Killing a Cold One (26 page)

44

Tuesday, December 23

HUMBOLDT JUNCTION, MARQUETTE COUNTY

Linsenman called as Service was leaving Friday's office just after noon. “I was so fucking pissed at that numbskull Fordell, I forgot to tell you there's a four-eighty out by Humboldt Junction. Whoever schmucked the poor bastard really give him a thump. A pulpie spotted the body twenty-five feet off the road, other side of plowed snowbanks.”

COs rarely employed police codes, and Service had to search his memory.
Four-eighty . . . felony hit-and-run?

“You call the Troops?”

“Yep, here anytime. There are tire tracks out into the snow. The victim was walking way off the road. The driver was either drunk or deliberately went after him.”

“You sure?”

“I've seen too many to know this one ain't normal,” Linsenman said.

“You're there now?”

“Yeah, with Deputy Kline. He's up at the intersection looking for potential witnesses. Some sort of delay with the ME, so I'm waiting.”

“Why call me on a four-eighty?”

“Did I tell you the vick's Indian, and he's got one of them little bags on him?”

Shit.
“Rolling,” Service said. He stepped back inside long enough to tell Friday and earn an explosive “Fuck!” and then he and Noonan raced west on US 41 / M-28 to where M-95 cut south to Crystal Falls.

Service placed a call to Houghton detective Limey Pykkonnen, his friend Shark Wetelainen's wife.

“There's a prof up at Tech, name of Grant Lupo. Can you go grab him and haul him in as a person of interest in multiple homicides?”

“For real?”

“I'll be there as soon as I can. Let the asshole stew some.”

“You should talk to Shark,” the detective said.

The Shark, otherwise known as Yalmer, was his longtime pal. “Why?”

“Just talk to him, okay?”

ME Kristy Tork had still not arrived when Service got to Linsenman and the scene. The body had been covered but lay where it had landed in the snow. The blood spatter was large, indicative of high-impact speed and a solid hit. The deceased appeared elderly, no identification, deformed left hand. The windigo charm bag was on a string around his neck. The man had been struck so hard his viscera were strewn ten feet.

When Tork arrived the three of them checked the site and verified death. Jen Maki was en route with the evidence team.

Felton Kline came back and waved at his sergeant, who held a hand up to tell his dep to stand by. Kline was an average cop, neither good nor bad. He did what he was paid to do, and not much more, but he always backed up other cops, which was enough to ask of some people. “Anybody see anything?” Service asked him.

“Nope, just old-fart coffee klatches, eh? Half-blind, half-deaf old codgers; they got to yell across the table to hear each other's bullshit. Restaurant owner and gas station manager said nobody special had been through last night or this morning. But the Indian did have coffee at the restaurant.”

“When?”

“Six, when they opened.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Didn't ask that.”

“Do,” Linsenman said, joining the conversation.

Friday arrived, talked to the ME, and came over to them. “Rigor's not max, which suggests under six hours. The doctor did a rectal temp, got same result.” Friday looked at her watch. “Call it one, now less six hours, we're talking ballpark of zero seven hundred on this deal. There should have been just enough light to see.”

“Snow showers here,” Service said. “On the body, and he was dressed almost all in black, hard to see. Snow then would have made it more dark than light.”

Friday looked at him. “Somebody had to be looking for him to even see him off the road like this.”

The other two nodded agreement. Friday looked at Service. “Tribal, but at least he has all his body parts, and we'll have a shot at prints.”

She took the pouch from around the man's neck and put it in a clear evidence bag.

Noonan grumbled, “Sherlock Holmes never had to deal with such horseshit. Cult, voodoo, hoodoo, weirdoo, Santeria, apocalyptoids—we got all that shit down in Detwat. But them folks don't go 'round killing people like this. Their fare is goats, chickens, snakes—other stinky, crawly shit.”

The retired Detroit cop leaned close to Service. “You think about bending some FBI ears? They ain't
all
assholes.”

He had. The rest of the cop world had assets and toys galore, and lots of people. Not his outfit. Friday hated the Feebs.

“Saturday in Green Bay,” Service whispered to Noonan, who nodded.

45

Tuesday, December 23

HOUGHTON/CHASSELL

It was late afternoon when Service parked on East Houghton at the county jail, and found Shark Wetelainen waiting for him. “Limey said you seemed kinda amped, might forget to call me. I seen that Lupo guy on the tube, all that BS about windigos.”

Wetelainen was an outdoor freak and secretive about his spots, even with his closest pals. He managed a small motel to finance his hunting and fishing.

“You got something for me?” Service said.

“Dunno, maybe. My grandpa used ta skid logs cut by Kraut POWs down to Sidnaw and Pori. Sidnaw mostly had Afrika Korps guys, but at some point a few Waffen-SS guys moved in; these were the hard cases you had to watch real close. Sidnaw opened winter of '44. Don't know where the Kraut POWs were before that, but the army was concerned about the SS boys, and early on some of them refused to work and began various sabotage campaigns. One day the guards hiked a bunch of them back twelve miles in a snowstorm, just to remind them who was in charge. After that they worked okay.”

His friend loved to tell stories. “And?”

“Well, the army boys figured winter would stop a lot of escape attempts, but those SS guys were tough fellas. One day the guards hauled a big old dead bear back to camp in the back of a truck, let prisoners get a good look. Big old boar, she'd go close to five hundred pound, eh. Had come out of a den, and some loggers had shot 'er out where POWs were working. This gave the guards an idea to put fear in the Krauts. Army boys tore up the carcass real bad, let the POWs see that, told them the area was filled with big bears, which ruled the forest, but this big fella, he run into a windigo.” Shark paused. “Friend of my gramps come up with the story of the windigo, Finndian, told them Krauts about evil spirits and shit, cannibals, windigos kill and eat people, deer, bears, everything. Not one attempt at escape till spring, but those two guys got caught over by Kenton. Kraut prisoners talked about windigos all the time, didn't want any part of the damn things—and it was all made up,” Wetelainen concluded with a laugh.

Service stared at his friend. “Did the locals believe the windigo story?”

“Don't think so, eh. Was just bamboozle-line to keep POWs inside the fences.”

“Thanks,” Service said, suppressing a smile.

“That Lupo,” Shark added. “What's his problem?”

“Not sure,” Service said.

Detective Pykkonen joined them, and Service asked her, “How'd Lupo handle being detained?”

“No problems; he's poised and way too slick. Argued a little bit, but said, ‘Okay,' and that was it.”

Lupo was in jeans and a jean jacket, what Yoopers called a Canadian tuxedo, unlaced logging boots, and an old Montreal Canadiens ball cap. “Ah,” the professor greeted Service. “Had a feeling you might be involved in this charade.”

“Charade?”

“As in my bogus incarceration.”

“You have a big mouth,” Service said pointedly.

“Just doing my job and exercising my civic responsibilities the way I see fit.”

“Like trying to stir up and scare the shit out of the public?”

“No,
you're
doing that by hiding the truth from the public.”

“You held back information when you saw the bodies in Marquette.”

“Did I?”

Service said nothing.

“I invited you and the other detective to Canada to see for yourselves.”

“A bit more detail and information might have gotten us on a plane.”

“You have a closed mind,” Lupo said.

“Is that your professional opinion?”

Lupo shrugged.

“What exactly did you want us to see in Canada?”

“Remains of a windigo, its burial site.”

“From when?”

“Two years ago.”

“Can't say I remember any news coverage.”

“There wasn't any. The Nelson River Cree handled it quietly, and in their own way.”

“Handled?”

“Man was too far gone. They had to kill him.”

“Two years ago,” Service said, “out in the bush. That's all you have?”

Lupo reeled off seven or eight more cases, all older.

“That's Canada,” Service said. “Not here.”

“But all the cases are documented in various scientific literature.”

“Why did you go to the media?” Service asked.

“I want to help. You didn't accept my invitation to come see firsthand evidence.”

“How can you help?”

“I can lead the hunt.”

“Is that a fact?”

“I did it in Nelson River. You would have learned this if you'd come up to the reserve.”

“You led the hunt to murder a man?”

“Windigo—no longer a man.”

“And the Mounties thought this was all right?”

“They were not informed. It was reserve business, not the provincial government's, or Ottawa's.”

“Like I said,” Service told him, “that was Canada.”

“We broke no laws. Windigos are common in Ojibwe-Cree beliefs,” Lupo said.

“Say we agree to your help in some role . . . what then?”

“I get exclusive publishing rights to the case at its conclusion.”

“Even if you fail?”

“I won't fail. Experienced windigo hunters are few and far between.”

“Publishing rights . . . you're going to write a book?”

“I already have. It will come out next year. I'll add this to the case histories, perhaps feature this hunt, shape some of the book narrative around it.”

“You get the rights and we get your expertise in return. That's the deal?”

“We can arrange a modest consulting honorarium, and per diem.”

“How much?”

“Nothing outrageous.”

“Got a number in mind?”

“One thou a day, plus expenses with a cap, and a modest bonus when I take the beast.”

“What kind of bonus?”

“I'm thinking ten.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“Face facts: You're between a rock and a hard place. Without me, the windigo will keep killing.”

“A windigo is a human being possessed by an evil spirit?”

“Simplified, yes.”

Grady Service glared at the man. “You know who is doing this?”

“I may have some notions,” Lupo said.

Serviced exhaled. “That's not good enough. Give me something concrete.”

“Jill and Dorie Moulton.”

“Who are?”

“Your first two bodies. They're Rose Monroe's nieces, from Nelson River; they've been coming down here for years. They came last spring to see Martine Lecair.”

“How can you be sure?” Service asked.

“Dorie's tattoo. And I knew them both.”

“Both born in Nelson River.”

“Yes.”

“Records there?”

“The tribe has them. Probably copies at the First Nations office in Winnipeg as well.”

“You knew this and never said a word.”

“I needed time to think about it.”

Service paused. “I can't get it out of my mind that Canada's Canada. Apples, oranges, like that?”

“You have a windigo here now. And it's not the first one.”

“Bullshit,” Service said.

Lupo smiled. “Sidnaw, 1944.”

“Documented?”

“I'm certain your army will have records. They handled the problem.”

“Your source on this?”
Thank God for Shark.

“There are many.”

I bet there are, asshole.
“Did your sources smile when they gave you the information about the Sidnaw case?” Service asked, and stood up. “Thanks for the names. We'll check them out, but no go on the consultant deal.”

“You'll regret this,” Lupo said.

Service looked the man in the eye and started to leave the room, heard Lupo ask behind him, “Can I go now?”

“That's up to Detective Pykkonen,” Service said over his shoulder and closed the door to the room. Limey was waiting and said, “I can make the calls on those names for you.”

“Check around, see what Lupo's financial situation is. He seems a little eager for cash.”

“Posthaste?”

“Definitely. Tell him he can't leave town unless he clears it with you. Tell him we're weighing the consultant deal versus charges for conspiracy to interfere with an investigation by withholding evidence. And tell Shark thanks.”

“Every now and then the old hubby coughs up a gem,” she said. “You think Lupo's involved in this thing?”

“Hard to judge, but let's try to keep close tabs on him for a while.”

Shark was outside, contentedly puffing on his pipe.

“Tell me again how the windigo thing came to be in the POW camp,” Service said.

“Old game warden down there, Hans Kohler, his grandpa come over from Germany in 1920, hated the Kaiser. He was the one brung the idea to his nephew Fritz, guard at the camp. Hans got the bear from the loggers, knew army was concerned about escapes; knew if anybody ran, he'd get called in to search, and that didn't interest him. Talked to his nephew, gave him the story of the windigo, brought the bear to camp, and it all grew from that.”

“Your grandpa was in on it?”

“No, Hans told him later. Fishing chums, eh.”

“Who told you?”

“Fritz, his nephew, the guard.”

“Who else did Fritz tell?”

“Just me, old fishing chum. Used ta fish together, but artritis got 'im real good now. I still take game and trout to 'im. He knew all the great brookie spots.”

“What do you mean, you still take game to him. He's alive?”

“Yeah sure, lives in downtown Chassell, ninety now; still in pretty good shape, you don't count arthritis. Got all his hair and choppers.”

“The guard Fritz is
alive.
”

“Just said that. You want to talk to him?”

Service looked at his watch.

Wetelainen interpreted. “Old Fritz is a night owl—listens to books on tape, watches satellite TV stuff, sleeps late mornings. Follow me on down, I introduce the two of youse. He lives right off 41.”

 

•••

 

Fritz Kohler had white whisker stubble, white hair, and looked twenty years younger than he was. Shark told the man, “Grady here wants to know 'bout Krauts and windigo. He's a CO, like your uncle Hans.”

“You a nitprick, too?” the old man asked. “We used ta shoot deer now and den, for change of grub at camp, yeah? But Unc, he said dis wass wrong, ordered us stop. Dem boys find deer in yards, use Thompsons, kill whole bunch. Even I didn't like dat much greed. Told Unc. He followed 'em, caught 'em red-handed, arrested 'em, and JP t'rew case out on account dey army, an' it wartime. Unc tell 'em, catch 'em again, wun't be no trip to JP, he just beat tar outten 'em on da spot.”

I'd do the same,
Service told himself. “Who knows the real story of the windigo?”

“Yalmer, youse, couple chums gone ta see God.”

“Were the camp officers in on the scam?”

“Just me. Unc tell me how tell story good, convince 'em all it real. Guards and POWs all t'ought it real enough, I guess.”

“Anyone ever ask you about this? Maybe a man named Lupo?”

Kohler grinned. “Ast 'bout what? Old man like me don't 'member nuttin'. I seen dat Lupo bird on da TV. Loopy, ask me.”

“You're all right with Yalmer telling me?”

“S'okay. He call me, ast okay first. I said sure, go 'head, happen long time back, eh.”

“How did you end up at Camp Sidnaw?” Service asked the old man.

“Was twenty, army found out I speak real good German, send me Sidnaw. Most guards speak 'er pret' good, POWS didn't know dat. Helped us keep track of dose monkeys.”

“What did you do after the war?”

“Move to Marquette in '46, went Nort'ern, got teacher degree, taught Houghton High '50 t'ru '85. History, social studies. Since den, substitute some, fish, hunt, hang out wit' da boys and have some chuckles. But dey all dying, eh? Me, too, someday.”

Grady Service started home, amazed at the unimaginable history old people walked around with in their heads. What a waste. Then he thought about Fritz Kohler spinning his yarn and began laughing out loud.
This place, these people. My place, my people!