The voice on the other end of the line sounded more like a growl than an actual human voice.
“Malone.”
“Hey, Bear, it’s John. How you doing?”
“As I live and breathe, it is the hero of the Northwoods, taking time to speak to his old friend. To what or whom do I owe this pleasure?”
“Well, Bear, I need some help with something. Something you gotta keep under wraps.”
“John, don’t even start. There is nothing you know that is the least bit interesting that starts with, ‘you gotta keep this under wraps.’ Unless, of course, we are talking about a secret fishing spot. That I could listen to, but that would make me happy, and we both know that you really are not concerned with my happiness. So, I am going to hang up, but before I go, I would advise you to contact local law enforcement if you have any information about criminal activity. Unless I am wrong, and this is about a fishing spot. Am I wrong, John? Is this about two old friends going fishing?”
“No, it’s not about fishing, Bear,” I replied.
“Well then, thanks for calling, John. I will give Tanya your regards. I look forward to getting together real soon.” Then he hung up the phone.
“What did your contact say, John. Can he help us out?” asked Len.
“He said he would do what he can as soon as he gets the information. Until then, we should sit tight,” I said.
With a sad sigh, Interim Chief Bork got in his car and pulled out. I watched him go until he was out of sight.
I walked back into the cabin to wait for Bear’s phone call that I was certain was soon to come. If Bear is one thing, it’s reliable. He could no sooner walk away from me than I from him. Too much history, too much of our life lived side by side. Bear would not let me down.
When he did call me back, what would I tell him? Where would I start? Any investigator worth spit knows that unless they are in hot pursuit, they need to take a minute to put together what they have been presented: what they know, what they think they know, what they would like to know, and what their gut tells them. No jumping to conclusions. Things are either tied together or not.
So instead of allowing wisdom to prevail, I again launched a ship that would take me to who knows where, hopefully to my uncle Nick’s killer. I am who I am, and good or bad, I will always be me. When all my flaws are paraded in front of Saint Peter on Judgment Day (and I am sure the list will be long), I can proudly say one thing: my belief in justice is unshakable. If I found my way to justice through unconventional means, so be it. Uncle Nick’s killer would be brought to justice.
The details of all this activity in a small northern Wisconsin town were hard to put together. It is almost impossible that these things were unrelated. Too many bad guys in common. You need to be objective, look at the facts, but one must also not be stupid. Most of the time if it smells bad and looks bad, it is bad—not always, but most of the time.
Len Bork, interim police chief, straight arrow by all appearances, had risked a thirty-year career to hide some photos and information he found during the search of a now-deceased former chief’s house. The photos are really in three groups. There was a connection to ongoing activities, and it’s likely the photos are tied together. They all appeared to be taken as part of some surveillance. No one was posed, and no one looked at the camera. The first batch were of the missing agent, including several photos of her around town, and three must have been taken through her window as she was getting ready for bed or changing clothes. If we were able to study the photos closely and get some information about where she stayed when she was here, we might be able to find the window through which the pictures were taken.
The next couple were pictures of two prominent long-term community members giving or receiving suitcases full of cash, which in my experience is usually tied to some illegal or nefarious activity. According to Chief Bork, both locals, who were easily identified in the pictures, owned area businesses that they sold, and both parties were represented by Derek Anderson, a crooked attorney. The chief had done some checking and found out that the record showed the businesses had sold for less than half of what he figured the value should be. Again, it looked like these shots were taken with some sort of surveillance camera. The images were clear enough to see that in one shot the person holding the case had a ring on his or her left pinkie. The relative size of the hand made it appear to be a man, but I couldn’t be sure. There was a clear connection between all parties involved—greed. Hundreds of years ago a guy named Paul noted for all time, “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” I doubt he knew how right he was.
The next photo was most likely one of the threads I would have to follow to find my way through this twisting web. In the picture, Agent Chandler appeared to be talking to someone who bore a resemblance to the guy captured in another photo that was taken by Uncle Nick’s trail cam, most likely in the area where he was eventually killed. The interest here was compounded because Agent Chandler and his partner, Agent Street, had come to my house and accused me of withholding evidence in the investigation of a missing agent. I showed them what I had, and the only thing they took was the picture of the unknown subject from the trail cam. When they first saw the picture, even though it was hard to make out, Chandler slipped, and it was clear he knew who the guy was. There was no doubt that was the case because of the picture Len showed me. Then, later the same night of their visit someone came onto my property and tried to break into the shop where my uncle had a safe. I interrupted the subject and was nearly beaten to death with an old broken canoe paddle. The sheriff suggested it was probably a druggie trying for a quick rip-off, but it wasn’t. It was the guy in the picture trying to break into the shop, most likely to find what other information I was holding back. Was Chandler working with this guy? Had he tipped him off that I kept the stuff in the vault in the shop? I am not one to jump to conclusions when it comes to coincidence, but I am not blind to probable collusion.
Agents Chandler and Street were part of a nationwide task force. They had been detailed to far northern Wisconsin to follow up on leads regarding the missing agent in the photos. These two were A-Team agents, chosen for hard cases because of a history of success. Chandler had physically threatened me and was convinced I was holding out on him. He was a jerk, but crooked federal agents are really few and far between, especially A-Teamers.
Scarface, Chandler, Street, the missing agent, and suitcases full of cash were all tied to former Chief Don Timmy.
Back when I was a cop, I caught special overtime detail. I was assigned to pick up an investigator from the IRS from the airport and drive him around the city to aid him in putting together a Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) case. During the next few days, we spent a lot of time together. He was an accountant with an MBA, and although he was authorized, he didn’t carry a gun. He was the guy behind the scenes who put the bad guys away. One thing he told me over and over was that people commit crimes for different reasons—out of passion, stupidity, and so on. The big guys are not stupid. The only way to get them is to follow the money—every nickel, every dime. Find out where it came from and where it went. They’re doing what they’re doing for the money, and it has to be somewhere. The most famous was the story of a big-league bad guy, murderer, thief, extortionist. At one point every fed in the country was trying to take him down. Who got him? An accountant for income tax evasion. Alphonse Capone was sent to prison. Follow the money.
It would be a couple of hours before Julie got home from work, and I had promised her one of her favorites, Cabrelli’s award-winning Italian cheeseburgers on the grill. Since I had some time, I grabbed my fishing rod and walked down to the dock to think things through and throw a few casts. I saw a dignified looking fellow with gray hair covered by a “Happy Hooker Bait and Tackle” bucket hat standing in the water near the dock, about ten feet from shore. He was casting with a fly rod. His fly was brightly colored with a long green tail. I watched as he put the rod into action, almost like a ballet, the rod and line going back and forth in perfect motion. Each forward cast was putting his fly a little closer to his goal, the end of a tree sticking out of the water. A final cast and the fly landed ever so lightly right in the lee of the log. The fly stayed on the surface, and he let it set for a while. Then he raised his rod tip and gave the fly a short sharp tug resulting in a splash. I realized the fly he was casting was a popper, a floating fly with a dished front that would cause a splash when tugged imitating a frog or grasshopper or something like that. On his fourth tug, he was rewarded by a powerful strike, and the rod immediately bent to the pull of the fish. The angler let go with an excited, “Whoop!” and the battle was on.
Reeling in fish on a fly rod is much different than cranking one in on a spinning or casting reel. Some use the reel to retrieve the line, while others pull the line in by hand and let it fall on the water. He was a hand liner: rod tip up, steady tension on the line, not rushing anything, playing the fish instead of trying to horse it in. I remembered when I hooked my first big fish with Uncle Nick. It was about a four-pound smallmouth bass. I was so excited that I cranked the reel as fast as humanly possible and dragged the fish to the boat. Uncle Nick said, with a laugh, if I had reeled anymore, I would have reeled the fish right through the rod guides. He said that my technique worked this time, but most often, playing the fish and wearing it down a little is the best choice to successfully land it, especially if that fish is a musky.
The angler was making progress and chuckling throughout the whole process. I had yet to see the fish, and while I thought it would likely be a bass, it was not jiggling the tip of his rod as much as a bass usually did. When the fish was within fifteen feet of him, it launched itself straight out of the water and danced on its tail. It was no bass—it was a three-foot-long musky. After another jump, the fish hit the water and ran with the line, not away from the fisherman as you might expect. This fish ran at the angler. Try as he might, he could not take up the slack as quickly as he needed to. Slack in the line, one more quick jump, a shake of its head, and the musky was gone. Today the fish’s skill was greater than that of the angler.
The fisherman stared for a second or two before he reeled in his line. He turned around and walked toward shore, grinning from ear to ear. The excitement of the fishing battle was more important than its outcome. That was when he first noticed me.
“Hi,” he began. “Did you see that? I was trying to catch a big bass I’ve seen hanging out by that log. Thought I had him, too. Didn’t dream it would be a musky. Did you see how the sneaky devil ran right at me? I couldn’t believe it! I fell for the old push and pull game, and that fish snookered me good. That was fun.”
“It was darn near as much fun to watch,” I replied.
“Is this your boat dock?” he asked.
“It is,” I answered.
“Do you mind if I sit on it for a minute or two and get my rod and line straightened back up?”
“Be my guest.”
He sat down on the edge of the dock.
“I should introduce myself. I’m Jack Wheeler.”
“I’m John Cabrelli.”
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, John. Actually, John is my real first name too, but everybody has called me Jack for as long as I can remember.”
I looked around and didn’t see a boat or any other means of conveyance. “Did you wade all the way over here from the boat landing?” I asked.
“No, I paddled over in my canoe. It’s stashed in the weeds around the bend. I pretty much paddle where ever I fish. It’s kind of like therapy. I’m trying to learn to slow down a little. I recently retired and haven’t quite got the hang of things. The canoe and fly fishing are all pretty new to me.”
“You looked like a pro the way you were handling that rod.”
“Lessons from an expert in town. It took some time, but with his help I finally figured things out. It’s actually funny because I picked fly fishing as a relaxing hobby, but when I was first learning, I got so frustrated that I threw my brand-new rod and reel right in the lake, walked back to my car, and didn’t look back.
“I was staying at a small resort on the river, and the owner suggested that instead of giving up fly fishing, I call a friend of his and take some lessons. That was a good idea. Now I love it. I don’t even care if I catch any fish. I like the whole exercise. Paddling along, finding a spot, and seeing if I can fool a fish. My casting has gotten pretty good, but I still lose more fish than I catch.”
I sat down on the dock myself. “What are your retired from?”
“I hate it when people ask me that,” he replied.
I looked at him and said nothing.
“Truth is, I am a retired lawyer. I can tell by that look you are not a big fan of my noble past profession.”
“I used to be a cop. Probably not too many cops in the lawyer fan club.”
“No, I’d guess not,” he said.
“I had a diverse practice. The only real criminal law I ever did was in a situation where one of my regular clients got crossways of the law, or more often, one of the children of my regular clients. Mostly traffic issues, but occasionally something more serious. I have always admired the work that law enforcement officers do, often in the most difficult of situations. That alone would make me mostly unsuitable for the aggressiveness criminal defense requires. Anyway, it was not my cup of tea.”
“The truth be known, Jack, I’ve had some pretty good friends who were or are lawyers, and I respect what they do. Like in any field, bad lawyers or bad cops cast a dark shadow on the profession.”
“I need to be forthcoming, Mr. Cabrelli. I didn’t know you lived here. Now that we’ve met, I should say that I know who you are. I closely followed the tragic events that transpired and am honored to meet you. It was a terrible tragedy and would have been much, much worse had you not put yourself in harm’s way. I hope your recovery is going well. From news accounts, it sounds like you were badly hurt.”
“I am recovering and doing well. Thanks for asking.”
“I would have met you sooner or later anyway. I’ve been asked to help sort out some of the affairs of the clients of now deceased lawyer Derek Anderson. The court appointed me after it was besieged by requests from concerned parties. It’s a temporary position providing a little remuneration to support my newly acquired hobbies of fly fishing and handmade canoes.”
“That must be a real job. I’m sure Derek had all sorts of nasty little things going on.”
“Actually, while I can’t share the details—attorney-client privilege and all—I can say you don’t know the half of it. He was truly a dishonest man. The only thing he did right was to keep paying his malpractice insurance. I’m working with the insurer to compensate the clients who were victims of his embezzlement. Under normal circumstances they would also be due some damages, but it looks as though the limits of the policy will be reached before that point.”
“Derek was the one who first contacted me about my uncle’s death and inheriting this property. He set off my slimeball detector immediately.”
“You’re actually on my list of clients I need to contact, John. You may be due some compensation. Once I review your case, I will call you to set up an appointment.”
“Okay, Counselor, let me know. I don’t think Anderson got any money from me.”
“Well then, you would be one of the few.”
Jack Wheeler had fixed his line, hitched up his waders, and headed back down the shore toward his hidden canoe. I walked along with him. The canoe was a cedar strip beauty with golden shades of brown strips fashioned into a sleek but sturdy craft at least sixteen feet long.
“Boy, Jack, that is a great canoe,” I said.
“It was my retirement gift to myself and paddles like a dream. From my Boy Scout days I thought all canoes were heavy and clunky. This boat is neither. There is a gentleman in Musky Falls that makes these and other boats. When I stopped to see him, he happened to have this one ready to go. It seems as though a fellow from Chicago had commissioned the boat, but when it came time to pay, he wouldn’t or couldn’t. I bought the boat on the spot for a very reasonable price.”
“Was the boat builder Seamus Ruwall?”
“It was. Do you know him? Fabulous craftsman.”
“He was fishing offshore of my place a few days ago in a restored wooden fishing boat. A friend told me about him. I haven’t met him yet, but I intend to make a point of it.”
I steadied the canoe for him as he got settled in, then I gave him a little shove off. The boat drifted easily away from the shore. I waved goodbye and turned around to go back to my dock when a thought came to mind.
“Say, Counselor, one question before you go. Are you representing Homer and Irma Jones or a Miles Turner?”
He stopped paddling and stared at me. He didn’t respond immediately but eventually said in a guarded tone, “Yes. Why do you ask, John?”
“Just curious. Good luck fishing.”
I walked up toward the cabin, but a glance over my shoulder told me that Jack Wheeler had not resumed paddling or fishing. He sat on the water looking at me. The names had struck a chord with him.
As I approached the house, Julie came wheeling in followed closely by Bud. She parked in her usual place close to the door to ensure walking the shortest distance possible carrying the daily armload of student papers and assignments. Tonight was no different. She hauled a stack two feet high into the house. Bud drove down the trail leading to the storage shed. A few minutes later he returned with a pair of large cement blocks in the back of his truck.
“Hey there, John! You catchin’ some fish?” I had almost forgotten about the fishing rod in my hand.
“Well, that was what I was going to do, but I got sidetracked.”
“I could use a hand if you have a minute,” said Bud.
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Well, I was figuring that if we put these two blocks under the dock right by the land, it will keep it from shifting around. I’ve had to reset the post on the end three or four times, and I hope this will take care of it,” Bud stated.
“I’m your man, Bud.”
Bud lifted the large concrete blocks one in each hand off the bed of his truck and walked over to the shore.
“John, I am going to pick up the dock, and you slide the blocks in,” Bud directed.
With a heave, the dock was raised high enough, and with some effort I was able to put the blocks in place one at a time. When they looked level, Bud set the dock back down and looked things over.
“That looks pretty good. We’ll see if it works,” said Bud.
We walked back to the house, and Julie met us at the picnic table with iced tea.
“Looks like thirsty work. I thought this would taste good,” she smiled.
“You sure were right, Julie. This is gonna hit the spot,” replied Bud.
We sat quietly for a while, lost in our end of the day thoughts. I decided then that I needed a couple of co-conspirators. I would share what I could without putting them in a spot.
“Chief Bork stopped by today for a visit. He had a picture of a person he’s interested in, might have a connection to the trail cam photo the agents took from me. Big guy, middle age or older, with a cruel-looking scar running down the side of his face, short hair.”
“The chief has a picture of the guy?” Julie asked incredulously.
“He does, and when I saw it my memory from the attack came back. I’m almost positive it was the guy who beat me.”
“Boy, I should’ve looked at the photo you handed over to the agents. A big guy with a scar on his face? Does he have an accent?” Bud asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I know a guy like that. Well, I don’t really know him, but I met him. I got a call from a builder in town. A customer called him after a tree crashed through his front porch during that big windstorm a few weeks ago. The builder had his hands full and wondered if I could help out. He gave me directions to the place. It was way the heck out there on one of the remaining pieces of private property in the national forest. It took me forever to finally get there. When I pulled up in front, a big man was standing by the door. He had a rifle in his hands. That didn’t worry me too much, though. You know how backwoods folks are.
“I got out and told him I was there to fix his porch. All he said was ‘good,’ and he leaned the rifle against the door. I got my chainsaw out to cut the tree apart that was through the roof. He came up to me and told me not to use the saw, that it would cause more damage, and he insisted we could lift the tree off. He had an accent, maybe Russian or something. Anyway, he didn’t use all his words like he should have, if you know what I mean.
“Well, I looked at that tree, and I could see lifting it was going to be hard, but he was right. If I cut the tree apart, the part of the trunk that was under pressure could let loose and probably wreck something else. Let me tell you, it was a job alright. I grabbed one end and he grabbed the other. I counted to three and we lifted. The tree moved but didn’t come clear. We lifted again and again, and then there was a loud crash as the tree came loose. We hoisted it up and walked it away from the porch out to the yard. It shook the ground when we dropped it. That’s how heavy it was. Believe me, it was all I could do to lift my end, and even though this guy was a lot older than me, he didn’t seem to be straining at all. He was one strong son of a gun.
“Anyway, he went inside and I started working. I pretty much got the repair framed in and put down some plywood over the hole. I knocked on the door and he came out. I told him that I would put some tarpaper over the plywood and come back with shingles the next day to finish the job. He looked at my work and asked if the roof would leak if it rained. I told him no. The tarpaper would work for the time being. He told me it was good enough and handed me a wad of cash. I told him I always finish a job right, but he told me to go and not come back, so I took off. He gave me more money than I would have charged, but I thought, whatever. I had a bunch of other customers who needed work, so I never went back. But I sure never forgot about him. He was a big man with a mean-looking scar that ran from his hair all the way down the side of his face.”
“Do you remember where he lives, Bud?”
“Sure do.”
“Can you take me there?” I asked.
“Sure can.”
“Let’s go there now,” I said.
“Right now?” Bud asked.
“Yeah, I was thinking right now,”
“Can we eat first, John? I am pretty hungry,” Bud said.
“Ok, Bud. I’ll get the burgers going,”
During dinner, Julie could not help herself. “Why is it, John, that you feel it’s necessary to seek this guy out? If it is someone the police are looking for, shouldn’t we notify them so they can take over?”
“Well, Julie, I only want to get a look at the guy. I need to see his face to figure out for sure if he’s the one who attacked me. If he is and is also the same guy the chief is looking for, I will give him a call. If not, I’ve saved everyone a bunch of time and protected an innocent man from being bothered.”
“I always feel like you’re not telling me the whole truth about things like this. Why is that?” Julie pressed.
“It must be your suspicious teacher nature shining through again. I want to get a look at the guy. That’s it,” I replied and put my hands up in an “I’m innocent” gesture.
“Well, I don’t have time to go traipsing around with you two in the backwoods tonight. I have a ton of schoolwork,” Julie informed us.
“You stay here, Julie. We will be back before you know it. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Bud got into the jeep while I took a quick detour to the shop. From the top drawer of the file cabinet I removed a Walther PPK/S pistol. The gun was loaded with a round chambered, but I grabbed an extra full magazine, just in case. I tucked the holstered pistol into my waistband cross-draw style. Easy to pull if you’re sitting in a car and secure enough to withstand some physical activity.
We headed east on the highway toward the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest. Bud instructed me to turn off at an unmarked gravel road. The two-track was rough but passable and didn’t present a challenge to my jeep. We followed several switchbacks deeper into the forest and eventually came to a small clearing with two dirt roads leading from it.
“The right one leads to the cabin,” Bud recalled.
I took the left one and just over a small hill pulled off to one side.
“We walk from here, Bud. You can stay here if you want,” I said.
“Nope. I’m goin’ with you, John.”
We cut into the woods for about half a mile and could make out the road to the cabin through breaks in the underbrush. Our trail led us up a small hill, and from there we could see the cabin. I took out a pair of pocket binoculars that I brought along and could see the man in question was sitting on a stump in front of the place. I had a good view of him. He was cooking something over an open fire. It didn’t look like food, but I couldn’t make out what it was. He had his shirt off and was barechested. At one point he got up and walked back to the cabin door, and that’s when I saw his back. The flesh on his back appeared to be covered with rope-like marks, raised and angry scars of some vicious beating from who knows when. I was pretty sure he was the man in the picture and the one who had beaten me unconscious. The rifle standing next to the door appeared to be a military type firearm. It was hard to say for sure what kind. Maybe a Kalashnikov with a folding or pistol grip stock. A long, curved metal magazine protruded from the receiver that probably held thirty or forty rounds.
Dusk was settling in once we had retreated and were back on the road, and Bud asked, “Is that the guy that clobbered you?”
“I think so, Bud.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure, but not positive. He sure looks like the same guy.”
“There’s a spot down the road here where you can get cell service. Let’s call the sheriff and tell them where he is. They can come and get him and throw him in the clink,” Bud suggested.
“Bud, not quite yet. There are some other questions I need to answer first,” I replied.
“Like what questions, John? The guy tried to break into the shop, and when you caught him, he darn near beat you to death. Sounds pretty cut and dried to me. He should go to jail,” Bud retorted.
“He will go to jail, Bud, soon. I’ve got a story to tell you when we get back to the cabin. Then I think you will see where I am coming from on this.”
Julie, Bud, and I gathered around the kitchen table, and I told them almost everything.
“All this time—through your operations and recovery, through the pain inflicted on our community, through the worry—the one thing that sustained me was that it was all over. The evil had left us and we could rebuild, find our way back to a peaceful, happy life living in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I had dreamed of us living the rest of our lives in peace. Especially you, John, for once in your life to live in peace. But it’s not going to happen, is it? No way! John Cabrelli will not let this go. No, you will jump in with both feet and fight the bad guys until you have killed all of them, or they have killed you. You will not rest until this is done. Even though there are any number of competent law enforcement agencies that could handle this the way it should be handled, you believe you are the only solution. I’ve had enough!” Julie shouted the last few words.
She grabbed her coat and backpack and ordered Bud to put her schoolwork in the car. Then she got in and drove away. Her leaving felt like a final act. She had been through enough and had no more room for any more heartache.
“She doesn’t mean it, John. The bad guys were already here when you moved in and took over this place. You didn’t bring them with you. You helped us get rid of them, and now there are more. That’s not your fault.”
“Bud, the truth is that trouble and I always seem to find each other. Partly because I can’t walk away from it, but partly because it’s a disease that infects our lives and confronts and confounds us at every turn. Criminals hurt good people all the time without remorse. They steal what we’ve earned, they poison our children with drugs, they seek to destroy our land and water. Good people need to have someone stand up for them. Someone is walking around out there who killed my uncle Nick, and I am going to find him. I’m going to put him where he belongs and can’t rest until I do.”
“Well, John, I’d better get going and catch up with Julie. I should make sure she’s okay. I bet she’ll settle down and give you a call.”
“Better that she doesn’t, Bud. The last thing I would ever want is for Julie to be caught up in this mess.”