Strike Dog (6 page)

The old man came out of the house to greet him and led him to the big doe, which had two broken forelegs and was entangled in an old wire fence. Service told the man he didn't have to watch, but the man insisted on staying. Service took aim with his .44 and tried to neatly clip the animal's spinal column just behind the head. Result: It began to thrash.

The old man, who was wearing white slacks and a long-tailed white shirt said, “Oh my.”

Service took aim a second time, and fired into the deer's skull. Suddenly the air was awash with fine pink mist and the old man was gasping and saying, “Oh dear God . . . oh God!”

Both of them were covered with blood. Apparently the first shot had caused extensive bleeding into the ears of the animal, which had filled like cups. When Service fired the second round, the animal's head had snapped sideways, showering both of them. Since then he had learned to be more efficient, and over the years he had killed so many animals with potential and actual problems that he normally didn't even think about them afterwards. It still irked him, however, when someone brought up the story of his “red rain-deer.” COs were fond of repeating stories about other COs' screwups.

10

FLORENCE COUNTY, WISCONSIN
MAY 20, 2004

Grady Service kept most of his equipment in his unmarked Tahoe, including a couple of changes of work clothes. As a detective he operated mostly in the western half, but sometimes across the entire Upper Peninsula, which was the size of Vermont and New Hampshire combined, and larger than Delaware. Despite making it home most nights, there had been times when he had to sleep in his vehicle somewhere in the woods.

The chief had made it clear that he was to get over to Wisconsin PDQ, but no way was he going until he stopped at home in Gladstone to see Nantz. He punched in the speed dial on the cell phone, caught the mistake, and flipped the phone closed. He deleted the speed-dial numbers for Maridly and Walter and lectured himself to stay focused.
Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself,
he thought as he drove out to US 41 and headed south toward Escanaba.

A gray-black Humvee coated with red-gray dust was parked in the lot behind the interpretive center, which was jointly run by the U.S. Forest Service, the Wisconsin DNR, and Florence County, a three-way marriage that sounded to him like a bureaucratic management stretch. There were two men in the vehicle. Service eased alongside the Humvee, got out, stretched, and showed his credentials to one of them. “Special Agent Monica?”

The man studied the credentials and pointed. “Go seven miles west on Wisconsin Seventy, turn south across the ditch at Lilah Oliver Grade Road. There's a gate there. Check in with the agents. I'll let them know you're rolling.”

Service thanked the man, pulled onto highway W-70, and headed west, passing a billboard, black type on a white background:
if you're against ­logging, try wiping with plastic
. There was a yellow steel tube gate across the road and behind it, a dusty gray Crown Victoria with two men in it. They let him pull up to the gate, got out, looked at his credentials, and manually swung open the yellow gate. “Command Post's a couple miles in,” one of the men said. “They're expecting you.”

The road was deeply rutted, the area recently logged, with twenty-foot-high stacks of maple and assorted hardwoods piled neatly along the two-track, bark chips scattered all over the road like confetti. Discarded beer and pop cans twinkled with reflected light on the edges of the road. The forest in the area was thick. Along the way he saw two red logging rigs nosed into the tree lines.

There could be only one reason the FBI would be set up so far out in the boonies: They had a crime on their hands, and no doubt a crime scene nearby as well. An unmarked navy blue panel truck was snugged close to a copse of birch trees where a camouflaged plastic tarp had been strung to create shade. Service parked and walked toward a group of people under the tarp. A crude, hand-painted slab of quarter-inch plywood nailed to a nearby tree read
beer, weed, gas, or ass—no one rides free
.
Life at its most basic,
he thought. The sign wasn't new, and suggested that the logging company's gate was ineffectual in deterring visitors, especially kids who obviously used the area as a party spot. As any soldier, border guard, and game warden knew, outdoor security was impossible unless you had the rare perfect terrain and a lot of bodies in the security detail.

A dark-haired woman with a prominent nose got up. She had short black hair and dense black hair on her arms. She wore khaki pants and sleeveless black body armor over an open-collar, short-sleeved polo shirt. A badge dangled from a navy blue cord around her neck. “Detective Service?” she asked.

“Special Agent T. R. Monica?”

“Tatie,” she said, adding, “Follow me.” She led him to the panel truck, slid open the massive door, and nodded for him to step inside. He could hear a generator humming softly. The cramped interior was filled with banks of communications equipment; the air was cool. “Take a seat,” the agent said, nudging a wheeled stool over to him with her boot.

She opened a blue-and-white cooler and took out two bottles of beer. “It's sticky out there,” she said, pushing a longneck Pabst Blue Ribbon at him.

“No thanks. I'm working,” he said. “Tatie?”

She smiled. “When I was a kid, all I wanted to eat were potatoes: fried, boiled, baked, you name it—like that Bubba dude and his shrimp in
Forrest Gump?
You don't drink when you work, or is it my brand?”

He shook his head and wondered what this was about. She had a soft air to her, but a commanding, slightly imposing voice. She was also slender and obviously long shed of her childhood starch fixation.

“At ease,” the agent said, opening her beer and taking a long pull.

Service ignored his beer.

“Is it because of your father?” she asked.

“Is
what
because of my father?”

“Your not drinking on duty.”

“It's because that's the rule.” What the hell did she know about his father, and why? He felt his blood pressure rise, took a deep breath, and tried to adjust his breathing.

“It's my understanding that you're sort of a cookbook Catholic when it comes to rules,” she said.

“Whatever,” he said, not wanting a confrontation, but if she kept this up she might get one. This gig was starting off oddly and he sensed it was not going to improve.

Special Agent Monica leaned back. “I heard you can be pretty tight-lipped,” she said. “This isn't a deposition. We're on the same team.”

“I don't know what
this
is. My chief told me to report and here I am,” he said.

She tilted her head, sizing him up. “I take it you've had some less-than-satisfactory experiences with the Bureau?”

“Mixed,” he answered, adding, “at best.”

She smiled. “I'd hate to depose you,” she said.

“So don't,” he said. “What's this about?”

“I say again, we—you and I, all the people here—are on the same team, Detective. You are a federal deputy, correct?”

She was well briefed. “All of our officers who work state or international border counties are deputized,” he said. This had taken place just more than a year ago. Anyone committing a game violation in one state and crossing the border of another state in possession of illegal game was in violation of the Federal Lacey Act. Being deputized as feds gave COs the authority to pursue them. Deputization was also supposed to enhance cooperation with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the federal agency Michigan's DNR was most likely to interface with. The implication for cooperation with and by the USFS, FBI, BATF, and an alphabet soup of other federal agencies remained a question mark. From experience he knew that major policy farts of this kind often required glacially calibrated clocks to gauge results, by which time the rules would no doubt change again.

Special Agent Monica reached into a black leather portfolio, pulled out a Temporary FBI ID card on a black lanyard, and set it on the table. “Wear this at all times around here. If you see somebody without one, make them show one to you, or put their face in the dirt—and yell for help. The only leaks out of this outfit will be the ones we choose to make for tactical reasons,” she declared.

He looked at the identification badge. It was his photo. How did she get it so fast? The chief had left him with the impression that this was a chop-chop deal, but her having his photo suggested something very different, and he was suspicious.

“I'm sure you've got a lot of questions,” she said, “but bear with me for a while, and for God's sake, drink a beer.” She snapped off the cap for him and pushed the bottle closer. “Your father was a game warden,” she said. “He was killed in the line of duty.”

“He was a game warden who died while he was drunk on duty,” Service said.

“But the state honored him as a hero,” she countered.

He nodded. “He liked to stop and schmooze violets,” he said. “The state didn't talk about that part.”

“Violets?” she said with a puzzled look.

“Violators.”

She smiled. “That's what all effective cops do,” she said. “You don't drink with your . . . violets?” She seemed amused by the term.

“No,” he said.

Agent Monica cocked her head slightly. “What did you think of your father?”

Service stiffened. “I didn't come here to have my head shrunk.” First the shrinky-dink priest, now her.
Jesus
.

“I promise not to shrink it,” she said. “But I do want to dig around in there—if you don't mind.”

“I do mind,” he said.

“In your place, I would too,” she said sympathetically. “You've worked with Wisconsin warden Wayno Ficorelli.”

Wayno. “Once.”

“Your opinion of him?”

“Is he up for a federal job or something?”

“Just answer the question, okay?” Like most feds, Agent Monica was an adept interviewer, accomplished at deflecting and maintaining control.

“Wayno is smart, dedicated, and determined.”

She raised an eyebrow. “When did you work with him?”

“Last fall.” Time tended to lose meaning for game wardens, and the older he got, the worse the time dislocation seemed to get.

“Just that once?”

“Right.”

“Contact since?”

“Now and then.”

“About other cases?” she asked.

“It's none of your business,” he said. There was a smugness—or something—in her attitude that was beginning to really rub him the wrong way.

Hmmm,
her lips said.

He sensed she wouldn't let up. “He wanted a job in Michigan.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Wisconsin wardens aren't fully empowered peace officers.”

“Have you encouraged him?”

“No, and I haven't discouraged him either.”

“Why not?”

“I don't take positions in hiring decisions unless I'm tasked to do background checks.”

“What was your opinion of him?”

“Smart, dedicated, and determined,” he said.

“You already told me that. Is there something else?”

“No.”

“Let me add something,” Monica said. “He's a pathological ass-man.”

“If you say so.”
What the hell was going on?
Service could feel the hairs standing up on his arms.

“I do say so, and by all reports, marital status hasn't ever been an issue for him.”

“Why ask me?”

“Have you ever gotten mixed up with married women?”

“Only my wife,” he said, “and that's none of your goddamn business.” Why all these questions? She was beginning to really piss him off.

“That would be your ex, who died on 9/11 in Pennsylvania,” she said. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“I bet,” he said. Jesus, did she know his entire life history?
Then she must know about Nantz and Walter,
he thought. He felt his face flush and started to stand, but she reached out and grasped his arm.

“Wayno Ficorelli is dead,” she said.

Service stared at her, trying to comprehend. “When?”

“A little more than forty-eight hours ago.”

All the questions she had been asking were driving at something. “You think I know something about it?”

“Do you?”

“Don't be an asshole!” he snapped, standing up and telling himself if she shot off her mouth one more time, he was going to bury a fist in it.

“Have you ever lied to your violets?” Agent Monica asked.

What the hell was she trying to get at?

“When necessary,” he said.

“Sit down,” she said. “Please.”

He sat. “How did Wayno die?”

She pondered this for a moment. “He was executed.”

Service stared at her. Executed? “What the fuck does that mean?”

She said, “You have the reputation of being an extraordinarily skilled and aggressive officer.”

“Do I?”

“Don't jerk me around. You're a loaded gun on bad guys. You've been wounded in the line of duty, both in the marines and as a game warden. Did Ficorelli mistreat prisoners and suspects?”

“Not that I saw,” Service said.

“You and Ficorelli are a lot alike—except for a predilection for married women.”

“Look,” he said, trying to tamp down his rage, “I was ordered to come over here and cooperate. I didn't come here to get mind-fucked.”

“Good,” the agent said. “Just calm down and cooperate. I sense that you're not surprised someone killed him.”

“I'm not happy about it, but I guess I'm not all that surprised. Wayno could push pretty hard.”

“He stretched the envelope and made some enemies,” she said.

“I worked with him just once, but I suspected he pissed off a whole lot of people.”

“Which he surely did,” she said. “Did you know that his second cousin is Wisconsin's attorney general?”

“No.”