To Ivy
And Laurie, always
Men are what their mothers made them.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON, The Conduct of Life
Therefore I did not know that I would grow to be
My mother’s evil seed and do these evil deeds.
—EMINEM, “Evil Deeds”
1
When Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett received the call every parent dreads, he was standing knee-high in thick sagebrush, counting the carcasses of sage grouse. He was up to twenty-one.
Feathers carpeted the dry soil and clung to the waxy blue-green leaves of the sagebrush within a fifty-foot radius. The air smelled of dust, sage, and blood.
It was late morning in mid-March on a vast brush-covered flat managed by the federal Bureau of Land Management. There wasn’t a single tree for eighteen miles to the west on the BLM land until the rolling hills rocked back on their heels and began their sharp ascent into the snow-covered Bighorn Mountains, which were managed by the U.S. Forest Service. The summits of the mountains were obscured by a sudden late-season snowstorm, and the sky was leaden and close. Joe’s green Game and Fish Ford pickup straddled the ancient two-track road that had brought him up there, the engine idling and the front driver’s door still open from when he’d leapt out. His yellow Labrador, Daisy, was trembling in the bed of the truck, her front paws poised on the top of the bed wall as she stared out at the expanse of land. Twin strings of drool hung from her mouth. She smelled the carnage out on the flat, and she wanted to be a part of it.
“Stay,” Joe commanded.
Daisy moaned, reset her paws, and trembled some more.
Joe wore his red uniform shirt with the pronghorn patch on the sleeve, Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and a Filson vest against the chill. His worn gray Stetson was clamped on tight. A rarely drawn .40 Glock semiauto was on his hip.
Twenty-one dead sage grouse.
In his youth, everyone called them “prairie chickens,” and he knew the young ones were good to eat when roasted because they’d been a staple in his poverty-filled college days. They were odd birds: chicken-sized, pear-shaped, ungainly when flying. They were the largest of the grouse species, and their habitat once included most of the western United States and Canada. Wyoming contained one hundred thousand of them, forty percent of the North American population.
Of this flock, he’d noted only three survivors: all three with injuries. He’d seen their teardrop-shaped forms ghosting from brush to brush on the periphery of the location. They didn’t fly away, he knew, because they couldn’t yet.
It was obvious what had happened.
Fat tire tracks churned through the sagebrush, crushing some plants and snapping others at their woody stalks. Spent 12-gauge shotgun shells littered the ground: Federal four-shot. He speared one through its open end with his pen and sniffed. It still smelled of gunpowder. He retrieved eighteen spent shells and bagged them. Later, after he’d sealed the evidence bag, he found two more shells. Since eighteen shells were more than a representative sample, he tossed the two errant casings into the back of his pickup.
There was a single empty Coors Light can on the northeast corner of the site. He bagged it and tagged it, and hoped the forensics lab in Laramie could pull prints from the outside or DNA from the lip. Problem was, the can looked much older than the spent shotgun shells and he couldn’t determine if it hadn’t simply been discarded along the road a few weeks prior to the slaughter.
Joe guessed that the incident had occurred either the night or day before, because the exploded carcasses hadn’t yet been picked over by predators. Small spoors of blood in the dirt had not yet dried black. Whoever had done it had shot them “on the lek,” a lek being an annual gathering of the birds where the males strutted and clucked to attract females for breeding. The lek was a concentric circle of birds with the strutting male grouse in the center of it. Some leks were so large and predictable that locals would drive out to the location to watch the avian meat market in action.
The birds bred in mid-March, nested, and produced chicks in June. If someone was to choose the most opportune time to slaughter an entire flock, this was it, Joe knew.
So “Lek 64,” as it had been designated by a multiagency team of biologists charged with counting the number of healthy groupings within the state, was no more.
—
JOE TOOK A DEEP BREATH and put his hands on his hips. He was angry, and he worked his jaw. It would take hours to photograph the carcasses and measure and photograph the tire tracks. He knew he’d have to do it himself because the county forensics tech was an hour away—provided the tech was on call and would even respond to a game violation. Joe knew he was responsible for the gathering of all evidence to send to the state lab in Laramie, and it would have to get done before the snow that was falling on top of the mountains worked its way east and obscured the evidence. Since it was Friday and the lab technicians didn’t work over the weekend, at best he’d hear something by the end of next week.
He’d find whoever did this, he thought. It might take time, but he’d find the shooter or shooters. Fingerprints on the brass of the shells, tire analysis, the beer can, gossipy neighbors, or a drunken boast would lead him to the bad guys. Sometimes it was ridiculously easy to solve these kinds of crimes because the kind of person who would leave such a naked scene often wasn’t very smart. Joe had apprehended poachers in the past by finding photos of them posing with dead game on Facebook posts or by looking at the taxidermy mounts in their homes. Or by simply going to their front door, knocking, and saying, “I guess you know why I’m here.”
It had been amazing what kinds of answers that inquiry sometimes brought.
But he wasn’t angry because of the work ahead of him. There was also that special directive recently put out by Governor Rulon and his agency director about sage grouse. Preserving them, that is. Game and Fish biologists and wardens had been ordered to pay special attention to where the grouse were located and how many there were. The status of the sage grouse population, according to Rulon, was “pivotal” to the future economic well-being of the state.
Sage grouse in Wyoming had shifted from the status of a game bird regulated by the state into politics and economics on a national level. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service was threatening to list the bird as an endangered species because the overall population had declined, and if they did, it would remove hundreds of thousands of acres from any kind of use, including energy development—whether gas and oil, wind, hydrothermal, or solar. The federal government proposed mandating an off-limits zone consisting of one to four miles for every lek found. That would impact ranchers, developers, and everyone else.
That was the reason Joe had been on the old two-track in the first place and stumbled onto the killing ground. During the winter, he’d seen the flock more than once from the window of his pickup, and sage grouse didn’t range far. Sage grouse did not exhibit the brightest of bird behavior. He recalled an incident from the year before, when a big male—called a “bomber” by hunters—flew into the passenger door of his pickup and bounced off, killing itself in the process. Joe’s truck hadn’t been moving at the time.