Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Science Fiction
Publisher: Darastar LLC
ISBN-10: 1479138452
Type: Fiction
Pages: 296
Copyright: Aug 6, 2013
ISBN-13: 9781479138456
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Follow three reporters of the Detroit Times as they unravel the cause of a hunting death and a rare brain-bending disease with influences throughout human history.
Bizarre behavior of deer near West Branch, a busy hunting and tourist stop in northern Michigan, is causing hunter concern and links to several deaths. Two rookie reporters and a seasoned veteran from the Detroit Times newspaper, pursuing the sensational scoop of a lifetime, encounter humans and deer strangely influenced by an apparent brain-bending disease leading to a terrifying conclusion of murderous intent. A further look into human history provides uncanny references to similar strange occurrences possibly linked to a mysterious grain fungus toxin, existing throughout the world.
Be prepared to accept the heart-pounding impossible, as Katie Kottle, Jeb Porter and Louis Dingman investigate and unravel this baffling age-old cause of peculiar human and animal behavior. Let the story take you on a captivating journey through hunting woods, but be warned, you might get Buck Fever and not return.
“A smart, creepy, can’t-stop-reading trek through a could-happen series of deadly events and mind-altering consequences with lots of twists and turns.”
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Eight round perforations into the thorax appeared as the Ogemaw County Medical Examiner pulled the stark-white sheet away from the large male body.
Mort Sulkin giggled nervously as he helped the Examiner inspect the remains for foul play.
“Should we open him up now? Can I do it?” Sulkin pleaded, taking several deep breaths. He spent most days embalming natural-death corpses for a West Branch funeral home. Today, he would get a chance to use his forensic-science training.
“Hold on, Mort, I need to take a few more photos first to add to the ones I took in the woods. I want to send them around to a few friends in the news business to see if they have encountered anything like this recently.”
The Examiner took a small digital camera from his coat pocket and shot images from different angles. “Okay, that should do it.” He then slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and gently inserted his right forefinger into several holes. “Hmm, the shirt is poked in from a spear-like object. About a half-inch round. Blood’s gooey and bright red. What do you make of that?” He marveled at the iridescent substance on his gloved finger.
“The blood looks alive like it has some living infection in it. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Sulkin said, leaning closer. He bent down to look inside a hole, then abruptly lifted his head. “Oh, shit,” he said, as the Examiner’s bloody finger rubbed across his balding forehead.
“Oops. Don’t touch it. Here, use this.” The Examiner grabbed a sanitizing tissue from a round dispenser sitting on a nearby surgical tool cart and carefully wiped the blood from his finger and Sulkin’s forehead.
Sulkin grimaced into a nearby mirror and rubbed the spot several times. “Dang it, it’s leaving a red mark.”
“I don’t think you have to worry. Just keep some antiseptic cream on it for a few days. I need to run and send out a few emails. I’ll call you tomorrow. In the meantime, keep Lickshill covered and refrigerated. If the family pushes for a funeral, give them the usual legal crap about Michigan law and preserving evidence to stall them, or have them call me.”
Chapter 2
A large antler-less deer gently folded its legs to lie down, its head landing on the stomach of a downed buck, stretched legs out on the ground below. The bow hunter, perched 20 feet up the oak tree, mused at the sight, his adrenaline pumping full force. He slowly inhaled brisk November air, pulled back the bowstring, aimed, paused, breathed deeper, exhaled slowly and relaxed the bowstring. His first razor-tipped arrow felled the eight-pointer minutes earlier. His second arrow laid waiting in the bow as he watched the doe poke her head at the motionless buck below her.
What the hell is she doing? Harry’s not going to believe this.
The doe rose up slowly and stepped forward, putting its teeth around the arrow shaft protruding upward from the buck’s neck. A quick tug freed the arrow.
John Greppleton, dressed in orange camouflage hunting clothes, legs dangling, head cocked forward with bow and arrow held in shooting position, silently watched.
“Crippletown…Crippletown…where’s your sorry ass?” a walking man shouted as he batted tree branches and brush away from his face.
Shit, not now, and stop calling me Crippletown. Greppleton’s unfocused thoughts led to confusion.
The doe backed into the woods out of sight of the approaching man and froze, ears up, eyes peering forward, the arrow still clenched in its teeth.
“Crippletown, where are—” The voice stopped, then continued in a half whisper. “Jesus, you’ve bagged one, John. Hah, you’ve finally bagged your buck.”
The doe remained rigid, ears twitching.
Suddenly, the buck flipped its head up.
“He’s alive. Son of a bitch. Shoot, shoot. He’s getting up.”
Greppleton fumbled his arrow sideways, trying to regain his balance in the tree perch. The buck held its head up again pulling forward and locking gaze on the approaching man.
“He’s looking straight at me, John. Shoot. What are you waiting for?”
Harry Lopez, also in full orange-camouflage dress, stood 20 feet back waiting for Greppleton to let the arrow fly. He had left his bow near another tree about 50 yards away. A long knife protruded from his right hand, ready to gut the kill.
The buck snorted as it stared intently at Lopez.
Greppleton reset the arrow, slowly pulled the bowstring to a full release position, and let go.
Zooooot. Thump.
The arrow penetrated the lower neck of the buck, forcing its head down again.
The doe spooked, reared on its hind legs, pranced backward several steps and bolted from behind trees.
“Holy shit, where’d she come from? She’s got an arrow sticking out of her mouth and running straight at me!” Lopez shouted.
The doe approached within two feet and stopped. Lopez jerked back, stumbled on a downed tree and fell. He grabbed his half-cocked glasses and reset them with his left hand as he waved the knife in his right toward the doe’s head.
“Oh man, she’s looking at me like she’s going to jab me with it. Shoot her, John. What are you waiting for?”
Greppleton twisted his head around the tree behind him.
“I can’t see. Hold on, I’m coming down.” He threw his bow and quiver to the ground. He stood up on the perch, turned his body to face the tree and peered around it. “That bitch is not going to hurt you. She’s just scared. Get up. She’ll run away.” Greppleton lowered his boots onto metal pegs he inserted as part of a tree ladder and stepped down to the ground.
Lopez sat shaking, trying to anticipate the doe’s next move. The snorting animal stepped closer and over his body. As Lopez moved slightly left, the doe moved in unison, cocking her head sideways to point the arrowhead toward Lopez’ chest. Lopez raised his knife and poked air near the doe’s eyes. The determined deer shifted right and jammed the razor-sharp arrowhead onto Lopez’ fisted hand, slashing the back of several fingers. Lopez immediately dropped the knife and pulled his hand to his chest.
“Damn, she stabbed me. The bitch stabbed me,” he said, kicking his legs forward, pushing him back out of reach.
Greppleton ran toward the doe, swinging his bow, jabbing her right hind leg. The animal slumped briefly, reared up with front legs in the air, made a bleating sound, turned, and forced her hoofs down onto Greppleton’s chest. He dropped the bow and fell onto a pile of leaves. The doe’s legs followed him down, landing on his chest with the arrowhead now pointed directly at his face.
“Shi...shi…iiit.” Greppleton groaned and puffed for air. “She’s heavy. I…can’t breathe…Here, take…this, bitch.” Greppleton heaved his legs up and into the doe’s groin, causing an immediate reaction.
Her jaw opened, dropping the arrow on Greppleton’s chest. She snorted in pain, backed off limping and disappeared into the woods.
The men lay on the ground staring at each other.
Lopez muttered several Spanish expletives, sat up and adjusted the frame on his glasses. He studied his bloodied hand reflecting on his experience as an army medic, wiped his knuckles across his shirt and declared the cuts healable without stitches.
“Ain’t nobody gonna believe this—hah—we got ourselves a hell of a deer-hunting story. I need a beer,” Lopez said.
Greppleton giggled and slapped his leg. “I got my buck. I got my buck. Let’s get this beauty gutted and go celebrate. Ooh, shit, I’m going to have two nasty bruises, here,” he said, rubbing his chest while straining to move his legs.
The two men regained their senses, stood up, grabbing knife and bow, and walked over to the motionless buck.
“Damn, he’s gorgeous. That rack’s going to look sweet over the fireplace,” Greppleton said.
“Yeah, right. You’re so wife-whipped. Mary’s going to force it down to the basement in no less than two days from when you hang it.”
“No freakin’ way she can do that. This is my buck, man—my buck. Hey, look at this. Looks like dried blood on the antlers. What do suppose caused that?” Greppleton said, examining the antlers for a place to strap on a deer tag. He reached into his pocket. “Shit, I left the tag in the truck. Remind me to put it on when we get out of the woods. I better clean this rack so Mary doesn’t get all bent out of shape when she sees it.” He wiped each point clean of the blood-red stains using wet leaves.
“The buck’s been in a fight over some doe; I’ll bet that doe. Might explain why she got so hot and bothered.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Greppleton wielded the knife and proceeded to slash through layers of hairy skin revealing steaming intestines.
“God damn, it stinks. I don’t remember that smell when I gutted my buck last year. Maybe it’s diseased. Whew, I’ve got to get some air,” Lopez said, backing away from the carcass.
“I just cut through his stomach. Of course, it’s going to stink like shit. What’d you expect?” Greppleton continued to cut and tear out entrails. “Here, take over. I’ve got to take a leak.” He offered the knife to Lopez.
“I don’t want to get that shit all over my cut hand, could give me an infection.”
“You suck-ass pussy, take the damn knife.”
Reluctant, Lopez took the knife, knelt down and reached into the open cavity. Greppleton stood up and walked several yards away.
A fine yellow mist floated past Lopez’ face.
“Do you have to point this way? What the hell did you eat, asparagus? Christ, the wind’s blowing it into my face.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Greppleton stepped back several feet and turned away.
“That’s weird.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t smell now.” Lopez leaned closer and sniffed the oozing intestine next to his leg. “Smells sweet. Aw shit, where’s my ring? I lost my wedding ring in there.” He proceeded to reach into the bowels in search.
“Maybe you lost it over where the doe attacked you.”
“No, I just saw it a minute ago. It must’ve fallen off when I pulled his stomach out.
Lopez’ face suddenly flushed deep red. His eyes bulged as he struggled to suck in air.
“You okay Harry? What’s wrong?” Greppleton grabbed Lopez’ left arm and shook it, then slapped his back. “Are you choking? Good God, man, what’s happening?”
Lopez continued gasping for air. My inhaler, need my inhaler, he thought. He fumbled to open his left shirt pocket, stuck his right hand in and pulled out a small canister.
“Asthma…are you having an asthma attack?” Greppleton asked. He took the canister from Lopez’ hand, forced the opening into Lopez’ mouth and squeezed twice.
Lopez’ body became limp, his breathing shallow.
Damn close, Greppleton thought as he checked Lopez’ pulse. A similar crisis happened two years ago at a surprise birthday party complete with two strippers. Lopez spent the following week in a hospital. Doctors said it was post-war stress caused by too much excitement.
“Wake up, man. Wake up.” Greppleton laid the drooping body on the ground several feet from the deer. “Man, you are a piece of work. Wake up. Don’t make me lose this deer.”
He knew what he had to do: drag Lopez to the car, take him to a hospital, and leave the buck behind.
Chapter 3
The Tuesday drive north from Detroit to West Branch took three hours. The men had only four hours to hunt before returning home. It was the first day of gun-hunting deer season. Until now, only bow hunters roamed the woods.
Typical mid-Michigan November day, about forty-five degrees, Jack Hermanski thought. Overcast, no wind, ideal.
“If we are going to get lucky, I say we head through those trees and not waste any time,” Hermanski said, while maneuvering his aging Hummer onto a side road marked as public land.
Three eager men, outfitted in camouflage hunting clothes with bright orange vests and hats, departed the vehicle. They opened long gun cases, removed their weapons and chatted about ammunition and scope adjustments. With barrels held down, they marched single file toward a tree line of tall pines towering over knee-high brush.
“Another truck passed through here in the past day or so,” said Dillon Lacarter, probing tire tracks with his boots.
“They definitely dragged something out,” Hermanski said, examining a trampled path into the woods.
“Bet it was a small buck. The big one is probably still in there, Jack. I can feel it,” George Montagno said.
“Yeah, right,” Hermanski said, forcing an encouraged smile.
The three business partners and close friends spent the previous three weeks together reviewing invoices. Hermanski acted as the boss and directed the work. As partners in a firm supplying small dashboard switches to a major auto company, they had to make every penny count. The competition from foreign suppliers was fierce, causing the men to work long hours with little time off. Last year, they took a week off around Thanksgiving to hunt. This year, they had one day and had to make the best of it.
The public land off highway 55 bordered several farms. The deer would pass through the cornfields looking for food, then wander back into the woods for shelter. It was the perfect setup to bag a couple of white tails with full racks as they had a year earlier.
“I can taste the venison already,” Lacarter said, now about 25 yards in. “Remember to shoot into the neck, here to penetrate the windpipe, and here to pierce a major artery feeding the brain. That should bring him down quickly and preserve the meat,” he continued, pointing to his neck. “I think I’m going to stay here next to this tree.”
“You showed me that sniper trick last year, and I’ll say it again, I’m no sharpshooter. Anyway, deer don’t wear armor; why not just shoot them in the heart?” Montagno said.
“Spoils the meat, we need a clean kill.”
“Seriously?” Montagno said. “You said you learned that in Desert Storm. Why were you worried about a clean kill over in Iraq? You weren’t going to eat those people. Plus, why waste a shot to the windpipe first? Deer don’t yell out like humans, just shoot them in the jugular vein. Plus, we don’t use silencers, so the first gunshot will alert other deer in the area anyway.”
A dried-up cornfield appeared through the brush facing west.
“Just shoot to kill any way you can, who gives a shit, okay? I’ll be down wind about fifty yards. I’ll call you when I get there,” Hermanski said, tapping his wristband walkie-talkie.
“I’ll stay here with Dillon, if you don’t mind. If we see a deer, he can shoot it. I’d rather be drinking a few brewskis,” Montagno said, grabbing pocket pouches on his pants, bulging with beer cans.
“Suit yourselves, but for God’s sake, don’t shoot each other—especially not in the neck.” Hermanski laughed at the thought, shook his head and walked on through the woods.
Hermanski eventually approached an aging-plywood deer blind next to an open wet field. A small six-foot-round patch of rust-colored wheat stalks stood in water nearby, half with tops gone. The rest of the twenty-acre field was plowed under. A small animal lay on the ground next to the wheat patch.
Damn locals, they’ll shoot at anything, he thought, as he approached the animal. It’s a goat, probably a family pet. He poked the animal with his gun barrel, shook his head and walked back to the blind.
“You guys see anything worth shooting?” Hermanski said, pressing his walkie-talkie call button.
“No bucks, just some haggard-looking doe coming through the cornfield. She was limping like she took a bullet in the ass,” Montagno said into his walkie-talkie.
“Dipshit locals, they apparently shot some family goat over here. Probably shot that doe too,” Hermanski said. “If I don’t see anything in an hour, I’m heading east about fifty yards to another blind. Will let you know if I move.”
“Okay, but it’s already four o’clock. We need to be out of here by five,” Montagno said.
“Yeah, maybe I should go over there now. Will let you know when I get there.”
Click, click, Montagno acknowledged.
Hermanski picked up his gun propped next to an oak tree and headed east. As he approached another blind, he looked up, seeing a tree perch 20 feet up strapped around a foot-wide oak tree.
Locals, he thought. Been here too.
“What the...” he blurted and clicked his walkie-talkie. “Guys, you’re not going to believe this. I just found a half-gutted buck with an arrow sticking in its neck next to a tree with a hunter’s perch strapped to it. An eight-pointer no less and it looks like a fresh kill from yesterday. It’s been cold out so the meat should still be good.”
“I’ll bet it’s some moron without a license. He probably got spooked by someone coming through the woods and left it,” Lacarter said.
“You know, I have half a mind to claim it and take it with us. I’m so pissed at these guys getting all this meat on the cheap. What do you think?” Hermanski said.
“We’re with you. We have to go soon anyway. Might as well bag a dead one as a live one,” Montagno said. “We’re heading over to help. Guide us in.”
The three men stood over the fallen buck.
“Hmm, nice kill to the neck. Let’s get the arrow out, clean out the rest of the insides and drag it out,” Lacarter suggested.
“Sounds like a plan,” Hermanski said, removing a knife from the strapped sheath on his left leg.
“You’ll get goo shit all over your hands; use these. Here, take this knife; your diddly knife isn’t cutting through that hide,” Lacarter said, offering Hermanski a pair of rubber gloves and a large stainless-steel knife with a jagged back edge and rounded point.
“Go, Rambo,” Montagno said, backing away from the knife.
Hermanski slipped the gloves on, reluctantly accepted the larger blade.
Lacarter tugged on the arrow, removing it.
“Look at this. It has a razor-tip and carbon shaft. There’s another opening just above it, like he’s been hit twice.”
“Whoever it was knew your sniper trick. Must be an ex-Marine,” Montagno said.
“Probably explains the arrow lying over there. Like I said, one shot to the neck and down he goes without making a sound; another and you are sure of a clean kill.” Lacarter pointed to a fallen tree about 20 feet away.
“Without making a sound, huh? That’s great if you’re shooting arrows, but a gunshot to the windpipe is going to spook all other deer in the area anyway—I still don’t get it.”
Hermanski bent down and patted the carcass. The meat’s cold and firm. Hey, does this meat smell unusually sweet to you? A little like asparagus?”
Montagno bent down and sniffed. Lacarter followed. They agreed.
“Hope it’s okay. You don’t think it’s spoiled do you?” Hermanski looked concerned.
“Cut some muscle around the stomach area. If it’s mushy then maybe,” Lacarter said.
Hermanski cut out a small chunk of meat next to a rib. He held it up for a sniff test.
“Looks and smells fine. It doesn’t have an odor of the intestines. Probably the smell of whatever food he was eating,” Hermanski remarked. He then slit the stomach open revealing a reddish-brown mush. “Here’s the culprit. Whew, it smells like asparagus and…and urine?”
“His bladder probably burst earlier and backed up through the intestines,” Montagno said.
“We’re over-analyzing this. Let’s get the rest out and get going.”
Hermanski worked diligently for five minutes cleaning the breast cavity. Montagno retrieved a rope from his coat pocket and wrapped it around the antlers to form a towrope. Lacarter offered up a deer tag and secured it around one of the antlers.
“Gents, we are ready. This buck is ours,” Hermanski said, taking off his rubber gloves. He rolled them neatly inside out and stuffed them into his coat pocket. He cleaned the knife with some leaves and handed it back to Lacarter.
“What should we do with these guts? Bury ‘em?” Montagno asked.
“Naw, leave them for the locals. They deserve it. Besides the turkey vultures and other predators will have the mess cleaned up in a couple of days anyway,” Hermanski said.
The three men took turns dragging the dead animal through the woods.
Chapter 4
A mid-twenties newspaper reporter stretched back into his desk chair, twirling an apple with his right hand, taking determined bites, while patting his slightly disheveled blonde hair with his left. His scuffed-black loafers rested on an open file drawer to maintain balance as he leaned out his cubicle to gaze through a green-tinted window. The view from the 20th floor of the new Detroit Times building, overlooking the Detroit River, encouraged daydreaming. He had two hours left on the clock before the long Thanksgiving holiday weekend officially began. His last story went to the editing department at noon. The November sun waned behind other buildings. It would be twilight on the drive home.
“Porter, my office, now!”
“Yes, Chief,” Jeb Porter replied using his best movie-line mimic voice, straightening up, throwing the apple core with determined force into the file drawer, kicking it shut. He had dreamed of becoming a major-league baseball player and even won a sports scholarship to Michigan State. However, an elbow injury his sophomore year ended that notion, so he concentrated on journalism classes to become a sports writer.
“What do you think he wants at this hour, Jeb?” Katie Kottle said, glancing over the cubical wall. “God, I hate the newspaper business. We never get a holiday or full weekend off. I was so looking to spend Thanksgiving at your place.”
The stately auburn-haired woman brushed back several strands, revealing intense brown eyes. Katie was a junior working on the school newspaper with Jeb, a senior. A bit prissy and elitist, but he would make her into a decent middle-class woman someday. Although, just friends at the time, he vowed to get her into the news business when she graduated so he could nurture a closer relationship. She just wanted to write crime novels like her famous uncle, but she needed a job so here she was.
Porter looked up and blew her a kiss. Office relationships were discouraged, but the two junior reporters often covered the same assignments, so they did what came naturally: shared work during the day and a bed at night.
“I haven’t seen any breaking news come over the satellite feed. I can’t imagine he’d want us to cover anything this late in the day.” Porter stood up, put on his suit jacket and smoothed down his red-and-blue striped tie. “You think he might let me cover the big game this weekend? Or, crap, I’ll bet he couldn’t get Dingledorf to cover the parade tomorrow,” he said and walked toward an imposing frosted-glass office.
Cronies ran the sports department and only well-seasoned writers made it into the inner circle if an existing writer died or left the company. The general local news department had openings, though, and journalism graduates started there.
***
“Good news, Porter,” Cory Pillbock, Chief Editor, said, as Porter walked through the deep-etched glass door into the splendor of oak-covered walls and oversized leather furniture. A middle-aged man with graying hair and dramatic good looks sat behind a massive ornately carved wood desk. He wore an impeccably pressed blue-silk suit, starched-white shirt and bright-yellow tie.
“Let me guess. I get to cover the Lion’s game tomorrow.”
“In your dreams,” Pillbock said, looking impatient.
“The Thanksgiving parade?”
“You’re pushing me, boy. I already told you, Louis Dingman is covering the parade. Damn it, you don’t listen. Straighten your tie. Look sharp, man. You’re representing the number-one newspaper in the Midwest. I’m going to give you first crack at solving a possible murder mystery; you’re chance to shine.”
Porter made a slight effort to adjust his tie and tuck in his rumpled pinstriped shirt. He called me ‘boy,’ he thought, becoming self-conscious.
“Who else is on the floor that can assist?”
“There’s Kottle, sir. I’m sure she’d jump at the chance to cover a homicide with me. We were just talking about how she loves the newspaper business.” Porter’s eyes twinkled as his confidence returned.
“You’re not dipping into company ink, are you?”
“No, sir, absolutely not, she’s seeing some guy in Ann Arbor.”
“Aren’t you from Ann Arbor? Anyway, she has no time for romance if she wants to move up the ranks in this business.” Pillbock stood up and walked to the office door. “Kottle, I need you in here, now!” he shouted. Several mocking voices arose from other cubes as Katie Kottle walked her tight dress toward the office door. “You other cubs better have a damn-good draft of the Mayor’s campaign on Canadian drug smugglers on my desk by eight AM Friday, or you can all go work for the Eccentric.”
Groans replaced mocking voices.
“Okay, Porter, Kottle, here’s your opportunity to make a big splash on page one.” Pillbock returned to his oversized leather desk chair, as Porter and Kottle sat on separate leather sofas. “It’s hunting season and it’s the biggest sporting event in Michigan. I mean, each year thousands of yahoos go traipsing through the woods throughout the state and kill more than their share of sixty-thousand deer.” Pillbock pushed several file folders apart to reveal a photo on a computer tablet. “Well...” he said.
Porter looked at Kottle who squeezed her nose at the thought of hunting.
“It’s an utterly disgusting sport: grown men with bows and arrows and guns killing poor defenseless animals,” she said.
Porter pretended to hold up a rifle and mocked a shot at Pillbock who kept his head down for the moment.
“It’s not football, but hunting is a sport, right? Do I, er we, get a sports byline?” Porter said, his eyes beaming.
“No, this is not a sports matter. It’s a mystery: a murder of sorts. I’ve got to ask you two for assurance you won’t go spouting off about what I’m going to show you,” Pillbock said, looking unnaturally serious.
“No problem here. I can’t imagine you telling me anything I’d die to share with anyone else,” Porter said.
“I’m a locked box,” Kottle said. Her mind raced at the thought of getting involved in a crime story. Maybe she would get background for a good murder novel.
“Cut the BS, I’m dead serious. We have a kick-ass Michigan-local scoop here. No other paper has plugged this into their Internet site yet. What do you think?” Pillbock pushed his computer tablet, showing an image of a clothed male body lying on a pile of leaves, across his desk. The two reporters leaned forward.
“Eesh. What happened? Looks like this guy got taken out by a machine gun,” Kottle said, searching for detail.
“I count eight perforations into his chest, spaced in a symmetrical pattern, four to a side. Can’t be bullets; his shirt is stuffed into the holes as well. Bullets would rip through the shirt leaving ripped holes and a bloodstain. I’d say this guy’s been impaled by a set of blunt objects, maybe arrows, but they’d have to be a half-inch in diameter,” Porter said.
“Well done,” Pillbock said. “You can see through the bokeh. Kottle, don’t just sit there gawking, take notes.”
“He can see through the ‘bow-kah’.” Kottle repeated, slowly fingering text into a cellphone.
“Bokeh…b-o-k-e-h. The out-of-focus part of a photographic image. Get with it, girl, Porter knows what it means, right, Porter? And, use this notepad. You’re not going anywhere texting into a phone—it’s not professional.”
Girl? Kottle frowned as she hesitantly grasped the notepad and a pencil from Pillbock’s hand.
“Yup, I know my bokeh,” Porter said, glancing toward Kottle. Never heard of it, he thought. He smiled, took a notepad and pen from his suit-coat pocket, wrote the single word on a note page and flipped to the next page.
Pillbock knew the art of capturing and retaining the attention of his reporters. He gave them something—a word, a phrase, a new idea—they had never heard before to chew on. It kept the junior reporters on their toes.
“So, any more observations? Think about what I said earlier. Think about what time of the year this is.”
“Thanksgiving?” Kottle asked.
“Holiday tomorrow. Long weekend?” Porter said.
“All right. I get it. I want both of you on the road to West Branch Friday morning and back by Sunday night with a front-page story. Here is the deal. Bob Sanguini, Editor of the West Branch Herald, emailed me this earlier today. He got a tip from the State Police about a local man found dead Thursday, lying in a field near his home. His wife discovered the body. She was up at dawn looking for the family pet, a goat. Her husband went hunting earlier. She didn’t find the animal, though.”
“Let me see the photo again,” Porter said, peering closely at the slightly bloated corpse lying on wet leaves. A frightened stare contorted the man’s face, eyes open. His dark-brown coat lay open revealing eight bloodstained chest holes punctured through a faded-blue work shirt.
Pillbock flicked his finger across the tablet screen showing several more images in succession. “Well, any more thoughts?
“Antlers? Could these be goring marks from an angry eight-point buck?”
“You definitely are my bokeh-man. Now take this file and get out of here. Sanguini says they are trying to keep this quiet to avoid hunter concern for the big upcoming hunting weekend. He put a small two-paragraph statement into his West Branch newspaper as a death pending police investigation and Medical Examiner’s inquiry. The TV stations picked it up as a hunting accident without explanation. He wants to print a bigger story in a couple of weeks, but needs more info. I told him I would send someone up there to help him dig deeper into it.”
Pillbock handed Porter a small memory card.
“We don’t get a tablet—would be helpful for taking notes, showing others the photos on the road,” Kottle said, making a pitch to get some updated technology. All she had was a heavy laptop used by another reporter who moved on several years ago.
“Use the GD notepad and pencil, get me a good story, and we’ll talk about it—ok? Share what you get with Sanguini, but make sure the guts of the story stays with us.”
Kottle laughed slightly, acknowledging the pun, and looked down at her notepad pretending to scribble more notes.
“So, what’s the big deal? A rutting buck went mad. There have been cases of this before, right? A surprised buck thinks a human is vying for his doe. Bucks sometimes lock antlers and gore each other, don’t they?” Porter asked, now sucked into the storyline.
“Yes, the simple explanation. But here’s the tickler,” Pillbock said, sweeping his finger across the tablet, bringing up another image. “This was taken about four feet from the body amidst a jumble of deer-hoof prints.
“Ooh, let me see through the bokeh this time,” Kottle demanded.
“Take your best shot.”
“H-E-W. Hmm. M-A-N. HEW MAN? What’s that mean?” She struggled to grasp the meaning of the scrawled letters in the dirt.
“HEW as in cut, slash or hack MAN. Or maybe it simply means: human,” Porter said.
“Well done, rooky. You’re going to be a real reporter someday.”
“Hey, what about me? I made out some of the letters too,” Kottle said, acting hurt.
“Looks like we’ve got a homicide, here,” Porter said.
“Give the rooky a cookie.”
“Oh, I get it, now,” Kottle said.
“What do you see?” Pillbock asked, holding up his left hand. “Come on, girl, what do you see?”
Porter knew what was coming. Pillbock had pulled this on him the day he joined the company a year earlier.
Kottle’s face flushed. “Ah...ah, a hand...a left hand.”
“Look again. A real reporter would see it.”
Out of Pillbock’s sight, Porter tapped his left ring finger with his right forefinger. Kottle glanced over. A look of disillusioned enlightenment covered her face.
“Ah, I see a wedding ring; you’re married. Is marriage significant?” She couldn’t believe how crass her boss acted.
“Good God, young lady, how do you expect to make it in this business? What do you see on my desk? Look around the room.”
“I don’t see anything. Just a picture of your...ah...dog. So, you’re separated?” She struggled to make sense of the degenerating conversation.
“No, no, no. I’m single. A married editor does not last in this business. Look and learn. People answering questions don’t trust single reporters, especially young single reporters. We’re a local newspaper; we report Michigan news, especially Detroit news. We are modest, middle-class, solid citizens. I want you to get a couple of cheap drug-store rings and wear them when interviewing the public. Now go and get me a Pulitzer-worthy story. Everything’s in this file. Start by contacting Sanguini. He knows someone from the Times is coming this weekend to gather facts. He’s a trustworthy friend, so treat him right.”
“Look and learn, girl,” Porter said, escorting Kottle to her car in the parking ramp next to the Times building.
“What a jackass,” Kottle said. “If this wasn’t an opportunity to gather insight for a future crime novel, I’d quit this business right now.”
“He’s just trying to protect you from all the wolves out there. A young single woman with ripe breasts and a tight dress is going to be hit on and he knows it. At least, if the men think you’re married, they’ll concentrate more on your questions and less on your body.” Porter leaned over and briefly nuzzled her firm breasts.
He backed away after a brief kiss, started walking away, then turned back to ask one last question.
“So, you want to get married? There’s a drug store on the corner by my apartment.”
“Huh? Oh...yeah,” she said, holding up her left hand.
He waved her off and headed for his car. They would meet up later at his place, spend Thanksgiving there, and head north Friday morning.
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