The Truth About Hannah White

By Mason Pratt

The body of Hannah White, a flirtatious seventeen-year-old, is found in a shallow grave outside a small town in Maine. There are no suspects and very little evidence. Still, game warden Sam Morse searches for her killer with the help of his college chum, who’s making a reality TV show about the Maine Warden’s Service.

Their trail leads them to Dynamite MacKenzie, a fearless female logger, who apparently recruited Hannah to join an eco-terrorist group called “Save the Forest.” Dynamite is the first lead Morse has had, so he’s not letting her out of his sight anytime soon. However, the better he gets to know her, the more he doubts she’s the killer.

Carve out some time because you are not going to be able to put this down! The characters will feel like friends by the time you finish.
—Dr. Jennifer Gray, Associate Professor of English, Director, Writing Center, College of Coastal Georgia

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483439532

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PART ONE

Into the Maine North Woods

Great North Paper Mill, Millinocket, Maine, 1990

1

The heat of an August day did nothing to deter the small knot of picketers parading outside the pulp and paper mill’s wood yard gate. They were loggers and often called themselves woodsmen, but one of them was a woman. Their picket signs read: Unfair to Loggers, Stop Great North, Pay Us More, and Support MLA. The newly formed Maine Loggers’ Association wanted more money for the wood cut and sold by its members to the Great North Paper Company. Their protest was directed to the white hats—the Great North supervisors and managers observing the scene from their air-conditioned offices, and their bosses. It would matter that these loggers were not employed by the Great North. Rather, they were independent contractors who owned their own chain saws and pickup trucks. In reality, the Great North was their only buyer and the wood they cut was on Great North land. To the Great North supervisors and managers, it was a sorry affair and much ado about nothing.

Back behind the plumes of white smoke and amid the sulfurous fumes and smell of bark piles, there were few passing cars to honk their support. There was no cheering crowd. A single reporter stood by to interview the picketers. A sole photographer stood ready to snap the scene.

Nevertheless, it was the first day and spirits were high.

The lone woman—they called her Dynamite—shouted to the security guards inside the gate, Hey! Come out here and protect us! Make those trucks stop and respect our picket line! No response from the stolid, uniformed guards.

Two local police officers swapped jokes, watching and waiting…Wayne Montgomery, head of the new MLA, stood sentinel near his picketers, watching, waiting…

Their heads turned in unison, as if choreographed, to face the distant rumble of the first log truck. Tension mounted as the sound of its grinding gears reached their ears. The log truck loomed into view, large as a house. It barreled down the access road straight towards the wood yard gate. It was coming right at them, trailing clouds of dust. As the guards heaved to pull the gate open, the picketers made way, then swarmed back together to close the gap, hoping to stop this truck.

The driver, Ralph Ray, needed to deliver his load, or he would not be paid for his gas, oil, and sizeable bank loan on his big rig. Ralph Ray had a wife and three kids at home. He made a last minute decision—damned if they’d stop him. Gear down, then step on it.

The truck accelerated, jumping forward. Black diesel smoke belched up from chrome pipes beside his cab. Ralph smiled as the monstrous truck, stacked high with tree-length wood, bore down upon the picketers without warning. A crude laugh erupted from his crooked mouth as the picketers scattered in disarray.

Dynamite MacKenzie felt the hot breath of the truck as it brushed past her. She heard the whoosh sound of its wake as it sucked her back towards the low hanging trees that almost scraped the road, enveloping her and the others in choking dust. She pulled herself off the ground and screamed at the driver: You fucking bastard! A news photographer for the Bangor Daily Sun caught her image, dark hair askew, face caked with dirt, mouth gaping wide and contorted in rage.

After the first truck, the log trucks kept coming and no one dared to get in the way.

***

The next morning, the loggers, all MLA members, sat at the back of the ornate Piscataquis County Courthouse, built a century before. On the courtroom walls were portraits of distinguished former judges. Beside the judge’s bench were the blue State of Maine flag and the Stars and Stripes. Dynamite MacKenzie sat with her fellow loggers. They were proud of her. They had all seen the iconic photo—her image had made the front page of USA Today. She watched the trial unfold, confident that their cause was just.

Judge Harvey Pease had earned a solid reputation for his fairness and judicial demeanor. Surely, Dynamite thought, he would throw out the Great North’s complaint against the loggers. This was America and they had a right to picket. They had the right to free speech; it was in the United States Constitution, in the Bill of Rights.

She watched as Ralph Ray, the driver who had almost hit her, strolled jauntily to the witness stand. Like a throwback to the Elvis 50’s, he wore a leather jacket; his greasy black hair was slicked back. His sleeves were rolled up over a Lucky Strike cigarette pack, revealing his tattooed biceps. He swore to tell the truth, then sat and stared defiantly at the roomful of loggers. In response to questions from the attorney for Great North Paper Company, he testified that when he drove his truck up to the wood yard gate, it was surrounded by a disorderly mob of picketers. He said he was filled with fear for his rig and for his personal safety. He made it sound like it was the loggers’ fault. Under cross-examination by the loggers’ attorney, he stuck to his story.

The lawyers argued. The loggers all rose as the judge disappeared to consider the matter. More than an hour later, he reappeared and they stood again, then sat to listen respectfully.

Judge Pease looked up over the rims of his reading glasses and frowned at his courtroom full of brawny woodsmen. He hated to do this, but his job was to apply the law to the evidence and arrive at the correct legal decision, something he did every day. His expression was stern and he announced his decision in a deep, almost sad, sonorous voice:

Ladies and gentlemen, I have heard the evidence in support of the company’s motion for a preliminary injunction. You may think that the anti-trust laws of this nation and this state were meant for General Motors and not you. But these laws apply to you, too, as members of the Maine Loggers’ Association. You have taken joint action in an attempt to fix the price paid to you for the wood you cut and sell to the mill. This amounts to a violation of those anti-trust laws. Therefore, I am issuing a preliminary injunction to ban any further picketing at this mill. I will schedule a hearing on a permanent injunction. That is all.

All rise, bellowed the court crier.

The loggers were stunned. They had lost big-time.

***

Next morning’s newspaper headlines screamed:

Court Bans Loggers’ Picketing!

2

Dynamite MacKenzie and Wayne Montgomery sat in matching white rocking chairs on the rambling front porch of Montgomery’s dilapidated two-story house set back from the road and surrounded by forest.

Dynamite had freshened up. She looked nothing like her recent photo. Still dressed like a logger in dungarees, chamois shirt, and work boots, she was rangy, tall, and strong. Her face and her arms, now bare, were darkly tanned. From time to time, she tossed her black hair to flip away the small lock that would fall back into place on her high forehead. There was a small scar on her left cheek. Somehow, it made a pretty face more beautiful. She noticed the nicely stacked woodpile, thinking it would be the envy of every other Mainer in the North Woods.

This peaceful sylvan scene belied the tension between them. She was frustrated about their loss in court. She wanted to change their losing tactics. And Wayne Montgomery, fat and happy in his white mutton-chop whiskers and overalls, did not. It came down to that.

You can’t just go out and commit crimes in the name of a noble cause.

It’s for a just cause, the environment, Wayne. It’s to save the forest from their shoddy forestry practices: the clear-cuts, the spraying. You know what I’m talking about.

Yes, but it’s really about the price of wood, isn’t it? I mean, if they would stop hiring all those Canadian loggers with their temporary right to work in the good old USA and stop depressing the price of wood, you’d be happy, right?

"A lot of us would be. Yes, sure. But don’t you think it’s all part of the big picture? I mean, I’ve read writers like Wallace Stegner and Ed Abbey who say we have to save the wilderness, because it’s who we are and what made us. You’ve read The Paper Plantation and how the paper companies have rigged the game and what they are doing. That tells it all. I think it’s time we really put together an organization, so we can get the funds to seek legislative action. And, okay. Maybe, a few acts of ecoterrorism would get everyone’s attention."

I’m not going to be part of it, Montgomery said. And that was that.

She was on her own. So she reached out for help. Her first thought: you want to find a liberal, go to a college campus. And Professor Michael Seeler was her first choice. He was a well-known, outspoken critic of the paper companies.

They met in Greenville at the Lost Woods Bar & Grille. They posted notices, calling themselves Save the Forest, and they got locals to come. Dynamite recruited some of her fellow loggers, like the Lindstrom brothers, Eddy and Frankie. They even got some young people interested, like Hannah White, daughter of June and Dan White, the owners of the Lost Woods Bar & Grille.

Soon there were a dozen or so regulars meeting monthly. Professor Seeler wanted them to raise funds to lobby the Maine legislature and Congress for changes in the environmental laws. Hannah White said she knew the wealthy Greenville tycoon, Louis Hampton, and she thought he was interested in helping. Asked how she knew him, Hannah said she was volunteering her time to read to Danny Tracy, the young man who was brain injured and who was living with Hampton. And then, to Dynamite’s surprise, Hannah came through with financial support from Louis Hampton. Hannah would deliver the cash—lots of it—to Dynamite and to the professor each month. Dynamite liked this young girl. She had spunk and striking beauty.

Dynamite knew she could count on the men from her hometown of Allagash, way up north in Aroostook County where she earned her nickname. As a kid, they called her Dynamite because of her name, Dina, and her mite size. The men from Allagash knew full well that Dynamite had no romantic interest in them—she considered them boorish and rough. But they fumed about the Canadians who were coming across the Maine-Canada border to take away their logging jobs. Having gotten nowhere with the federal and state labor departments, they were eager to support her cause. And she would not have to let the rest of her little group of environmentalists in on her plan for the men from Allagash: her ecoterror campaign against the paper companies.

3

The body was found at the state park a few miles north of Greenville.

Sam Morse heard the news on his radio: 10-47: Medical examiner needed. He acknowledged and told the dispatcher he would respond. He knew that Hannah White had gone missing a week ago and feared the worst. His first thoughts were of the girl’s parents, June and Dan White, both out of their minds with worry. Good thing they didn’t have a scanner like the news media did, Sam thought, or they would know something was up.

As the newest Maine game warden in the Greenville District, he had no experience in these matters. But he remembered his training. Less than a year ago, he had been one of several new warden trainees. And he remembered what Captain Clyde Brody told them:

The first thing you want to do in a criminal investigation is get to the scene of the crime as quickly as possible and get the evidence. And whatever you do, don’t mess up the crime scene or you are screwed.

Sam was also comforted by the fact that the state trooper from the area, Albert Locke, responded that he was on the way. Sam was the first official to arrive, except for Bill Brown, the Greenville police chief. Chief Brown was standing outside the yellow tape he had apparently strung around the site. Sam thought it strange that Chief Brown was there, because he was well outside his jurisdiction—Lily Bay State Park was a good six miles north of Greenville. The grounds crew sat on the lawn or leaned against their pick-up trucks. Chief Brown had precious little information: the crew had been digging there and when they found what looked like human parts, they stopped and called 911. The chief looked haggard.

We don’t know who it is, the chief said, but there is part of a red dress. It may be her. Sam knew what he meant. He wanted to vomit. He turned away to hide his distress and choked it down. He got control of himself just as Trooper Locke arrived. Locke strode from his blue cruiser to meet Sam and the chief. Al Locke was a seasoned veteran and looked the part: his gray uniform pressed, black boots spit-shined, Smokey Bear wide-brimmed hat, and web belt armed with baton, mace and sidearm. He nodded to Sam. They had met once, but never worked together. Sam knew that Locke covered the Greenville area and parts north of Greenville. Sam knew of his reputation as a straight shooter who went by the book. Locke questioned Sam and the chief and then called in the Maine State Police forensic team.

Sam called Captain Brody, because Brody headed up the Maine Warden Service special section on investigations. Sam gave him a brief report.

Later, the medical examiner’s autopsy confirmed that it was Hannah. The cause of death, according to the medical examiner, was a blow to the head by a sharp object. And, the medical examiner concluded, it was likely a homicide.

I’m going to get the bastard, Sam said to himself. He recalled his last time with Hannah. He had stopped at the Lost Woods Bar & Grille to pick her up. Then they drove up to the mountain and climbed to the top. To Sam, it seemed like yesterday. The image of her spritely shape and fetching smile flashed through his mind. He could picture her as she ran and danced down the ski trail, waving her arms. In his mind’s eye, he could see her red shirt billowing out behind her.

4

Captain Brody told the new warden trainees: This is like a military organization. You follow orders.

***

Sam Morse answered after the first ring.

Warden Morse here.

This is Brody. Got something for you, Sam. Looks like that motley group of loggers who call themselves the Maine Loggers’ Association has blocked the Golden Road up there near the Great North’s Lobster Lake Camps. We are hearing that they’ve wrecked logging equipment, you know, skidder machines, putting sugar in gas tanks, even setting ’em on fire. The governor’s lost patience. Wants us to investigate, report back, tell him what his options are. It’s a hell of a situation, let me tell you, and I want you to get up there pronto to assess and report back.

Sam respected Brody, a grizzled veteran with more than twenty years’ service as a Maine warden. A large man, he carried it well. In his sixties now, his hair graying at the temples, he seemed to wear a perpetual smile, even as his forehead was creased with lines of concern over his myriad administrative duties. Sam knew Brody had learned the art of pleasing others, including legislators, and was handsomely paid for his lobbying skills. This ensured continued funding for Maine’s sportsmen and the warden service. Sam had been in Brody’s Augusta office where his many adventures were displayed in photos, one with his good friend, Governor Jim London, and a large black bear they shot during their hunting trip last fall.

Brody went out of his way to explain to Sam. You know, it’s the Great North’s land and they’re big donors. I’m not saying it’s improper… Brody was stumbling. What I mean is, the governor sympathizes with these loggers. They’re just trying to get more work, and he agrees with them. The U.S. government is letting in too many temporary Canadian workers. But he’s got to stop the violence. You get the picture?

Yes, sir.

How quickly can you move?

Sam quickly assessed his own situation as he peered out his camp window at the gathering darkness. He always feared landing a float plane on a black lake with no depth perception.

If I land at Lobster early morning, can you get someone to pick me up there?

10-4, will get the paper company’s forester to meet you at the camps at the east side of the big claw on Lobster Lake around, what, 8:00 A.M.? There was a pause. And Morse?

Sir?

You will coordinate with your section chief, Sergeant Donnelly, and Lieutenant Cummings at the divisional headquarters. I will let them know.

Roger that.

Over and out.

Sam had the jitters, but he was excited to have a mission. A rookie warden, he had aced the written tests, but barely passed the physical requirements. When he applied, he kept it a secret from everyone, including his old man. When he got accepted, he called him, eager for praise: Good. Bout time, was all his dad said. His old man, a lifer in the Great North’s paper mill in Millinocket. Later they drank a toast and it felt like vindication. Sam always lived in the shadow of his older brother, Tom, until that fateful day up on Mount Katahdin, but he pushed this from his mind.

Sam was a late bloomer. As a new warden, he lived alone in the secluded warden’s cabin not far from Greenville, his L.L. Bean canoe outside along with his black GMC warden’s truck. He looked in the mirror—his starched green uniform with the Maine Warden Service patch on his sleeve, his black boots spit-shine polished, his crew cut. He sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest to fill out the uniform. Need to lift weights, he thought. Still, he felt good. He welcomed the Spartan life.

Sam was never any good with girls, except once in his senior year in college: Darlene, a brunette with small breasts, soft curves, and dancing cornflower blue eyes. He remembered her fragrance, the small of her neck, and that one time in her dorm room. And that was it. Until Hannah.

It was impossible. He knew that. She was too young. He found her wild spirit intoxicating. She would drive up to his camp and wait outside in her pick-up till he came out to chat with her. She enjoyed teasing him non-stop: Do you have a gun? What caliber? Ever use it? You get scared going after criminals? Then she would spin out of the yard laughing back at him. She kept slipping into his thoughts with her fresh freckled face and lithe form and her silky long reddish-brown hair.

Sam could not figure out why she liked him. Maybe, he thought, it was his uniform, the power of the position. She talked about her life. But she gave no details and he did not press for them. She was a flirt and a tease. He knew she flirted with other men, too. Sometimes, she admitted, it backfired. She seemed to like danger, living on the edge. Maybe she was abused, he thought. But she never said so. And he thought it couldn’t be her parents—June and Dan White were the salt of the earth.

He pushed aside these thoughts to return the voice mail message from Jud Jenkins. He was surprised to hear from Jud after all these years. The memories came crashing back: as