significance of so many assets together? Answer me this, please.”

“We saw your brochure, wanted to talk to you.”

“You want to hire guide?”

“No, we are seeking information.”

“I have no time for just talk!”

“Did you report the vandalism?” del Olmo asked.

The man tapped his chest and glared. “Venyamin will take care of this matter.”

“That's not a good idea,” Service said.

“They-et boat is costing me ay-et thousand, U.S. dollar—Grayling, Michigan, special-built.”

“It's a nice boat,” Service said, “but about the vandalism . . . ?”

“They-et boat is shit now, puts me out of business! People with money are lazy, do not want to walk in and wade, just to float—like fucking czars!”

Service guessed the man's age at around thirty. Despite the gruff exterior and excitable manner, he sensed the man was honest. A bit aggressive, perhaps, but honest. He'd met such types many times before. The U.P. was a magnet for eccentrics. “When were you vandalized?”

“Night before opening day of trout is to begin.”

Service had studied some Russian in college and retained a smidgen. Last year a Ukrainian-born snitch had helped him break a major case that led him all the way to New York City, where the Ukrainian mafia was dealing in illegal and contaminated salmon eggs.

“Is your weapon licensed?” Service asked in Russian, hoping it was adequate.

“No CCW,” the man said in English. “I wear in plain sight. I think this is legal to wear in this way, yes? Venyamin does not break laws!”

“It's good,” Service said in English. “Your boat is registered, and of course you've got permits to harvest firewood.”

“Yes, of course. I drive Crystal Falls to DNR. They give permit. Nice geerl at desk.”

“Would you rather speak Russian?” Service asked.

The man laughed. “Your Russian is for shit! Is my English not so good to understand?”

“Your English is fine.”
My Russian's shit? Rusty maybe, but not shit.

“Good, English. I come to America to be American, speak American, think American, smell American, everything American. I study engineering, Michigan Tech-no-log-i-cal U-ni-ver-si-ty. I have degree—you want to see?”

“I don't think that's necessary.”

“Why not look?” Friday whispered, goading him.

“I am study hard at university. I study hard and fish brook trout. This is disease, I think.”

Service found himself smiling. “I'm a victim too. Your brochure seems to focus almost entirely on the South Branch of the Paint.”

“Venyamin
loves
this Paint River. I feesh Ontonagon, Brule, Iron, Fence, both Sturgeons, both Blacks, all Foxes, Yellow Dog, Slate, Silver, Otter, Salmon Trout—all of them. South Branch Paint is best. If I were rich man I would buy all the land for myself.”

“You're not rich?”

The Russian smiled, sweeping his giant hand across the area. “Look around, see for yourself the kingdom of Korov.”

“Did you have clients opening day?”

“I have no clients any day. I make brochure with computer, buy computer mail lists, send thousands of copies. Even at kopeks, it costs fortune to be entrepreneur in America.”

“Did you fish the opener?”

“Yes, main Paint, Blockhouse Creek—you know this place? Is very good early season. When water warms, trout go away. Venyamin fishes alone.'

Service could sympathize. “Why not the South Branch?”

“Opening day, I think perhaps too many people.”

“What if you had had customers?”

“No problem. I would take boat, go past people, find good places without company, but boat is kaput. I do not fish South Branch often. River is like woman: Use too much and you wear her out.”

Friday whispered to Service. “
Some
women;
not
all women.”

“Did you hear about trouble on the South Branch?”

“Yes, on second day this is on radio. Police say no fishing there. Man is keeled, I think.”

“Have you ever been harassed on the South Branch?”

“No, never,” the man said touching his holster.

“Why a guide service
here
?”

“There are no competitors. Is virgin market.”

“There're no clients here.”

“Yes, I am learning this. When I am in engineering, I think only of brook trout. When I am with brook trout, I do not think of engineering—you understand?”

“I think I do. Did you come to the U.S. as a student?” Service asked.

“Yes, after my father was here as diplomat of sorts.”

“And you came to Iron County specifically to open your guide business?”

“No, I move here to live, to trap fur, to fish brook trout, collect mushrooms and berries, hunt deer and birds, and bear. Guide is way to make money to pay for such palatial estate.”

The man was wry, even funny. Service hoped the others were picking up on it. Korov's blustery manner decried a more whimsical soul.

“Would you like to give us details of the vandalism? You can file a formal report,” del Olmo said.

“Why not!” the man said enthusiastically. “No offense, but militia in Russia are pigs and pricks, all with hands out. You seem like nice guys.”

“Too long alone in the woods,” Friday whispered. “Do I
look
like a guy?”

“Do you have insurance?” Service asked.

“No, I do Russian way, I fix myself.”

“Simon's pretty handy with wood,” Service offered.

“So am I,” Friday whispered, her voice trailing off.

“You have eaten, my new friends?”

“We just stopped to introduce ourselves, we've already eaten,” Service explained.

“Bullshit! Is Russian custom, guests will take food or is insult.” He poked Service forcefully. “Maybe Russian food will improve your Russian language.”

A bit later, the Russian served beavertail stew. “Is aphrodisiac in the Motherland,” he said.

“Oh goodie,” Friday whispered. “Like I
need
a booster.”

The man still wore his handgun. “What make?” Service asked.

“
Pistolet Makarova.
Russian Makarov is cannon for the hand. You are
Makarovniki
?”

“Geez,” Friday said with a whimper. “Make him stop! I can't take any more of this.”

“No,” Service said. “First Russian pistol I've ever seen.”

• • •

After lunch the three officers met Grinda just outside Crystal Falls, pulled up a two-track, and stood by Service's truck. “Was that guy for real?” Friday asked.

“The U.P. tends to attract eccentrics and individualists,” del Olmo said. “Always has, always will—as long as there's wild land and the possibility of privacy.”

Service's mind was swimming in other directions. “How many people did you check on the South Branch opening day?” he asked Grinda.

“I saw eight or nine, maybe ten. But I only actually checked three, no violations. Fly fishermen,” she said. “Boy Scouts. Most of them release what they catch.”

“Different this year than last?”

“Good weather this time. Last year's opener sucked. There's never much traffic on the South Branch. Come late June you can have it all to yourself.”

“Did you map the location of the crap we picked up on the second day?”

“Sure, dropped markers on my AVL. Want to see?”

He leaned in the truck and looked over her shoulder as she brought up the map. She had marked each danger with a red X. Service studied what he saw. “The fishing below where the man was killed—that's good water, right?”

“It can be
great
this time of year. Deep holes, lots of cover, better than upstream, unless you go
way
upstream.”

“Only two Xs below the bridge.”

“Right, the concentration was higher.”

“But the better fishing is
below.
”

“This time of year.”

“It
is
this time of year,” he said.

“Maybe somebody thinks the upper section is his personal water.”

“I thought this was about anti-fishing,” Service reminded them all. “How many camps up there?”

Grinda and del Olmo glanced at each other. She said, “Forty, fifty—I never really counted. They're mostly seasonal camps with only a handful of year-rounders, and most of them are strung out along Basswood Road.”

“Maybe we should knock on some doors, see if anyone saw anything in the days before the shooting.”

“Probably not that many people around.”

“Some of the people over there must be trout fishermen.”

“I suppose.”

He could see Grinda trying to figure out how she could knock on doors and do all the other things she had to do.

“Friday and I will get Mike and we'll take care of it. You want to loan me your plat book?”

Her relief was visible as she fished the book from the backseat and handed it to him.

• • •

“So,” Friday said, when they were alone in his truck, “I suppose we'll start knocking on doors today?”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Thank God.”

“I thought we'd take a little hike tonight. You like campfires?”

“In a
fireplace,
with a bottle of champagne nearby.”

“Think campfire outdoors.”

“I don't think so,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“We'll be spending the night.”

“Are you expecting me to stand up and shout hallelujah?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“Not a real long hike. Ten miles; double that with the return.”

“You want to hike ten miles into the bush and ten miles back—at night.”

“It's only 4 o'clock. We've got a lot of daylight left. If you hadn't killed those poor deer, we'd have a second vehicle to spot and walk to.” He saw her trying to catch a breath. “Don't worry, the woods are my home.”

“My boots are in that car we don't have,” she reminded him.

“You and Grinda are about the same size,” he said. “She'll borrow you some stuff,” he said, borrowing a Yooper expression.