Shadow of the Wolf Tree (29 page)

45

Baragastan

MONDAY, JUNE 12, 2006

Tuesday Friday was at the post with Mike Millitor and Service was headed in their direction when Junco Kragie called on the cell phone. “The name Tahti ring any bells for youse?”

Helveticus “Hell” Tahti had been one of the kings of U.P. violators before Allerdyce and his clan had ascended to the top of the rubbish heap. “Long dead,” Service said.

“Got a grandson named Rigel.”

“One of your regulars?”

“No. He served in Iraq and was discharged by the marines last fall. Technically he lives on the family homestead on Sidnaw Creek, near the old German POW camp.”

German prisoners of war had been lodged at the camp near Sidnaw, and at other former Civilian Conservation Corps camps around the U.P. Some of the German soldiers actually came back to the U.S. and became citizens after repatriation as POWs. “Technically?”

“Yeah—he owns the property, but he may have gone OTG.”

OTG—off the grid—meant living in the bush. In the wake of Vietnam there had been several pockets of bush-vets in the U.P., men who couldn't or didn't want to find a way back into society. They were all gone now, dead, assimilated, or moved on. “What about it?”

“I started thinking about Art Lake and remembered I've seen young Tahti out that general way a couple times, and I've heard from others that they've seen him skulking around out there too.”

“Out
what
way?”

“I seen him near Bog Lake, south of Forest Highway 2108. That's only a couple of crow-fly miles from the general Art Lake area. Others have seen him out there.”

“Where's his homestead property?”

“Caliper Lane, Sidnaw, not sure of the number. It's just west of town. Twenty can probably run an address for you.”

“Thanks, Junco. I'll follow up.”

“It's a long shot, but the best I can do,” Kragie said. “Just not many people out that way.”

Service knew that Lansing—Station Twenty—didn't like working from incomplete data, but depending on the dispatcher on duty, he'd probably get some help. Some Lansing dispatchers would do back flips to help officers in the field. Others treated radio calls like impositions and unwanted intrusions into their lives. If he were chief, he would order every dispatcher to spend a week a year in the field with conservation officers to get a feeling for why their jobs existed in Lansing.

“Station Twenty, Twenty Five Fourteen.”

“Station Twenty,” a female dispatcher responded.

“Run a name for an address and check RSS and CCH.”

“Go ahead, Twenty Five Fourteen.”

“Name is Rigel Tahti. First name, Robert-Ida-George-Edward-Lincoln, Rigel. Last name, Tahti, Tom-Adam-Henry-Tom-Ida, Rigel Tahti. Twenty Five Fourteen.”

“Our computer's a little cranky today,” the dispatcher complained mildly.

Service understood. If any other device so critical to human endeavors operated with the reliability of computers, those devices would be recalled by government as shams and scams. Computer companies were allowed a different level of reliability than just about anything else he knew.

Several minutes passed before Lansing radioed back. “Twenty Five Fourteen, Rigel Tahti, eleven-six-eighty, six-five, two-thirty, brown and brown. We have a plate for an '05 Silverado, silver in color, nil, null, and valid.”

Nil meant no hits on LEIN, the Law Enforcement Information Network; null meant no outstanding warrants in the system; and valid meant the man's vehicle was properly and legally registered. Everything about the man seemed legal. “Twenty, CCH negative?”

“Affirmative, Twenty Five Fourteen. RSS coming up. Stand by one.”

Another few minutes passed before the dispatcher came back on the radio. “RSS shows clear, Twenty Five Fourteen.”

Which meant Tahti had no licenses this year for fishing, small game, trapping, deer, nothing, which made it pretty tough to legally live OTG. “Twenty, can you look back?”

“How
far
back, Twenty Five Fourteen?”

“Far as you can go.”

“Not quite to Noah and the flood,” Lansing said with uncharacteristic humor. Dispatchers and officers were expected to keep radio transactions professional—defined as formal and brief, not chatty and collegial.

Twenty finally came back. “Took him back to '98, Twenty Five Fourteen,” the dispatcher said. “Nothing there.”

Odd. What the heck was Kragie thinking? “Twenty Five Fourteen clear.”

Tahti had not bought DNR licenses in the past eight years—and he would have been eighteen in 1998. Did he go straight into the marines and spend seven years on active duty? The media was reporting that marines, airmen, soldiers, and sailors were being stop-lossed, held involuntarily past their enlistments because of manpower shortages and recruiting shortfalls. How had Tahti gotten out?

Grady Service called Kragie on the cell phone, hoping he'd have a signal, and when the other officer answered, he asked, “Where'd Tahti go to high school?”

“L'Anse. Lived with an aunt named Pechtola. His old man died while he was in grade school, and he moved to his aunt's, his mum's sister. His mum cut out years before with another man.”

“You seem to know a lot about him. RSS shows nothing, and he's clean on CCH.”

“He was famous around here, a minor celebrity, the all-everything jock. All-state football three years. Tech, Northern, St. Norbert, Lake State, and Grand Valley all wanted him, but he enlisted instead.”

“Word is that the military is holding everyone past their enlistment date. How'd he get out?”

“He's a Tahti.”

Implying what? Kragie's attitude puzzled him. “You ever bust him?”

“We're paid to be professional not suicidal.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“The kid was scary.”

Scary?
“Did he hunt and fish?”

“Word was. Consider his genes.”

“But you never had contact with him.”

“Happily.”

“Theres no RSS record of licenses going back to '98.”

“Does that sound like a Tahti or what?” Kragie shot back.

“Did the kid have
any
problems with local law enforcement?”

“Grady, Tahti's the size of a front door and tough as they come. When he played, L'Anse won, a man among boys, a warrior amont pissant wannabes.”

Translation: Local deps and Troops had overlooked some of the star athlete's transgressions? High school sports in the U.P. were important—sort of a proxy war between towns for bragging rights.
Probably Pinky Barbeaux or his undersheriff would know more about the young man, but that avenue of inquiry is dry for the moment.

“You gonna look for Tahti?” Kragie asked.

“Maybe.”

“You do, be real careful,” his colleague said. “Tahti's Finndian.”

Meaning a blend of Finn and Native American. “He favor one side or the other?”

“Double dose of both, I think.”

“On tribal rolls?”

“Probably qualifies, but Keweenaw Bay blackballed the hull family back in Hell's time.”

No surprise there. Hell Tahti had been a violent man, stabbed to death outside a Covington tavern, the circumstances never fully established, and no arrests ever made. Hell's late son was an unknown, and the grandson seemed to have inherited the family's rep, short on facts, which was not unusual in the U.P. Gossip here sometimes created reputations not supported by facts or reality.
Probably that way everywhere,
Service told himself. “Thanks, Junco.”

“I'm serious, Grady. That kid scared hell out of me, and I don't mind saying so. Didn't talk much. Just struck.”

Service rubbed his eyes. “Struck who?”

“You understand what I'm saying,” Kragie said conspiratorially.

He didn't understand and didn't feel like hearing more. “Later, Junco.”

He had several choices. Start at the Tahti property in Sidnaw, or in the area where the former marine had been seen. He delayed a decision and called Iron River to talk to Friday. “I've got a possible lead on someone who might know something about Art Lake. It's a long shot.” He gave her the name. “Can you call Baraga County and the L'Anse Troop post and see what their history is with the kid?”

“Is this one of those see-ya-sometime calls?”

“Not exactly. I just don't know how long I'm going to be tied up here.”

She laughed. “I talked to the wire company in Milwaukee this morning. They say the wire sample we got off the river matches a stolen lot. I'm not sure where the heck that leaves us, but now we know. Maybe you ought to grab a good night's sleep and start fresh in the morning,” she suggested.

“I'm here, I've got everything I need in the Tahoe. Besides, it's a work night.”

“Did we ever discuss exceptions to the work-night rule?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Okay then. That goes to the top of my to-do list. Who is it you want me to do the background check on?”

“A young man named Rigel Tahti.”

“Rigel, like the star?'

There's a star called Rigel?
“I guess.” He filled her in on the boy and his family and Kragie's peculiar reactions.

“That OTG business doesn't sound like normal behavior,” Friday said.

“That's true for most people.”

“See you around?”

“Bet on it, and tell Mike where I am, okay?”

“He and I are driving out to Golden Lake campground to see if we can find out if Timbo Magee was there before the killing. The progress in all this is really slow,” she added.

“We just have to keep on plugging,” he told her. In his experience cases up here were rarely solved easily or quickly.

Grady Service kept two rucks in his Tahoe—a small one for his regular police work, and a much larger version for longtime pursuits and survival in the woods. It had been a while since he'd been in a sustained stalk, and he went through the pack to make sure he had everything he needed. What the pack kit didn't include was luck, and he knew he'd need this more than anything else. If he couldn't find Tahti, or if he did and the man knew nothing, he'd have to hope that a Troop sergeant named Kakabeeke would come through for him.

46

West Iron County

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 14, 2006

None of the cases were coming together, but Grady Service could feel in his gut that they were winnowing possibilities, and often this was all the progress you could hope for until a new piece of evidence or new meaning for something old suddenly lit the day and pointed you to an inescapable conclusion.

The Rigel Tahti lead was one he wanted to follow up. Before doing so, his gut nagged him to get back to the woods to the area where they had encountered the Willie Pete. He thought about going alone, but he had already asked Friday.

“You sure about this?” he said to her.

“Hell no, but you promised no porcupine entrails.”

“Did you talk to Baraga County about Rigel Tahti?”

“Had problems with his grandfather, not young Tahti. I talked to the Troops and tribal cops—all the same story.”

Why's Junco Kragie so negative about the Tahti boy?

“Are we headed for the same place?” Friday asked.

“Plan to start where we stopped. This time we'll drop your vehicle ahead of us and hike to it.”

“Properly outfitted, right?”

“Define properly,” Service said.

“I'm not joking.”

“Me either.”

She rolled her eyes and snorted.

Service left his truck in the same place as last time, but took a new and more direct route to where the “firestorm” had taken place. The fire had been relatively small, but its footprint was obvious. He still wondered if the fire had been intended to block their way or to attack them. He had no feeling one way or another.

Friday looked though the woods over ferns nearly as tall as her. “I doubt I'd ever get used to working out here,” she said.

“It's an acquired taste,” he said.

“I bet.”

He aimed them in a general direction that continued the route of march from the previous rocky abutment on the crazy woman's property, which meant a long uphill slog. It was hot, and mosquitoes swarmed in the shade of the overhead canopy. Friday slapped at the insects but never complained, and she kept pace easily.

Moving along a gentle slope, Service slowed down and tried to work along the southern edge.

“Looking for rocks?” Friday asked.

“Yeah.”

“Pet rocks?”

“With quartz veins. They should be visible.”

“White?”

“Could be pinkish too.”

“Game wardens are trained in geology?”

“Not one lick.”

“What are you trained in?”

“Optimism,” he said. “And determination.”

“That's a curriculum?”

“Shut up and look for rocks, Tuesday.”

• • •

They walked up to Friday's vehicle after 10:30 p.m. Service had found two more rocky protuberances. Both showed veins that seemed to have been removed, and in both locations he broke off samples from the small rock channels, put them in evidence bags, marked them, and stuffed them in his pack. The gap at the second site was sixteen inches wide in places, and he found some shards of white quartz, which he bagged.

“We're not going to spend the night in the woods?” Friday said. “No brook trout dinner?”

“Another time,” he said.

“You spending the night with me?”

“No time. I'm going to drive over to Marquette, leave the evidence for assays. I want to be there when they open in the morning.”

“Your sleep habits need serious attention,” Friday said, taking off her pack.

“I've heard that.”

“You'll be hearing it again,” she said.

• • •

Personnel began to trickle into the state police lab at 0700. Service went with them and found most with eyes that were still slits.

A woman said, “You'd be?”

“Grady Service.”

“And you've got more samples for assay, and you need the results ASAP, right?”

“You're psychic?”

“No, I'm Roxy, and I'm experienced in working with cops. A rush job on this will be a week to ten days. We have to farm out this sort of thing.”

“Perfect,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said with a groan. “Peachy, too.”

The woman seemed tired and, he guessed, overworked. Everyone who worked for the state carried a bigger workload nowadays, and he wondered if this had a negative effect on his own cases. State budgets had been cut to the bone. When you went past bone, you killed the patient. He wondered how close the state was to such an outcome and shuddered to guess.