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The “Lucky Linda” plowed slowly through the low afternoon swell Lake Michigan adopts for most of April, except for those times when the wind shifts to come out of Canada bringing a late snow or at least a really cold rain. This was the best time of year for salmon, the most unpredictable time for weather and the least profitable time of year for Jim Duvalska, her captain. Duvalska, along with the 1st National Bank of Ludington, was also her owner as well as marketing and sales manager, accountant, deck hand and cook for Duvalska Charters. The “Lucky Linda” was a thirty-foot salmon fishing charter boat, and this day, April 10, 1981, she was fortunate to have two customers paying for the diesel she was sucking as she zigzagged through the mud line.
Duvalska had bought the “Lucky Linda” five years earlier from a Chicago stock trader’s ex-wife. Her former husband told her he was using the boat for fishing and to entertain clients. The private detective she hired had revealed that her husband was indeed using the boat for fishing, but his fishing companion was a generously endowed younger woman who wore very small swimming suits. The pictures he took from the plane also indicated that the swimming suit usually disappeared soon after the boat left crowded waters. The wife filed for divorce, and won the boat in the settlement.
Because she wanted to rid herself of anything that reminded her of her ex-husband, she sold the boat for little more than half its value. Duvalska had lucked onto the story through the dock owner in Ludington, and bought the “Lucky Linda” over the phone. He had toyed with the idea of naming her the “Bawdy Bitch” in honor of her history. His wife reminded him that some customers might not like that name showing up in the pictures they showed to their wives, so he settled on naming the boat after her, with the “Lucky” part on the superstition that it might help business.
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With her engines droning at slow idle and with the Michigan shoreline creeping past, the Lucky Linda towed six lead downrigger weights on steel cables at various depths. Attached to the weights by small quick-release clips, six monofilament fishing lines trailed spoons and plugs a hundred feet farther back. All this tackle ended up on the stern rail, the steel cables to small electric winches, the monofilament to rods and reels. As the downrigger cables sliced the surface into five ribbons, and the monofilament, bowing the fishing rod tips, sang in the breeze, Duvalska was regaling his clients with Lake Michigan storm and shipwreck stories.
He told them about the sudden wind shifts that could turn Lake Michigan into eleven foot waves and troughs, and explaining how his experience in boat handling would preclude the possibility of them ending up in watery grave in the event that a storm did blow up.
There was little real danger of that happening. This time of year, the salmon were within sight of land, and the run to the harbor would take less than twenty minutes, but Duvalska had learned that most fishermen who pay several hundred dollars for a salmon charter want more than a few fish and some pictures to show for it. They wanted to feel that they had had the real male experience. It made good stories for them to tell at their country clubs and cocktail parties, and impressed the hell out of the beautiful but dumb broads who they married or consorted with, so he tried to give them a little danger and risk to talk about later.
Duvalska had little respect for these bastards, even though they did pay the bills. Duvalska had come of age in Vietnam. Through his skill, divine providence, fate, or God knows what, he’d lived through twelve months of the snap of rounds around his head and enough gore to put a B horror movie to shame. The bankers and stockbrokers he carried on charters were making fortunes on the business of war at the time.
He didn’t tell the real stories to anyone until he met Linda. His service time in the “Brown Water Navy” in Vietnam was too horrible for that. Sometimes, he even thought he’d managed to forget them, but the sheer terror of those days and nights would not go away. Linda had helped him find a small corner of his brain where he could store the memories behind a carefully closed and locked door, but inevitably, they escaped.
It was not too bad now. After a lot of bad years, he had learned to put them back without the usual fifth of bourbon. Now it only took a day out with Linda on the boat and the stories were safely locked away again for a while.
Duvalska was getting the fourth round of beers when the number three rod popped. He yelled “fish on three”, and when neither client reacted, did what he had to do nine times out of ten – he ran aft, grabbed the rod, and set the hook. Then, playing the fish so it wouldn’t shake the hook, he politely said, “I think it’s your turn”, to the overweight banker on his left, and handed him the rod. Five minutes later, he gaffed the fish, clubbed it, and dropped it in the ice chest. He reset the rig, and settled down to finish his story.
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He was almost up to the part about the bodies not washing up for a month and a half when the “Lucky Linda” began to lose speed. He checked the tachs and knot meter. The engines were still at speed, but she was slowing down. He looked to the stern to see one of the downrigger cables stretched out behind the boat, instead of running straight down.
Duvalska cursed softly, “Damn it, we’ve hung up on something in this shallow water,” It sometimes happened. The spring rains washed all sorts of stuff into the lake, and if you were trolling through the mud line, sometimes you snagged a tree branch or old tire. He had once hooked a whole tree that ripped the downrigger off the stern. The main issue now was to get all four lines in without tangling, then crank up the weight, remove the snag, and then reset everything.
Clients always bitched when you did this, so you had to stay out longer to give them the amount of fishing time they paid for. More beer usually helped though.
Duvalska started reeling in lines, explaining why at the same time, and reassuring the two that they would have their full eight hours of time even with this disruption. He got all the lines in and secure, then hit the switch on the snagged downrigger to raise the weight, and waited as the winch slowly cranked in the line. It seemed as if the motor was working harder than normal, but that would be because of the snag.
When the weight finally came up, he saw it had been snagged by what looked like a small grappling hook attached to a chain. Attached to the hook was a plastic gill net float. The other end of the chain was stretched tight against the pull of the downrigger cable.
Duvalska didn’t want to leave the snag to be caught by anybody else, so he began pulling it up. After he had pulled in several feet of the chain, a fifty-five gallon drum came to the surface. Duvalska called to the two clients who helped him pull the drum into the boat. Still attached to the drum were several more chains, all with floats and the same small hooks. On the side of the drum were the words, “PURE CORN SYRUP”, and the name of a company he recognized as located in Chicago.
Another piece of trash from the Chicago garbage boats, he thought, but then the smell hit him. The two bankers had evidently smelled it at about the same time. They were busy at the boat railing when he looked up, and he didn’t have to ask what they were doing. The drum was sealed by one of those band and lever rim clamps, and it wasn’t until he saw the water trickling out of the small pin hole in the top that he understood what had happened with the drum. He quickly hit the switches on the remaining downriggers, ran to the cabin, and rammed the throttles forward as soon as the weights surfaced. He had seen this once before while on patrol near Long Xuyen, and he needed to be with Linda before he called the Ludington police.
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The investigation started by the Ludington Police lasted exactly thirty hours and six minutes. Duvalska had called Linda on the radio and asked her to meet him at the dock with the police. He only told her he had found something in the lake that the police would be interested in. She was there with a young uniformed officer when he tied up. He took the officer aside and explained the situation to him.
The young cop wasn’t impressed, thinking Jim was just another slightly drunken charter boat captain who found some trash in the lake and jumped to conclusions. Probably reads those horror mysteries all the time, he thought. Against Duvalska’s warning, the he opened the drum. When the lid came off, the cop promptly turned a sickly shade of gray and puked all over the deck of the Lucky Linda.
When he had recovered, he radioed for the chief and the coroner. Duvalska sat quietly in the car with Linda and told her the Vietnam story about sunken drums that smelled so she could help him get through the questions that were sure to follow.
The coroner’s van arrived, picked up the drum, chains, and floats, and left for the morgue. The chief and a detective questioned the two clients who didn’t know anything except that their fishing trip had been interrupted when the captain pulled a smelly barrel out of the lake and promptly headed back to the dock. They wouldn’t know much more until the newspapers and television picked up the story later that day. As they left the dock, they were yelling about getting their money back.
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Chief of Police Earl Rawson walked over to Duvalska’s car and asked if he might talk to him. When Duvalska nodded, they walked to the fuel station/bait shop/diner and sat down at a table. The chief apologized for the behavior of the officer and asked Jim and his wife if they would like coffee before talking. While the coffee was coming, the chief made some small talk about the weather and if spring was finally here.
The chief knew both Jim and Linda, having more than once charged Jim with public intoxication and meeting Linda when she came to bail him out. He could never figure out how they fit together. Jim had been a big brawling drunk much of the time, and Linda a small, quiet, brunette who seemed to care for Jim more than anything else in the world. Jim kept getting drunk and breaking things, and Linda was always there politely saying how sorry she was, asking if Jim was hurt and how much was the bail.
Then, little by little, he saw less of Jim, until he only saw him at the docks. He knew that Linda was getting through to Jim and he was glad. He had survived his own twelve month guided tour through Hell, and knew how hard it was to come back to normal society. All Vietnam vets who got better had someone like Linda, and he was glad Jim had found her.
After the coffee was served, the chief asked Jim to tell him the story and sat quietly making notes as Jim, tightly gripping Linda’s hand, started to talk. He paused when Jim said, “I knew what it was when I saw the water coming out of the end of the drum. We found a barrel in the Mei Kong once. It had a little hole punched in each end and water was coming out when we pulled it onto the boat. We didn’t know what it was so we opened it up. The VC had put the local village chief in it and dumped him in the river to slowly drown. He had been in there for about two weeks when we found him. The smell is pretty hard to forget.”
After Jim stopped talking, the chief then told him to call the station if he remembered anything else, told Linda she was as pretty as ever, and walked back to his car. When he returned to the station, he called the Michigan State Police for a list of missing person’s reports in hopes of matching the victim.
The next morning, the chief’s secretary transferred a call to him. The FBI Section Chief in Detroit informed him that the situation looked like the FBI should be involved, and that an agent would be in Ludington within the hour to assume responsibility for the case. The Ludington police would please cooperate in the investigation to the fullest extent possible. Forty minutes later, a black Ford sedan with U.S.Goverment plates arrived at the station.
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Willis “Will” Galvin was a thirty-year veteran of the FBI. Born and raised in Kokomo, Indiana, he had been drafted at the age of twenty-two after graduating from Purdue in Mechanical Engineering, trained as an MP, and sent to Vietnam. On the plane out of Ft. Ord, California, Will met an old college acquaintance who had been trained as an 11 Bravo – Infantry. They traded their expectations of duty station.
Will envisioned himself in khakis with a chromed steel “pot” and polished boots directing traffic and escorting Generals in Saigon. His buddy lamented that he would be assigned to an infantry company where he expected to be killed the first week.
Upon arrival, both found that like God, the US Army works in mysterious ways. All Will’s uniforms except his jungle fatigues were put in storage, and he was assigned duty at a fire control base where he spent twelve months keeping his ass intact, the base from being overrun, and acting like a soldier, in that order. His buddy spent his tour guarding the PX in Saigon, and the worst action he ever saw was the installment plan of penicillin shots required as payment for a wild weekend with one of the local “business women”.
Upon re-assignment to Fort Dix, New Jersey, Will was assigned to the criminal investigation unit, and served out his time working with the civilian police in Wrightstown when the basic trainees and cadre ran afoul of the locals. It was during the investigation of the murder of a PFC in the alley behind a whorehouse that he realized that he loved the work. He didn’t just enjoy it, but was consumed by the challenge of solving the case and the thrill of finding the guilty party.
Upon separation from the service, he applied to the FBI and a year later, completed training and was assigned to Miami. After breaking up a ring of Brazilians who were smuggling Mexican marihuana into Miami on two man submarines, Will requested and was granted a transfer to Detroit. He had been investigating cases since, and had developed a reputation for his record of solved cases.
His arrest of a kidnapping suspect eight years after the crime earned him the nickname “Bulldog”, and he had been twice commended for exceptional service. He had been offered promotions in the past, but had turned down the opportunities to stay with his first love – solving the puzzle.
His love of the puzzle had also cost him his second love. His marriage had ended after 2 years. Julia had been a beautiful wife, but could not or would not understand his dedication to his work. She had finally told him that she was seeing someone else, and they both agreed that divorce would be best. He still regretted it sometimes, but he was enough of a realist to know he would never allow anything to come before the puzzle. The last he had heard, she was happily married to an accountant with two cars, two kids, and a house in Ann Arbor. He still thought of her often, and was happy for her.
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Will walked into the Ludington Police Station and asked for Chief Rawson. A slightly graying man with the sharp, penetrating gaze of a person accustomed to deciphering intention from body language spoke up in the classic “command voice” Will had learned in MP training.
“I’m Rawson. How can I help you?”.
Will produced his identification, introduced himself, and they retired to Rawson’s office. As they walked in and sat down, Will’s equally observant sight noticed that Rawson displayed no photos in his office, nor did he appear to have any personal items in the office at all. The inbox was neatly stacked with a few reports, and the desktop was clear of everything except a cheap imitation leather blotter with calendar pad, a stapler, and a cup of wood pencils.
Rawson himself was the same – clean uniform with sharp creases and all buttons buttoned, polished black oxfords with soft rubber soles, and a black basket weave belt holding a gleaming Smith.357, two pouches for speed loaders, handcuff pouch in back, and loops for a flashlight and nightstick.
Will guessed his age at 45, but except for a little thickening in the midsection, he didn’t show it. He would still be someone to reckon with in a struggle, and could probably run down most men half his age. Everything indicated to Will that Chief Rawson was efficient, disciplined, and could be counted on in a pinch.
After some small talk about the weather, Will explained that since the origin of the drum was probably Chicago, the FBI would assume responsibility for the case. Rawson thought to himself that that was a great leap of deductive reasoning since there was no evidence to support that conclusion other than an address on a drum, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Galvin was just giving him the party line, and probably didn’t know himself why he was sent to investigate a unique but otherwise simple case of murder.
Will assured the chief that the Ludington Police had not made any errors, although he did not yet know this for certain. Will just believed that it was better to stroke the local authorities in these cases. You never knew when you might need their help. If you left the impression that the locals were somehow inadequate, they usually tended to resist, hold back minor facts, and in general go as far as legal to obstruct the investigation.
He complimented them on their work so far, and promised to keep them informed. He asked for the case files, but not for a place to work. He didn’t feel that he was too important to work at the station, but he had learned long ago that small town cops usually resented the FBI for taking away the rare exciting cases in their mostly boring jobs of traffic duty, arresting drunks, and settling domestic disputes. He always worked out of his car or motel room so that his intrusion into the day to day station operations was minimal, and was of his own choosing.
Chief Rawson was well aware that this FBI suit was in the process of blowing some proverbial smoke up his proverbial ass. He had expected as much. His years in police work had forced his cooperation with state and federal authorities before, and usually that meant being told in one way or another, “We’re here, we’re the best, and we’ll call you if we need you, so stay the hell out of the way.” This one was somewhat different though, so he played “wait and see”, thanking Will and offering to help in any way possible.
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Will left the station with the files, and went in search of a base of operations. He found what he was looking for in the “Shady Pine Motel”, a somewhat rundown place with separate cabins placed in a semicircle instead of rooms. Almost hidden in a grove of huge white pine trees along the main state highway into town, the “Shady Pine” had been a prosperous motel in the 1950’s. After that, the big chain hotels had relegated it to the role of full-time housing for seniors on social security, the occasional rental to a fisherman, and most profitably, a meeting place for couples who would rather keep their liaisons private.
The cabins were a minimal eight feet apart, with one window in front and one on the side. His cabin had a phone, cable TV, a lumpy sofa and chair, small chrome dinette table and two chairs, and a double bed. Definitely flea market modern, thought Will. It also had a kitchenette with a coffeepot, and a few pots, pans, dishes and utensils.
The cheap wallpaper was a repeated pattern of a lakeshore with pine trees, and loose from the wall in a couple of places, but he saw no sign of roaches or mice, and the sheets were clean. All in all, it suited his purpose well. He could come and go when he pleased, no one would ask his reason for being there, and he could cook some of his own meals. His work schedule sometimes found him eating dinner at eleven at night, and his stomach could only take so many burgers and fries. By doing some cooking, he also avoided sitting in a restaurant alone while everyone else was having a good time.
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