Dysfunction

By Patrick J O'Brian

New York State Police Trooper Terry Levine must put aside his personal demons when several people are abducted by a serial killer.

The killer typically spaces out the abductions, keeping his victims for months before murdering them, but this time the process is moving at an alarming rate. Levine, a former investigator, is asked by his old boss to check into the previous murders, which tie directly into the recent abductions.

What was supposed to be a pleasant homecoming the year prior has been nothing but disaster for the trooper and his family. Shot shortly after his return home, to the quiet Northern New York area, Levine finds himself haunted by the memories of murder victims from his old cases. Medication and visits to the psychiatrist help, but Levine realizes his salvation is ultimately in his own hands.

Now his youngest brother lies in an induced coma, fighting for his life, after collapsing mysteriously.

Fighting to overcome his own problems, Levine digs into the past, unraveling the killer's insane motivation. With each abduction new clues present themselves, allowing Levine and his task force to draw closer to the killer, toward an inevitable confrontation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick J O'Brian
• Release date: Jul 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781604144024

Patrick J O'Brian

Patrick O’Brian lives in northeastern Indiana, working full-time as a firefighter. He enjoys photography, theme parks, and travel. Born in upstate New York, Patrick returns to his home area once a year to visit family and conduct research for his future manuscripts. His other fiction books are: The Fallen Reaper: Book One of the West Baden Murders Trilogy The Brotherhood Retribution: Book Two of the West Baden Murders Trilogy Stolen Time Sins of the Father: Book Three of the West Baden Murders Trilogy Six Days Dysfunction The Sleeping Phoenix Snowbound: Book Four of the West Baden Murders Series Sawmill Road Ghosts of West Baden: Book Five of the West Baden Murders Series Non-fiction: Risen from the Ashes: The History of the West Baden Springs Hotel Pluto in the Valley: The History of the French Lick Springs Hotel

Book preview

Prologue

Upstate New York, 1943

Sheriff Bill Levine walked out of his town’s portrait studio on an overcast Saturday morning to find the village of Massena sluggishly waking up to the April weekend.

By no means was the area considered sleepy, with three mysterious deaths occurring since the holiday season. Levine found more than he ever anticipated from his elected position, but still considered himself the right man for the job.

His two sons and his daughter were behind him, along with his wife. He had just put forth a serious look to the side of the camera, much like he expected the rest of his family to do. The photographer asked that they make certain their eyes were open when he shot the photograph, and everyone knew better than to cross the head of the family.

As sheriff of St. Lawrence County, Levine kept close watch, making certain his quiet county remained just that way. He also ruled his family with an iron fist. His children never spoke out of turn, or out of place. They knew to do their chores, do well in school, and jump when their father said to.

Growing vastly the past few decades, with the promise of more industry to come, the town had a general store, a drug store, a portrait studio, the sheriff’s office, a hospital, the doctor’s office, a vet, a few motels, and a butcher’s shop.

It also had several restaurants, a new movie theater, and several pubs for entertainment.

I’m glad we got a portrait done, Evelyn, his wife of fourteen years, stated as they walked down the street toward the general store.

In an unusually good mood, Levine had promised his children candy if they behaved through the portrait experience, which they had.

Well, we haven’t had one in years, Levine noted as the children skipped ahead. Now that I’ve been re-elected, I can count on a decent income for the next few years.

As sheriff, Levine saw dead bodies on a regular basis with the coroner’s office. He saw everything from suicides to homicides, and even unexplained deaths. He usually solved unexplained deaths, despite the lack of preservation tools or an understanding from the court system that he was a professional investigator, as well as sheriff.

Ahead of his time, Levine had uncanny investigative skills even his deputies failed to grasp. They watched, they learned, but they never truly grasped how he reached his conclusions in death cases.

Today was an unusual morning off, and one he planned on spending with his family. Rewarding the kids with candy was just the beginning of his kindness. He planned on letting them out of their chores for the first time in months, and allowing them to fish at the local pond that afternoon.

Life on the farm was seldom easy, with good reason. During the summer, Levine saved money by raising his own animals for slaughter, while Evelyn tended her garden. The children worked hard when they weren’t at school, because Evelyn had plenty to keep her busy, and Levine spent a fair amount of his time in town, at his office, or attending problems throughout the county.

Levine suspected his day off was about to be interrupted when he spied Stan Pursley, his chief deputy, step out from the sheriff’s office, looking hurriedly down Main Street. He perked up when he saw the sheriff from a distance, then started toward Levine.

I thought today was your day off, Evelyn insisted uncharacteristically.

It’s probably nothing, he whispered to his wife, despite his children stopping ahead of them, apparently sensing the chief deputy had some ominous news that would take their father away.

As usual.

Nature had taken most of his hair, so Pursley typically wore his police hat to cover up the fringe of brown hair left on his head. He also maintained a trimmed mustache, always keeping his uniform pressed and neat, from the ironed slacks to the black tie.

Levine described his deputy as being thin as a rail.

He often asked Pursley if the man starved himself, or had tapeworms in the lining of his stomach. Though not scrawny by any means, the chief deputy remained slender, regardless of how often he ate.

By the time he reached the sheriff, his shined black shoes had specks of dirt on them from walking along the road, since the deputy had ignored the sidewalk.

What is it? Levine asked his chief deputy, immediately leading Pursley aside from his family.

Joe Blankenship killed himself in his barn overnight, Pursley replied with a serious look and tone.

In public the man was all business, but behind closed doors he would joke, and laugh like a hyena when something struck him as humorous. He had a tendency to play practical jokes on the other deputies when the sheriff was away, because he never dared fool with the sheriff, or show Levine his screwy side.

Still, Levine knew of such things.

Levine thought about Joe Blankenship, realizing the man had been through a rough time since his wife died a few months prior, during the winter.

With no children, the man seemed to dwell upon his wife’s death, because he had little else at home to keep him occupied.

Still, Blankenship went to church and seemed to adapt to his new situation rather well. He ate dinner with area families, went to work on a regular basis, and kept up his farm so far as the sheriff knew.

Shit, Levine finally muttered. Who called?

Mrs. Thompson went to bring him some pies and found him strung up inside his barn, Pursley reported.

A string of bizarre suicides had plagued Levine the past six months.

Mostly because he didn’t consider them suicides at all.

We’re going out there, Levine said without hesitation. Let me speak to my wife a moment. Get the car ready.

Levine took Evelyn and his oldest son aside.

John, I want you to drive your mother, your brother, and your sister home. I have a case I have to tend to.

Levine had been teaching John, only twelve years of age, how to drive the past month.

Yes, sir, John replied, putting on a strong front, though his father knew he was nervous about driving on his own.

You’ll do fine, Levine assured him.

He handed his son the keys to the family car, which John took so he could familiarize himself with the vehicle again before the trek home.

You promised the children they could go to the pond, Evelyn reminded her husband, though she seemed more concerned about him abandoning them for work once again.

Let John drive them, dear, Levine said. I shouldn’t be long, and I’ll have Pursley drive me home when we’re done.

Drive to the pond?

It’s only a few miles down the road. They can walk if it makes you feel better.

No, it does not make me feel better. I would feel better if you would spend a day at home, instead of running to every little argument our neighbors have.

Joe Blankenship killed himself, Levine decided to reveal, simply to end his wife’s sudden insurrection.

My goodness. Why would he do that?

I don’t know, the sheriff answered. I have to meet the coroner at his house to examine the scene.

Evelyn sighed, barely content with the answer, despite the shocking news.

Levine gave her a quick kiss, showing unusual emotion in public. Without another word, he walked toward his chief deputy, who waited at the marked police car, prepared to drive his sheriff to Joe Blankenship’s house.

We’re seeing this all too much lately, aren’t we? Pursley asked, leaning against the open driver’s side door.

We certainly are, Stan. And I’m not sure it’s going to stop anytime soon.

Pursley corkscrewed his face, giving the sheriff a strange look. He openly wondered how the sheriff could believe the rash of suicides was anything more.

***

How well did you know the guy? Pursley asked as they neared the residence of Joe Blankenship.

Well enough, the sheriff replied. He went to my church, and we invited him over for supper a couple times.

Pursley remained silent a few seconds, but silence was not his forte. He could drive the sheriff batty within minutes unless Levine ordered him to shut up.

Which he sometimes did.

At best, the car did about thirty miles per hour along the county roads. Both officers took in the scenic countryside as trees slowly passed, held captive by the overcast sky. Sounding a bit like an airplane motor, the car’s engine purred as the road grew less accommodating.

This is kind of like Janice Russell’s death, isn’t it? the chief deputy asked. The way she drowned herself was pretty creepy.

Levine shifted uneasily in his seat, wishing his deputy would be more agreeable, and come around to his way of thinking.

And investigating.

Let me ask you something, Stan.

Shoot.

If you were going to kill yourself, how would you go about it?

Pursley thought a moment, finally reaching a reasonable conclusion.

I’d probably just put a shotgun barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger.

He continued to drive a moment as Levine saw the driveway come into view.

Why? the deputy inquired.

Levine decided to answer a question with a question.

So, you wouldn’t hang yourself, or drown yourself in your bathtub, or tie yourself up to your horse to be dragged for miles on end before a collision with a rock puts an irreparable gash in your head?

Pursley took mere seconds to reply.

Like I said, there have been a lot of people down on their luck lately.

I don’t recall you saying that.

I implied it.

Levine remained silent as his chief deputy pulled into the driveway. Another car was already visible, staged in the muddy driveway as the coroner waited for the police to arrive.

Pursley pulled the car to a stop behind the other vehicle. Both men opened their doors simultaneously as the coroner rose from his car seat, obviously waiting for Levine to take the lead before drawing his own conclusions.

A pudgy man who constantly wiped sweat from his forehead, even in the dead of winter, the coroner had a crooked sense about him. Levine had no professional respect for the man after the last three apparent deaths were ultimately declared suicides, despite the sheriff finding contrary evidence in all three cases.

At least in his own opinion.

Good morning, Bill, Ernie O’Neill said, extending his hand.

Levine shook it, though not happily.

What have we got, Ernie?

A corpse. Don’t worry, I didn’t tread on your crime scene.

Good, Levine thought.

No one paid the crime scene any mind, and he could usually count on the coroner, witnesses, or his own people treading all over the area before he arrived to take photographs and do an examination.

Levine stole a glance toward the barn where the coroner indicated the apparent suicide had taken place. From his vantage point, the sheriff saw the front of one foot barely swaying in and out of view from behind the open doorway. The passing breeze was just enough to sway the body like a child’s swing.

Only the sound of several rebellious crickets, chirping away, disturbed the otherwise peacefully silent scene around him.

Deciding he had seen more than enough dead bodies in his time, the sheriff ignored the barn momentarily, opting to look around the house and yard first.

Most of the yard seemed maintained, as though Blankenship had given it a needed first mowing with the warming spring temperatures. The old truck near the barn looked clean, perhaps recently washed.

Levine watched the ground as he walked, making certain he did not step on any evidence, namely footprints or discarded property. He saw nothing particularly unusual as he walked up the front steps, then into the house.

Walking into an immaculate kitchen, the sheriff found the oven cleaned from top to bottom, recently washed dishes left in a dish rack, and the table cleared of everything except Blankenship’s pipe and tobacco pouch.

To one side, atop a wooden desk, several envelopes sat in a sorter with affixed postage, ready to be mailed. Levine saw nothing but cleanliness lining the floor. Not even a crumb appeared visible atop the wood planks.

He made his way into the bathroom, kneeling to look inside the tub, which appeared spotless. Inside, he noticed droplets of water along the bottom that hadn’t quite dried. He picked up the drain plug, examined it, and found moisture along the bottom.

Pursley walked to the doorway behind him, then simply waited for the sheriff to complete his examination.

What do you think? the chief deputy asked as the sheriff returned the plug to the side of the bathtub.

I think the man was living pretty cleanly for someone determined to take his own life.

Maybe he didn’t want to burden his family, Pursley suggested.

Or maybe he didn’t take his own life, Levine countered, pushing past his deputy toward the outside of the house.

Pursley followed close behind as the sheriff returned to the porch they originally entered through. He had been on enough death cases with Levine that he routinely felt comfortable interrupting the sheriff’s train of thought.

How can you assume he was murdered?

How come you keep arguing with me, Stan? Levine asked, whirling around to confront his chief deputy on the front porch. You act as though you want to challenge me on this, even though you haven’t seen a fraction of the death cases I have.

Sorry, Pursley quickly apologized.

You should be, Levine said without letting up a bit. I don’t let my children talk back to me, and I’ll be damned if I let you put your two cents in, when I handpicked you to be my second-in-command.

Yes, sir.

Levine stood silently a moment, his eyes shifting from the yard where the coroner stood beside his car, to his chief deputy. He noticed Pursley and O’Neill exchanging cagy glances, as though he was out of a certain loop.

Breaking up the awkward moment, Pursley reached into his back pocket for a pouch of chewing tobacco, but the sheriff quickly shot a disparaging glare. The chief deputy swallowed hard, replacing the pouch.

I don’t want you spitting all over the ground before I have a chance to examine it, Levine scolded.

Sorry.

Pursley looked to the coroner with a shrug as the sheriff led the way down from the porch into the yard.

You’re more than welcome to stand with Ernie if you don’t want to learn anything, Levine noted.

Hesitating a moment, the chief deputy seemed to debate leaving his boss for a chat with the coroner, who had local political clout. Levine knew his chief deputy had some aspirations for a higher position, though the man never shared them.

No, Pursley finally answered. I want to see it through.

Levine nodded without a word, leading the way toward the barn, his eyes never leaving the ground.

See that? he asked a moment later, pointing to some drag marks along the ground where fresh grass recently grew.

Two thin aisles of mud streaked a small area of the ground, and the sheriff immediately figured he knew what had occurred.

He was probably dragged part of the way out here and managed to put up some resistance right about here, Levine noted, though Pursley seemed reluctant to believe the theory.

Almost anything could have made those marks, Sheriff.

Oh, like farm machinery or local herding cows? Levine asked sarcastically.

Pursley said nothing, not daring to push the issue.

Levine followed the marks to the barn, which seemed intermittent. He envisioned Blankenship struggling against the individual dragging him toward the barn, kicking his feet and thrashing with what little life remained. Occasionally a deep gouge in the ground served to strengthen the sheriff’s theory, at least in his own mind.

Though he had read about serial killers in novels and crime magazines, Levine never expected to find one in his area. Such things were virtually lore, and not for regular public consumption. One common denominator such killers shared was their need for attention, usually found in the form of mutilated bodies or messages left for the police.

Strangely, this killer was secretive, as though he had an agenda for killing the four people he didn’t want anyone to know about.

Perhaps he was testing Levine, because there were always clues left behind. If he truly wanted to avoid detection, the killer had better options than those he used. As Levine approached the barn, he knew exactly what to look for on the body.

While one door remained open, swaying gently in the breeze, the second was closed, as though to deny someone an easy peep from the road, or even the yard. It raised tension, and created anxiety, but revealed just enough to make a person curious. Levine suspected this was the killer’s one way of showing off his craftsmanship.

Now hearing the creak of the rope against the barn rafter it was looped over, Levine cautiously stepped inside the open door. Looking up, he saw Blankenship dangling from the noose wrapped around his neck.

I’ll bet he didn’t feel a thing, Pursley noted.

Don’t be so sure, Levine replied, beginning to examine the body for details.

Along the arms he found scratches, which were signs of a prior struggle. Traces of dirt and mud lined the man’s jeans and work boots, providing evidence of Levine’s theory. His hands remained limp by his sides, but Levine found rub marks along both wrists. Blankenship had probably been bound at some point.

Stepping back, he finally took in the entire view of the body. Blankenship’s head was slumped toward his left shoulder, looking very pale. His hands and fingers appeared purplish in color, which indicated lividity due to blood pooling toward lower extremities. Taking hold of one arm, Levine found he was able to move it, meaning rigor mortis had already come and gone.

What do you think, Sheriff? Pursley asked.

You already know what I think. Are you inclined to agree?

Shrugging, the chief deputy said nothing, his face giving a neutral look.

I think this man was murdered, and the son-of-a-bitch who did it is going to run free until the coroner sees otherwise.

Pursley looked away, almost as though he was part of a conspiracy, but it mattered little to the sheriff. Levine knew he was playing a cat and mouse game with a killer able to cover his tracks well enough to raise only minor suspicion from anyone except the sheriff.

Levine had dealt with clever criminals in the past, but nothing this extreme. Most lawbreakers gave up after a few hours of interrogation, but this killer left only vague clues, as though to make Levine look the fool for being the only one to find them.

Throughout his career he had never let a major criminal slip away, but he wondered if this individual might ever be caught. If not, a lot more people were probably destined to die, and he was helpless to stop it.

Chapter 1

November, Present Day

Most people spent the day after Thanksgiving shopping for holiday presents, setting up Christmas trees, or just kicking back to enjoy the long weekend.

Terry Levine had no such luxury, behind the wheel of his blue and gold patrol car. With enough seniority to get most major holidays off, the New York State Trooper simply opted to work his regularly scheduled day on one of the busiest travel days of the year.

He wanted no part of the holiday shopping craze with his wife and kids. Besides, he was saving his vacation time for the other holiday around the corner.

Driving along the county roads outside the village of Norwood, Levine observed several farmhouses and scenic areas that looked worthy of postcards. Snow fell early, and abundantly, leaving almost a foot on the ground in the early morning.

Looking into the mirror, he saw his own blue eyes. Levine had smooth features that didn’t give way very easily to the beginning of middle age. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and his uniform remained pressed and clean as always. He never wore a hardened look, but behind the soft eyes, his mind harbored sights capable of making most police officers cringe.

His gray uniform was adorned with a purple tie, clipped against his shirt. Wearing a standard black Ike jacket, with an extra inner layer, Levine had little need to crank the heat in his car. Beside him lay his gray Stetson hat with its purple band, ready at a second’s notice if he needed to exit the car.

While most police departments gave way to the newer nylon duty belts, New York State Police wore the traditional leather gun belts. Levine heard his creak subtly as he shifted in his seat, making a turn onto a different county road.

A gray haze seemed to be everywhere around the trooper, from the sky to the fields, with their defiant tan weeds stemming from the blanket of snow covering the ground. Born a New Yorker, Levine expected to see sunshine only a handful of times before spring.

In the spirit of the holiday season, his squad car’s radio station played Jingle Bells, which followed several other seasonal tunes. Tapping his fingers against the dash as he drove, Levine picked up the cup of coffee set in his cup holder, took a drink, and figured moving back to his hometown area was the right move for him.

He had been a trooper for fifteen years, spending ten of those years as an investigator. Working in the Buffalo area, New York City, then Albany, Levine took an investigative position to be near a friend who was an investigator destined for greater things.

His friend became an assistant deputy superintendent, while Levine made a name for himself as an investigator with an uncanny sixth sense. He solved crimes no one else dared touch, with instincts it took an FBI profiler years to develop. Ideas, thoughts, and methods from the killers he tracked came naturally to him, as though somehow Levine was on their level.

His friend had seen to it that Levine had formal training in profiling after seeing the young trooper’s knack for pinpointing what made criminals tick. Few people in the state police were allowed into the training sessions because they were costly, and out-of-state. Some exceptions were made for investigators with rank, and Levine’s friend made a special exception to get him into the course.

For a few years, the world was at his feet, but he realized his wife and children were being treated like military brats, moving so often. His family’s displeasure, compounded with a form of personal burnout, made the choice to move home easy.

People in his hometown enjoyed things that city people never knew about. Local fairs, Labor Day volunteer fire department competitions, and the July 4th parade provided some of the happier times in his life, so he was more than ready to give up city life.

Seeing dead children, innocent victims murdered in robberies, and babies beaten to death for crying too loud, eventually wore on Levine’s mind and conscience. Despite his friend’s coaxing to remain an investigator, Levine eventually opted for a transfer back to the post closest to his hometown.

He regularly had nightmares.

Sometimes images flashed through his mind when he sat at a stoplight, or stared too long at a sheet of paper. Most cops and emergency personnel harden to the sight of dead bodies and gore, almost thinking of a body as a slab of meat.

Levine never grew that hardened, sometimes taking cases personally. It made him an impeccable investigator, but ate at his soul. Visions of blood, splattered brain matter, or severed limbs, entered his mind, often accompanied by the face of the victim. After staring at crime scene photos and portraits of the people in life, they etched themselves in his mind, even when the cases were solved.

He watched the windshield wipers brush the snow to his left, thinking how nice it was to be home again. Rural New York was the paradox of what he had experienced in the big cities. Having his two brothers and his parents nearby once more was comforting, easing his conscience.

Listening to the holiday tunes on the radio, humming along, Levine suddenly felt a rush of joy that he was going to spend his first holiday season with his whole family in years. Before, his schedule in the Bureau of Criminal Investigation allowed him a day to see his family around the holidays, and at least one of his brothers missed out because of other commitments.

This year they could all plan on a common day to open gifts and attend church.

Riding patrol took some getting used to, after so many years as an investigator. In some ways he missed the laid back, more casual approach detectives used, but patrol wasn’t so bad. He put in eight hour shifts, never stayed in the same spot very long, and knew he had his entire family to return home to.

Taking another sip of coffee, he realized how quiet his day had been so far. Most people were still hitting the stores for early morning specials, or getting a bite to eat if they were finished. If things stayed that way, Levine planned to meet one or two of his fellow troopers later for lunch in Potsdam, a small town that acted as a common meeting place for all of their patrol districts.

Staring ahead, he saw a car plodding along in the worsened conditions, its driver maintaining a slow enough speed to keep the vehicle on the road. It was the first car Levine had spied along this particular county road, but the driver was not committing any infractions, so he turned on the next available road.

When his radio broke silence a moment later, it startled him a bit.

Despite letting his radio scan all available emergency frequencies, it had remained unusually quiet in the dawn of the holiday season.

Canton to 2B53, a composed male voice said over the air.

Levine scooped up his microphone from the mounted radio unit beside him.

2B53 on, he said in response to his dispatcher.

Interview Randall Besaw at 290 Pleasant Valley Road regarding a hunter on his property. Subject is still on the property.

Levine knew the area fairly well. One of his younger brothers hunted on a friend’s land, which was common in the county primarily comprised of rural properties. Sometimes, however, property owners didn’t want people on their land.

2B53-1504.

Levine had just given his car’s number, followed by his personal badge number, for verification he understood the transmission.

Usually trespassers were in the wrong, but sometimes unaware they were on a person’s land. Some owners posted no trespassing signs in the rural areas, and some did not. Levine was often lenient with hunters, partly because it was seldom his responsibility to deal with them. More often than not, the sheriff’s deputies or local police dealt with such situations.

Since the call didn’t specify the hunter was being held by the property owner at gunpoint, and there was no confirmed confrontation, Levine didn’t run with lights and siren, even when he reached Highway 56. He was now heading south, toward Potsdam from Norwood.

Levine dared not reach the posted speed limit, for fear his car might become a casualty on the side of the road. Few things embarrassed officers as much as a wrecked car, both during and long after the incident.

A few minutes passed as Levine readied himself for the confrontation ahead. He did not feel particularly tense, or worried, because no hunter had ever posed a direct threat to him. They were usually cooperative and friendly, though some were stunned that police had been called to the property.

He carefully navigated the winding turns of Pleasant Valley Road, almost a mile back, before drawing near the property.

When Levine reached the open field of the property, spying the hunter in the distance, he decided to approach the man first, rather than the property owner. He wanted to make certain the hunter didn’t disappear while he spoke with Randy Besaw.

He called to his dispatchers that he was now at the scene, for his protection, and for a time frame when he filled out his report later.

Parking his car alongside the road without endangering it in a snowdrift, Levine took up his Stetson, zipped his jacket, and stepped from the car, fixing the hat atop his head.

If a brick had hit him in the face, it might have had less impact than the wind’s biting cold as he left the warmth of his patrol car. For some reason, Levine neglected to pack his fur cap, which was within regulation, when he returned to the uniform division. He stared into the field, finding the hunter, clad from head to toe in cold weather gear, standing like a mannequin.

A bland mixture of dark green and orange, the hunter appeared typically dressed. No features showed through the mask covering the lower half of the man’s face, and Levine was too far away to see any details anyway.

The man was almost two hundred yards away, with a dense tree line not far behind him.

Levine sensed he was being studied, which was unusual behavior. Typically, hunters approached him immediately to explain themselves.

2B53 to Canton, he called over his portable radio unit to his dispatchers.

Canton on 2B53.

2B53 is out of service at that trespass complaint. Do you have any other units heading this way?

He discovered a county unit had been called, but it was still tied up at another scene. Levine knew backup was at least ten minutes away with the horrendous weather conditions, so he turned his attention to the hunter, who was now turning his back, and walking away from the trooper.

Ah, don’t do that, Levine complained to himself.

Trudging through the snow with little more than his pressed pants and duty boots to protect himself was not what the trooper had in mind. Still, he did so as the hunter slowly walked toward the woods on the edge of the property, as though he had never seen the police officer.

Stop! Levine shouted. State Police!

Nothing changed as the hunter continued toward the trees.

Stumbling up the moderate embankment that led to the open field, Levine reached the top, now aggravated that he was being ignored. Thumbing his firearm to make certain it was at his side, the trooper kept a shrewd watch over the hunter as the man calmly neared the tree line.

Damn it, Levine muttered, hesitating with a weighty decision entering his mind.

Did he follow the man further, knowing he endangered himself if he did?

Or did he play it safe, wait for backup, and risk losing the man who was knowingly breaking the law and ignoring it? He suspected they could track footsteps in the snow, but only until they reached where the man’s vehicle was likely parked.

Despite sufficient daylight through the cloudy sky, he saw little beyond the first few trees as the hunter was swallowed by the wooded area. Already far enough into the field to be in danger, Levine decided to press forward rather than back down. Never in his career had he tasted defeat as a detective, and he was determined not to be upstaged by a simple trespassing hunter.

He reasoned the man was making a mad dash to his pickup truck, or simply hoping the trooper might give up the search entirely. With his legs already chilled from the snow, Levine felt irritated enough to give chase, particularly with no confirmed backup on the way.

At least no one had come over the air to announce they were en route.

Like ocean waves, the snowdrifts seemed to bob up and down as he walked. Some only reached his ankles, while others nearly held him in place, touching his gun belt.

Finally passing the higher crests of snow, Levine neared the wooded area, breaking into a run as his eyes adjusted to the thicket ahead. Large flakes fell from the sky, impeding his vision, but he felt confident he was about to apprehend the hunter, because the woods weren’t very deep. At worst, he planned to catch a glimpse of the man’s license plate number as he drove away.

Simultaneously, a shot rang out like thunder and Levine felt his right shoulder thrust back, as though someone twice his size had punched him there. He fell backwards to the ground, feeling an uncomfortable warmth leak through his duty jacket. It took a few seconds to realize what had happened as he breathed in nervous heaves, touching his shoulder with his left hand.

Plucking his gloved hand just a few inches from his injured shoulder, he saw crimson liquid lining his fingers. Wincing, Levine solidly placed his hand atop the injury, applying pressure.

Realizing the injury was closer to his chest than the shoulder itself, he understood why the blood flowed so readily. Reaching for his radio, Levine realized he was in serious jeopardy as the snowy ground engulfed his body.

2B53 to Canton, he began his radio call. Officer down.

He hesitated a moment, drawing in breaths of cold air.

Repeat, officer down.

What is your location, 2B53? the dispatcher asked in return.

I’m in an open field at the Besaw property, Levine replied, rolling to his side, trying to find a position that allowed him to put pressure on his wound.

Groaning from the pain, Levine realized help was far enough away that he might not survive unless he kept his wits about him. As he continued to apply pressure to the wound, he saw a shadow emerge from the wooded area. A numbing sensation having nothing to do with the cold overtook