DEATH
IN A
SUMMER
COLONY
AARON STANDER
Writers & Editors
Interlochen, Michigan
FOR BEACHWALKER
WHO HELPS THIS ALL HAPPEN
1
The blast from an assault rifle, intensified by the heavy overcast, reverberated through the valley, and bounced off the steep, heavily wooded hillsides. As the blare faded away, Ray Elkins, the Sheriff of Cedar County, lying behind an embankment of sand and second growth hardwoods, glanced up. He became aware again of the pounding rain on the newly emerged foliage overhead and the distant thunder as the storm continued to roll off Lake Michigan.
The clothing beneath his body armor had soaked through hours before, and he shivered as he and the other members of the SWAT team held their positions surrounding the cottage.
An early morning confrontation in the Mission Point Summer Colony had turned into a daylong standoff. The shooter had holed up in an old cottage of the still-deserted colony, a collection of more than 250 small seasonal dwellings built on the shore and through the valleys of an old Indian mission. Most of the structures in the colony dated back to a period near the turn of the twentieth century.
Ray lifted his head above the ridge, looked toward the white-framed building, and glanced at his watch. It was only a few minutes after four. Even with the dreary weather, there were still hours of light. And if the situation continued into darkness, banks of spotlights were already in position to illuminate the area.
In the early hours of the confrontation, Ray had tried to establish communication with the shooter, Garrick “Garr” Zwilling. First he had attempted to use a landline, then a cell—the numbers provided by the manager of the colony. Both were out of service.
Next, he had tried a bullhorn. Each attempt was met with gunfire, not necessarily in Ray’s direction. Most of the action seemed to be directed toward a nearby cottage, the windows and doors the focus of the shooter’s fury.
In the earliest stages of the faceoff, trying to avoid a “suicide by police” scenario, Ray quickly moved to contain the scene. SWAT team members surrounded the cottage from protected positions behind rolling dunes, preventing any possible escape. Other officers, some from neighboring jurisdictions, helped seal off the site from a hoard of curious onlookers drawn to the area as rumors of confrontation spread through the nearby communities.
Ray had hoped that Zwilling would eventually run out of bullets, rage, or both and come out with his hands in the air. These always end badly, he thought. He reflected on the all too familiar patterns. The shooters, always male and usually young, with histories of depression, conditions often exacerbated by alcohol and drugs, would force a deadly showdown.
A prolonged break in gunfire prompted Ray to move to a better vantage point. He slowly surveyed the scene as he reviewed his options. The exterior of the century old cottage was covered with lap siding, the multiple coats of white paint peeling in places. The trim around the windows and porch were a forest green, as was the lettering of the name, Ravenswood Cottage.
The glass in most of the windows facing Ray was now cracked or broken. Heavy shutters still covered the windows on the second story.
Using binoculars, Ray tried to peer into the dark interior through the heavy gloom. He could see no light or movement, just indistinct shadows. Then his focus shifted to the sound of breaking glass, followed by the shutters on a second story window being pushed open. He anticipated another volley of gunfire, but only silence followed.
Several minutes later a tiny flicker of light appeared on the left side of the ground floor. A flash followed. Windows and doors exploded outwards, waves of flame propelling the fragments of wood and glass. Then the walls buckled out, fracturing in the middle. The roof and second story seemed to be suspended midair for a second or two before collapsing into a roaring inferno. Ray could see a figure moving among the debris that was thrown from the structure, the man’s hair and clothing aflame.
Before he could move from his position, other team members were already running toward the figure. By the time Ray reached the man, two EMTs had smothered the burning clothing with blankets and pulled him a safe distance from the roaring pillar of flames. “Still alive,” said one of them, in answer to Ray’s questioning expression. Then the victim was quickly loaded on a stretcher and carried away.
Firefighters and their equipment moved forward from a staging area a few hundred yards away and began to pour water on the flames. Within minutes, all that remained were the blackened remnants of the cottage. The cement block pillars of the foundation, only four courses high, now rose above the debris.
2
The next morning Ray stood on the promontory that had been his command post the day before with Richard Grubbs, the manager of the Mission Point Summer Colony. In the dappled light—the brilliant sun streaming through the dense foliage of the hardwood forest—firemen shifted through the charred debris.
“Building was there for close to a hundred years,” said Grubbs. “Made it through lots of storms, winters, generations of families, gone in what…?”
“Fifteen minutes,” answered Ray. “Actually, it was gone in a few seconds, fifteen minutes more for the fire to destroy what was left.” He looked over at his companion. Grubbs was tall, thin, and slightly stooped. A blue cotton, button-down shirt extended beyond the neck of a sweatshirt and khaki pants hung on his aging body. His feet disappeared into a worn pair of Bean camp moccasins.
“Well, there wasn’t much there, just framing, no drywall or plaster. It was one of the few cottages that hadn’t changed much over the years.”
“The explosion reduced it to kindling. What was left was quickly consumed by fire,” said Ray. He turned to Grubbs. “Sounds like you were familiar with the place.”
“I was in there many times over the years. In fact, I stopped by a couple of days ago to talk to Garr. One of our maintenance guys had reported that Zwilling was in residence. Normally we open the grounds for the summer residents the last weekend in April, but this year we moved it to the middle of May. That last ice storm in March, the one that knocked out the power for four or five days, caused a huge amount of destruction here. We still have roads blocked by fallen trees. Power hasn’t been fully restored to all the cottages. We notified all the owners of the delay, but somehow Zwilling didn’t seem to get the word. I went over to ask him to leave the area.”
“His response?”
“It was clear that the man had been drinking…probably for days. He was wild, unshaven, and belligerent. In fact, I was thinking about calling your department for assistance. That said, we try to keep things in the family. Yesterday morning I asked one of our guys to check and see if Zwilling had left as he’d promised. Five minutes later Ted was back, saying that Zwilling was on his front porch, gun in hand. I walked back with Ted. I had some silly notion that I could talk him down. As we approached, he started shooting the windows out of the neighboring cottage. That’s when we crawled behind this hill, and I dialed 911.”
The men stood in silence for a long moment and watched the activity below.
“What’s Zwilling’s condition?” asked Grubbs. “Is he in Traverse City?”
“No. He was transported to the burn center in Ann Arbor as soon as he was stabilized. When I checked earlier this morning, he was still in critical condition. Have you had other encounters with him over the years?”
“I can’t say that I have. In a place like this you get to know people over many decades and generations. Granted, it’s only two months of the year, just a slice of their lives. I remember Garr’s grandparents, lovely people. His grandfather was a psychiatrist, a very quiet, thoughtful man. By default, he was our resident physician during the summer, first aid kind of things, cuts, bruises, the occasional stitch or two. Garr’s grandmother was always in the choir, a soprano. She also worked in the costume shop for our annual play and did the flowers for the chapel. They were lovely people. They had children late, after Dr. Zwilling returned from service in WWII.