Running Dark (22 page)

34

TRENARY, MARCH 16, 1976

“Connie, she takes care of mosta dat.”

“Joe, did you tell anybody about the flight?”

Joe Flap squinted at him. “Da cap'n called me 'cause da airport people called him an' complained. Dey assumed it was a department flight, and dey said it was stupid and dangerous. Dey're a buncha pussies.”

“Did you file a flight plan?”

“Bare bones, basic VFR, out and back.”

“The visibility was terrible that night.”

“Remember what I said, if I could see my prop it was visual? Dat's da pilot's call.”

“Did you list a passenger?”

“Didn't have none ta list, did I?” Flap said, obviously pleased with himself.

“Stone figured it out,” Service said.

“Len's a smart guy. He knows youse, he knows me, an' he knew your old man. It don't take an Einstein to add two plus two.”

Hegstrom was also smart. How could he know about such a flight, and, if he knew, how could he figure out what it meant?

“You want a beer?” Flap asked.

“No thanks. What does the airport do with flight plans?”

“Dey twix 'em off to Air Traffic Control and send a copy down ta da District.”

“The DNR district?”

“Yeah, Escanaba.”

“Why?”

“Back a few years, dere was a budget crunch downstate, and Lansing cut pilots, planes, and flight hours. Da district believed da air patrols were cost effective, and asked for flight plans to be used in puttin' together dere arguments wit' da Lansing eyeshades.”

“What's in a flight plan that could be useful?”

“Not a damn ting; I told 'em it was stupid, eh, but dey ignored me.”

“They still do this?” The value of air patrols had long since been established and had become standard procedure at certain times of the year.

“Far as I know. I told Cosmo and Edey about it, but bot' of dem give me da brush-off.”

Service called Len Stone from Flap's house. “Do you get copies of DNR flight plans?”

“I'm not da best inside guy, eh? Connie, she takes care of mosta dat. Why?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

35

ESCANABA, MARCH 16, 1976

“I'm a trashy kinda guy.”

“Been a while,” Connie Leppo greeted him when he walked into the district office. “Your family situation okay?” As the district's dispatcher-secretary, she took it on herself to monitor what was going on among district personnel.

“All taken care of. And I got my equipment replaced. Thanks for asking.”

“Youse gonna make da party at Sheila's tomorrow night?”

Party? His expression must have shown his confusion. “Saint Paddy's Day,” Leppo said. “Tomorrow?”

If he'd ever known, he had forgotten. “Sheila?”

“Sheila Halloran, a Troop secretary over to Gladstone post. Her boyfriend's Al Eagle, da district fish biologist.”

He hadn't met either of them. “I guess I missed the invitation.”

She rolled her eyes. “It's posted in da coffee room. Da party's out to Al's camp up da Tacoosh.”

The Tacoosh was a fast, rock-bottom river that flowed into Little Bay de Noc near Rapid River.

“Dere's a map on da board too,” Leppo added. “You enjoy my mom's bakery?”

Connie talked a lot. “Great,” he said, trying to recall what he had done with the baked goods she had given him. “Len said I should talk to you about paperwork.”

Leppo grinned. “Da poor man slouches like a prisoner when he's gotta sit behind dat desk.”

“What determines which papers get filed or thrown away?” he asked.

“It's called da file retention schedule. Lansing lawyers tell us what we gotta save and for how long. Anyting dey don't classify we can decide what ta do wit'.”

“What about DNR flight schedules?”

She looked up at him. “Ah, dose. Dey're local, an' we pitch 'em.”

“After somebody looks at them?”

“Nope, I plunk 'em right in da circular file. We got enough paper in dis place, we don't need more, eh. Somebody way back got da bright idea to have 'em sent here, but nobody looks at 'em, so I toss 'em.”

“Edey didn't look at them?”

“Nor da guy before him. We get a new boss, I always ask, and dey always say toss it.”

“What else gets tossed?”

“Records Lansing says can go. We flag files, and on certain dates each year we clean 'em out or send 'em ta storage. An da wastebaskets, da janitor takes dose to da Dumpster every night.”

“Do you cut the paper up or do anything to it before you toss it?”

She looked puzzled. “Sometime we bag 'em and take 'em to da Dumpster. Why would we cut stuff up? It's trash.”

“The city picks up our trash?”

“Nope—Bay de Noc Trash Haulers. Dere on contract wit' city an' county. Dis way city an' county can keep down payrolls wit' benefits and all dat. Times're tough, eh.”

“How often do they pick it up?”

“Couple times a week.”

“On a set schedule?”

“Usually on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“At a specific time?”

“Seems to me I see Gary in da mornings. Sometimes he comes in for a cuppa coffee. What's dis about?”

“Gary?”

“Gary Aho. He's a good guy, eh?”

“I saw a BDN truck over by Garden Corners,” he said.

“Probably Gary on da way home. Dey got a big operation, offices in Manistique, Gladstone, Escanaba, Menominee.”

“Gary lives near Garden Corners?” He had seen the truck in the early morning.

“Cooks, just north of dere,” she said.

Cooks, Lasurm had told him, was part of the consolidated school district that included Garden. This made Aho an area resident. The hair bristled on the back of his neck.

“The drivers take their trucks home?”

“Way I understand it, da drivers lease dere trucks from da company. Da company does sales, negotiates contracts, and handles da bookkeeping an' billing. Drivers have to take care of da trucks and pay for maintenance.”

“Sounds like it would be hard for a driver to make any money.”

“Gary says he does okay. He's a bachelor, eh.”

Service glanced at the calendar. Tomorrow was a pickup day. “Where does the trash get dumped?”

“County landfill, I tink, but I'm not sure. Can't just dump garbage anywhere, right?”

“Do we have a copy of the contract?”

“You betcha,” the secretary said.

“Can you make a copy for me?”

“If you watch phones while I run da copier.”

“Deal.”

When she brought him his copy, he asked her another question. “Gary comes in for coffee?”

“He doesn't come in every time, but he's a regular vendor, and dey're like part of da family, right? Is everything okay?” Her eyes showed concern.

“Sure; I'm just trying to understand how we do things here.”

She laughed. “Never had an officer worry about da trash before.”

“I'm a trashy kinda guy,” he said with a wink.

He took the contract and a cup of coffee into the district conference room and sat down to read. The contract had been renewed by Edey last July, and would come up for renewal again this summer. It called for two ten-yard trash bins and one weekly pickup. Service looked into the parking lot. There was only one bin.

He walked out to Leppo's desk. “The contract calls for one pickup a week,” he said.

“Yah, but Gary said da company is shorta bins right now, so dey brought us one and he makes two pickups a week. I told you he's a good guy. He takes good care of us, and he says we got da best coffee and bakery on his route.”

“Have you watched him make his pickups?”

“Sure. He usually loads, den takes da truck down da alley and stops dere for ten, fifteen minutes before he pulls on. Not sure if dat's procedure or a timing thing,” she said.

Or something more insidious, Service thought as he scribbled a note in red ink on the copy of the contract, and dropped it into Leppo's wastebasket when she stepped away from her desk.

36

ESCANABA-FAIRPORT, MARCH 17, 1976

“It's bait.”

“You wrote
what
on the contract?” Len Stone asked.

“‘Cancel: July seventy-six. Connie, please file.' I used your initials,” Service confessed. “It's bait. I also threw in a copy of the weekly schedule for all officers.”

Stone grinned. “Youse really want me to go along wit' dis? We could look pretty stupid, eh?”

“We could,” Service agreed.

“All dis 'cause youse seen a trash truck over to Garden Corners?”

“Not just that. Aho lives in Cooks. He violated the contract. He's in and out of our office whenever he wants, which makes him invisible. How many times have you done surveillance and come up empty?”

“Goes wit' da territory.”

“That's my point,” Service said. “Knowing it might yield nothing, you still went.”

Stone contemplated this briefly. “How do youse want to play it?”

“We wait in the alley and see what happens. We leave your unmarked on the street. If he doesn't stop in the alley, we jump in the unmarked and follow him.”

“All da way ta da dump?”

“If that's how it works out,” Service said. “I'll talk to Connie. If he goes into the building, she'll bump us on the radio when he's leaving.”

The green truck pulled into the lot at 10:42
a.m.
and backed up to the bin. The driver wore green coveralls, jumped down from the cab of his truck, and went into the district office. He came back out fifteen minutes later with a clear plastic bag, dumped it in the bin, and began hydraulically lifting the bin to dump the contents into the metal thorax of the truck.

Connie Leppo called them on the brick radio. “Three one hundred, Elvis has left da building.”

Stone smirked. “She tinks dis is a game.”

The driver climbed back into his truck.

“He's coming,” Service said as the driver backed up. It wasn't Connie's job to detect security problems.

“I got eyes,” Stone said. “Hair's too long for Elvis.”

“And he's too skinny,” Service added as they stepped into the door of the DNR garage that flanked one side of the alley.

The truck stopped in the alley twenty feet beyond them. The driver hopped down, climbed up the side, and dropped out of sight.

“He's carrying a gym bag,” Service said.

“I seen,” Stone said. “Move.”

The two officers waited at the rear of the truck on the side opposite where the man had disappeared. When they heard him beginning to climb out they moved around the truck, and when the man's boots hit the slush, Service clutched his arm. “How's business?”

The startled man froze, but recovered with a sheepish grin. “How's she goin', guys?”

“What's in da bag?” Stone asked.

“Trash,” the driver said.

“I thought trash belonged in da truck,” Stone said.

“I needed ta sort it out.”

“Youse mind if we see what's in da bag?”

The man shrugged, unzipped the bag, and held it open. “
Playboys,
” he said.

“From the district office?” Service asked.

The man grimaced. “No, man; I saw 'em earlier, thought I'd fish 'em out before I dumped da load.”

“You like da articles?” Stone asked facetiously.

The man looked confused. “No man, da tits.”

Service snatched the bag from the man, turned it upside down, and shook it vigorously. The magazines landed with a plop in gray slush, and papers fluttered down behind the magazines. The contract lay faceup, the red note from Service's hand visible. Ink from the marker was smeared pink by moisture.

“Geez, dose musta gotten stuck to da magazines,” the driver said too quickly.

“Let's go back to da office,” Stone said, holding the man's arm.

“Do we gotta?” the man protested weakly, but he went along with them without further protest.

Connie Leppo shot them a worried look as they escorted the driver past her station into the district conference room. Service stepped back out to her. “Call the trash company, Connie. Ask them how many bins and pickups we're supposed to have, and ask them if they ever run short of bins for customers.”

She reached for the phone as Service went into the room. “Coffee, Gary?” he asked the driver.

“You know my name?”

Service shrugged. “You're our regular guy, right?”

“Three years,” Aho said. “You guys got da great bakery here.”

Service stopped at Leppo's desk, but she was still on the phone. He went into the canteen, filled three mugs with coffee, used a Sears catalog for a tray, and returned to Leppo's station.

She looked up at him. “We're s'pposed ta have two bins,” she said. “And one pickup a week. Dey do run short once in awhile, but never for more den twenty-four hours, and never for state agencies. Our contract is too valuable.”

“Did you tell them we have only one?”

“I did just what youse asked,” Leppo said, looking perplexed.

“Thanks, Connie. Relax.”

“Youse comin' to Sheila's party?”

“Probably not.”

“Too bad. She'll be a blast,” she said.

Sheila or the party? Service wondered as he set a mug in front of the driver. “Black okay?”

“For java, not for broads,” Aho tried to joke.

Service made a point to stand beside the man, forcing him to look up. Stone sat across the table. “Gary, why are our papers in your bag?” Service asked.

“I told youse, dey musta gotten stuck to the magazines, eh?”

Stone grinned. “Dat's bullshit, son.”

“I don't get dis,” Aho said. “It's trash. You're trowin' it out, right?”

“It's trash when it arrives at the dump,” Service said. “Under the contract, you are the agent of transfer. It remains our property until it arrives at the dump; then it's theirs.”

“Most people don't mind somebody picks up somepin' dey don't want.”

“We mind,” Stone said coolly.

“What's da big deal?” Aho asked.

“You don't get to take trash for personal use, and if you do, it's theft,” Service said. “You're stealing government property.” He had no idea if this was legally correct and didn't really care. He wanted to find out what Aho was doing and why.

“Man,” Aho said, shaking his head disconsolately.

“What do youse do wit' da papers, son?” Stone asked.

“I told you, da magazines're for me.”

“Dat's fine; an' da papers?” Stone pressed.

“I just wanted the
Playboys.
”

Service said, “Gary, we called your company. The contract calls for two bins and one weekly pickup.”

The man raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “Right, right. We ran short. I did it dis way as a favor ta you guys.”

“Don't lie!” Service said sharply. “The company says it has never shorted the state and wouldn't because our contract is too important.”

“You musta talked to da new girl at da office,” Aho offered.

Service picked up the conference room telephone. “Connie, please get the head man at BDN on the phone.” He looked over at Aho, who motioned for him to hang up. Service said, “Thanks, never mind, Connie.”

Stone said, “Youse got to level wit' us, son, spit 'er all out. Whatever youse tell us, we're gonna check it out closer'n a fourteen-year-old comin' home from her first date. Youse got no wiggle room.”

Gary Aho looked to Service to be in his late twenties. He had long black hair tied back in a ponytail and a wispy goatee. “What's with the papers?” Service asked, hovering over the man.

“It's a favor, okay?”

“A favor?” Stone said.

“For my uncle.”

“What's dis uncle's name?” Stone asked.

“Pete Peletier, my mother's big brother.”

Service had to swallow a smile. “The Peletier who lives down to Fairport?” Service asked.

“You know Pete?” Aho asked.

“Heard about him,” Service said. “You're sayin' you go through our trash and pass it along to your uncle.”

“I don't look at nuttin', man. I give it all to him,” Aho said. “It ain't for me, eh?”

“What's your uncle do wit' it?” Stone asked.

“I don't know, man. Can I go now?” Aho asked.

“No, Gary,” Stone said. “Youse'll give us da whole story or youse're going to jail.”

“Jesus,” Aho said. “I'll lose my job!”

“Da whole story,” Stone reiterated.

“How long have you been doing this?” Service asked.

“Since I took da route.”

“What did you do before that?”

“Twisted wrenches over ta Manistique.”

“You lease your truck from BDN,” Service said. “You must've saved up a bundle for that up front.”

“Uncle Pete took care of it.”

“He loaned youse da cash?” Stone asked.

“No man, it was a gift.”

“In exchange for taking DNR trash,” Service said.

“He said it was no big deal,” Aho said defensively. “Just trash.”

“He was wrong,” Stone said.

“When do you take the paperwork to him?” Service asked.

“On da way home.”

“To Cooks?”

Aho looked alarmed. “Man, you guys know where I
live?
You been spyin' on me?”

“No, Gary, some people over your way have loose lips. We heard about what you were doing for your uncle.”

“I never told nobody, man,” Aho said. Aho's expression went from suspicious to morose.

“You deliver the papers to your uncle's house?” Service continued.

“Yeah,” Aho said, nodding lethargically.

“Do you call ahead?”

“I just show up and give 'em ta him.”

“What time?”

“When I get dere—six, seven?”

“In the morning?” Service asked. He had seen a truck in the morning.

Aho grimaced. “No man, at night. I got a day route.”

“Do you pick up trash in the Garden?” Service asked.

“No man. Another guy's got dat route.”

He'd seen the other driver, Service told himself. Not Aho.

“You drive da big truck to your uncle's?” Stone asked.

Aho grinned. “No big deal—it's da U.P., eh.”

Service understood. Yoopers parked bulldozers, dump trucks, logging rigs, and eighteen-wheelers in the driveways of their homes.

“How about we take a ride?” Service said.

“C'mon, man, you can't do dis ta me. I got my route ta finish.”

“Youse prefer a room at da graybar hotel?” Stone asked.

“No,” Aho said.

“Okay, den. We'll sit here today and dis afternoon, we take a ride, eh? Da route can wait.”

“What do I get out of dis?”

“Maybe you don't get busted,” Service said. “But you'll be a material witness and give us a statement. When the case comes to trial, you'll testify.”

“Against my uncle? He'll want his money back.”

Aho looked wrecked, but Service got the feeling some of this was for show. He couldn't really pinpoint his sense of unease, but it gnawed at him. “One lie and we bust you, Gary.”

“Dere ain't no free bakery today,” Stone added.

“Dis is so much bullshit,” Aho whined.

Service got a pad of legal paper and a couple of pencils and put them in front of the man. “Write,” he said.

“Okay I print?”

Stone nodded.

Service and his lieutenant stepped into the lobby. Stone said, “We gotta make sure we grab Peletier wit' da bag before we nail da SOB.”

“Minus the one-handers,” Service added. “We don't want to give him any outs.”

“Da prosecutor may not back us up on dis,” Stone said.

“You want to let it drop here?” Service asked.

“No, let's play 'er out, see where she goes.”

“I'll ride in the trash truck. You use the unmarked?”

Stone said, “I'll borrow somepin' dey don't know over dere.”

It was dark when Aho eased the nose of the big truck into the driveway of Peletier's house just outside Fairport. Service clambered out of the back, dropped down the far side, and moved quickly to the garage. He reeked of trash and he was cold. Aho went directly to the front door and knocked.

Pete Peletier came to the door and looked past Aho at the nose of the big truck. “What's goin' on, Gar?”

Aho held out the bag.

The man ignored it. “What's dat?”

“You know,” Aho said, jiggling the bag.

Again, Peletier ignored the offering. “Where's your pickup?”

“I had ta use da big truck tonight,” Aho said, still holding out the bag.

“Had to?” Peletier said.

Aho jiggled the bag again and his uncle snapped at him, “Stop shaking dat damn ting. I never seen dat bag in my life. Now get da hell outta here. I got tings ta do!”