Ice Hunter (6 page)

“Sustained,” said the judge.

Doolin moved on. “Officer Service, are you aware of a case in California where a jury found a man innocent on the grounds that he committed murder while temporarily insane from sugar intoxication?”

“I wasn't aware of the case at that time. I am now.”

“Do you have an opinion on that defense?”

The defense lawyer jumped up. “Objection. The witness is not qualified to provide a legal opinion.”

“Sustained,” Peltinen said.

“As a citizen do you have an opinion?”

“Yeah, California ain't Michigan.”

“Meaning?”

“If it smells like baloney and looks like baloney, it's baloney.”

Several people in court snickered. Including some members of the jury, who sat in high-backed benches to the judge's left. Peltinen shot them a hard look, but they kept smiling.

“Had you met the defendant before September twenty-ninth of last year?”

“No.”

“Officer Service, have you ever been wounded in the line of duty?”

“I have.”

“How many times?”

“Three times.”

“Firearms?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever shot anybody during your DNR duties?”

“No sir.”

“You showed admirable restraint, Officer Service.”

“I did my job.”

“If another officer had encountered the defendant, the outcome might have been dramatically different,” Doolin said.

“Objection!” Bois shouted.

“Sustained. Dammit Joe. You've made your point.”

“Sorry, Your Honor. I'm finished with the witness.”

The judge looked at Hardin Bois. “Your lick.”

The defense attorney straightened his tie as he stood up.

“Officer Service, did you see Mister Schembekeler discharge a firearm? Please answer my question.”

“I heard it.”

“Officer, I asked if you
saw
my client discharge his firearm?”

“No.”

Bois turned to face the jury. “In fact you did
not
see my client discharge a weapon. What you heard could have been another weapon, am I right?”

“It was his.”

“But theoretically it could have been another. Did you find spent cartridges?”

“No.”

“How do you account for that?”

“I don't.”

“So you did not see my client discharge a firearm of any kind and you found no spent cartridges, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Officer, were rounds missing from the defendant's clip?”

“No, because—”

“You've answered the question, Officer. Thank you.”

Doolin would circle back to this one.

“If you did not see Mister Schembekeler fire a weapon—any weapon—and you found no cartridges, then you must agree that theoretically there could have been another shooter.”

“Theoretically.”

Bois smiled at the jury. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

“Redirect,” Peltinen said, checking his watch.

Doolin asked, “Officer Service, how could there be no rounds missing from the clip?”

“Because there wasn't any clip. It was a single-shot weapon.” Doolin was hokey, but he was good.

“Had the weapon been fired?”

“It had.”

“How do you verify this?”

“My nose and a test.”

“Was this test done?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“On scene immediately after the apprehension.”

“And the result?”

“It was positive. The weapon had been fired.”

“Thank you. Did you recover a slug from the dead animal?”

“Yes. It was the same caliber as the defendant's rifle, but the bullet was too fragmented for ballistics.”

“Can you explain this to me? Our jury probably understands this stuff, but I don't.”

Doolin played every angle. “This caliber with this powder load makes the bullet tumble. When it strikes something hard, it shreds.”

“Have you had previous experience with this caliber?”

“Yes, it's poachers' favorite flavor.”

“Did the defendant deny the weapon was his?”

“No.”

“Did the defendant say he had shot the animal?”

“No. He only said that it wasn't his fault, that he had been intoxicated by sweets.”

“How did you interpret this?”

“He had shot the animal, but was not acting rationally.”

“And his weapon was equipped with a silencer, which is against federal statutes.”

“Objection,” Bois said angrily. “There is no charge on a silencer in this case.”

Peltinen grimaced. “Overruled. Answer the question, Officer Service.”

“Yes, silencers are illegal.”

“Officer, have you ever arrested other suspects when you did not see them shoot?”

“Many times.”

“And all those arrests stuck?”

“Objection,” Bois said. “Irrelevant.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

“Did you hear any other shots that night?” Doolin asked.

“None.”

“If we are to believe the defense, there would need to be two poachers in the woods at that isolated location, both with the same weapon, same ammo load, and each with a silencer, is that correct?”

“That seems to be his theory.”

“What're the odds of that?”

“Objection,” Bois said with a raspy growl. “The witness is not a statistician.”

“Withdrawn,” Doolin said. “Officer Service, in your twenty years with the DNR how many silencers had you encountered in the field before this situation?”

“None.”

“This was the first one in twenty years?” Doolin looked surprised. It was more playacting.

“Yes.”

“Your first ever, and defense counsel would have us believe that there were two?”

“Objection!” Bois shouted again. “Leading the witness.”

Doolin slicked his hair back with his left hand and said, “Thank you, Officer Service.”

“The witness is excused,” the judge said.

Doolin piped up, “Your Honor, the defense is going to haul in a battalion of medical experts, and I see no reason for Officer Service to remain here. He has plenty of other duties to attend to.”

“Fine by me,” Peltinen said, “but I would like for him to sit tight for a few minutes. Can do?” he asked, glancing at Service.

“Yessir,” the CO said, taking a seat in the gallery.

“Good,” Peltinen said. “Mister Bois, I know you got yourself some fancy tech-talkers all lined up to snow us rubes, but I've done some research myself. A friend of mine from the U of M, he's a big-shot internist now, board certified, AMA, all that. He went to the AMA for some scientific information, and they said there's no such thing as intoxication by sweets. Is your client a diabetic?”

“Yes, Your Honor, and he is insulin dependent.”

“Thank you. Since he didn't go into shock, we can rule out that pesky Twinkie. See, a diabetic goes into shock and can get cuckoo when his sugar is too
low
. If the diabetic gets too much sugar, he goes off the air, not on a shooting spree. I know this is going to be a controversial ruling and naturally you've got the right to appeal, but we get too many folks trying to play games with the court these days and I don't like it one bit.”

“Your Honor,” Bois whined, his voice strained.

“Put your butt on that chair, counselor. I am directing a verdict of guilty. We don't play games up here and we've heard enough baloney. Out east this sort of thing is called junk science. Which means it isn't science at all. I'm not going to insult the intelligence of this jury or waste anybody else's time jawing over a buncha horsebleep.”

“This will be overturned,” Bois said angrily.

The client looked dumbfounded, but Service knew it was an act. The jerk had concocted this whole thing before he poached, and it was a crime that the system had to take it this far. Even if the man appealed and won it was going to cost him a fortune, and right now all Service wanted was justice, in whatever form was possible.

“Maybe it will, but after you and your client get done talking to the feds, I doubt you'll be singing that song. Bailiff, please take the jury to the deliberation room.”

They were out less than fifteen minutes.

Guilty on all charges.

When the verdict was announced, the judge set a date for sentencing. The feds were waiting to take custody of the defendant outside the courtroom.

Grady Service stopped by the defendant and leaned down. The man suddenly threw himself at the CO. The bailiff, a security guard, and two burly court employees pulled the two men apart.

The Duck Inn was a tavern at a dirt crossroads ten miles south of Marquette, a worn-out place where COs, rangers, loggers, cops of all flavors, and lawyers gathered after business hours.

“What did you say to him?” Doolin asked, hoisting a beer in salute.

“I didn't say anything.”

“No?” Doolin's eyebrows popped up.

“I gave him a Twinkie.”

Doolin's beer exploded down his chin as he began to laugh.

Sergeant Lisette McKower came into the bar thirty minutes after Doolin and Service arrived. She stood in the door and made eye contact with Service, who followed her to another table where they could have privacy.

McKower was five-five, 120, with short brown hair, a long neck, and tiny hands. The first time Service saw her he thought they'd sent him a cheerleader, but she had been twenty-four, had spent three summers as a USFS smokejumper, and it turned out that she was smart and as tough as moosehide. Nothing rattled her.

“You eat?” she asked.

“What happened to your diet?”

“Put your sarcasm away, Grady. How'd court go?”

“Guilty on all charges. Peltinen directed the verdict. The feds have him now.”

“Twinkie defense,” she said, shaking her head. “We've heard some strange ones in our day, but that's a top-fiver for sure. I'm going to order, okay?”

He held out his hands. “Yes, Sergeant.”

She clucked at him and signaled for a waitress, ordering two bacon burgers with the works and a large order of fries. “How's Kira?”

“In the holding pattern.”

She shook her head. “Why is it that good women are always attracted to bad boys?”

“I resent the implication.”

“You'll always be a bad boy, Officer Service.”

Their relationship was a delicate blend of professional and personal, and there had been a time for a month one fall when it had been hot and intimate. After it ended, there had been some hard feelings and embarrassment, but over time they had stayed close friends.

“If you say so, Sergeant.”

“Grady,” she said, studying him, “Allerdyce is getting an early release.”

Service stared at her. Limpy Allerdyce had spent the past seven years in Jackson at the State Prison of Southern Michigan, a maximum-security, walled prison built a long time ago. Allerdyce was one of the most notorious poachers in the state's history, and Service had put him away for attempted murder. Allerdyce was the leader of a tribe of poachers, mostly his relations, who lived like animals in the far southwestern reaches of Marquette County. They killed bears and sold gallbladders and footpads to Korean brokers in Los Angeles for shipment to Korea and Taiwan. They killed dozens of deer, took thousands of fish, and got substantial money for their take from buyers in Chicago and Detroit. Despite their income, the clan lived like savages. Service had not expected Allerdyce to be turned loose for several more years.

“That explains Treebone.”

“What about Tree?” she asked.

“He called and said his mother-in-law was coming to town and that he wanted to get away, but I think he knows about Allerdyce. When are they kicking him loose?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tree,” he said, with a tone, half angry, half admiring.

“Live with it, Service, some of us actually care about you.”

“They assign a parole officer yet?”

“I assume so. You want to talk to his PO?”

“It wouldn't hurt. If Limpy's out tomorrow, there'll be a big welcome home bash tomorrow night. I wonder if his clan will even recognize him?”

“How's that?”

“It'll be the first time they'll have seen him clean since his last stint in the jug.”

McKower chuckled. “They had to force-clean him in jail during the trial.”

“I'm going to pay him a visit.”

“That's a spectacularly stupid idea,” McKower said.

“It'll be purely social, you know, welcome the rehabbed citizen back to the community.”

“The last time you showed up where he didn't expect you, he put a shotgun slug in you.”

“All the more reason to go. Animals like this, you show fear and you're screwed. I'm not going to be walking around looking over my shoulder.”

“It's your call, but for the record, I'm against it.”

“Noted.”

When the bacon burgers and fries came, McKower devoured them. She dipped her fries in mayonnaise.

When she finished eating, they ordered coffees to go and walked outside together.

“Congratulations on the Twinkie deal,” she said.

He smiled. “It was sweet.”

“God,” she said. “I
hate
puns.”

“I'll take Tree with me to visit Limpy.”

“That's better than going alone, but it's still a stupid idea.”

“Some system we have, paroling a piece of shit like this,” he said, grumbling.

She patted his arm. “Be careful and if you go, call me afterward. Tell Kira she has my sympathies.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Why don't you and Jack join us for dinner Thursday night? Tree will be there.” Jack was Lisette's husband.

“I just might do that,” she said.