“Told you I had a plan,” he said.
The Wisconsin State Police insisted on being in on the arrest so as to facilitate the transfer under the extradition order. After processing, the prisoner would be officially turned over to Pyykkonen, who would take him back to Houghton. They spent most of the day talking to various officials and getting a tactical plan in place. In the end it was decided that there would be a city cop named McYest, a county deputy named Mawbry, a trooper named Kalminson, along with Service, Pyykkonen, and Ficorelli, whose role was primarily that of observer.
McYest drove by the bowling alley around 9 p.m. and reported that Rafe Masonetsky’s truck was in the parking lot. The alleys closed at eleven and employees were usually gone by 11:30. The decision was made to assemble in the parking lot at 10:45. After some debate, the team also decided that Kalminson and Pyykkonen should enter the premises and make the arrest inside as close to 11 p.m. as possible. McYest would position himself out front on the street. Mawbry, Service, and Ficorelli would be in the rear parking lot as backups.
Service had been involved in hundreds of arrests during his career and knew from experience that while most situations went as planned, some went down the toilet, and almost always without warning. He had no feelings one way or the other about this one.
It was dark, the parking lot poorly lit. Pyykkonen and Kalminson were inside less than thirty seconds when a tall, powerfully built man came striding out. He wore dark baggy pants that hung around his hips and looked ready to fall. He ambled deliberately, showing no haste. Ficorelli whispered, “Rafe.”
What had gone wrong and where were Pyykkonen and the Wisconsin trooper? Service asked himself as he stepped forward from the shadow of the truck to block the man’s path.
“Rafe Masonetsky?” Service said.
“Dude, who wants to know?”
Service jiggled the badge hanging from a chain around his neck. “Detective Grady Service, Michigan DNR, Mr. Masonetsky.” Ficorelli moved along the far side of the truck to get behind the man. Deputy Mawbry headed for the door to let the others know Rafe had somehow gotten outside.
“How’s it goin’?’” Masonetsky said. He seemed calm.
“You’re off early tonight,” Service said.
“I got a date, dude.” Masonetsky pivoted to look at Ficorelli. “What is your problem?” The football player looked back at Service. He was no more than three feet away and made Service feel small.
Service had been waiting for Pyykkonen and Kalminson but sensed he had to act before the man bolted. “Rafe Masonetsky, you are under arrest.” He carefully listed the charges and quickly moved into Miranda, reading the prisoner’s constitutional rights from the plastic card he carried at all times.
“You’re creepin’ me out fuck-head,” Masonetsky said menacingly.
“Lay down on the ground and put your hands behind you,” Service said.
“Fuck you, the ground’s cold.”
“Do you want a lawyer?”
“I don’t need a lawyer, dude, that bitch wanted it,” Masonetsky said. “She couldn’t get enough of it.”
“You put roofies in figs.”
“That was Terry. The bitch wanted it. The roofies were to help her relax.”
“Terry gave you the figs?”
“Whole thing was his idea, dude.”
“Did he join in?”
“Dude, he just wanted to watch, know what I’m sayin’?”
“I’ve got it,” Wayno Ficorelli said. He held up a small cassette recorder.
Service felt his adrenaline rising quickly. Masonetsky was in the process of making a decision. Service wished he could see his eyes.
“Down on the ground, Rafe,” he said. Using first names sometimes softened arrest situations.
There was a flash of white light and pain surging through Service’s face and head and he felt himself going out and clutching.
He awoke with a throbbing head and face in a white room with masked faces above him.
“You’re in a hospital, Detective,” one of the masks said.
“In Madison,” another mask added.
Madison was forty miles west of Jefferson. “Where are the others?” Service asked.
He tried to sit up, but hands kept him down. He reached for one of the restraining hands, but pain shot up his arm and he let his right hand drop back to his side. “You’ve had a pretty nasty bump,” a mask said. “We’re going to put you to sleep now and do some repairs.”
“What am I, a damn Chrysler?”
Nobody laughed. A plastic mask was placed over his face. He heard a hiss in the background.
Service saw Ficorelli sitting next to the bed, flipping though a magazine. Pyykkonen was standing by the doorway. Nothing else registered.