Force of Blood (5 page)

Service thought for a moment. “With a felony he’s risking his ass by protesting this thing.”

“Which might also just suggest how sincere he is?” she countered. “One plus one doesn’t always equal two.”

Grady Service couldn’t disagree, but he didn’t know Katsu well enough to judge. He turned toward one of the walls and pointed. “I think I like the purple one best,” he said.

Sedge laughed out loud. “You don’t have a clue about art.”

“
That’s
not against the law, is it?”

“Depends on your intentions.”

“I think getting the hell out of here as fast as I can is at the top of my list.”

“Do you find all this disturbing, Detective?”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled.

“Geez, you’re probably gonna hate my next project. Wanna know what it is?”

“Not a chance,” he said, bolting for the door.

She followed him out to the Tahoe. “Sorry,” she said. “This isn’t easy for me, but I need help. I know I’ve got something, but I’m not sure what, or where to take it next.”

“Get in,” Grady Service said. He looked over at the young woman. “We’ve all been where you are.”

“Even you, the Big Dog?”

“
Especially
me. Nobody’s born a big dog.”

Early morning twilight in the east. Service allowed Sedge to stew in silence as he drove east on M-123, past the entrance to Tahquamenon Falls to Paradise.

In town he pulled into the lot of a place called the Bay-O-Wolf Coffee Emporium and ordered plain black coffees, which earned a look of disapprobation from their waitperson.

“Okay,” he said to Sedge, “tell me succinctly exactly what you think you have.”

“Were you not paying attention?”

“I was listening, but humor me.”

“Removal of historical artifacts from public land and an archaeological site.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s not enough?”

“Once taken, what happens to the artifacts?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug.

“You’ve
seen
these artifacts being taken?”

“No, afterwards. I saw where they had been.”

“But you saw them
before
they were removed—for whatever reason.”

She was stumbling a bit. “Some of them. It’s hard to explain.”

“Did Duncan Katsu come to you with this?”

“No. Like I told you, I got word that he and his people were causing a goat-rodeo, illegally blocking public land. I went out there, found signs warning people away, and a rudimentary camp. Then I called Katsu and asked to meet him.”

“
Called
him? He lives there, right?”

“No, he lives near Strongs on Indian Trust Land, near where Creek Number Eight flows into the East Branch of the Tahquamenon.”

Service knew that the feds owned land set aside by treaties for various tribal uses. Why the tribes did not have ownership of such parcels had always eluded him—some arcane point of law, no doubt. “His old man told me he lives on the Coast of Death.”

“No, Strongs, like I just said.”

“Have you been to his place?”

She frowned. “Are you insinuating—”

“Stop being so damn prickly. I’m asking about his lifestyle, his house, what you saw there.”

She calmed. “Simple camp, one-story, your basic box in the woods. He drives a ten-year-old minivan.”

“How did he react when you called?”

“He was polite. I told him what I had found at the site and that I wanted to know what was going down, that I had drawn no conclusions. He asked me to meet him on the beach and I did. He took me around the site and showed me how to recognize artifacts. They’re everywhere out there, and he’s devised a clever way to mark what’s what. There was even a ten-inch-long copper spear point that was stunning.”

“Valuable?”

“I assume, but I don’t know. It disappeared before I could talk to anyone to get it appraised. But I got photos.” She took out her digital camera and showed him.

“Nice,” he said. “This is at the place he claims is a battle site
and
burial ground?”

“Yes, but the copper point wouldn’t be part of that. It’s older.”

“Site of the old road of skulls story?”

She nodded. “He claims.”

“You buy it?”

“I don’t know enough to accept or reject.”

“You trust Katsu?”

“I want to. The day I met him out there I told him he couldn’t block the public, that he’d have to tear down his stuff.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, he had his usual entourage of assholes and hangers-on, but they did as I directed, and took everything away.”

“When was this?”

“Last fall. I spent all winter trying to get more information on the site.”

“And?”

“A retired Michigan State professor provided some help, but nobody is certain where the actual battle took place. Or even
if
it really happened. My people are prone to hyperbole and intergalactic metaphor.”

“Okay,” Service said. “Jump to Professor Delmure Arcton Toliver of Hibernian College.”

“Legit, substantial professional rep; he’s dug all over the Midwest, the Northeast, and Canada, and he has lots of papers to his name, not to mention a CV as long as a tiger muskie.”

“You think he’s lifting artifacts?”

“I don’t know. A little voice tells me he is who he claims he is, and it’s all legit—a noted archaeologist wanting to dig and having the permission of the State, and having jumped through all the hoops and red tape resents Katsu’s intervention.”

“That would be understandable,” Service said.

Sedge nodded. “For sure.”

“What about the digging gear on the ATV?”

“I don’t think it’s what Katsu claims. I think that stuff is part of the professor’s field kit for sinking core samples, which he has approval to take.”

“But Katsu thinks Toliver’s your guy.”

“Maybe, but Toliver’s handy, and I’m not sure Katsu really thinks it’s him. It could be that Katsu wants us to make an example of the professor, and that could be enough to back off the real thieves, even if Toliver isn’t part of it.”

“
If
there are thieves,” Service said.

“Oh, there
are
thieves,” she said resolutely.

“What about the state archaeologist?”

“My only contact was in regard to the Whitewater State professor.”

“The one who uncovered remains and allegedly reburied them God knows where?”

“That would be her: Dr. Ladania Wingel.”

“You talked to her?”

“I mostly listened as she ranted and accused me of being a chauvinist and a racist.”

“Indian?”

“African-American,” she said.

“Over-the-top reaction?”

“
Queen Mary
when a jonboat would have done the job.”

He found himself laughing. Sedge could be funny. “So Katsu takes the law into his own hands and blocks Toliver, who denies there are any remains on the site. Who told you about Wingel?”

“Katsu. I’m also guessing he has his own archaeologist guiding things from behind the scenes.”

“His band’s not federally recognized.”

“But they have filed. I checked.”

“You’ve confirmed it?”

She nodded. “I talked to the feds who talked to Katsu. They don’t have the paperwork, but the feds say this is standard—that pulling together the evidence for an application is a huge and exacting job.”

“Have you asked Katsu if he has his own archaeologist?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, so you went to the state archaeologist to confirm the business with Dr. Wingel and the State said, ‘No harm, no foul.’ What the hell does
that
mean?”

“Got me. I never actually met or talked to the state archaeologist. I sent my letter in December, which was not answered until April—April first, to be precise. He made it clear that law enforcement is persona non grata and not entitled to know the location of archeological sites
unless
we detect criminal activity, in which case he could confirm a site—if necessary.”

“Then what?”

“Spring came, Katsu headed back up to the coast, I got word Toliver was coming, and that’s where you and I ran together in déjà-vu-all-over-again-land.”

“What do you want to do next?”

“I asked for
your
help.”

Rephrase it dummy, she’s nervous
. “What don’t you have?”

“I don’t have shit.”

“
Sedge
.”

“Evidence of artifact theft,” she said. “I guess.”

“You checking trout fishermen yet?”

“Water’s still too high from runoff, and blackflies will hatch any day.”

“As a department we don’t have all the mileage we want. What do we have?”

She looked at him and he could see the lightbulb come on. “Time,” she said, “Surveillance time?”

“Count me in,” he said.

“What exactly do we surveil?”

“Katsu showed you around the site, right?”

“He showed me some of it, but he’s also admitted he’s not really sure where the main site is.”

“You want me to quote his nitwitship Don Rumsfeld’s silly shit about knowing what we don’t know versus not knowing what we don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” she said, making both of them laugh.

“Let’s go take a look, make our plan based on what we find.”

“Today?”

“No; I need to get home, pay bills, hug my dog, all that good stuff. Three days from now, sunrise, the Bomb Shelter.”

“I’ll have coffee waiting.”

He held up a finger. “Just not inside, please.”

“Art’s an acquired taste.”

“Don’t even,” he said, leaving cash for the waitress.

The wall clock read 11 p.m., straight up, and Tuesday Friday’s leg was draped over his hip. “Boyohboyohboyohboy,” she said breathlessly. They were still slippery with postcoital sweat. “I vote for a frequency greater than weekly,” she whispered playfully. “I like you Grady Service. A heap. How long do we get you?”

“Tonight and tomorrow night. You want to bring Shigun out to my place?”

“Sure,” she said. “Where are you headed next?”

He laid out the story and she listened, and when he finished, she said, “Odetta Trevillyan, Marquette County Historical Society. Grew up in Calumet, educated at Smith, retired distinguished professor of history from Yale, now living at Shot Point.”

“Indian specialist?”

“I don’t think so, but she’s a polymath and interested in all things Native American.”

“Odetta Trevillyan?” he said.

“Honest-to-God Cornish. Chances are she’ll ask you a lot of questions that will help you refocus your own ideas more clearly. You want to fool around again?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

“What do
you
think?” she asked, kissing him with the sort of ardor that kick-started his heart rate and all that cascaded from there.

Service called the historical society’s office and a volunteer gave him Trevillyan’s personal cell number. She would not be working today, but she answered her cell phone. After hearing what he wanted, she suggested he join her for coffee and pastries as soon as he could get there. “Shot Point Road, directly across from Lakenland,” she said.

He knew Lakenland, a scattering of more than three dozen whimsical and nonsensical statues created from scrap metal by a retired pipefitter. Some of the more conservative elements of local society called the place an eyesore, but Service admired such whimsy, and knew that artist Tom Lakenen didn’t charge admission or try to hawk his creations. He made stuff for people to enjoy purely for his and their pleasure, and Service considered it an almost sacred calling.

“Less than half an hour?” Service suggested. He was at his office in the regional DNR building called The Roof because of its unique architectural design.

“I’ll be waiting,” Trevillyan said. She had an alert, pleasant voice.

The house, which overlooked Lake Superior from a height, was humongo—three stories, giant orange logs (the real deal, not half-logs in facade), windows everywhere, a huge deck looking out on the big lake, which at the moment was rolling lazy soft blue-gray swells onto the rocks below. The house had a three-car garage with only one vehicle, a four-door PT Cruiser, but there were several bicycles nearby.

The woman who came out through the garage weighed no more than a hundred pounds and moved like air. She had short white hair and wore spandex running shorts and red-and-gold Asics running shoes. She looked muscular and fit enough to run a marathon uphill.

She introduced herself, insisted he call her Etta, and invited him into the house. “Do you like blackberries?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

She turned and looked at him momentarily, sizing him up. “Always speak your mind?”

“Not always.”

“Good. These are Texas blackies, which can’t hold a candle to our Upper Peninsula berries, but in a pinch, eh? Most of the year I have to content myself with less than optimal substitutes—sheer impostors!”

She laughed out loud and placed a cup of coffee and a small turnover in front of him. “I can warm it, if you’d prefer.”

“This is fine,” he said, nibbling the turnover.

“No sugar in the crust. I make a thin crust of sugar as I take them out of the oven. That way the sweetness doesn’t overwhelm. Enjoy.”

The flavor was indescribable.

“You like?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Good, now try this.” She opened the oven and pulled out a pasty, one that had already been cut. She gave him a chunk on a small plate. The flavor coursed through him like a bolt.

Trevillyan nodded happily and raised an eyebrow. “The trick is to freeze the lard, then grate it fine. The juniper berries I picked last year, and froze. The morels are last year’s whites, dried and hung. You can use either Marsala or Madeira, although I prefer the latter. I call it a U.P. shroompasty.”

“You could market this.”

“Then the fun would be gone,” she said. She took two pasties from the oven, put them in a cloth bag, and set it on the table by him. “For later,” she said, sitting down and refilling their coffee cups.

“Iroquois and Ojibwa wars,” she began. “Like most things historical, it seems a simple request, but one fraught with complications.”

“Such as?” he said.

“Dates, to begin with; aboriginals don’t think in terms of calendar years. History places your battle in 1662, thirty miles east of the mouth of the Tahquamenon, but that’s European white history, not Native American history, and I doubt white men were in the fight, so what we get from Europeans is all secondhand—which is to say,
their
slant or spin. I think that’s the word nowadays,
spin.
”

“Suggestions?”

“One, definitely look at the
Jesuit Relations
. All Jesuit missionaries were required to file annual reports—so to speak—to their home offices, which they called mother houses. All the original reports from Upper and Lower Canada reside in Quebec City, but most reports from Canada have also been translated into English. There’s a chance one of the priests reported the battle, and while it’s unlikely he was an actual witness, he might have heard an early version of the oral account. It might be useful for you to compare that with the story as it is spun now in more contemporary retellings.”

“
Jesuit Relations
.”

“Don’t be intimidated by the title. The reports make fascinating reading.”

“Where do I find them?”

“The J. M. Longyear Research Library in the Peter White Library, right here in town,” Trevillyan said. “I’ll call and let them know when you’re ready to do some reading. I have to tell you … there are aspects of the legendary battle that have always bothered me.”

He let silence work.

“Mainly, it’s the scope. Instances of large belligerent aboriginal forces going head-to-head to the death are exceedingly rare in history. War back then was a way to scare up more women and manpower for the tribe, and for personal aggrandizement, rarely for territorial conquest or acquisition. Some accounts report three hundred dead Iroquois, which would make the size of the war party and the fight unprecedented, perhaps for the entire Midwest. Scholars believe at the height of their power the five tribes of the Iroquois Confederation could marshal no more than five thousand warriors—tops. After smallpox began to decimate the Iroquois, their war-fighting capacity was a helluva lot less than that. Seriously, who risks six percent of their army in
one fight?
”

“What about the bit with the road of skulls?”

“
No-te-pe-ti-go
? It’s plausible, but not probable. Aboriginals were and are big into symbols….”

“But,” he said, anticipating her pause.

“The fight could have been in 1662, or ’72 or ’52, or none of the above. It could have been no more than baloney and wishful thinking, and
if
it happened, it might have happened at what we now know as Iroquois Point—or not. Nothing is certain. The Ojibwa had no written language at that point in their history. The Iroquois did, but they weren’t going to write about getting
their butts kicked. For the Ojibwa back then, everything was moved by word of mouth, and as a police officer, you know what historians know: Oral tradition and hearsay might be interesting, but they aren’t worth a damn in court or as an accurate verification of fact.”

“If you were trying to pinpoint the site, how would you go about it?”

“You can see that I like to run?”

“I guessed that.”

“I run because I like to eat even more. By running a lot I can eat a lot and not gain weight. It’s a way to offset my weakness with strength. The point is that the Ojibwa had no written language in the ordinary sense, but their Midewiwin Society used a form of pictographs that are quite detailed and rich. You familiar with the Mide?”

“They were medicine men, elders mostly, rarely accepting of whites. You know a Mide priest?” he asked her.

“Sorry, ethnography isn’t my forte, but what I can say from my limited knowledge is that virtually none of the Ojibwa oral history checks out factually. Let me repeat: I’ve got serious doubts, though I admit up front I’ve never given any of this serious thought or scholarly focus. We are left with something like three hundred dead Iroquois warriors, give or take, which would be about one in twenty of their total amalgamated fighting forces. The accounts don’t mention Ojibwa losses. I doubt the victors would have left any of the dead to scavengers, but Ojibwa and Iroquois burial practices were different. The Iroquois buried the dead in the flex position—sitting up —facing east. The Ojibwa put their remains aboveground in spirit houses. After time, the Iroquois dug up the bones, cleansed them, and put them all in a community ossuary with great reverence and ceremony.”

“If the Iroquois weren’t buried?”

“The remains would have been scattered by scavengers and weather. Porcupines would have eaten some of the bones. There’s something else that strikes me as odd. According to what I know, which admittedly is not that much, the Iroquois were a top-down military society, and it was their custom—if their leader fell in battle—to melt away to regroup and fight another day under a new leader. They didn’t stick around leaderless in the hope of some Pyrrhic victory.”

“What if someone dug up remains that had been buried?”

“I’d assume they were Iroquois, and that the victors buried them to honor them.”

“After removing their heads.”

“That’s not unusual or odd for aboriginal thinking, but hell, we do the same sort of things. We kill our enemies by the millions, then rebuild the vanquished countries. It’s thoroughly human, and therefore without logic. Human beings make
Alice in Wonderland
look like a veritable documentary.”

Grady Service laughed.
I like this woman
. “
Jesuit Relations
, that’s your recommendation?”

The woman spread her hands in resignation. “Got a card?” He handed one to her.

“In case I think of something else.”

Nice words
, he thought,
but just words. No conviction. She’s the kind who doesn’t like to disappoint
. “How extensive are these
Jesuit Relations?
”

“Close to two hundred years’ worth.”

This is helpful?