Blue Wolf In Green Fire (39 page)

“Your wolf killer is no more,” the captain said. “This is the only score that matters. All the rest is detail.”

“Details matter in our business,” Service said.

“Only until a case is closed, then you move on, Detective. The feds have impossible jobs and they're forced to do things and work with people the likes of which most of us cannot imagine. You've done your job, Grady. Now let it go and go home to Maridly. She and I have had some meaningful discussions. She has agreed to fly for the department on a contract basis until fall. Now go home, Grady. I'm pleased you're still among the living.”

“I'm glad we both are,” Service said, extending his hand.

He was moved by the captain's sentiments and advice, but despite the captain's view, some details did matter, and he had more to attend to.

33

Skelton Gitter's establishment sat in full view of Mount Zion north of Ironwood. The showroom walls were covered with stuffed-animal mounts; just inside the door there was an eight-foot-tall Alaskan brown bear on a pedestal, standing on its hind legs, its mouth frozen in a snarl.

Gus Turnage stared up at the animal and said, “How'd you like to deal with the likes of that?”

“No thanks,” Service said. The state had enough trouble with its black bears.

There was a gun shop off one end of the showroom and a shop filled with fishing gear off the other end.

Service was accompanied by Gus Turnage, a Gogebic County deputy sheriff, and Special Agent Eddie Bernard, the BATF man from Grand Rapids who had responsibility for the U.P. Lars Hjalmquist, Betty Very, and some Ontonagon County deputies had search warrants for Gitter's camp and the camp owned by the man from Fort Wayne. Both camps were close to each other south of the Porcupine Mountains.

Service timed it so that his group arrived at the shop an hour before its scheduled opening. They were greeted by a frowning Skelton Gitter. Service introduced everyone, and Special Agent Bernard handed search warrants to Gitter.

The proprietor pointed toward an office. “Can we sit down like civilized people?”

He led them into the room and plopped down behind a polished oak table. There was a Dell computer in the corner and distressed credenza that stretched along one wall. There were photographs of Gitter and his hunting trophies in rows on the walls.

“We have some questions,” Service said.

“I knew you'd be coming,” the man said.

Service sat down across the table from Gitter.

“Do I need my lawyer?” the man asked.

“Be good, you call him,” Service said. “We want to talk about Wealthy Johns.”

Gitter stared at Service, picked up his phone, and punched in a number. “Sandy, I'm going to need you.”

Tavolacci, Service thought. This was interesting. Tavolacci had tried to spring Jason Nurmanski from the Iron County Jail. Why would Gitter have Tavolacci as his lawyer? It was like hanging out a sign. If Sandy worked for Gitter, would he also work for Johns and not tell Gitter? Not likely.

“She was killing wolves and poaching deer.”

“I do not poach,” Gitter said.

“But you knew something was going down.”

The man shook his head. “I barely knew her. I met her two years ago over to the gun club.”

“That would be South Superior?”

Gitter nodded. “I never met a woman who could shoot like her, and her knowledge of weapons was astounding. I hired her.”

“You barely knew her, but you hired her and then she moved in with you.”

“Eventually. At first she was just an employee. Have you never made an error?”

Knowing how Haloran worked, Service doubted the relationship had evolved.

“If you knew about the poaching and didn't report her, that's conspiracy,” Service said.

“I trusted her. She could sell sand to Saudis and she brought in a lot of new business.”

“She was hiring freelancers to make kills for her,” Gus said.

“I didn't know,” Gitter said, his voice betraying frustration. “She was a unique woman.”

“How so?” Service asked.

“Different, direct,” Gitter said. “And unpredictable. She was wide open in some ways and totally closed in others. She refused to talk about her past and would tell me only that she was from out east. She had an accent then, Massachusetts, Maine, something out that way.”

“She had an accent
then?
” Service asked.

“Right, but within weeks it was gone and she talked like she'd grown up right here.”

“Do you do background checks on employees?”

“I only hire former customers. Because they've bought weapons from me I've already gotten a clean background on them and there's no need to do it again. My procedure is more efficient.”

“But Johns was new to the area, an unknown. Did she buy a weapon from you?”

“No.”

“So you hired her without knowing anything about her. She could have been a felon.”

Gitter looked irritated. “She knew weapons and sales. I didn't want to risk losing an employee of that caliber.”

“I bet,” Gus said.

Service ignored Turnage. “You hired her without knowing anything about her except that she was knowledgeable.”

“The law doesn't require background checks for employees selling firearms.”

“She lived with you,” Service said.

“As previously stated, not at first,” Gitter said, exasperation beginning to show. “That came later.”

“She was paying cash to hunters to take trophy deer and she was killing wolves herself.”

“I don't know anything about any of that. She was the best employee I ever had.”

Gus left the office and came back with the fifty-caliber weapon they had taken from Wealthy Johns and placed it on the table in front of Gitter. A DNR evidence tag dangled from the barrel.

“Recognize this?” Service asked.

“Harris Gunworks, fifty BMG, bolt-action, one of the early models, 1987 or so. They later came out with a semiautomatic version.”

“This is yours.”

“No,” Gitter said firmly. “Not mine.”

“Johns was carrying this when we confronted her. She killed wolves with it.”

Gitter looked shaken. “I have no knowledge. Check the serial number. There will be a paper trail. That's the law.”

“The serial number's been obliterated.”

Special Agent Bernard came in with a folder and placed it on the table in front of Service.

Service flipped through the pages. “The weapon came from Harris Gunworks. You sold it to a man in Indiana.”

Gitter sucked in a breath and grabbed at the papers. “I did no such thing.”

“Let's go through this again,” Service said.

Gitter exhaled slowly. “I've never had an account with Harris Gunworks. I handle
sporting
weapons. The stuff they make is special, mostly for military and law enforcement. With specialty weapons manufacturers you have to commit to substantial inventory packages in order to be able to buy single pieces. I can't afford it. Call the people at Harris, ask them.”

“We already have,” Service said, tapping the paperwork, “but your own records say the fifty came from Harris.”

Gitter leaned forward. “I did
not
buy that weapon from Harris Gunworks. Their records will confirm this.”

“You're right,” Service said. “You don't have an account with them, but your own records show that you had one of their weapons. This weapon.”

“No!” Gitter said. “My attorney is coming. I will wait for him, as is my right.”

“Our people were here before, checking on this weapon. Wealthy Johns told them that you had sold the fifty to a man in Indiana and that it had been shipped to him.”

Gitter's eyes intensified. “That's nonsense! Firearms can be mailed only from one licensed dealer to another. A nondealer has to purchase a weapon in person so the proper background checks can be run.”

“But you hired Johns without a background check.”

“She wasn't a customer. I didn't break any law,” Gitter said angrily.

Service picked up the paperwork. There was a shipping form attached. It showed that the fifty had been mailed by special carrier to a man named Mayhall. Service put the paper in front of Gitter. “It's against the law to ship a firearm.”

Gitter glared at Service. “Listen to me. I did not mail a weapon to a customer. Not to that customer, not to any customer.”

“You're right,” Service said. “This man in Indiana never bought a weapon. He doesn't own any guns. He doesn't even hunt.”

The store owner looked relieved.

“But the paperwork says a firearm was shipped.” He handed the papers to Gus. “Call Red Box Express and have them pull their paperwork.”

“Can I use your phone book?” Gus asked Gitter, who fumbled in a drawer in the credenza along the wall and slid the book across the table.

Gus found the number, flipped open his cell phone, and tapped in the number.

He talked quietly on the phone while Service watched Gitter laboring to keep his composure.

Gus said, “Okay, thanks,” and put down the phone. “RBE got a call for a pickup but when they got here, the shipment wasn't ready. They keep notes of such things in case customers bitch later. They were never recontacted.”

“I don't break the law,” Gitter said.

“Your paperwork says differently,” Bernard said.

“You're hassling me,” the gun dealer said.

Service was not about to let up. “Let's say that your girlfriend made up the story about selling the weapon so that she could keep it, and she made the paperwork look like she had sent it, and violated the law. Let's ignore the fact that she set you up for a violation. Where did she get the fifty?”

Gitter's annoyance was changing to another emotion. “I don't know, and that's the truth.”

“But you knew she had it. It's not against the law to know something unless you know it to be illegal,” Service said. “It's perfectly legal to own a bolt-action or semiautomatic fifty.”

Gitter looked tired. “She had it when I met her,” he said after a long pause. “I figured if she owned it, her record had to be clean. Harris doesn't sell to people who don't meet the rules.”

“A bit blinded by his own gun,” Gus said under his breath.

Service looked up at the BATF agent. “Eddie?”

The BATF man smiled at Gitter. “Sir, we took three sets of prints off the weapon, and one of them belongs to you.”

Service had not been surprised at the print findings. Gitter and Johns had been passing the fifty back and forth. Carmody didn't know about the third wolf kill and the prints suggested Gitter had done it.

Gitter said, “I want my lawyer.”

“Mr. Gitter,” Eddie Bernard said, “we'll wait for your attorney because we're going to go through everything here and we are going to take our time doing it.”

Service said, “While more officers are going through your cabin and one owned by Mr. Mayhall of Fort Wayne. If there's anything in either place, we're going to find it, Mr. Gitter. We know Wealthy shot two wolves with the fifty. We also know that another wolf was killed by the same weapon and if you did that, it would help you to tell us about it now.” Service knew that if the man didn't admit to the third wolf, they would probably never get him for it. Prints on the weapon would not be sufficient.

Gitter's shoulders slumped but he said nothing more.

The conservation officers left Bernard in the store and walked outside.

“Guy's an asshole,” Gus said.

“I guess he hooked up with Haloran to get a little and got a whole lot more,” Service said with a grin.

“You want to grab lunch?” Gus asked.

“No thanks.” Service had another visit to make, and this one he wanted to do alone.

Sandy Tavolacci pulled into the parking lot as Service got to his truck, parked, jumped out, and glared.

“Howyadoin Sandy?”

“Up yers,” the lawyer shouted as he stormed toward Gitter's shop.

It took more than two hours to reach Limpy's camp. During the drive Lars Hjalmquist called on the cell phone. They had found three wolf heads in a freezer in Gitter's cabin, and eight sets of antlers, none of them tagged. At the Mayhall camp they found something else.

“There's also a bald eagle,” Hjalmquist said, “mounted big as life, and a box full of eagle feathers. Gitter's signature is on the bottom of the mount.”

“That's a federal rap,” Service said with a grin. “Let Barry Davey know. I think Mr. Gitter has a lot of explaining to do.”

The afternoon air was warming again, heading into the high fifties. Grady Service marched into the camp and pounded on the door of Allerdyce's cabin. Honeypat opened the door, and Service brushed past her to find Limpy in his rocking chair with a cup in his hand.

Service stood in front of him, his eyes dark and hard.

“Had youse a time over to da Skeeto, didjas?” the old poacher asked, flashing a crooked grin.

“You broke our deal.”

Allerdyce's eyes narrowed and the pitch in his voice changed. “I din't operate in da Skeeto. I din't break nuttin' an' youse got no evidence udderwise.”

“That's right. The problem is that you know all of our rules and our ways.”

The old man took umbrage. “I found da blue wolf for youse.”

“You found him for Wealthy Johns, too.”

Allerdyce grinned. “Heard dat woman lost her head out dere. Waste of such a pretty face, eh.”

“Why?” Service asked, not expecting an answer.

“She was da competition, eh? Hired freelancers for cash. I couldn't have da bitch messin' in my business. Mebbe I put her on da blue an' den put you on 'im and I knew you'd take her oot. Just like yer ole man woulda done. Dere's nothin' to show—no money passing, eh? Dis is just 'tween professionals.”