Killing a Cold One (20 page)

31

Monday, November 24

MARQUETTE

The sun was up but hidden by clouds when Daugherty told Service to pull over. “This is about the place,” the deputy said, looking around.

“It, or about it?” Service asked.

“I'm pretty sure it was here.”

“Show us what happened,” Friday said. “Walk us through it.”

“Everything?” Daugherty asked, his voice breaking.

Service asked, “How long was she out of the vehicle in the snow, Terry?”

“Couple, three minutes, max,” the man answered.

“And from the time you got out of the cruiser and came back?” Friday asked.

“Twenty minutes, max.”
Earlier it had been twenty or thirty,
Service noted.

Daugherty led Service into the jack pines, heaped with snow. The storm had covered whatever tracks had been in the open areas. Service thought he saw remains of some tracks inside the jacks, but they were faint, and not worth much.

“How did you know where you were going?” Service asked his guide.

“It gets a lot thicker up ahead,” Daugherty said over his shoulder. “Some of the old guys in my dad's crowd used ta hunt snowshoes in the brambles ahead. I got into the pines and, knowing what was ahead, turned around. I mean, what was the point? That crap is damn near impenetrable even in daylight, so I turned around. I was really shook up thinking somebody might have seen us—you know, in the cruiser. I wanted to run him down and appeal to his . . . hell, I didn't want us to get caught. Is that so hard to understand?”

In some ways it wasn't.

“You did her on duty time in a county vehicle,” Service said.

Daugherty hung his head. Service looked at his watch. When they got back to Friday's vehicle, it had been twenty minutes, exactly.

•••

 

There were four or five reporters at Friday's office when they got back, none with the intensity or skills of some downstate journos, but the young and aspiring ones up here could be overly aggressive when they thought they might have a story that could propel them to bigger jobs and far better pay in more lucrative markets. The word was that Noreen Seiche from the Marquette television station was one such ambitious specimen, so much so that the others called her “Sledgehammer” for her confrontational style.

Seiche was immediately on Friday. “What's the latest on the Jones murder? We hear you have a suspect in custody.”

“Nobody's been charged,” Friday said calmly.

“Does that mean someone is
about
to be charged?” Seiche pressed.

“It means exactly what it means. English
is
your first language, right, Noreen?”

“Some people in town are saying you don't really know what you're doing, and that your record with recent murders demonstrates continuing incompetence. Do you have a comment?”

Calmly again, Friday said, “Just that I heard the same thing about you, Noreen. I guess uninformed opinion is the last frontier of all free men.”

“Bitch,” Sledgehammer muttered to her camera operator, who looked to be about twelve.

Friday and Service went back to the offices that were off limits to civilians, and Service looked at a large county map on the wall. Friday tapped a spot. “Found her body right there.”

“Other side of the swamp from where he allegedly stopped chasing the alleged peeper,” he said.

“Almost three-quarters of a mile,” she agreed.

“What have you got from the lab?”

“Semen in her privates, stomach, and on the seat. Jen Maki ran a quick protein analysis, confirming the fluids are Daugherty's. We're getting DNA, too, but that takes a while.”

Service said. “He doesn't deny being with her. DNA won't tell us he killed her.”

“I never said he killed her,” Friday said, rolling her chair across the floor to her desk. “I'm tempted to recommend we kick him loose. The sheriff is going to suspend him with pay, pending the outcome of the department's investigation.”

“Some people will be underwhelmed by that.”

“I know,” she said. “But I just can't believe he killed her. The evidence is circumstantial.”

“Cases get made on circumstantial evidence all the time,” Service reminded her. “Her undies, his semen, and he admits to what they did. A lot of cases get made on a lot less than what you have.”

“Why would he kill her?” she asked.

“Maybe she'd had enough of his company and he took exception.”

“Grady,” she said.

“Look, Tuesday, you're still relatively new up here. Lamb was . . .” He looked around before finishing. “Lamb knew a lot of men.”

“As in, knew them biblically?” she said.

“And then some,” Service said. “I've always heard she'd go hot and heavy with someone for a couple weeks and cut it off, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “No warning.”

Friday stared at him. “You would know this
how?
”

“Yooper telegraph, ” he said.

“Firsthand knowledge,” she said. “Is that what you're saying?”

“No way, and hey, we're not talking an exclusive club here. She had a lot of partners, and she was also the best dispatcher the county's ever had. I liked her, but away from Dispatch she talked about little else except men.”

“You're suggesting maybe Terry couldn't handle it.”

“I don't know; Terry did a lot of fishing, but I suspect he didn't get many bites. Then suddenly Lamb takes the bait. Personality like that and facing rejection, you never know.”

“There was no sign of anger or a fight, Grady, on her
or
him. I really don't think he did this. And since Lamb's not Native American, it makes this case different than the others. So, what the hell?”

Service said nothing and went back to see Daugherty, who had already written a statement. Service asked him to do it again, starting from the beginning. When he finally finished writing, the deputy handed Service a pile of notebook paper.

Service read silently, “Lamb Jones had me suck her nipples.” He winced and skipped down a couple of paragaphs. The report continued,

 

Lamb said, How come I got to take off all my clothes and you don't? And I told her, what if we got an emergency call and we had to roll? I'd be dressed and she could start dressing on the way. If we were both naked, where would that put us?

 

Service felt disgust.
How demeaning is this?
He kept reading:

 

She leaned her back against the mesh between front and back and laughed, said, I'd figured all the angles. She was in a good mood. I told her that was my job.

Lamb said, Somebody catches me bouncing on your manroot in the backseat of the cruiser, neither of us will have jobs anymore.

I asked her if she wanted me to take her back to her brother-in-law's place. She said, Hell no, this deal really turns me on! Lamb really liked being on the edge. What, the risk? I asked her, and she said, All of it, everything. It's like a fuck-me-Santa moment.

I asked her to tell me more and she got huffy. I like
doing
it, not talking about it, she said.

Me: But talking's half the fun.

Her: Not for me, but then I never been married.

I told her she talked a blue streak at the office.

She told me, I got clothes on at the office. I just don't like to talk with my clothes on the floor. Can we just do it again? Then she almost broke my zipper.

I don't know how long we were at it. The windows got all fogged and my clothes were all stuck to me. Lamb was collapsed half on me and half in the corner of the backseat, breathing like she'd just run a mile, said she was burning up.

I offered to open a window.

She said, No, I need outside. I got leg cramps.

It was no wonder. I looked at my watch. We'd been at it steady for forty-eight minutes, a personal record.

Lamb got out, and I told her she'd get icycles on her boobs, and she said that might feel real good. I told her she was beautiful and she told me I had always said that just to get her clothes off, and I reminded her she came to me, not the other way around, and the next thing I know I hear her yell, Jesus H, Terry. Somebody's out here!

I got out, opened the front door, grabbed my belt and weapon, made her get back in the front seat. It was real close, right over there, she said, and I could see tracks where she was pointing. I started the engine, turned on the spots, and spun them around, but couldn't see anyone moving.

I asked her how far away he was, and she said, It, not he.

I said, What the hell do you mean by
it?

You see it, you'll know, she said.

I got my flashlight and went and looked around. There were footprints not ten feet from the front of the squad. From there they would have seen a lot and heard everything.

 

Service stopped reading. It was a classic witness report—poorly written, largely unpunctuated, just a bolus of words and feelings expelled onto paper. She says she saw something; he sees prints and starts backtracking. Service went back to reading.

 

I was shook up. Jesus, she was standing outside, sauna-naked, and what if somebody saw us. We should have used her brother-in-law's place. Or something. The tracks took me to where I showed you. Jesus, the nearest houses to where we were had to be like seven, eight miles.

 

What kind of tracks?
Service asked himself, made a note, and kept reading:

 

Terry, let's just go, that's what she told me. I'm scared. But I told her it would be just fine, I'd just follow the tracks and deal with the peeper and everything would be fine, and when I came back, she was gone. I nearly had a heart attack!!

I got way into the pines, no parka, no pack, my sweat freezing, I had to turn back, and I figured if some asshole came forward and accused us, we'd just deny it, two against one. We could do damage control. So I expected the cruiser's engine to still be running, but it was off. I yelled her name, Lamb! And she didn't answer, and I got scared and went back to work. I figured she was a big girl and could take care of herself.

 

Service called over to the jail and asked for Daugherty. It took several minutes to get the detainee to a phone.

“It's Grady, Terry. What kind of tracks? Boots?”

Daugherty broke into inconsolable sobs.

Service stayed with his questions. “Pull yourself together, Terry. Boots?”

Daugherty said in a soft voice, “Unh-uh. Big animal.”

Fuck.

 

•••

 

A statement in the case file was from the high school kid named Collins whose dog had found the body. The way the kid explained it, his dog was way out in front and when he found her, she was chewing on the body, which he described as blue, with frozen white hair, like Cruella De Vil.

Service drove over to Friday's place. “You read the Collins boy's report?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Including that he found his dog feeding on the body?”

“There will be another DNA this time,” she said. “Why?”

“About what you said earlier today . . .”

“I said a lot of things.”

“About Lamb not being tribal? She was Sault tribe—I think.”

“Well, shit,” Friday said. “We didn't need that.”

“Sorry,” he said. “And who the hell is Cruella De Vil?”

She smiled. “Disney character,
One Hundred and One Dalmatians.
”

He shrugged. “What is
that?
”

“Do you pay attention to anything but work?”

Grady Service smiled. “You.”

Friday smiled and shook her head, whispered, “Hopeless.”

32

Tuesday, November 25

SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP

Two days before Thanksgiving, and Service had not found time to think about the holiday. Cale Pilkington had called the night before to announce that paleobiologist/anthropologist Nancy Krelle was coming from the lab in Oregon to examine the site where the wolf tooth had been found.

Service had called the Ottawa National Forest office in Ironwood and talked to USFS Special Agent Darcella Dacilente, who often partnered with Denninger and prowled the McCormick Wilderness Tract when she had time off, even in winter.

“Service,” she greeted him. “You hear about Dani's massive deer bust?”

“She did great,” he said.

Dacilente hailed from Anadarko, Oklahoma. “Hawn,” the special agent drawled,“Dani told me all ya'll done handed her 'at case.”

“Whatever,” he grumped. “It got handed to me, and I just passed it on.”

“Wassup?” Dacilente asked. Because of her initials she was known around Upper Peninsula law enforcement circles as Double D.

“How're snow conditions up in the McCormick, Ketchkan Lake country?” Service asked.

“I know a guy lives on Lake Arfelin off the Peshekee Grade. Talked at 'im yesterday. Got in mind to camp over 'at way at the end of the month. Old boy says there's a foot a white crap on the ground, and more was falling yesterday. I'm guessin' they p'obably got a little more up higher by Ketchkan,” she said. “Off-piste should be no problem. All y'all headed up 'at way?”

Off-piste
was ski jargon for “off-trail.” “Maybe; not sure. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“How long?”

“Don't know yet.”

“Let me know if you stay and we'll hook up.”

“D, how much time
do
you spend up in that country?”

“Probably close to a month a year between vacation and patrols. Why?”

“All around the area?”

“Pretty much. There's so much geographic and geologic eye candy up there, I like to move around.”

“See many wolves or moose?”

“Some moose, more wolves, but not that many of either.”

“Ever come across a wolf-killed moose?”

She chuckled. “Not in the U.P. Alaska, sure, Canada, sure, Isle Royale, you bet—but here in the U.P.? Nopers.”

“If you get up there later this week, keep an eye out.”

“Are you telling me you found a wolf-killed moose?”

“Two, we think. We're looking into it.”

“Holy shit,” she said. “Does Pilkington know?”

“Sort of. Why?”

“He did his master's thesis on canid predation,” she said.

No wonder the biologist seemed so excited.
“Thanks, D.”

“See ya 'round the mountain, Service.”

 

•••

 

Pilkington and his Oregon visitor pulled up to the cabin at seven that morning. Nancy Krelle stood six foot tall, wore loop earrings, had massive hands and feet, endlessly long legs, and a tiny waist. Her complexion was smooth and youthful with a tan that looked permanent, which suggested she spent more time outdoors than inside. Her voice was low and deep, and she seemed to have the thousand-yard stare typical of combat veterans.

Krelle and Pilkington came inside, and Service gave them coffee. Noonan and Treebone were introduced and immediately went elsewhere. Allerdyce was already gone, off to who knew where. The old poacher wasn't one for keeping people informed. Introductions had been perfunctory. Krelle had intense blue-gray eyes and a quirky speech pattern that immediately irritated Service.

She said, “Thank you for seeing me, will it be, possible to see, the site where you recovered the tooth?” Before Service could answer the woman added, “Forsooth to reach the truth we need to get out to sleuth the tooth.” Then she said “Whoops,” and blushed bright red.

What the hell was that?
“Right now the weather's cooperating,” he said.

Krelle said, “ 'Ting. Got tuck in my ruck and plenty of pluck to do this, hoping for luck, you got a truck?”

Service looked at Pilkington, who acted like everything was perfectly normal. “I have a truck. How long you want to be out there?”

“There. Couple days, I'd say, which for us will or will not pay, we can hike around for a couple days, look for predator and preys, hope our sky stays dry and gray, and I hope we can soon get under way.”

“Not a problem,” Service said, thinking,
What the hell is the deal with her?

“Not…blem,” the woman said.

“You think the tooth is legitimate?” he asked.

“ 'Sibly, but this is not yes-no at this point. It remains to appoint un petite point before the evidence we can anoint or disappoint.”

“Before we jump off, can you tell me more about the dire wolf?” he asked.

“Wolf. No, we'll talk up there in thinner air.”

Service saw Pilkington shrug. “We'll leave soon,” Service told them.

Krelle said. “Soon's a boon, I know I sound like a fucking buffoon with all these rhymes my speech's bestrewn. Shit.”

Service pulled Pilkington outside. “What the hell is
that
shit all about? She keeps repeating words and saying all those stupid-ass rhymes.”

“Mostly she repeats last syllables of the previous speaker's last word,” the biologist said. “L
ogoclonia with intermittent obsessive-compulsive rhyming disorder. She's not sick, although some of her symptoms mimic dementia. The speech crap aside, the woman is a polymath, like da Vinci. Krelle is preeminent in her field; she knows her stuff. Think about what she had to go through to get where she is,” Pilkington said. “Patience, Grady.”

“We have to wait for Allerdyce,” Service told Pilkington, “but we should be shoving off soon.”

Krelle said, “ 'Oon, I won't swoon if we depart soon, before it's up the rising moon, and you should dearly listen to my tune. All my thoughts are hard at first, like Viking runes, but in time your ear will get attuned.”

Service found himself staring openmouthed at the woman, afraid to say anything that would launch her into another cuckoo spiel.

“The operative word here,” Krelle said with an upbeat voice, “is that all this is intermittent; it comes and goes. Once we're in the field, a lot of this nonsense ends. Don't know why. It just does,” she concluded, took a deep breath, and started up again. “I sometimes curse this damn fixation, which yields so little approbation, yet I know in my private ruminations, I hope this will prove a consolation, when we reach our final destination, there'll be a whole lot fewer such inclinations.” She paused again, and added, “Please don't feel you have to speak. My disorder can make folks weak, to think they're with such a creepy freak.”

Service continued to stare in silence as she droned on, looking more and more frustrated with each word.

“Hence,” she said, “I suggest we dispense in the interests of mutual defense, of all words lacking immediate consequence.” And finally, “To get me moving, no need to say a bloody thing, just show me the way and I shall spring, like your duly appointed underling.”

Service couldn't help himself, said. “No shit.”

“Shit,” she said. “Let me not submit to your words to wit, for neither of us will benefit.”

When Allerdyce rambled into camp, Service had him get his gear out of his pickup and load it into his Tahoe. They departed in silence, lest the weird river of rhyming words begin anew.