“Come down here,” Gus shouted up at him.
The basement was one room. There was a large low rectangular object in the center, covered with a paint-spattered canvas drop cloth. Whatever was underneath looked to be six feet by four feet.
Gus picked up a corner of the tarp and looked underneath.
“Geez,” he said, carefully peeling off the entire tarp.
The box turned out to be a collapsible cage made of half-inch stainless steel tubing. Gus knelt to click open the release mechanism. He looked around inside, took out tweezers and a plastic evidence bag, and began picking things up.
“Got something?” Service asked.
His friend held up a clump of hair. “Looks like the same you got from the professor’s car.”
“I hope the cap’n uses this to light a fire under the fed techies.”
Gus grinned.
About forty minutes after they began, Sheriff Macofome showed up at the cabin and Service immediately wondered who had called him and why. He was dressed in cut-off sweatpants and a tank top in the style most cops called a wife-beater.
Sheriff Macofome carried a leather bag filled with special tools and old keys. He had the first gun cabinet open in ten minutes. The other two took even less time. All of them were empty.
Macofome and the two DNR officers helped Limey Pyykkonen dust the cabin for fingerprints. The local deputy sat outside on the stoop with the owner.
They covered the cabin methodically and it was nearly 3 a.m. before Pyykkonen and Macofome declared they had had enough.
“No point sticking around,” Pyykkonen told them. “We’ll clean up and you can all call it a night.”
Brown had finished two six-packs while they worked, and Gus told him he’d drive him back to Houghton. “Bunk at my place?” he asked Service as he and Brown were getting ready to depart.
“See you there.” Service paused before getting into Gus’s truck to follow the Toyota.
When they got to Gus’s, Shark was there, tying flies on a small table in the kitchen. There were bits of feather and fur all over the floor. Shark barely looked up. “Salmon,” was all he said.
Service peeled off his bulletproof vest and shirt, unlaced his boots, and curled up on the sofa. He did not think about the case. He wondered where Nantz was and hoped she was being careful.
10
A phone was ringing just out of his consciousness. Service rolled over and squinted at the time on Gus’s VCR: 7 a.m. He groped for his cell phone, but couldn’t find it, heard Shark’s voice in the kitchen, then nearer, pushing the phone at him.
“It’s Walt,” Shark said.
“Sorry to wake you up, but Karylanne and I were up all night with Enrica. We’re at the Sheriff’s Department. She’s giving a statement to an officer. We promised her that if she told the cops, they’ll do something to get this creep.”
“Okay,” Service said, wondering what the hell Walter was thinking, making deals with a witness. Emotion, he reminded himself, got in the way of police work. Still, he was impressed that the boy had not stopped with the meeting last night. He had shown initiative and doggedness. He wasn’t happy Walter had gotten involved, but if he hadn’t, things might be completely stalled. Because of Walter, they had direction again. It might pan out and it might not, but movement was better than stasis.
His son said. “When she’s done here, we’re gonna take her back to campus.”
“You did the right thing,” Service said, feeling the words stick as he spoke them. Had his old man ever been happy with anything he’d done?
“Your life really weirds out, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
Service called Pyykkonen at home. She answered on the first ring. “Enrica is at the station right now, giving a statement.”
She hesitated. “I’m Homicide.”
“I know that, but all of this is connected and right now Rafe Masonetsky’s our only link to the Pungs.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I’m headed down there now. I’ve already talked to Foxy Stevenson,” she added. Stevenson was Michigan Tech’s longtime football coach who had earned his nickname by recruiting lesser athletes than his opponents and somehow winning games through unorthodox leadership, flawless preparation, and creative game plans. Coach Stevenson put a premium on players learning to think for themselves and perform under stress.
“What did he have to say?”
“Masonetsky failed his second drug test last spring. Anabolic steroids. Foxy gave him the boot and the boy didn’t bother to finish the semester.”
“You get an address?”
“Jefferson, Wisconsin. I guess his old man called Foxy and thundered like hell. He threatened to sue, but never followed through. Foxy said the kid’s a loose cannon and we need to exercise caution.”