Strike Dog (24 page)

29

ALLERDYCE COMPOUND, SOUTHWEST MARQUETTE COUNTY, MICHIGAN
JUNE 9, 2004

On the way back to Michigan, Service called the cell phone number that Joan Pillars had left for him. The phone rang interminably and he was about to hang up when she finally answered. “Hello?”

“This is Grady Service.”

“
Yes,
” she said, her voice brightening. “The detective. Andrew's friend.”

Limpy's friend? He almost laughed out loud. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“Not over the phone,” she said.

“I'm free this afternoon.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I'm at Andrew's camp today, and tomorrow I'm leaving for North Carolina for a few days.”

It was difficult to picture the chic professor in Allerdyce's crude camp in southwest Marquette County. “I'll be there in about three hours, give or take.”

There was a two-track off a U.S. Forest Service road down to the compound's parking area, then a half-mile walk along a twisting trail from there into the camp itself. The surrounding area was dense with black spruce, cedars, hemlocks, and tamaracks. He parked and began to make his way along the dark trail on foot.

It was normal to not see a soul en route to or in the compound, but today there were people everywhere in the camp, and Allerdyce himself was seated at a picnic table, freshly shaved, teeth in, grinning. It irked him that neither he nor the old poacher had their real teeth.

“Sonny,” he said, “Joanie told me youse was dropping by, but I din't believe her, eh.” The old man winked. “She got the gift for sure.”

Service had no idea what gift Allerdyce was referring to and didn't care.

Pillars walked out of the old man's cabin, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “Good afternoon, Detective.”

Pillars invited him to sit at the table, turned to Allerdyce, and said, “Shoo, Andrew! This is business.” Allerdyce laughed his wheezing laugh, got up, and walked through the camp as people came up to him and engulfed him with questions.

The cabin was new, identical to the old one that had burned, though this version had a new metal roof. Other buildings in the compound were under construction, but there were no construction company trucks.

“Andrew's family is doing all the work,” Pillars said. “They can do anything.”

She was obviously impressed. Service wasn't. “You wanted to talk.”

“Yes. I'm writing a book about woods crime. It started out as rural crime, but as I got into the subject I realized that what goes on in the deep woods is a lot more interesting and complex, and I shifted my focus. My publisher doesn't understand how I can find enough to fill a book on the subject, but I could write several if I wanted to. At this point I've talked to a lot of people around the country, but now I want to start shifting gears and get the views of law enforcement.”

One of Limpy's grandchildren brought iced tea in tall glasses. The boy wore a Packer chook pulled down over his ears, and a Pistons jersey and shorts that reached almost to his beat-up high-top sneakers, a rural thug in training.

The professor took a sip. “I've interviewed many criminals around the country, but I have to tell you, Andrew is by far the most interesting of them . . . and near as I can tell, he's also been one of the most successful.”

“If you don't count his stint in Jackson,” Service said.

“Yes, Andrew told me about that. He said it was an accident that you got shot. He still feels bad about that.”

Service knew better. Limpy Allerdyce had no conscience.

“Andrew genuinely cares about you,” the woman said. “You'll never hear it from him, but it's true. He's very old school about not emoting.”

Service wanted to say that this was because the only emotions the man had were evil, but he kept this to himself.

“I believe Andrew has changed,” Pillars said. “He readily admits to his violent past and says that since he nearly died, he has reevaluated and changed his ways.”

Service wanted to laugh out loud. Among his many skills, Limpy was at heart a world-class con man.

“Ah,” the professor said. “I can see in your eyes you don't agree. When we undertake to change ourselves drastically from what we once were, people are understandably skeptical.

“Words are cheap and only actions speak, but the truth is that he and his family are no longer poaching or breaking laws,” she added. “He has seen the light, and has inculcated the others.”

Bullshit
. Limpy hated the light. He was a creature of darkness, secretive in nature, evil in intent. He and his tribe were cedar swamp savages. “Right,” Service said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“The interesting thing about Andrew is that although he's not formally educated, he is extremely intelligent, and even more than that, he's very clever. He has made a great deal of money in his endeavors, but he has spent only what he's needed for his operations. He chooses to live quite frugally. Do you know that he owns a warehouse in Marquette that's being converted to condos with a view of the city harbor? He's the majority shareholder in the development, and the condos are a thousand square feet and going at a million dollars each. The project was fully subscribed before construction even began,” Pillars said.

Allerdyce in real estate?
Nantz had shown him the development overlooking the old iron dock in Marquette, insisting that the city would be the state's next Traverse City. She claimed that people would flock to the area from California and Texas to buy lake properties, and that in ten years Marquette would be a far different place than it had been. Her prediction had turned his stomach, but she had wealth she never talked about and seemed to understand money at a level he couldn't imagine.

“He owns a great deal of prime property,” the professor added.

“He claims.”

“Yes, of course, but he authorized me to talk to his accountant, and I have seen proof. Andrew is a man of considerable wealth, which is likely to keep increasing as he moves deeper into development.”

There was a picture: Poacher turned developer! Service tried not to laugh. It was just a different facet of the same business, driven by the same values. “What can I do for you?” he asked. The last thing he wanted to do was listen to some professor sing the praises of the worst poacher in the state.

“He really has changed,” Pillars repeated. “In fact, if you check with your RAP people, you will find that they have gotten a number of anonymous tips over the past sixty days, and all of them have led to arrests and convictions.” RAP (Report All Poaching) was the 800 line to Lansing where people called in infractions. She put a piece of notebook paper on the table. “All the times of the calls are there. Check them out and you'll see. Instead of breaking laws, Andrew's people are helping you and your colleagues enforce them. Who better to help than someone who is an expert on the other end of the process?”

Service shoved the paper into his pocket.

“Crimes vary in their severity,” she said. “And criminals vary in the degrees and extents to which they are involved. How do you see the criminals you engage?”

He couldn't believe he was having this conversation, but he was here and he wanted to get it over with. “Most fish and game violations grow out of unchecked common emotions, not evil intent,” Service began.

“That's a remarkably enlightened view,” the professor said.

“All I can tell you about is my own experience. Some churchgoing, Boy Scout–leading wrench-twister from Flat Rock sees not one, but two eight-point bucks, and before he can sort out his emotions,
bang-bang,
two dead deer and only one permit. Accidental violator.”

He plowed on, “Or a woman from Oscoda gets a weekend pass from her old man. She's on the East Branch of the Black River catching trout, nice ones, big ones, eager ones. One, three, five, limit reached—but God, are they ever biting. Geez, I can't quit now. Might never ever have another day like this in my life, and the hubby won't believe me if he doesn't see the evidence. Just this once, I'll take them home, all twenty-two of them, when the limit is five and no more than three over fifteen inches. Out steps the game warden and uh-oh, accidental violator. The fine will be ten bucks for every fish over the limit, and she has a big fine to remind her to follow the law in the future. Most folks are sorry about it and won't do it again. Sometimes we warn them, and sometimes we cite them, but these people are not the ones that cause the real problems.”

“But Andrew is different,” said Pillars.

“Limpy and his people are in it for one thing—money—and the way to that is wholesale slaughter by whatever method works best. They take jobs for people who want trophies, or they take huge quantities of meat and fish for black-market sales. They will do whatever it takes to get what they want, and they won't stop on their own.”

“You're saying they're professionals,” she said.

“Right, but there's also another class: the career violators who do it because they like the game between us and them, and like the feeling of getting away with something. Sometimes these people turn violent, but mostly it's just a game, and they take their tickets and pay their fines or do their time and eventually go back to doing what they did before. They're like those folks who pirate cable lines from the neighbor's house, or break the speed limit with radar detectors. They like to see how far they can push the envelope.”

“What about subsistence poaching?”

“That goes on,” Service said. “But we usually know which people are in need—even the proud ones who won't admit to it. If I catch one of these folks, I usually warn him and let him keep what he has, but I also tell him not to do it again. Later I make sure that when we confiscate game from violators, I deliver it to people who need it.”

“But some people would starve without such things.”

“Some yes, and some I'm not sure about. A lot of people who need the meat also have the most modern weapons, new trucks, snowmobiles, boats and motors, ATVs, all the toys. The fact is that their per-pound cost is higher for the game they take without licenses or without regard to limits than if they bought it at the local IGA. A lot of people try to pass themselves off as subsistence poachers when really they're in that see-what-we-can-get-away-with group.”

The professor was making occasional notes in a small notebook, but mostly checking a small tape recorder sitting on the table. “Are you seeing changes in the kinds and frequency of crimes?”

“It used to be the woods were full of jacklighters and people shooting deer out of season. We don't see as much of that anymore. We see more drugs and timber theft than we used to—probably because lumber costs so much now. The patterns change, but there's usually some fairly apparent reason for it. One of the reasons for decreasing frequencies is that fewer people are hunting and fishing. Not as many kids grow up in the woods anymore, and they never learn how to do it legally, much less consider illegal methods. If they can't do it on a couch with a remote, they aren't interested.” His son Walter had loved the outdoors.

“Are you saying the woods are getting more peaceful?” Pillars asked.

“No, the patterns are just changing. Now we see more boozers and druggies lugging around weapons, some legal, some not. More domestic abuse, assault, the same stuff other cops see.”

“Do you really believe that people don't change, or that they can't?”

“I hear people claiming to change, but I don't see the actual changes. People will tell a cop what they think a cop wants to hear.”

“That's an exceptionally pessimistic view of the human condition,” she said.

“Pessimism for a college professor is reality for a woods cop.”

“On that uplifting note,” she said, turning off the tape recorder.

As he talked to Pillars, Service carefully watched what was going on in the camp. Interview completed, he stood up and stretched. “You claim Limpy has changed,” he said, pointing to one of the cabins. “But there's a rifle leaning against that cabin wall, and he's on parole and cannot possess or be around anyone with a firearm. And that red Honda four-wheeler over here doesn't have a registration. If I walked through this camp I could write at least a dozen violations. Limpy claims he's changing? Great. That would be good, but I deal with evidence, not hot air, and maybe you shouldn't either.”

Allerdyce came back as they were preparing to leave. “You stayin' for supper, sonny?”

“Gotta move on,” Service said.

“Fresh brook trout,” the old poacher said, smacking his lips

“And if I looked in your freezer, all you'd have is the daily possession limit, right?”

“Cross my heart,” Allerdyce said with a cackle. “Changed my ways, boy.”

Service nodded for Limpy to follow, and as they walked away from Pillars he said to the old man, “Honeypat was in Baraga at the casino a while back.”