Man With An Axe: A Detective Sergeant Mulheisen Mystery Part 15

"Grootka brought it by one afternoon and asked me if I could keep it for him. It was all wrapped up, already, but he got me to wrap the box again and put it in another box. 'Just for safekeeping,' he told me. He said you'd be along and to tell you everything I knew about it."

He opened the door and turned on a light as we followed him in. The interior of the shed belied its rustic exterior. It was really a well-made place, with thick, obviously superinsulated walls and a concrete floor with a drain. Sinks, good lighting, and lots of counter s.p.a.ce, heavy chopping-block counters, with knives and saws and cleavers ranged against the back wall. A Dewalt bandsaw, a slicer, a grinder-all these and more modern power tools and appliances were available and obviously in regular use. And beyond this work area, the heavy doors of two walk-in coolers. Fred explained that many of his customers brought in animals that needed to be processed in privacy. "A farmer raises more than beef, you know," he said, "and sometimes the critters aren't tame. They have to be processed out of season. They make good sausage."

They did indeed. Or rather, Major Miner made good sausage. But I was interested in whether Grootka had actually said I would be around, and when he'd said it. The Maje cleared that up. Grootka had brought the box to him to be stored indefinitely on August 10, 1975. He had paid a year's storage in advance, but the Maje couldn't remember how much that was. The last time he'd been by, about five years ago, he had paid a thousand dollars, which the Maje had accepted as sufficient payment for "eternity."

"I got the feeling he didn't expect to be coming back," the Maje said. "He looked about the same to me, but I figgered he knew best. Anyways, the first time he mentioned your name was about 1980, somewhere in there. He said you'd be coming for the box and to just give it to ya. So here it is."

He had unstacked some other boxes in the cooler, all of them, like this one, sealed containers of supplies like plastic wrap. This one was about the size of a liquor carton. It was neatly wrapped in clear plastic, heat-sealed by the Maje's device. I'm not good at this, but I estimated it to weigh about ten or fifteen pounds.

The Maje insisted that we take a box just as large, filled with frozen sausage. He had a lot of it, he said, gesturing at the three deer carca.s.ses still hanging in the cooler, waiting their turn to be made into breakfast. We put them in the trunk of the Checker and drove away. It took ten minutes or more to find a lonely country road. In the light of the headlamps, I cut open the plastic and opened the box, with Books looking on.

Perched on top, just beneath some newspapers from 1975, was the revolver. "Yes," I said, relieved. Grootka had not let me down. It was a Harrington & Richardson .32. It was wrapped in ordinary kitchen plastic wrap, and I'm sure that the fingerprints of Humphrey DiEbola were undisturbed. The technology these days is so much better than in Grootka's day, that Forensics shouldn't have too much trouble making a positive identification.

I was a little curious, however. Was this the gun that Grootka had given to Jacobsen? I thought it might be. If so, it suggested a scenario in which DiEbola had obtained the gun from Jacobsen, either by force or plan. It didn't make any difference; the crucial thing was that the gun carried DiEbola's prints. Of course, without Jacobsen's corpse, without the fatal bullet, none of this meant much. But DiEbola would know the importance of this gun, and he had shown that he knew.

I delved down into the package to see what other goodies Grootka had provided-blood-soaked clothing, no doubt. I could see a stained shirt. I peeled it back.

Janney Jacobsen's cloudy blue eyes stared up at me.

We had discussed it from every angle as we drove through the night. Neither of us had slept, although Books may have nodded. But now he was sitting as silently as I in the morning traffic jam north of Detroit. An accident had cars backed up beyond Sashabaw Road. I turned on the radio.

Books had grumbled, finally, "If you're gonna chop folks' heads off, seems like you'd chop the important heads." He thought that Grootka should have preserved Hoffa's head. But I pointed out that Grootka was not interested in Hoffa. Grootka knew that the telltale bullet was in Jacobsen's head. He'd have preferred to preserve Jacobsen's body, no doubt, but that wasn't feasible. He'd had no idea how soon the Mob cleanup squad would arrive, but arrive they would. He'd taken what he could take.

"Trouble with you cops," Books said, "is all you think about is the forensics. You got no respect for the human side."

"Pha-roah, you mean?"

"All right, make fun." He fell silent then.

But we both perked up when the newscaster informed us: "Detroit organized-crime figure Humphrey DiEbola was slain last night. Security personnel at his Grosse Pointe estate reported that an unknown a.s.sailant apparently shot and killed the elusive Mobster as he walked on the grounds. Details are sketchy, but a body was removed to the Wayne County morgue this morning. Speculation has already begun about who will succeed DiEbola, who many have credited with vastly improving the scope and profitability of organized-crime activity in the Detroit area following the a.s.sa.s.sination of his predecessor, Carmine Busoni, some three years ago. The FBI is noncommittal on that score, but they do not rule out the possibility that DiEbola was removed by disaffected loyalists of the Busoni faction. More on this story as it develops."

The traffic began to move. Books said, "I wonder if they would tolerate a woman don?" He had read my mind.

Also by Jon A. Jackson:.

Dead Folks.

Deadman.

Hit on the House.

The Diehard.

The Blind Pig.

Grootka.