Missing Mark (11 page)

“You were there that day, Riley” Garnett said. “Rescuing live fish and counting up dead fish. It was very chaotic. Only later did they realize Billy was AWOL.”

To the Minnesota world of bass anglers, he’s iconic. Even I had heard of Big Mouth Billy and I’d grown up in a family who considered the only good fish to be a fried fish. Sports led the newscast four years ago when Billy was landed. Eight pounds, fifteen ounces of scrappy, fighting bass. The entire struggle recorded on home video. Not giant by Florida or California standards, but mammoth here in the Midwest.

“Who would kidnap a fish?” I asked. “And why?”

Garnett shrugged.

Unlike Minnesota’s state fish, the walleye, lake bass are not particularly good eating. Especially not big ones. They tend to be tough.

“Do you think someone would stuff Billy and hang him as a trophy?” I pressed.

Garnett shrugged again. “Seems unsportsmanlike.”

These days it’s frowned upon to mount exceptional fish as trophies. Catch and release is considered more courteous to other anglers, not to mention the fish. Following numerous photo ops, Billy’s captor donated him to Underwater Adventures so everyone could share the wonder. They even sponsored a public contest to name him and he ended up with the moniker of a robotic singing fish toy.

How could a thief display the real legendary lunker without arousing suspicion? Maybe pure possession, not bragging rights, was the motive. Illicit art collectors hoard stolen masterpieces that can never be shown outside their ultra-private galleries. Perhaps Billy was destined to become a shrine in some fish fanatic’s secluded northern Minnesota cabin.

“Even if we had any leads, he’d be hard to ID,” Garnett said.

“You mean because all fish look alike?”

“Well, that, and he was last weighed two years ago. Ten pounds, nine ounces. No telling what he’s at now. How could we even prove it was Billy if we found him?”

I pondered that dilemma as I headed back to the station to pull file tape from our news archives for what I expected to be the lead story, and also to check if there might be any identifying marks on the missing fish.

Channel 3 had two pieces of tape: home video of the record fish being reeled in and Billy first being displayed at Underwater Adventures. Forty-seven seconds total. I slowed it down, frame by frame, but all I could see was fins, scales, and a tail.

Over the years, Tom McHale, our lead anchor, had turned his private bass-fishing hobby into a public obsession that viewers found endearing and oh so very Minnesotan. When Tom heard the news about Big Mouth Billy he pushed the producer to play the story straight off the top and promo the hell out of it during
Wheel of Fortune
and beyond.

((TEASE/SOT))
TUNE IN AT TEN FOR A
CHANNEL 3 EXCLUSIVE …
HOW DID MINNESOTA’S
MOST FAMOUS FISH
BECOME THE ONE THAT
GOT AWAY?

I should have seen it coming.

Noreen, an animal lover, was also hooked on the Billy mystery and was convinced that viewers would be, too. After all, they love animal stories. The research proves it.

So the next morning, after drooling over the overnights, then reviewing a note from Tom about how important this theft case is to all Minnesotans, Noreen wrote BIG MOUTH BILLY and drew a fish-shaped outline around the words on the second Sunday in May, where she had declined to slot my missing-groom story.

Trust her to care more about a missing fish than a missing person.

“There’s plenty of foul play in the fish case.” She defended her decision. “You have yet to bring me any proof your guy didn’t simply take off for places unknown.”

I hated to concede that she could be right. I needed to keep in mind, contrary to what viewers see on the news, most of the missing adult cases tracked by the FBI are actually men. And plenty of those missing show up later with a rueful explanation that they just had to get away for a while. But I didn’t think Mark Lefevre was going to waltz through the door all sheepish and apologetic.

“And the leads are much fresher in the fish case,” Noreen continued. “So we need to put our resources where they have the best chance of success. Rent a boat. Buy some hip waders. Do whatever it takes.”

Noreen seemed to be giving me a blank check—unheard of in a television news investigation these days. Especially since she’d just nixed my meth surveillance story because of cost.

“You don’t actually expect me to find this missing fish?” Better I know the stakes now than on the air date.

“Not right away. But I want a follow-up story that shows Minnesota how much we care.”

“And how much is that?” I was almost afraid to hear her answer.

Just then Noreen and I heard applause and noticed the general manager of the station standing outside her door, clapping vigorously.

“We care plenty,” he announced. And because he said it, that made it so.

I’ve learned not to get too attached to GMs. Our network owners constantly rotate them in and out of the front office searching for a magic formula to hit that elusive profit margin.

The only time GMs usually want to sit in on a story meeting is if the news department is preparing to hose a car dealer. Car dealers are among a station’s most lucrative advertisers; car dealers are also the most complained-about businesses on the Channel 3 viewer tip line. Dealers like to flex their money muscles so the station sales department will lean on the GM to lean on the news department to kill such investigations.

“Recovering the state’s most beloved bass will build viewer loyalty for generations,” the GM stressed.

His eyes got bright and shiny as he imagined all the viewers demonstrating their gratitude by reaching for their television remotes and switching news channels. And just like that, despite Channel 3’s tight finances, he announced that the station would offer a $10,000 reward for the safe return of Big Mouth Billy.

Then he winked. “Just think of all the free publicity.”

Noreen gushed over the brilliance of the plan. “And if the fish is found, the station gets the inside track on the rescue.”

The GM nodded enthusiastically, then threw his hands in the air and shared the best boon of all. “If the fish is never found, it won’t cost us a thing!”

I
NEEDED SOME
air, so I went to the hospital to visit Emily Flying Cloud, the wounded K9 officer, and assure her that Shep was in good hands—mine—while she recovered.

She thanked me for the flowers, which sat on a corner table by a potted green plant next to a gold-foil box of high-end chocolates. I wondered if any dark-chocolate coconuts remained.

“So Shep’s staying at your house?” Emily seemed anxious about his whereabouts. I hoped she didn’t have misgivings concerning my ability to care for him.

I nodded, even smiled to reassure her that he was doing just fine.

“That’s good.” She seemed relieved. “I’m glad he’s with you. But keep a close eye on him. Police dogs are never off duty.”

Instead of a badge, a bandage covered Emily’s shoulder. Another wrapped around her midsection. And an IV line ran from her wrist to a plastic bag hanging on a pole near her bed. She also had a hairline skull fracture from where her head hit the concrete. Hospital staff had shaved off part of her long black hair to clean the wound. Her condition had stabilized, but she remained in the hospital for observation because she’d had some minor bleeding on the brain.

Emily acted grateful for company, even though talking seemed a bit of a strain. Mostly, she wanted to gush about her partner.

“Shep’s got more raw talent in his nose than I’ve got in my entire body.”

I laughed. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

But she insisted otherwise. “Seriously, I could be replaced a whole lot easier than he could. Do you know how many police dogs develop bad hips?”

Her previous shepherd had come from a prized K9 bloodline in Czechoslovakia and Emily had to learn Czech commands before she could teach her dog English. They’d spent eight years fighting crime together before her pooch partner went to that big doghouse in the sky. When Shep became available, Emily jumped at the chance to partner with him.

There was some debate whether to change his name. Current K9 policy calls for patrol dogs to respond to formidable names like Nitro. Or Chaos. Or Gunner. All the better to intimidate bad guys into surrendering before the dog is unleashed.

Shep’s name was tame by those standards. But because his primary duty was drug detection, the K9 officials decided not to go through retraining, which can be time consuming and might not be successful in an emergency situation.

Emily also explained that law enforcement dogs aren’t always German shepherds, but can be golden retrievers, Labradors, or even your basic humane society mutt. “It all comes down to the nose.”

I’ve been told more than once that I have a nose for news, but I don’t think that’s what she meant.

Drug-sniffing dogs, like Shep, are trained to scratch at a suspicious package. Bomb-sniffing dogs, however, are trained to sit down next to a questionable item.

“Can you guess why?” she asked.

I was just about to when she feebly pantomimed KABOOM with her fingers. “Two different alerts for two different tasks. That’s why bomb dogs are single purpose.”

Then she explained how scent lineups are popular in Europe, but have been slower to catch on in United States law enforcement. There, the dog takes a whiff of a sock or a crime scene, then is moved past a group of people, including a suspect. If he alerts at the correct one, that’s considered probable cause.

“Well, you probably need to get some rest,” I told her as I glanced at my watch and got up to say goodbye.

But she started quietly reciting all the special skills K-9s can be trained for and it was sort of like that movie scene when Bubba Blue tells Forrest Gump all the ways to prepare shrimp, so I sat back down and zoned out until I heard her mentioning something about dogs who find missing people.

“Tell me more about those again,” I said.

“Search-and-rescue dogs,” she explained. “It’s a very broad category. They look for people buried alive after natural disasters or terrorist attacks. They can track people who’ve committed crimes and fled. Children who wander off. Hunters who lose their way.”

Mark Lefevre’s trail was stone cold. No search dog could possibly get a scent after so much time. Or could it?

“What about dead people?” I asked. “Can these dogs find bodies hidden in clandestine graves?” I wasn’t trying to be negative. I just like being prepared.

“Those would be cadaver dogs.” Emily explained that they are considered the elite of the K-9 world. Given a whiff from a small bottle containing decomposing human remains, the best can find bodies underwater or underground.

I asked her about a recent police case in Minneapolis in which a young boy was beaten to death by his aunt. A search dog, brought in to sniff out the house, failed to find his body, hidden in a clothes dryer.

“What went wrong?” I wondered.

“That dog probably wasn’t a true cadaver dog. Never exposed to a dead body and didn’t recognize that it and the missing boy were the same thing. Human bodies are hard to come by for K9 training.”

She told me about recent K-9 success stories in Minnesota that inspire handlers. Last spring one dog discovered the bodies of two young brothers frozen in lake ice on the Red Lake Indian Reservation. The boys disappeared four months earlier and had been feared abducted. The year before, authorities in southern Minnesota found a headless body. A police dog later found the severed head in a distant location.

“I’ve actually started training Shep to be a cadaver dog.” She smiled proudly. “He has enormous potential.” She’d been using a decaying human tooth to teach him the elusive scent of death.

“Maybe I can help,” I said. “I seem to stumble across more than my share of dead bodies.”

She laughed, like I was joking. So I didn’t mention I’d actually been up close to three in the last six months, and not by choice, either.

Maybe I’d confide more after we got to know each other better.

I promised to bring Shep along on my next visit and instead of looking pleased, Emily looked panicked. “No, Riley, it’s best if you leave Shep home.”

“Don’t worry, Emily,” I said. “K-9s are allowed in hospitals. Just like service dogs for the blind or handicapped.” I was surprised she didn’t seem to know that. “And just think how excited Shep will be to see you.”

She closed her eyes momentarily, then glanced back and forth, like she was checking to make sure no nurse was around. “I’m begging you, Riley. Keep him out of sight and keep him away from me.”

“What’s going on here?” I asked. “Why are you getting all weird on me?”

Emily paused, as if weighing how far she could trust me. After all, we’d just met. Then she slumped back in her pillow, apparently deciding she had no choice. “Shep was the sniper’s target. I accidentally stepped in the way.”

That theory made about as much sense to me as roving packs of organized serial killers pushing drunken college men into rivers across the country and leaving smiley-face drawings behind. I wondered if Emily’s pain medication was off.

“Why would anyone want to shoot Shep?”

“The usual motive.” I shrugged and she rolled her eyes at me. “Riley, which are you? Ignorant or innocent?”

“Neither,” I answered. “I’m confused.”

“Money,” she said. “Money is the usual motive.”

She explained that Shep was so successful at detecting drugs that Minnesota’s meth confiscation had gone way up and drug dealers were losing big money and doing big time in the big house.

“And they blame him?” I asked.

“Sure they do. You’ve heard of the war on drugs? Well, he’s the state’s not-so-secret weapon.”

I thought of the periodic news briefs showing Shep being honored for this bust or that bust. He always seemed to be smiling when they put a medal around his neck. The police considered it good public relations. But Emily worried that someone, perhaps with the help of a department traitor, had put a contract out on Shep.