Killing a Cold One (41 page)

72

Tuesday, January 20

L'ANSE

“I want to move him to Marquette,” Friday told Service as soon as he walked into the post. “More facilities.”

“Did you call Pincock?”

“I did. She's flying in this afternoon, landing at Sawyer. She'll meet us at the jail. I talked to Quigley. No charges until Varhola lawyer's up. Quigley doesn't want to lose this one on a technicality.”

“Is he talking yet?”

“Nope. Just sitting there like a bump.”

The L'Anse post, Number 88, had been in place since at least 1938. Friday confided, “Major cases may want in on this.”

The state police had a major case unit. Service could never figure out how they judged what cases they would take. “That a problem for you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I just want to make sure we have the right guy.”

Is she having doubts, too?

Varhola was in a gray room. He wore faded blue jeans, a gray sweatshirt, faded Chuck Taylor high-tops, white star on the ankle. He showed no emotions when they walked in and sat down. “Need any coffee, water, pop?”

“What is this about?” Varhola asked immediately, his voice tight but even.

The delay doesn't seem to have worked. Why?

Friday took a card from her pocket, read the man his rights. They hadn't discussed this, and he guessed she assumed the fake priest would be dulled and not thinking, and might not yell immediately for a lawyer.

“Am I under arrest?” the man asked, still no alarm in his voice.

“No, this is just some housework to let you know your rights,” she explained. “Do you understand your legal rights as I read them to you?”

Varhola nodded.

Friday asked, “Why do you think you're here, Mr. Lakotish?”

The response was immediate, including a blush that rose to his ears, eyebrows pinched by stress, sweaty forehead, licking his lips. “I assume you brought me here to assist you. I was in bed; did they tell you that? I don't sleep well since the war.”

Aiming for victimhood? This should be good. No verbal reaction to the name.

“You didn't correct me on your name,” Friday told him.

Service saw him look upward.
Decision time.
“No need. I assumed this day would eventually come.”

Damn unexpected immediate yield, an almost precise and calm quit-claim.

Friday followed up directly, but in an almost matter-of-fact tone. “You, Samuel Lakotish, assumed the identity of Clement Varhola in Vietnam and have used his identity ever since.”

“I always wanted to be a holy man,” Lakotish said.

“So you created an opportunity.”

This got his attention. “No, no, the opportunity came, sad as it was, a gift from God, and I took it.”

“God arranged for Father Varhola to die so you could assume his identity?”

Lakotish smiled thinly. “One does not,
must
not, contradict
Him.
”

Service saw an opportunity. “Infantry before you were transferred to Special Services.”

“Yes,” Lakotish said.

“You were in the shit in '66.”

The man nodded. “Daily, for weeks.”

“How did the transfer come about?”

“Casualties, new officers; my platoon sergeant didn't like my style.”

“You mean, your chopping up women and children?”

“It was war. Arty, bombs, napalm—all killed civilians and toasted or ripped them to pieces. How does face-to-face differ?”

Service said, “I don't think pilots land to collect heads.”

Lakotish gripped the table. “War. Some of us were perhaps overzealous. My platoon leader encouraged me.”

“But he's dead.”

“Yes. God's will.”

“Why did they ship you to Special Services?”

“Path of least resistance,” Lakotish said. “Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn't what it appears to be from this vantage point.”

Service expected some follow-up explanation, but none came. “You don't deny the allegations?”

“No. Heat of battle, fog of war.”

Friday intervened. “You'll understand then, given what you did over there in the fog of war, we naturally see you for what's going on around here: mutilations, your secret Volvo garage, your tree house, and the freezers with body parts.”

Hardly a ripple of reaction.
“I've done nothing here. What Volvo? What garage, tree house, freezers?”

“Kaisick Holes,” Service said.

“The giant sinkholes south of church property, on national forestland? I don't go there. Too easy to get lost. I have a terrible sense of direction.”

Understatement on multiple levels.
“But you use the church land,” Service said. Statement, not question.

“Of course. The church is covered under nonprofit corporation acts, and in Michigan property must be owned and occupied. I split my time between Assinins and camp, spring through fall.”

“I went to Nett Lake. A man there told me about the false Lakotish, told us Wendell John Bellator came here to hunt you. Kelly Johnstone summoned him.”

“Hunt
me?
Why would Chairman Johnstone do that?” He seemed clearly astonished by this.

“Maybe she believed you're a windigo?”

“Nonsense! I'd like to hear that from her!”

“That will never happen,” Friday said. “Mrs. Johnstone is dead.”

He was clearly startled by this, impostor priest's eyes wide with astonishment. “I didn't know,” he said, with palpable anguish.

“We have reason to believe you're responsible.”

“Why!” he screamed, slamming the sides of both fists on the table. “We had a
deal.
When the Ridge clan earns federal registration, the new tribe will buy the church land, nine hundred acres for two million dollars.”

Curveball?
Service thought.

“Is that in writing?” Friday asked.

“It was verbal, but there was a note of discussion with the deputy register of deeds.”

“When?”

Lakotish looked exasperated. “Four years ago. I can't believe this,” he added.

Friday nodded, and Service stepped outside the room with her.

He said, “Seems obvious he's been preparing himself for the identity switch, not the killings and not Johnstone. That's my read. Even the Vietnam thing is clear and justified in his mind. He made no attempt to deny or evade any of it. Your thoughts?”

“Leaning your way,” she said. “I know something feels off in all this, something missing. Maybe the feds can help us sort it out, but I see no point in prolonging this. I'll arrange to move him to Marquette,” Friday concluded, “identify-theft charges pending.”

They walked into the canteen room to find Treebone sucking one of his fingers. “What happened to you?” Service asked.

“Digging in back of your Tahoe for something to eat, stuck myself on a damn knife.” Treebone held it out to him. “You need to take care of your damn junk.”

Service stared. It was the
puukko
he had taken off Ulupov. The handle, he now saw in the light, was made of glory pine, same workmanship as the tool handles in Varhola's workshop.
Jesus.
It had not been apparent in the snow and dark.

“Did you watch the questioning?”

“We just got in.”

“How'd you get into my truck?”

“You forgot to lock it. You're getting old, man.”

“Ulupov,” Service said. Friday looked at him.

“I smell a rat. This has been suddenly too easy, too fast.” He set the knife on the desk. “I took that knife off the Czech when he pulled it on Limpy.”

Friday looked at the knife for several seconds. “The workshop.”

“Same,” Service said. “We're going back there to talk to Mr. Ulupov. We need a BOLO, person of extreme interest, probably armed, and potentially dangerous. Describe as mid-sixties, slight frame, faint accent, long hair.”

“I'll get more,” Friday said as Service headed for the door.

73

Tuesday, January 20

L'ANSE

The State Police forensics people were still at the Kaisick Holes site, but Service managed to get one of Jen Maki's tech assistants to go to Ulupov's with them. Denninger brought the female assistant, Lauren Sestina-Gould.

Allerdyce seemed to get on pretty well with Tree and Noonan, a real two-Mutt, One-Jeff trio.

They provided all the information they could remember about the property to Willie Celt, who called it in to L'Anse to arrange for a search warrant for Ulupov's property and surrounds. They would hike in and await a call from Willie. If Ulupov was there, Celt would have to bring the paperwork. If not, they would make their search. Ulupov had pointed to Lakotish-Varhola, given them the Volvo and garage and all the rest, and inadvertently had also given them the knife. Had Tree not nicked his finger, Service knew he might have overlooked it.
What would the Czech do when he remembered that Service had his knife?
Luck and serendipity played scary roles in some criminal cases. Always had, always would. Denninger had taken the knife in an evidence bag to Jen Maki for comparison to Varhola's unique tool collection at the workshop.

Service didn't bother to look for Ulupov's snowshoe tracks coming back, but followed their own trail, wending their way through the woods to the cabin on the shoulder ridge.

No smoke, no dogs; silence, snow falling softly. Willie called and said he was being met by somebody from the court in Alberta, would take possession of the warrants and head for Corbin Lake, follow their tracks in on foot. They all stood back while Allerdyce crept the area to see what he could find. Having the old poacher with them was like having the world's best sniffing hound.

The wind began to gust. Allerdyce came back and waved them over. “Nobody dere,” he reported. “He took off, but t'ink he left dead body.”

They all found places to sit to wait for Celt to bring the warrants. When Celt got there, his face was flushed from exertion. They read over the warrant and decided they were good, headed in with Allerdyce leading them, crossing through an aspen field where he pointed the others toward the camp. Allerdyce took Service aside and waited for the others to move past.

There were snowmobile tracks not ten yards away and a body beginning to be covered with snow: Johnstone's son, multiple gunshot wounds stitching his torso in front. Speedoboy was on snowshoes, one of them still attached to his boot. The snow machine had to be Ulupov's. The dead man had no pack and no weapons, and Service figured the Czech had stripped them.

Allerdyce found a spent 7.62 x 39mm cartridge. “Full metal jacket,” he said. “T'ink dis jamoke got 'er full auto, eh.”

Service grunted, looked at the body again, agreed. A fully automatic Kalashnikov was a dangerous thing to contemplate. The corpse was stiff, no way to judge how long it had been there in the snow. “What do you think?” he asked the old violator.

“Snow like dis overtop 'is tracks quick even if we jump on 'er now, eh.”

“If you were him, where would you head?”

“Youse t'ink I'm 'im?”

“You know the country.”

“Me, I allus got plan, go udder camp deep in woods. I hear dis Chenk run traps all way down Manitou Gortch, below big falls.”

“Sturgeon Falls?”

Allerdyce nodded firmly. “ 'Speck he have line shacks for traplines all over place, hided real good. Run to where he know best, feel safe, eh?”

About the same as Service figured. “How far to the gorge?”

“Eight mile crow, 'speck, go foot figure like snake, two mile make one mile, mebbe fifteen, sixteen not crow-straight.”

Service closed his eyes and tried to imagine the map and real distance. “He'll have to cross a lot of back roads and two-tracks.”

“Load sleds, scout roads, jump track by an' by,” the old man said quietly. “Got wait snow stop.” The old man glanced upward. “Two more day wind make howler. We wait 'er oot, eh? No bloody 'urry. I t'ink he hunker tight.”

“Maybe he has another vehicle stashed,” Service said.

“Could, won't,” Limpy said. “Feel safe here, knows land good, places ta hide.”

The old man was right. “Let's go on down to the camp and help the search.” His instinct was to get on the track and push until he overtook the Czech, but this was winter, and the old poacher was right. Discretion was in order.
Gather more evidence, think it through, make a plan, then act.