Doctor Mosquito

2 - The Friendly Moose

Sheriff Daniel Carlsen slowly pulled his car into the long gravel lane that led to The Friendly Moose Campground. No need to use the siren today. Ahead he could see Deputy Vernon Cole's cruiser on the side of the road. Cole was doubled over behind the car vomiting into a patch of alfalfa.

The Sheriff had seen his fair share of strange happenings in his twenty-seven years on the job. He chased down a disturbed teen who was slaughtering livestock in the middle of the night with a chainsaw. He covertly collected evidence on Ted Barnes who was quietly dealing crystal meth out of his used car lot. When he lowered the boom on Ted, he lost a long-time friend and a stalwart of the community. He rescued a child from a burning car, broke up countless domestic disputes that involved alcohol and shotguns, and even helped capture a fugitive who had holed up in a cabin on Route 2 by Harley Lake. A small town like Bemidji, Minnesota was not immune to the fringe behaviors of humanity and in fact might have been more vulnerable because of the relentless snow and endless nights of winter. The absence of sunlight and the utter isolation of the deep woods could drag the mind to a dark place. He had seen it all. Or so he thought, until this morning.

"Christ on a cracker, Vernon," he said as he stepped out of his cruiser. "What the hell is going on?"

Deputy Cole did not look up but kept his hands on his knees and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He pointed toward the small cabin that stood at the entrance of the campground. The Sheriff could see Hilda Green, the owner of The Friendly Moose, sitting on the front steps with her face buried in her hands. She was flanked by two other deputies who were trying to comfort her. Sheriff Carlsen pulled up his sagging pants and walked toward the cabin.

"Can someone please give me the sitrep," said the Sheriff as he approached. He had never served in the military but admired the discipline and lingo.

It was Hilda who spoke first. "They're dead, Sheriff."

"Who?"

She slowly looked up with puffy eyes and tears running down each cheek. "All of them."

The Sheriff spun around and looked into the thin woods where he could see smoldering campfires, trailers and dozens of tents in red, orange, green and blue. Then he saw the bodies. They were collapsed in the middle of the dirt lanes between campsites, hunched over picnic tables, and curled up in camp chairs like they had simply fallen asleep at the fire. He could see the doughy mass of a middle-aged man who was returning from the showers, his towel now unwrapped and his naked white ass shining bright as a harvest moon.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "We need to call in some help."

"They are already here," said one of the deputies pointing to two black SUVs and a white van on the edge of the grounds. The side of the van said "FBI" in large blue letters next to the seal of the United States. Below that it said, "Evidence Response Team."

The van opened and half a dozen people in white hazmat suits and yellow boots fanned out into the campground to examine the bodies and bag evidence. Behind them two men in dark blue windbreakers with large yellow FBI lettering talked on their cellphones. When they saw the Sheriff, they put away the phones and walked to the small cabin.

"Sheriff, my name is Agent Modi," said the older agent. He had a slight Indian accent, brown skin, gray temples and a scar that sliced his left eyebrow into two pieces. He was five foot eight and a hundred and fifty pounds at most, but he carried authority in his voice and posture. "This is a federal investigation and I'm going to have to ask you and your men to give us some space to work." Modi had struggled with testosterone-laden lawmen in the past and they always bristled at the feds claiming jurisdiction. But to his surprise, the Sheriff didn't put up a fight.