Running Dark (10 page)

12

HARVEY, JANUARY 10, 1976

“Are you serious?”

Mehegen's house was a small bungalow with Cherry Creek meandering through the back yard. As soon as Service pulled into the driveway, Perry came out of the house and stood on the front stoop.

“She's not home,” the old man announced gruffly. He was wearing a red plaid wool shirt, suspenders, and black pants tucked into knee-high leather logging boots.

“Steal any more reindeer?” Service asked.

Perry said, “How much did it cost to fix your roof?”

“Nothing. The fix we put on it will last.” Sooner or later he had to build a permanent cabin on his Slippery Creek property. “I'll just wait for Brigid.”

“So you can bone her?” Perry said.

“Jesus,” Service said.

The old man grinned and held up his hands. “Don't take it personally. She bones everybody. Got it in her genes, no pun intended.”

“You should watch your mouth,” Service said.

Perry shot back, “I didn't say anything to you I wouldn't say to her.”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“What the hell for? You're not here to see me.”

Service was opening the door of the Plymouth as Mehegen pulled into the driveway and jumped out. “Sorry I'm late,” she said breathlessly. She skipped over to Perry and pecked him on the cheek. “You didn't invite him in, offer him coffee or a beer?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

The old man shrugged. “What do I care if he has a beer?”

Mehegen rolled her eyes, waved at Service. “C'mon.”

They sat in the kitchen at a small table with a yellowing formica top. She put out two cups and reached for the coffee.

Perry stood in the doorway. “What, nothing for your old granddad?”

“What do I care if you have coffee, old man?” Mehegen said.

Perry swore softly and made a show of stomping upstairs.

“Well,” she said, “our New Year's Eve was the most interesting one I've ever had. I'm glad you called me,” she added. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to take the reins on this. Should I be encouraged?”

“Where do you get your parachutes?”

“This is about
parachutes?
” she asked incredulously.

“It's a simple question,” he said.

“Asked by a cement-head,” she said. “I thought this was about a different recreational activity.”

He remained silent, waiting for her to get it sorted out in her mind.

“Wildcat Jump Club,” she finally said. “All of our purchasing is done through the club, and we store our stuff out at Marquette County Airport. We've got a building out there.”

“Is there a way to borrow a chute?”

“What the hell for?”

“Something,” he said evasively.

“Open your eyes! This is the season for jumping into a bed, not out of a goddamn airplane.”

“I need to borrow a chute,” he repeated.

“For you?”

“No details,” he said. “Sorry.”

She studied him briefly and sighed. “These days the harnesses are custom-built to fit each jumper; chute size reflects experience and the kind of jump being attempted. You can't just borrow a generic size.”

“For discussion purposes, say somebody about my size,” he said.

She laughed. “Are you serious?”

“I'd appreciate the favor,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “With a quid pro quo, right?”

“As long as you don't ask for details and set me up to talk to your guy.”

“When?”

“As quick as you can arrange it.”

“People are funny about loaning their gear,” she cautioned.

“Just get me someone to talk to.”

“You're certainly not your happy-go-lucky self today,” she said.

Perry huffed through the foyer and slammed the front door.

“I have to get going,” he said.

“You're gonna owe me, pal.”

Perry was chipping ice off the edge of the driveway when Service went outside.

“That was fast,” the old man said.

“That's why it's called a quickie,” Service said, getting into his patrol unit.

13

GARDEN PATROL, JANUARY 21, 1976

“Three patrols and you're bitching like an old-timer.”

It was nine degrees Fahrenheit when Service left the Airstream, bound for the old Indian cemetery on the Stonington Peninsula. This time he had two days' advance notice to get ready. He was told to bring along his snowmobile and make sure it was in working condition. He had spent a good portion of yesterday changing plugs and oil, and doing other routine maintenance. It was not quite 6
a.m.
when he towed the trailer with the Rupp into the gathering area. A weathered picket fence peeked out of the snow, marking an old grave, he guessed. The group would not assemble for another forty-five minutes, but he hated to be late; he spent the time worrying about how well he had packed for the patrol. Group activity irritated him; he preferred working alone in his own territory.

Last week he'd acquired a second thermos in Rapid River, and today he had both filled with coffee, laced with sugar and cream. He poured a small cup and sat as other vehicles began to pull in and jockey around to park. He stayed in the Plymouth, smoking. It was too damn cold to be out shooting the shit.

Eventually Colt Homes wandered over, rapped lightly on his window, and gestured for him to get out. Service refilled his cup and got out, twisting his head to stretch his neck and back. He had so many layers of clothing on, he felt like an overstuffed sausage: wool long johns, two pairs of knee-high wool socks inside Bean arctic felt liners and military-surplus white Mickey Mouse boots, heavy wool uniform pants, a wool undershirt, his winter-weight uniform shirt, a black wool sweater, and military-surplus gauntlet-style mittens that reached up to his elbows, and all of this under one-piece insulated coveralls that were too tight with everything crammed underneath.

Homes had taken up a spot in the center of the vehicles and was crunching an apple as he waited for the men to gather around him. The others shuffled toward the center, their boots making the Rice Krispie snow crackle and pop in the frigid air. The men all wore the same black coveralls and stomped their feet to keep circulation going.

“She's a fine mornin', boys,” Homes proclaimed.

“Cram the bull, Homes, we're freezing our balls off out here,” Budge Kangas complained.

“Dere's no wind,” Homes countered. “It could be a lot worse.”

“It
will
be a lot worse when we get on the sleds,” someone pointed out.

“Exactly,” Homes said, “and den we'll stop and it will feel warm!”

Service counted seven men, including himself: Homes, Moody, Kangas, Shaw from Mackinac County, and Stevenson and Larry Jakeway, both from Menominee County.

Budge Kangas said, “I'm at a hundred and twelve hours for this pay period. Are those Lansing assholes ever going to kick in overtime? These Garden shindigs are always twelve hours,
minimum.
”

“That's what override's for, right?” Eddie Moody asked. Like Service, he was relatively new to the job.

“Override is eighty-nine point two hours,” Kangas said. “That's a bit short of one-twelve by my math, and I've got two ex-wives and five kids to support.”

“Try using rubbers,” Homes quipped, and all the men laughed, even Kangas.

Service thought about the pay situation the men were talking about. Each man was paid for 89.2 hours, every two weeks. Some periods they might work 80 hours, others more than that, and the differential, in the officer's favor, was designed to give them control over their schedules and make up for night calls, holiday work, and other disruptions, not to mention investigations that could eat a lot of an officer's time. You couldn't be effective in the woods with one eye on a clock. So far, Service decided, he was probably working close to ninety hours and he didn't mind. He hadn't joined the DNR for money; he'd made more as a Troop. And he liked being busy.

“Fucking override,” Kangas said. “How long is that even gonna last?”

Homes said, “Okay, enough jaw jockeying, let's get down ta business. I'm takin' seven this morning.”

“Yer outta your mind, Homes. Gimme four,” Moody said.

“Where's Stone?” asked Stevenson, one of the officers from Menominee County.

“In a vehicle. He'll meet up with us at Fayette. Joe Flap's been upstairs watching the rats put in a gang of nets over the past few days.”

“How do we know it's rats?” Kangas challenged.

“We don't,” Homes said. “It could be tribals, but we won't know dat until we look.”

Kangas pressed his point. “It's legal for tribals to net north of Sac Bay after November first.”

Homes grinned. “But rats can't, and some of 'em are counterfeiting tribal permits an' some are hiring on wit' da Indians, taking pay or a percent of da haul, and all three of dese practices are illegal. Plus, da tribals have ta be using da proper-size mesh on dere nets—so we've gotta go look, get it?” Then he added, “I've got seven, Eddie's got four. Who's next?”

Shaw, the officer from Mackinac County, whose first name Service couldn't remember, said, “Give me six.”

Stevenson chimed in, “Two.”

“Jesus,” Homes said. “Are you trying ta shit on our patrol?”

“These patrols turn to shit on their own, no matter what we do,” Budge Kangas piped up.

Service asked, “What are we doing?”

“Buck each, guessing how many of our machines will start,” Homes said.

“I'll pass,” Service said. Why would the men bet against themselves and the outcome of the mission?

“You can't pass,” Homes said. “We'll give you five.”

Bets made, Homes announced it was time to get the vehicles off the trailers and get them cranked up.

Service's snowmobile started up right away and Homes yelped that this was a good omen, because Service was driving the worst pile of shit in the entire Yoop.

Stevenson and Shaw could not start their machines. Service and Moody had both taken turns pulling the starter rope for Shaw, but it was no use. Homes told the two men to reload their sleds and take their patrol units over to a location off US 2, just north of Garden Corners. They were to wait there until the mission was completed, or until they were called in as reserves, in which case they would dump their trailers and race down Garden Road in their trucks.

“How far across?” Service shouted at Homes over the popping of the surging motors.

“Eight miles, more or less, due east. It'll take us about an hour.”

“On flat ice?” Service asked. He had limited snowmobile experience.

Homes laughed. “Since when is Bay de Noc ice flat?”

Service pulled a black balaclava down over his face, jammed his helmet over it, and pulled his goggles into place. He looked around. None of the helmets or machines were the same. A couple of men had newer model Rupps. There was a Ski-Doo and an elderly Polaris, none of them the top of the line power-wise, but all of them with better suspension than his machine.

The patrol pulled out with Homes immediately gunning his throttle and surging ahead, bouncing and yawing across the ragged ice of Big Bay de Noc. Service was last in line and struggling to maintain a steady speed, even with the others pulling ahead of him. Most of the time he rode standing on the machine, bending down to the handlebars and keeping his eyes glued ahead as he steered around moguls and ice chunks the size of refrigerators, popping tentatively over various pressure ridges created by alternate freezing and thawing. His posture was like riding a horse English-style, letting his knees rather than his back take the pounding from the ice as they surged eastward, their machines screaming and straining, leaving blue plumes of oil fumes hanging in their wakes. The ice ahead of him looked like a boulder-strewn wasteland rendered in white and gray, with hints of dirty blue and pale green.

Homes halted a mile west of Snail Shell Harbor and scanned ahead with his binoculars, waiting for the others to catch up.

“Stone said he'd mark net stakes wit' red patches,” he yelled at them over idling engines as he continued to look at the area ahead. “He come out here on foot before first light. Spread out, an' when you find a stake, yell so we can figure out the layout.”

Service had no idea what what was going on, but puttered slowly eastward with the other officers.

Moody found the first stake, and by then Homes announced he could see a lifting shack that was eight feet or so long, and two or three feet wide—shaped like a big Popsicle. Inside it the rats would place a space heater to protect the men pulling the nets from beneath the ice while they harvested their take. It took a while for Service to see what Homes was pointing to. The shed had been painted white and pale blue-gray to make it less visible. It was damn effective camouflage, Service noted, not the work of an amateur.

Homes sent Kangas north to try to locate the northernmost stake, and when that was found they reconvened at the first stake where Homes used an ice spud to clear the hole in the ice and hook the net line. The net line was connected to a crude wooden superstructure made of two-by-fours that the fishermen slid under the ice through a series of holes. The nets were attached to the superstructure, with weights to hold them down on the rocky bottom where the fish schooled. Homes probed in the hole with a long pole tipped with a hook until he caught something and pulled it up. The net was green nylon and began to ice as soon as it hit the open air, making it heavier and harder to move and manipulate. A few fish were stuck in the net. Homes took one look and said, “Large mesh. Let's look for net registrations. Dis one is naked,” he added.

Kangas said, “The one on the north end said SSM one-twenty-two. It's red.”

“Sault Saint Marie tribe,” Homes said. “One of dem might be licensed for large mesh—if it's theirs. But are we dealing with tribals, or rats trying to act like tribals?”

Homes used the radio to contact Stone. He explained the situation, and Stone said he would make a call and find out who held license SSM 122.

The men used the time to find the rest of the marker stakes and to clear holes. An hour later Stone called back and said no license number 122 was assigned to the Soo Tribe, and told Homes he and the men should commence pulling the nets.

They eventually located nine nets connected in a series called a gang, and began the process of pulling them, taking turns in the lifting shack. While some men hauled, others removed illegal whitefish from the nets and stacked them on the ice like firewood.

They had been at it for more than three hours and had six of the nine nets piled on the ice. Stone came driving out in an unmarked green Ford pickup just as they were loading the unwieldy nets into a sled to be hauled back to the Stonington by one of the snowmobiles. They immediately transferred the icy, stinky nets and illegal fish into the bed of Stone's truck. Later they would move the nets into the evidence locker in the Escanaba office across from the U.P. State Fairgrounds, and let the legal process work. The fish would be frozen for later distribution to the needy.

“Dis will hurt da rats,” Stone said, appraising the day's work. “Each net costs dose bastards eight grand new.” Service blinked several times: The value of the gang was more than fifty
thousand
dollars? Suddenly the economic underpinnings of the seizure strategy made sense to him. Hobby fishermen didn't invest fifty grand in equipment. The rats who told reporters they fished illegally to stay off welfare were bullshitting; this was about money, big money by U.P. standards.

“Surprised we haven't had visitors,” Homes said to Stone.

“I expect we will,” the acting lieutenant said, staring south toward Burn't Bluff. “Air Four's got his eyes on da Port Bar up near da park. Dere's a heap a machines dere, an' if da rats get liquored up and come lookin' for trouble, Pranger will give us a call.” Stone turned to Service. “You want to help Moody in da lift shack?”

Service went inside and found a perspiring, red-faced Moody. “I'll take over,” Service said after watching for a minute or so. Moody stepped back and lit a cigar. He crossed his arms and pulled on his elbows to stretch his muscles. “Be nice to have a winch,” Moody said wistfully.

Service, who lifted weights and ran every day to stay in condition, soon found his neck, back, and arms burning from the effort of pulling the net, but he eventually got into a rhythm. He was paying attention only to what he was doing when there was a loud crunch and he was bounced off the wall of the shack and dropped hard to one knee, dazed but still clutching the net he had been recovering.

Moody grunted, “Fuck!” and shouldered the door open.

Service heard someone screaming, “Youse Nazi bastards have pulled your last fuckin' nets!” and Moody was yelling something about a truck.

Service tried to get out the door, but someone came crashing in and began punching and clubbing him. Service ducked, slid on wet ice, and sank a leg into the hole in the ice as the man landed on top, flailing at him with a board or a stick, an attack that was more emotion and testosterone than effect. Outside Service heard men shouting and the roar of unmuffled snowmobiles and knew that whatever was happening was larger than his attacker in the shack. He wrestled the man to the side, got a hand free, and jabbed him in the throat with the heel of his hand. The attacker immediately rolled off and started gagging. Service got to his feet, but the man was persistent, and although still gagging audibly, he clawed fruitlessly and furiously at Service's legs, trying to tackle him. Service took a half step, pivoted, and drove a fist into the man's temple, stopping him where he was.