“You’ve got a contractor’s license?”
The woman puffed up. “If dere’s nothing else, I’ve got work.”
Pyykkonen and Service bought pasties and coffee at Mother’s Load in South Range and ate in the car.
“I doubt she’s ever held a hammer,” Pyykkonen said. “You see her hands?”
He had and he was encouraged that she had noticed them too.
“Terry Tunhow,” he said. “Tunhow Pung went by Terry. Maybe we’re catching a break here. Not too clever using two first names.”
“I don’t know,” Pyykkonen said. “There’s something going on in all this,” she added. “Some kind of undertow, but I can’t tell if it’s pushing us or pulling us.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Service said, “as long as it keeps us moving.”
Pyykkonen laughed and said, “We’re gonna crack this.”
“If you say so.”
“Did I ever mention I’ve never had an unsolved homicide?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“’Course, that was downstate and this is here.”
“There is that,” he said.
“You ever have any unsolveds?”
“In my business most of my violets are habituals. They can’t stop. Sooner or later we get them.”
“Violets?”
“Violators.”
“I like that,” she said.
The house was empty until after dark. Only then did cars and pickups start to roll in quietly. From where they stood, behind a neighboring house’s storage shed, they couldn’t make out anything more distinct than blurred movement. Occasionally a flashlight beam moved around inside. Then some candles began to flicker. The place was quiet.
They waited an hour until the traffic seemed to clear. A couple of times there was a muffled shriek inside, the sound immediately cut short. Somebody came out the back door and lit a cigarette.
“Weed?” Pyykkonen asked.
“Odds are,” he said.
At 9 p.m. she said, “Shall we dance?”
“Front door, back door?” he asked. All of the traffic had been through the back door. “I’ll take the front,” he said, wishing they had compatible radios. Troops and the DNR were on the 800 megahertz, counties on another system, which required Troops and DNR personnel to carry two radio systems in order to be fully coordinated.
He stood beside the front door with his MAG-LITE, moved to a screened window, peeked inside. Candles everywhere, shadows of movement. What the hell were they doing in there? The scent of dope wafted through the screen.
Somebody inside hissed, “Everybody fuckin’ chill!”
He saw movement come to a stop, heard Pyykkonen rapping on the back door.
“Cops!” somebody said in a panicked whisper.
The stampede came at the front door.
Service stood to the side, waiting for the door to open. When it swung inward, he stepped across the opening and was banged into by someone, who bounced off him and fell back into the darkness. “Police!” he said. “Everybody freeze.” He clicked on his light, scanned the room, and counted eight people, all of them cowering. One of them began to sniffle. He tried to figure out who had collided with him. His upper lip felt numb, then started to hurt again.
“Service?” Pyykkonen yelled through to him.
“Secure here,” he answered.
The lights came on.
He had miscounted by one. There were nine kids in the room. “Everybody sit where you are,” he said. Pyykkonen herded three more in from the back of the house.
The musk of dope hung in the air.
“What’s going on here?” Pyykkonen asked.
The question was met with silence.
“I’m going to look around,” she said.
Service moved to the middle of the room to see front and back. Some kids stared at him, but most of them studied the floor or gazed past him, avoiding eye contact.
One girl had her blouse off. “Put on your shirt,” he said. She started groping for the garment.
Pyykkonen came to the end of the hall that opened into the room where Service had the kids. She lifted her radio and called for backup, starting with the ten code for an emergency.
Service saw that she was red in the face, the lines tight around her mouth.
She looked at him, said, “You’re bleeding.”
He licked his upper lip, tasted salt and iron. From the collision in the doorway? He hoped the stitches were holding.
They heard sirens, saw lights outside. The kids inside looked shaky and huddled together, staring at the floor.
A city cop was first to arrive. He looked to be the same age as the kids in the living room.
A Houghton County deputy came next. Pyykkonen talked to the two officers, who moved into the living room, took out notebooks, and started taking names. A girl against the wall suddenly vomited, causing the others to draw up their legs and scrunch away from her.