Killing a Cold One (42 page)

74

Wednesday, January 21

MARQUETTE

Pincock had been delayed overnight by the storm, got to Green Bay, and drove the rest of the way north. The tech had gotten prints from Ulupov's cabin, but whatever weapons he'd had were gone. Little food.
Planned run? Other camps, like Limpy said?
The sweat lodge was bugging Service. Not the typical sauna, but an old Indian lodge, constructed on a north-south alignment, made of red willow ribs, covered with a plastic tarp and heavy felt blanket material to keep heat inside. The floor was covered with cedar shavings, fairly fresh. He knew something about the lodge should connect to something else, but it refused.

Later that morning, after they had cleared out of Ulupov's and got the techs back to their truck, Jen Maki called to tell him some of the frozen meat wasn't venison but appeared to be human remains packed in heavy-duty freezer paper. The stuff was packed well; no freezer burn. Service had decided to keep this from the others for now, a detail for later. Allerdyce rode home with him.

 

•••

 

Service, Noonan, and Treebone drove to the three-story Marquette County Jail, which could house eighty prisoners, with ten federal units. Lakotish was still in a holding cell, not yet officially charged, and segregated from the general jail population.

Friday met them. “Pincock says the feds will want him when we're done. DOD and the FBI both want to talk to him. Pincock said we should mention the possibility of Murder One, because everything was on national forestland.”

“How's he acting?”

“Flatline,” she said. “Resignation, I'm guessing.”

“Resigned to what?” Service said. “
That's
the question. Pincock bring other feds?”

“She's alone.”

Service gave Friday a thorough briefing on Ulupov, excluding nothing, and as he talked he had a thought:
The tree-house kill room was not nearly as clean as Lakotish-Varhola's workshop.
The last thing he described was Kelly Johnstone's body. Throat cut, heart removed. The prints on the .308 hanging in the shed in the trees matched Varhola's.

“Like Lamb.”

“Jen found human tissue mixed among venison packages.”

Friday grimaced and asked, “What makes you think Ulupov will hunker down?”

“Hunch,” he said, checking his watch.

“There's a multiple-state BOLO.”

Service grunted.
What was it about that sweat lodge?

Pincock joined them, went into the interview room with several water bottles, and asked Lakotish how he was doing. Friday introduced the federal agent.

“Am I under arrest?” Lakotish asked without emotion.

“We want to talk to Eldar Gavrilovich Ulupov,” Pincock said. “You know him?”

“The Czech isn't the kind of man one gets to know well.”

“Did he know about the pending land deal?”

Lakotish stared at a wall. “It's possible,” he admitted quietly.

“You've met him?”

“Rarely.”

“Why?”

“He came to my camp. I had never seen him before, never heard of him, or anyone like him. I got the impression he was a hermit. He said he lived not far away, out back.”

“Back of where?”

“He never said.”

“He came to your camp. What did he want?”

“Not sure, then or now. I cooked trout for us.”

“When was this?” Pincock asked.

“Last May.”

“Whose fish?”

“Mine.”

“You shared a meal. What did you talk about?”

“My people. He knows a lot about the
Anishinaabe—
our history, our beliefs.”

“That was it?”

“Pretty much.”

“And then he went away?” Pincock asked.

“Yes. I got sick that night, drove myself to the hospital in L'Anse.”

“In the Volvo?” Friday asked.

“
What
Volvo? A neighbor woman, Mrs. Asheguance, has an old Jeep she loans me. She looks after the rectory when I'm not around.”

“Did the hospital admit you?”

“Overnight. They pumped my stomach and kept me for observation. Mrs. Asheguance and her husband picked up the Jeep, and me, and took me home.”

“What was the diagnosis?”

“They weren't sure. Food poisoning, or an allergy. Never had the problem again.”

“What kind of symptoms?”

“Terrible,” Lakotish said. “I saw things, heard things; there were voices.”

“How soon after you ate did your symptoms set in?”

“Not long.”

“You supplied the fish. What did Ulupov bring?”

“Wild leeks and brown sugar.”

“For the fish?”

“He fried the fish, and I made potatoes and onions.”

“Was Ulupov still there when you got sick?”

“I'm not sure. I think I remember hearing his voice.”

“Saying what?”

“Not my land. God's land.”

“That's it?” Pincock asked.

“What I remember.”

“And then you drove to the hospital.”

“I woke up there. I don't remember the drive.”

“When did you see him again?”

“Never.”

“When did you get rid of your car?”

“I've never had one, I told you. I always borrowed, used a bicycle, or walked.”

“There was a tire behind your workshop,” Friday said. “Can you explain that?”

Lakotish said, “I don't know about any tire. People up here throw things wherever they please. They're getting better, but they still do it.” He exhaled deeply. “I made mistakes, but I've tried to be a good shepherd, a good priest for my parish, I really have.”

Friday left Pincock and Service with the prisoner and went out to call the hospital. Pincock and Service came out after a few minutes, and Friday reported, “The way he tells it: stomach pumped, held overnight and released, no sequelae, no tox panel, probable food poisoning or allergic reaction. He was fine five hours after admission.”

Service told Pincock, “Ask him about the .308. His prints are all over the weapon.”

Pincock went back inside. “We found a .308 with your prints.”

“The Czech had a .308. I don't own guns . . . I use a bow.”

“How do you explain your fingerprints?”

Lakotish pondered this. “That day, he had a rifle with him, insisted I try it.”

“Which you did?”

“He's a difficult man to refuse.”

The FBI agent came back outside. “You two better take a seat,” she said, opened her briefcase, and took out a folder. “Ulupov was heavily involved in the '68 uprising against the Soviets. He fled to Austria, showed up at our embassy in Viennna, and asked for political asylum. He was one of many at that time, all claiming to be freedom fighters. Ulupov was a professor of anthropology at Náprstek Museum. He was part of a group of academics who began to study Native Americans in the early '60s, with a focus on how the Indians had tried to resist assimilation. The subject apparently became quite popular in certain circles and remains so today. A lot of Czechs love Indians, know a lot about them—because of Ulupov.”

“Asylum granted?” Service asked.

“Czech communists then were under a reformer who was losing the reins. Moscow sent troops from five Warsaw Pact countries, smashed the uprising, and removed the leader, per the Brezhnev Doctrine. Ulupov played a key role as a commando leader. The CIA verified his claims. They brought him to Atlanta, set him up with a position at Emory University, teaching anthropology, and gave him a new identity.”

“He come out alone?” Service asked.

“Just him. The CIA learned later he had been the driving force behind the Native American movement in Prague. He graduated from Charles University and did three years in the Czech Army in the early '50s. Earned advanced degrees after that and joined the museum faculty. He was the only Czech refugee to make it to our embassy, refused to say how he crossed the border. The CIA took this as a red flag. It seemed possible he had been sent by the Soviets as an agent provocateur. The agency took him to Germany and debriefed him for two years. He knew a lot about the Soviets. He landed in Atlanta in mid-1972.”

“But he's here now,” Service said.

“He disappeared from Atlanta in 1975. No trace of him since, and no national search undertaken. In his home country he often lived in the woods and off the land. He was obsessed with outdoor life, rugged individualism, all that. There was some effort made to look for him in North Georgia, but no leads came from that. Something must've spooked him, but nobody knows what. It was hypothesized that he went off the grid.”

“U.P.,” Friday said.

“Appears that way.”

Service said, “We have prints on the gun and on a knife.”

Pincock nodded. “We'll know, then.” She added, “We have a psychological profile on him. Highly resourceful and intelligent, prefers to operate alone, unlikely to be found in a heavily populated area.”

“Our tax money paid for this?” Service asked. “Say this is our guy, and now he's spooked again. What's the prediction?”

“He's seventy-five, and this is
his
turf. He'll dig in and disappear.”

“If we confront him?”

“This is the end of his road. He'll fight.”

“We have a shot at finding him,” Service said, “but we may need some bodies.”

“Agents?”

“Not where we think he might be headed. My own people, some conservation officers. If it's him.”

“We'll have fingerprint data back by late today,” Pincock said.

“You get any feel for Ulupov?” Friday asked.

“Not sure he's your guy,” the special agent said.

 

•••

 

Service and Allerdyce drove to the DNR regional office called the Roof.

Ulupov's identity was confirmed by fingerprints, and Pincock shared the prints with other federal agencies.

Allerdyce looked uncomfortable sitting in Service's old work cubicle.

“Dis bird,” the old man said, “he sit tight like a pat, hold breat', honkered down, won't flush lessen get stepped on. Send shitload pipples, he jumps, mebbe kills bunch, or runs, an' we chase again. No good. Better few pipples, move slow, read sit'ation, grab 'im by surprise where he honker down. Give 'im no chance ta run. 'Member, dis guy real good in woods.”

Service hauled out 7.5-minute topographical maps, spread them on a conference table, and anchored the corners with books. Allerdyce stood over the maps, mumbling. “Chenk won't be in da deep; come summer, too many pipples, Lebanese backpackers, downstater, outstater, weirdos with kittles.” The man made a sour face. “Chenk, I t'ink he be up west side in feeder crick draws, some old camp, no pipples, hard get dere, straight-down cliffs, t'ick bush, hard slog. Hear way back was trapper ladders 'ere, 'ere, 'ere,” he said, emphatically tapping a finger on a map.

“Trapper ladder?”

“Find place by cliff got high trees, cut branches, use like ladder or steps. Never make where easy ta see. Hide so udder trappers not find so good.”

Service had never heard of this and once again wondered how big a storehouse of knowledge lay inside the old man's brain.

“Here's deal, sonny. I go now, find track, scout. You come later, just you, den we get sumbitch.”

“I want Noonan and Tree with us.”

“Dat li'l city dick?”

“He's with us—end of story. He's tough, and his instincts in the shit are unmatched, even by you.” This ended the discussion. “How long before you want us?”

“Satitty, late day, youse run Forest 2210 up 2227 to end, den nort' one hunnert yards, look for my sign. Follow hit till see small red ribbon, I put on top small ridge, twinny yard off track. See dat, wait dere. No fires. Pisspot burner okay make tea. No fire smoke. Stay till Limpy come fetish.”

Come “fetish?” All the marbles on Limpy? I couldn't imagine this ten years ago. Even a year ago. Hell, yesterday.

“Las' t'ing,” Allerdyce said. “Dress all-white duds, eh. Face, gun, glove, ev't'ing.”

Service nodded. “If he gets past us, where do we post backups?”

“Spread on 2210, 1360, wherever we end up. No radio talk.”

There had been no evidence of electronics or communications gear in the Czech's camp. “You leaving now?”

The old man nodded.

“You got a firearm?”

“Youse know law say no, and gun jes' get in way. Whole life, Limpy learn how not get see', smelt, 'eard. I learn hide so good Limpy can't find Limpy.”

Preemptive Allerdyce logic, meaning no response was possible.
The two men shook hands.

“Satitty,” the old violator said, and cackled. “Dis what it feel like when you chase me?”

“Sort of.”
What a strange man.