We’d killed the electricity to the Stritch house and outbuildings, so there was no yard light. When there were interior lights in the Stritch house, they were courtesy of an emergency generator Herman, like many farmers, had installed. I couldn’t see any lights in the house now, though, as Hester and I jogged to the forward perimeter. Herman must have been saving gas. The front of the house was fairly well lit by the portable lights we had running off a Fire Department generator. The problem was, the light was all from one direction, and the shadows were consequently very pronounced. It was black as pitch directly behind it, but there was no way we could get light back there. Just to make things worse, the humidity was so intense there seemed to be a fog hanging in the lighted area near the house. It was hard to make out details, which could become very important if you were trying to make out the subtle color and shape differences between, say, a bunch of scrap and a sniper. Nothing was moving. All the cops were behind cover, and with all the light from our side, we were all in deep shadow. It was very quiet, except for the muted sound from the generator back with the fire apparatus.
I found Eddie Heinz just to the left of the lane, behind about four cords of kindling. Hester and I knelt down with him.
‘‘What’s happening?’’
‘‘Don’t know. There was a bunch of yelling, then I swear I heard a screen door slam. Right before three rounds were fired. It’s been quiet since.’’
I peered toward the house. There were no interior lights at all, and our portables weren’t capable of penetrating very far into the gloom of the house. Silence. Millions of frogs and crickets, who had all stopped making their favorite noises when the rounds were fired, started up again. There were enough of them that it made it difficult to pick up the softer noises.
We were there for about a minute when a trooper came from the tent area, saying that the negotiator had called the house but they wouldn’t tell him anything.
Great.
The trooper also said that the negotiator had established that Herman Stritch had somehow made it back to the house.
Obviously, that didn’t surprise me too much. It would have been fairly easy for him to break down some of the old vertical siding and slip out. It bothered me, though, because he’d managed to traverse the area to the house unseen. And, like I said, it also meant that in court they might be able to say that he wasn’t the one in the shed when the shots were fired at Lamar and Bud. Damn. It also meant that he was there to lead the family and friends in their activities.
Just then, Eddie said he had movement to our left, in the shadow cast by the barn. I strained to see, but couldn’t make anything out. Then a small, reedy voice said, ‘‘Mommy, I’m all wet.’’
With that, a thin, bedraggled young woman stood up, with a child in her arms.
‘‘Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot!’’
‘‘Don’t shoot,’’ yelled Hester.
‘‘Keep coming,’’ I said, in a fairly loud voice, but not shouting. ‘‘We won’t shoot. Just keep coming.’’
She did. I noticed she kept looking over her shoulder toward the house, but that she tended to keep in the shadow as much as possible. In a couple of seconds, she had come to the woven wire fence, and was being helped over by Eddie, Hester, and me. She seemed to be in her early twenties, wearing a sleeveless cotton plaid shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes.
The first thing she said to me was ‘‘Hello, Mr. Houseman.’’
Damned if I didn’t recognize her. Melissa Werth, or Melissa Stritch now. She’d done about half her growing up three houses from me, at her grandmother’s, after her parents had been killed in a car wreck. I didn’t really know her, but we were well enough acquainted to exchange some words when we met in the grocery store. Damn. Just hadn’t connected her. Maybe I really was getting too old for this shit.
‘‘What happened, Melissa? Are you all right?’’
‘‘We’re fine. Do you know that that old son of a bitch shot at us? ’’
We were bundling both of them off toward the tent, and out of sight of the main buildings. ‘‘Who, Melissa? Who shot at you?’’
‘‘That crazy goddamned Herman!’’
‘‘Herman?’’ I asked.
‘‘Damned right he did!’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Because I wanted to leave. Because him and his whole goddamned family want to die instead of surrender, and that was supposed to include me and Susie!’’ We were near the tent now, and I could see her very clearly. She was a pretty girl, with long brown hair. She looked up at me, outraged and breathless. ‘‘Can you believe that shit?’’
‘‘Yeah, I’m afraid I can,’’ I said. We started in the tent.
‘‘Mark,’’ said Hester to a trooper, ‘‘get me a couple of women EMTs in here, will you?’’
Hester thinks of everything.
With Melissa and her child certified by the EMTs, we had a nice chat. It turned out that Herman, his wife, Nola, and his son William (the one I’d spoken with, and Melissa’s husband) were in the house. Melissa told us that they were all in agreement that Herman had done nothing wrong and was simply defending his property against intrusion when he had shot both officers. We were the ones, according to them, who were acting illegally, and were the ones who would have to back off. Melissa had been the one to bring up the possibility that we might not agree.
‘‘All I said, Mr. Houseman, was that maybe we’d better just think about this a little.’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘And I said, ‘What if they start shooting?’ And they said, ‘Then we shoot back.’ And I said, ‘But what if we get shot?’ That’s when they said that we could all die for our cause.’’
‘‘That must have been pretty scary,’’ said Hester.
Melissa nodded. ‘‘Oh, yeah. Really.’’
‘‘So what did you do?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Well,’’ said Melissa, getting huffy again, ‘‘I just said bullshit, and nobody’s gonna kill my baby or me over this. Even if it is murder you’re wanted for.’’
‘‘They admit it’s murder?’’ I asked, surprised.
‘‘Well, sure they do, Mr. Houseman.’’
‘‘That kind of surprises me, Melissa. I thought they said they were acting in defense of their property.’’
‘‘Well, on that one, I think so. But not the other one.’’
‘‘Other one?’’
‘‘You know, the ones up in the park in June.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The ones in the park, Mr. Houseman. The officer and the dope dealer. The ones you came to arrest them for today.’’ Melissa looked at me as if I were senile.
‘‘They did those?’’ I leaned forward and put my hand on her forearm. ‘‘Herman killed those men in the park?’’
‘‘Not Herman, but he knew about it. But, but…’’ Her lip started to quiver. ‘‘But Bill was there, and he saw it, and he never shot but once, and he never hit anybody,’’ and the flood began. I think she began to realize right about then that we hadn’t known about that at all.
While Melissa cried, I went outside and thought about a cigarette.
Al Hummel approached the tent. ‘‘What’s up, Carl?’’
‘‘You’re not gonna believe this one, Al.’’
After a long interview with Melissa, what we had was this:
On June 18th, the day of the shooting in the park, Melissa Stritch’s husband, Bill, was taking part in a militia exercise in the park area with several other individuals. Herman, while part of the leadership of this particular militia, wasn’t with them. Herman had, however, assisted in the planning for the exercise. The group had been in the park for at least a day prior to the shootings. Bill had called Melissa that morning, saying that they’d had to call off the maneuvers, but didn’t say why. He was calling from Herman’s place, and had spent the afternoon there. He had cautioned her to say nothing to the police. When he arrived home that evening, he seemed very subdued and worried. And, she’d noticed immediately, he’d had none of his militia gear with him. She’d asked, and he said not to worry about it.
Melissa had learned long before that day that when politics and/or militia business was involved, she was wise not to pry. It had taken Bill three days to tell her that the men he was with had killed the little dope dealer and the cop. Bill denied killing anybody, and refused to name anyone else who was with him that day.
The DCI agents had showed up the day after the shootings to do the interview with Herman, but had talked only with his wife, Nola. Herman and Bill had apparently been in the barn with assault rifles trained on the DCI men the whole time. It appeared that the DCI had talked to Melissa the same day, but without the snipers.
When Lamar and Bud showed up on July 23rd, Herman had automatically assumed they had solved the murder and were coming to arrest both himself and Bill. Bill seemed to have a calming effect on Herman, but Bill wasn’t there when our officers arrived. Melissa knew virtually nothing about the actual shooting of Lamar and Bud, but she had heard the argument between Herman and Bill in the house shortly before she left, the gist of which was that Herman believed the Original Notice was a ruse. Bill had said that Herman was nuts, and that if they were coming to arrest Herman, there would have been more than two. She also said that it was just ‘‘known’’ within the family at the house that Herman had done the shooting.
I looked at my notes again, then at Hester and Al. ‘‘We need to know anything else?’’
‘‘Just the family in there?’’ asked Al.
‘‘Two other men,’’ said Melissa. ‘‘Friends of Herman.’’
‘‘Know ’em?’’ I asked.
‘‘Not really.’’
‘‘Do they have guns too?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Oh, sure. Everybody in that place has at least one.’’ She yawned and shuddered at the same time.
‘‘It’s late, and I’m sure Melissa’s tired, aren’t you?’’ said Hester.
Melissa nodded.
‘‘Well,’’ said Hester, ‘‘I’m sure we can have a second interview tomorrow, with a stenographer present. After Melissa’s rested and fed, and we can see how little Susie is coming along.’’
I looked at Melissa. ‘‘Thanks, kid. We appreciate this.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ she said with a faint smile. ‘‘Just one thing… I’m not a snitch, Mr. Houseman. I’m really not. I’m just so tired of the bullshit.’’
‘‘I know,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m getting a little tired of it myself.’’
Melissa left with Diane Blakeslee, good old 884. Blakeslee would stay with her all night at a motel in Maitland, and deliver her to the Sheriff’s Department the next morning. Best we could do for protective custody. It was 0521. I went to a camper one of our reserve officers had brought to the scene, and thought for about five seconds before I fell asleep.
They didn’t wake me until 1120 on the 24th.
After a trip to a Porta Potti, two cups of coffee, and a moment spent thinking about a cigarette, I was ready to go. There were no new developments, so we scheduled my interview by the DCI agents assigned to yesterday’s murder and shooting. I was, at least, a witness. I figured it would be a good opportunity to bring Hester up to speed on exactly what had happened, and asked if she could sit in. As it appeared now that the murders in the park were related to the current situation, everybody agreed. My interview lasted just over two hours. Once we established that I hadn’t been intoxicated, using mind-altering drugs, or intentionally irritating Stritch, things went rapidly. We had to count the rounds in my rifle magazines to verify how many rounds I’d fired. I always carried twenty-eight in the thirty-round magazines, to save tension on the magazine springs. I had to explain that twice, as one of the agents didn’t understand how long those magazines stayed in my trunk. They also checked my handgun, and ruled that it hadn’t been fired for some time. I think the spider living in the barrel may have had some influence. They were really lawsuit-conscious. I don’t blame them a bit. It was sort of hard not to rush to the precise points I really wanted to cover, but I forced myself to stick with the pace. But when we got to Bill Stritch’s actions, the interest was heightened all around.
After the interview, I assembled both investigative teams, including my friend George of the Bureau, who pretty well knew everybody there, and had come up that morning to help us with his expertise. Well, that’s what he said. We all knew he was scoping things out for his superiors, but we let it pass. We didn’t know if we might need the FBI in a hurry, and it never hurt to have them up to speed. George Pollard had a new partner, Mike Twill. He went to look over the situation while we talked. There was also the incidental matter of a federal warrant being issued for Herman Stritch, for resisting the serving of a federal process… our guys’ Original Notice had been from the Federal Land Bank. Herman was engaged in some fraudulent practices, it appeared, with the Land Bank the victim. Fine by me. The federal charge was peanuts compared to what we had against Herman, but it was nice to have one in your pocket if you needed it. A federal charge, not a peanut.
We discussed the two investigations, and came to one very obvious conclusion: if we were to ever find out the names of the people involved in the park killings, we were going to have to accomplish two things. One, take both Herman and Bill alive and relatively intact. Two, do so in a way that would gain their cooperation.
Yeah, right.
‘‘I’m not saying this is going to be easy,’’ said Hester.
‘‘Well,’’ said George, ‘‘that’s good, Hester.’’
After a pause, I said, ‘‘It shouldn’t be too hard to get at least one of them alive and well. Probably both. Right?’’
‘‘Sure,’’ said Hester.
‘‘But cooperative doesn’t exactly leap out at me.’’
Al cleared his throat. ‘‘To do that, you gotta give ’em just a bit of what they want.’’
‘‘Yeah, but what Herman seems to want,’’ said George, ‘‘is being held blameless for shooting officers, for not paying contracted debts, and to be placed in charge of an independent state.’’
‘‘Like I said,’’ said Hester.
It’s hard to argue with the truth.
‘‘Look,’’ she said, ‘‘we just have to talk to him some more. We’ll get a hint of something that’ll work.’’
‘‘She’s right,’’ said Al.
‘‘How long do we wait?’’ I asked.
‘‘For what?’’ asked Al. ‘‘The hint?’’
‘‘No. How long do we wait before we go on in and yank ’em out.’’
‘‘I’m not sure that we’d want to do that,’’ said Al.
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘I think that’s gotta be a county decision.. . and I’m in charge, at least until Lamar gets back. It’s going to be my decision. And there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that we go in and get ’em after a reasonable wait.’’
‘‘That might be,’’ said Al. ‘‘But we own the TAC team, and if you want to go on in against their advice, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.’’
I’d been afraid that it was going to come down to that. Liability first.
‘‘Look, Al. It’s a decision that has to be agreed on in advance, because it’s probably going to have to be made in a hurry. You know that.’’ I stood up. ‘‘That’s why I brought it up now.’’
Al didn’t say a word.
‘‘For now,’’ I said, ‘‘I’ll count on using your team. I’ll put something together, you and the team commander approve it, and when the time comes, I’ll use it.’’ Bluff.
Al smiled. ‘‘Have you ever attended a crisis school?’’
Well, he had me there, if you didn’t count the last couple of days. He had, and he also controlled the resources. All I had was three officers, four reserves, and the office staff. And me. And I felt that my luck had been stretched awfully far yesterday.
‘‘Well,’’ said George in a cheerful voice, ‘‘let’s give it a little time, all right?’’
I nodded, noticing how quiet Hester had gotten. Great. With A1 and me disagreeing, she wasn’t going to be available to work freely either. Shit.
I wasn’t going to jump in like an idiot. I think everybody knew that. I hoped they did. What I wanted was a plan for direct intervention, carefully thought out, that I could order up on short notice. What A1 and company wanted was for somebody else to make the call on using force. Specifically, themselves. Legally it was mine. Practically it was theirs. The only thing I was certain of was that they’d be late, no matter what. Because I really felt that we’d have to go in, and maybe in a big hurry. I really did. Anyway, I now had myself lined up to come up with a plan.
Press liaison was our next item. How to do it professionally. So far, either A1 or I had just given them a brief rundown on events, without any real information. What was needed wasn’t my direct approach, it was somebody who could manufacture satisfactory sound bites, present them to the press, and escape without telling them too much. Not me, that was certain. As we discussed it, a little lightbulb came on in my head.
‘‘A1,’’ I said, ‘‘would you do it?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘It’s not my show, it’s yours.’’
‘‘Hell, A1,’’ I said, ‘‘you’re just so much better-lookin’.’’
There was a slight pause, and then we all started to laugh. Even A1.
‘‘All right, all right,’’ he said. ‘‘You got me on that one. How about we do the press together?’’
About fifteen minutes later, I found myself alone, outside the tent feeling the hot sun very well through my thinning hair, and wanting a cigarette so bad I was ready to kill for it. Then I noticed that the wives of our reserve officers had brought sandwiches. Thick slices of ham, thick slices of cheese, on really big hamburger buns. With thick smears of butter and mustard. Well, what the hell. Oh, have I mentioned I’m also restricted to thirty grams of fat per day, by my cardiologist? Well, I am. As I approached the folding table heaped with food, I decided to take two sandwiches, potato chips, and a can of Pepsi. I smiled at Gloria Nydegger, wife of a reserve officer.
‘‘This’ll be our little secret, Gloria.’’
She smiled back. She knew about my diet. I’d complained about it to everybody I knew. ‘‘Okay. Two?’’
‘‘Shit, Gloria, make it three.’’
‘‘Sounds good. Extra mustard?’’
Oh, why couldn’t state work that way?
I just started the first sandwich when George of the Bureau came over.
‘‘Just had a strange sort of call, Carl.’’
‘‘Mmmmpf?’’ Hard to sound sharp with a mouthful of sandwich.
‘‘A SAC is on his way up. Be here real quick.’’
I swallowed. ‘‘So?’’
‘‘So this is a heavy hitter among heavy hitters, Carl. Fellow named Volont.’’
‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘Met him at the meeting in Oelwein.’’
‘‘Well, I’ve never met the man myself,’’ said George. ‘‘Just heard of him.’’
‘‘Yep,’’ I said. ‘‘Well, he seems to have a handle on the dope trade, although I think he believes I’m not too sharp.’’ I grinned, remembering my raincoat.
George gave me a funny look. Just then, his cell phone rang. He answered it, got sort of a quizzical look, and handed it to me.
‘‘It’s for you…’’
‘‘Me?’’ I’d only talked on a cell phone a few times in my life, and sure wasn’t expecting to receive a call.
‘‘Hello?’’ I was expecting an FBI supervisor.
‘‘Carl?’’ asked a muffled voice, slowly and thickly.
‘‘Yes, this is Carl.’’
‘‘Houmph dses goone?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘House thinks goanen?’’ Very slow, very deliberate, and just about impossible to understand.
‘‘Who is this?’’
‘‘Mumph Lamar, fumf dumm shiddd.’’
‘‘Lamar? Lamar, is that you?’’
‘‘Yefffs.’’
‘‘Jesus Christ!’’
‘‘Mum, mum, mum,’’ he laughed.
‘‘It’s Lamar,’’ I said to George. Back into the phone, I said, ‘‘Why the hell aren’t you resting?’’
It wasn’t a long conversation, but just basic Lamar, and his wanting to know how things were. His wife came on the line a few seconds later.
‘‘Hello, Carl.’’
‘‘Hi, June.’’
‘‘I couldn’t stop him, and the office said they could get hold of you up there with this number.’’
‘‘How is he, June?’’
‘‘Well,’’ she said, disgusted and a little proud at the same time. ‘‘You know my old man here. Had to know just as soon as the anesthetic wore off.’’
He was calling from his room, had just come from a surgery on his leg, the second one, and was doing just fine. Except he wasn’t really conscious yet.
‘‘June, hey, could you ask him something for me?’’
‘‘Well, I’ll try. I’m not promising anything…’’
‘‘Ask him who shot him, will you?’’
‘‘Sure,’’ she said into the phone. I could hear her talking to Lamar, asking him twice who had shot him, more loudly the second time. Then she seemed to be arguing with Lamar for a second. Then I heard his voice on the phone.
‘‘Zhad fummggem hurrmen.’’
‘‘What, Lamar? I can’t quite understand you,’’ I said apologetically.
‘‘THAT FUCKIN’ HERMAN!’’
‘‘Oh, okay, boss, got it. Thanks, thanks a lot…’’
Roger Collier, the trained negotiator, came hurrying over. He had a problem, which he had taken to Al, who referred him to me. Hmmm.
‘‘Anyway,’’ said Roger, ‘‘Herman wants to talk to the media.’’
‘‘He does? What about?’’
‘‘He wants to give them his side. He says we’re gonna sneak in and murder him for defending his property, and he wants the outside world to know what’s happening before we do that.’’
‘‘How nice.’’ I shook my head. ‘‘I dunno…’’
‘‘Well, he’s progressing, so to speak. Lots of guilt building in him by now. I’d definitely say we were at the ‘dismay and disappointment’ stage.’’ Roger looked really hopeful. ‘‘Throw in that hopeless feeling he’s going to get after he talks to the media, and there’s nothing left…’’
I looked around. ‘‘Where does he want to do the interview? We don’t really have a place, but if we can get him past the fence.. .’’
‘‘Oh, no,’’ said Roger. ‘‘He wants to do it in the house.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Don’t say that, not yet. Just give it a second. This could be a break for all of us.’’
‘‘I don’t want a hostage.’’
‘‘That’d be the dumbest thing he could do,’’ said Roger.
‘‘He ain’t been overly bright so far,’’ I answered. ‘‘What makes you think he’s gonna start now?’’
‘‘So you want me to tell him we won’t allow it?’’
Damn. I had no idea what to do. I hate that. Well, when all else fails, be an administrator.
‘‘You’re recommending this… as our negotiator?’’
He looked a little surprised. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Yeah, all right.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘I just don’t want to have a news team in there. Cameraman and reporter. Lights. That’s a little too much, don’t you think?’’
‘‘Oh, he doesn’t want TV,’’ said Roger. ‘‘He wants newspaper.’’
‘‘Newspaper?’’ I couldn’t believe it.
‘‘He doesn’t trust TV. Says the Feds alter the signal, put in subliminal messages.’’ Roger shrugged. ‘‘Some people are like that.’’
I shook my head. ‘‘Okay.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘This isn’t a manifesto sort of thing is it? I meant, not just a bunch of bullshit from a crazy?’’
Roger grinned. ‘‘No guarantees.’’
‘‘We can explain to him that it’s the decision of the press as to what they print?’’
‘‘Yeah. We might not want to do that, it might scare him off. But they could do it, and give him a lot better reasons than we could.’’ Roger shrugged. ‘‘You make the call.’’
‘‘What do you think, Roger? Will this soften him up?’’
‘‘Let me just say this… he’s scared. He’s really screwed the pooch on this, and he knows it. All we have to do is just wait for it all to sink in, and for him to realize that he’s just digging a deeper hole for himself.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘We just don’t want to let him dig too long, we want to have him reach that little conclusion as soon as possible. We don’t want to be here forever, or it gets to be a real game.’’
‘‘But, I mean, it’s harmless, isn’t it? But something he wants to do?’’ I asked.
‘‘Well, he sure wants to do it.’’
‘‘Cool,’’ I said. ‘‘Then let’s let him.’’
‘‘Any conditions? I mean, at some point, he’s going to be very, very ripe. If we get him to that point, and then prolong it, we lose the moment. So how about a time limit?’’
‘‘For the interview?’’
‘‘Yeah. That would be good.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ I said. ‘‘An hour good for you?’’
‘‘Fine. You have any questions I can help with?’’
‘‘What’s to ask? As far as I can tell, the only thing we have to do is to get an intrepid soul to go in and talk with him.’’ I thought again. ‘‘Does he want pictures?’’
‘‘He didn’t really say,’’ said Roger.
‘‘Well, shit, Roger. Go ask him.’’
About fifteen minutes later, Al, Roger, Hester, George, and I were all talking with Nancy Mitchell and Philip Rumsford of the Des Moines Register. They had been, as usual, rather surprised that we actually wanted to talk to them.
‘‘Now wait a minute,’’ said Mitchell. ‘‘We don’t take anything in we don’t normally take. Like bugs.’’
‘‘No, no,’’ I said. ‘‘We aren’t asking that you do anything like that.’’
‘‘He just wants to talk with print media, and you’re just sending us in?’’
‘‘That’s right. We just want to give him a bit of what he wants, and see if it’ll put him in a better mood to come out. Peacefully.’’ I saw her writing that down, and hoped she got it right. ‘‘Underline ‘peacefully,’ would you?’’
Nancy Mitchell was not susceptible to charm. At least, not the charm of a cop at a crime scene who she suspected was trying to use her.
‘‘We’re going to need ground rules here,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to understand this thing just a bit better before I go in there.’’
‘‘Sure.’’ I reached back to the table and got two cans of ice-cold pop. ‘‘Here, drink these and I’ll tell you exactly what I want.’’
My charm she could hold off. On a terribly hot, humid day, however, cold pop had an irresistible charm of its own. We all sat under a tree, and took notes of what each other said. Slowly becoming more relaxed. Sipping cold pop, and munching on our sandwiches. Yeah, sandwiches. I’d grabbed a fourth.
‘‘What I want is this,’’ I said. ‘‘You go in, and you do your story any way you want. Print whatever you decide to. But,’’ I said, taking a bite of sandwich, ‘‘tewo uss fisrnd.’’ I swallowed. ‘‘I mean, tell us first. What he’s said.’’
‘‘Well…’’
‘‘How can that be a problem?’’
‘‘It isn’t really,’’ said Nancy. She took a long drink of her pop. ‘‘Just in general, or do you want a blow-by-blow?’’
‘‘If he’s in a manifesto mood,’’ I said, ‘‘just say that. But any details of what he thinks about this situation, who he blames, that sort of thing…’’
‘‘I can handle that,’’ she said.
‘‘Okay. And if you get into the house, and I think you will, I want a description of who and what’s inside.’’
‘‘Oh?’’ She took another swig of pop. ‘‘Like, what kind of stuff?’’
‘‘Oh, like if there are any booby traps, how many people, if they’re all armed. That sort of thing.’’
‘‘Hey,’’ she said, ‘‘we’re not ‘Force Recon’ here.’’
‘‘Force Recon? What are you, an ex-marine?’’
She actually laughed at that. ‘‘No. I had a boyfriend who was.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘Well, that’s not what we’re asking.’’ I grinned at her. ‘‘Just so you don’t think you have to paint your face green. Just information that’ll keep anybody from getting killed. Is that out of the question?’’
She hesitated.
‘‘We really want him to realize that we’re not going to get bored and go away. He’s really messed up here, and he’s going to have to answer for it. No question about that.’’ I looked her straight in the eye. ‘‘I just don’t want to have to start shooting again.’’
She still hesitated. ‘‘I understand that. But I’m not a negotiator.’’
‘‘Sure. I know that. Look, do you just want me to send someone else?’’ I asked. My trump card.
‘‘Like, who did you have in mind?’’ she asked. ‘‘Him, for instance?’’ She pointed back toward the press area, or ‘‘corral’’ as the cops called it. There were several press types, dressed for the occasion mostly in blue jeans, talking on cell phones, typing into laptops, or writing notes. Busy-looking. The print media people had a more relaxed air, while the TV folks were tense. A matter of deadlines, I’d discovered.
‘‘Which one?’’ I asked. Just out of curiosity.
‘‘The tall one with the beard and the laptop, sitting on the tailgate of the pickup.’’
I saw the one she meant. He was the one I’d noticed at Kellerman’s funeral. ‘‘What about him?’’
‘‘He’s the reporter for The Freeman Speaks. Extra-conservative rag out of some small town near Decorah. Prints it in his garage.’’
‘‘What’s his name?’’
She laughed again. ‘‘Get it yourself. And his social security number. You’re the cops.’’
‘‘Okay, good point. Anyway, no, not him, I guess.’’
‘‘You know, I’m surprised he didn’t ask for him,’’ she said.
‘‘Might not know he’s here,’’ I said. ‘‘Don’t tell him.’’
Her eyes sparkled. She knew she had me. ‘‘I get to go, then?’’
I grinned. ‘‘And I thought this was my idea.’’
We offered both her and Phil ballistic vests, but they both declined. As much, I think, from a little distrust that we might have bugged them, somehow. Oh, well. They would have been ungodly hot anyway. I asked Al about that, just in case, and he said that he thought as long as they had refused, we had no liability. Right. The tension was building just a little bit, in them as well as us. Phil Rumsford was constantly squeezing the bulb of a small brush he’d used to clean his lens for the tenth time. ‘‘Whisssh, whisssh…’’
It was getting hotter, as we waited for Roger to confirm permission for the news team to enter. The midafternoon sun was very intense. Everybody was sweating. Roger came over from the communications tent.
‘‘Uh, we have a little problem…’’
Both Nancy and Phil seemed to deflate a bit.
‘‘What?’’ I asked.
‘‘He only wants one person in. Doesn’t feel safe watching two.’’
‘‘What? That’s bullshit!’’ said Al. I agreed.
‘‘That’s what he says.’’ Roger shrugged. He looked pretty harried, and I knew how hot it was in the communications tent. He had to be pretty good not to just hang up on Herman.
I looked at Phil and Nancy. ‘‘If that’s what he wants, you still game?’’
They looked at each other. ‘‘Can we talk it over for a minute?’’ asked Nancy.
‘‘Sure.’’
While they walked about ten paces to our left, I looked at Hester and George. ‘‘What’s this tell us?’’
‘‘Either not too many in there or they’re really paranoid,’’ said George.
‘‘Both,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Or,’’ she added, ‘‘maybe they don’t have enough restraints for more than one hostage?’’
I think that had occurred to more than one of us.
‘‘Should we let one go in?’’ I asked no one in particular.
‘‘You think there was safety in numbers?’’ asked George.
‘‘Well, no, not that. But, I mean, do you think he’s got a sinister motive for this little request, or do you think he’s just playing mind games, trying to show control?’’
‘‘I’d vote for control,’’ said Hester.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Al. ‘‘But he sure can’t intend harm to them. They’re his voice to the outside world.’’
‘‘So?’’ I asked. ‘‘We let ’em go in?’’
‘‘I say we do,’’ said Hester, and got a withering glance from Al.
I thought it over. We’d already decided to send two. We needed Herman in a cooperative mood. We needed to get the son of a bitch talking, is what we needed. First to them, then to us.
‘‘I’ll let the press decide,’’ I said. ‘‘If they want to, they go. Otherwise, we try something else.’’
Nancy and Phil came back to the group.
‘‘We’ll still do it,’’ said Nancy.
‘‘With just one of you?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yes.’’ Phil smiled weakly. ‘‘Me. We need pics, and she’s not much good with a camera.’’ He looked at me. ‘‘My idea, but I’m no hero.’’
‘‘You’ll do until we can find one,’’ I said. ‘‘You still sure about not wearing a vest?’’
‘‘No vest. If he wanted to shoot somebody, it sure wouldn’t be a member of the press.’’
That was true. The dumbest thing he could do was irritate the press. Especially after inviting them in. And killing a reporter would have to be just about as irritating as you could get. Phil would be safe. Uncomfortable, sure. But safe. I was sure of that, but I could see that he was still nervous. I grinned at him. ‘‘Want us to tie a rope on you, so we can haul you out if he wants to keep you?’’
‘‘No, that’s okay.’’ He was busily adjusting his camera bag, checking his equipment for the tenth time.
‘‘Okay. Look, nobody knows this, but we have a TAC team in the outbuildings.’’
Rumsford’s head jerked upright.
‘‘That’s just what I don’t want you to do when you walk in,’’ I said. ‘‘Remember, anybody you see in the barn, or the shed, or around there,’’ I said, gesturing in an arc around the side of the farm, ‘‘is a TAC team guy. Don’t even look at them.’’
‘‘Right,’’ he said.
‘‘And, look, if he doesn’t want you in the house, don’t suggest it, all right?’’ I was serious. ‘‘Let him do the asking.’’
‘‘Yep,’’ said Phil. He adjusted his fisherman’s hat. ‘‘Ready or not…’’
We started walking toward the perimeter fence and the lane. We immediately attracted the press people, who came hurrying up, especially when they saw who was with us. They were stopped some fifty feet short of the fence by two troopers. We continued.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ yelled one of the TV people.
‘‘He wants to talk to us,’’ Nancy yelled back, unable to keep a smug tone out of her voice.
‘‘Scoop city,’’ said Hester.
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Phil weakly. ‘‘Scoop city.’’
The prearranged protocol was for Phil to stand in the lane at the fence line at 1430, exactly, and Mrs. Herman Stritch was to open the door of the house, and if everything looked okay to her, she would motion Phil on toward the house. I escorted him to the right place, and then stepped back a couple of paces. I looked pointedly at my watch. 1429. In a second, Mrs. Stritch was in the doorway, dressed in blue jeans and a faded green blouse, with binoculars in her hand. She raised them to her eyes and scrutinized Phil for a long moment. Then she gave me the once-over. It was hard not to make a gesture, but I restrained myself. Using binoculars at that range let her check for possible weapons before she allowed Phil inside the perceived threat zone. Sound practice. I wondered where she’d learned that. Her graying hair looked matted down with sweat. It must have been pretty warm in the house. Good. The less comfortable, the better. Finally, she motioned him forward.
It was almost two hundred feet to the house, and it must have seemed like two thousand to Phil. I noticed he looked just a bit more apprehensive when he passed the shed where Herman had been concealed when he shot the officers. I guess I was, too.
Mrs. Stritch held up her hand. ‘‘Stop right there.’’ Loud, but calm.
Phil did.
Now what?
I heard her say something, and then Phil turned to me. ‘‘She wants you back at the lines,’’ he hollered.
‘‘Right,’’ I hollered back, and turned around and started to walk back up the lane. I heard Mrs. Stritch say ‘‘What?’’ in a loud voice. I looked back over my shoulder, and she had disappeared, I assumed into the house. Phil had stopped short of the porch by about thirty feet and was just standing there. Now what? I thought. I kept moving, but slowed a little, looking back over my shoulder.
I felt the shock wave of the first shot as much as I heard it. I hit the ground as fast as I could, at the same time trying to turn and see what was going on behind me. So I landed on my right shoulder, and just about knocked the breath from myself. My point of view wasn’t too good, but I could see Phil standing there, and I thought that they were playing with him. I sat up just as I saw him start to waver, like he was trying to turn around. Then his head got lower, and the second shot went off. This time, he dropped like a rock, disappearing from my view onto the ground just short of the porch. Just as he disappeared, a fusillade of shots came from the TAC people in the outbuildings, a few at first, then a rapid series, just like very loud popcorn. As I tried to make myself smaller, I saw, from my vantage point on the ground, pieces of the house near a window on the second floor, to the left of the doorway, begin to fly off and large gouges of raw wood appear all over the upper half of the house. The troops were trying to get somebody through the wall. The firing tapered off pretty quickly, as there was no return fire, and nobody in the house was about to show themselves as a target at that point. A weird silence settled over the farm. My ears were ringing again, but I clearly heard a dragonfly humming a few feet away. It was hot. I became aware of a woman yelling. Two of them, in fact. One was Hester.
‘‘Houseman!’’ she yelled. ‘‘You hit?’’
I sat up and shook my head. The other was Nancy. I looked back toward the lines, and saw her standing there, with Hester trying to get her to turn away. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, except for ‘‘Phil.’’
Well, shit.
I got up into a crouch, and felt faint. Very hard to get your breath back after you’ve knocked yourself just about silly. I couldn’t really move just yet, at least not in a crouch. I didn’t want to sit back down, naturally. I really wanted to get out of the sight of the people in the house more than anything. So I just stood up and half walked and half ran back to our lines. It only took a few seconds, but it seemed a little longer. I could see Al just staring at me from behind a squad car. He probably thought I was nuts.
As I got to the fence, I walked over to where they had Nancy pressed down between two cop cars.
‘‘Nancy,’’ I said, still breathless, ‘‘I never thought they’d do that…’’
About ten minutes later, while Nancy was being treated by the EMTs at the scene, Hester, Roger, George, Al, and I were having a conference under the awning attached to the rear of the camper I’d slept in. It was subdued.
‘‘I just can’t fucking figure it out,’’ said Al very quietly. ‘‘Nothing to gain at all. Nothing.’’
‘‘You’re right,’’ I said.
‘‘It was the stupidest thing he could have done,’’ said George.
‘‘Yeah, idiotic,’’ said Hester.
Silence. For what seemed like an hour.
‘‘So,’’ I said. ‘‘Now what do we do?’’
More silence.
‘‘Anybody think it might be time to go in and drag their asses out?’’ I was getting really frustrated. ‘‘Or do we wait for another casualty?’’
‘‘We should at least contact them,’’ said Roger, ‘‘and see if we can get Phil’s body back.’’
‘‘What?’’ I almost yelled at him. ‘‘You want to call them up and ask permission to retrieve a body? Permission?’’
‘‘Hey,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t take it out on me!’’
I took a deep breath. ‘‘Sorry.’’
Silence, again.
‘‘It’s time they came out,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s all there is to it.’’
‘‘I agree,’’ said George.
‘‘What, just go in and take ’em out?’’ asked Al. ‘‘What, do you think FBI means, Superman?’’
George stood up at that one. ‘‘Not called for,’’ he said evenly. ‘‘But if you make it happen, I’ll be glad to take jurisdiction, and get our own team in here.’’
Al really didn’t want that. If that happened, the state would completely lose any influence or control, and would be reduced to providing crowd control services for the Feds.
‘‘Al,’’ I said, ‘‘what’s happening here is this… if some politicians over your head are worried about losing some of their constituents over this, just say so. I’ll be glad to talk to them and get some things straight. I know it isn’t you, because I’ve worked with you enough to know that you want to go in as bad as I do.’’
‘‘Nothing personal, George,’’ I said, standing up and reaching for some pop, ‘‘but the fewer Feds we have in this, the better. Otherwise, these idiots are gonna go nuts on us, and we’ll have even more problems.’’
‘‘That’s true,’’ said George. ‘‘I know that.’’
‘‘But,’’ I said, ‘‘if we have to go that way, then we do. I’d prefer state, but if I have to, I’ll go fed.’’ Like, I’d have a choice in the matter.
‘‘Let me make one more call,’’ said Al.
‘‘Sure.’’
He had a real problem, and I had some idea what it was. In my thinking about it, it was obvious that he had two bosses… the Attorney General and the Director of Public Safety. The AG was elected, the DPS was appointed by the governor. One, or both, had told him to hold off the violence. Period. Why? Well, traditionally, the governor’s office had felt that cops had no business interfering with political activities. Hard to disagree with that. Where they ran into trouble was with extremists. Mostly extremists on the right. The majority of them, after all, were farmers. Many of them were experiencing financial difficulties. I knew that no human being could ever get elected governor in Iowa on a ‘‘get tough on poor farmers’’ platform, and probably not on a ‘‘get tough on rich farmers’’ either. Hence the problem. Similarly, nobody could be elected Attorney General with that platform either.
Well, just a second, I thought. Let me qualify that. No human without courage could get elected. A leader, in the traditional vein, could. If he’d made the right decision and if he could defend it. But if he liked his job, and wanted to get reelected, he’d usually steer away from highly visible decisions that could come back to haunt him. So what were the chances of any of them hanging it all out in a situation like this? Right.
I looked at George, after Al was out of earshot. ‘‘Thanks,’’ I said.
‘‘No problem,’’ said George, ‘‘unless he calls my bluff. That could get interesting.’’
It was Hester’s turn. ‘‘You two’ll look great in fatigues and black ski masks.’’
‘‘Mine,’’ said George, ‘‘will say FBI. His,’’ he said pointing at me, ‘‘will say IDIOT.’’
We were quiet for a few seconds.
‘‘Why in the hell did they shoot Rumsford?’’ asked Hester.
That was the question, all right. We were right back to that. Something had gone really wrong. Big time. What? Whatever could have possessed them to shoot the representative they’d requested, the man to whom they wished to present their side of the problem, the vehicle who was to get their story out? Of all people.
I’m not especially known for either introspection or self-doubt. But this whole thing was beginning to get to me. What was I doing wrong? Honest to God, I never thought they’d shoot Phil. Not in a million years. But they had, and he was dead. Great decision, Carl. Great. Now I thought we should go in and get the whole bunch. If I was right, that’d be 50 percent for the day. They said a good executive was right about 33 percent of the time. Not good odds for my being right. Well, maybe I was just tired. ‘‘Maybe I’m just not too good at this,’’ I said to myself. I was in no mood to argue.
‘‘What?’’ asked George.
‘‘Just talking to myself.’’
‘‘Don’t start that,’’ said Hester.
Al came back about then. His face was red, and he had a disgusted look about him.
‘‘So what’s the word?’’ I asked.
‘‘The AG wants to talk to the governor. They’re going to have to ‘make a far-reaching policy decision,’ or something like that.’’
‘‘Great.’’
‘‘And he said it could take some time.’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said. ‘‘Well.’’ I took a deep breath. ‘‘That’s that, then.’’
George was getting a very worried look on his face. ‘‘Do you want me to call my people?’’
‘‘Not just yet,’’ I said. ‘‘Give me a few minutes.’’ I started to walk toward the perimeter. ‘‘Let’s look the scene over,’’ I said. ‘‘I might have an idea.’’
I had an idea, all right. But it sure wouldn’t stand a vote. We walked in silence toward the perimeter fence. When we got there, I just kept going down the path to the house.
‘‘Where are you going?’’ asked George.
‘‘To get the job done,’’ I answered. ‘‘I believe it’s time for the ‘deceive and detain’ phase. It’ll just take a minute. Anybody want to come along?’’
‘‘The what?’’ George hadn’t spent much time in the Winnebago.
We all were sort of committed to do something. I kept thinking about what Roger had said about guilt building up in Herman Stritch, and how he was about to understand that it was all over. Maybe. But the killing of Rumsford had to have done something in that house.
‘‘The what?’’ asked George, again. A1 answered him this time.
‘‘I think we’re going to go get Herman,’’ he said. ‘‘Looks like we are.’’
So we all continued walking down the lane. Me, Hester, A1, and George. Right by the junk pile. Right past the shed. Right past the TAC people. Right toward Rumsford’s body. Nobody said a word, but the breathing was getting a bit harder as we got closer to the house.
Finally, as we were just about to Rumsford’s body, George said, in a perfectly conversational tone of voice, ‘‘I certainly hope you know what you’re doing…’’
A voice cried out from the house. ‘‘Halt! Stop right there!’’
We’d caught them napping.
We stopped. ‘‘You guys stay here,’’ I said. ‘‘Anything happens, take ’em out.’’
‘‘Oh, right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Like, we huff and puff?’’
I grinned at her. ‘‘Sounds like a plan.’’ I turned back toward the house. ‘‘Herman!’’ I yelled. ‘‘I’m coming onto the porch!’’ I looked at Hester. ‘‘Come with me, and just play along. You’re an insurance agent.’’
‘‘What? Carl, what? What insurance agent are you talking about?’’
We walked past Rumsford’s body, and I glanced at it. He’d fallen on his right side, and there was a very large bloodstain on the ground. Heart must have kept beating for a little while, I thought. Lot of blood. Damn. ‘‘Surprised me, too,’’ I muttered, as I passed him.
The gray paint on the porch steps was chipped pretty badly. Just as my foot touched the bottom step, Herman’s voice said, ‘‘Stop there, Carl.’’ He sounded pretty calm, but there was an edge to him. Good.
‘‘Shit’s gonna stop right now, Herman,’’ I said, pleasantly surprised by the steadiness of my voice. ‘‘I’ve had it.’’
Silence.
‘‘I’m coming up further, Herman. What I got to say, I don’t want to shout.’’
‘‘Put your gun down.’’
I’d forgotten about my damn gun. At least, it was pretty obvious to Herman, in its holster. That was good.
‘‘Sure, Herman. If you put yours down.’’ I took another step, and stopped. ‘‘You stay here,’’ I said softly to Hester. ‘‘Don’t forget you’re an insurance agent.’’
‘‘Watch what I’m doing,’’ I said to Herman. ‘‘You do the same.’’ I unsnapped my holster and pulled out my. 40 caliber Smith amp; Wesson. I pointed it upward, and pressed the magazine release. The magazine slid out the bottom, and I took it in my left hand, and sat it carefully on the floor of the porch. Then, with the gun still in my right hand, I pulled the slide back with my left and caught the ejected cartridge with the same hand. Plucked it right out of the air. I love to do that. I then placed the gun on the porch floor, locked in the open position. I picked up the magazine, replaced the ejected cartridge, and put it back on the porch. I straightened up. ‘‘Shove your magazine through the door, Herman.’’
I could barely see movement through the screen. It was very bright outside, and the house was very dark. But a moment later a. 30 caliber carbine magazine slipped through the screen door.
‘‘There’s more people with guns behind me,’’ said Herman.
‘‘Me too, Herman.’’ I couldn’t resist a white lie. ‘‘With a couple of armored vehicles due in about an hour.’’
It was awfully quiet.
‘‘You hear me okay in there?’’ I asked Herman, in a normal tone of voice.
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Okay, Herman. Listen real good. I’ve had it. You understand me?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘So this is what’s gonna happen, Herman. You come out onto the porch now. Then your people in the house. One at a time. You got that?’’
‘‘I got it, but I ain’t gonna do it. I don’t want no more of your tricks.’’
‘‘Yeah, you are, Herman. You’re gonna do it, and there ain’t no tricks. I’m just tellin’ you to do this to clear us of all liability. I gotta clear the liability before our insurance will let us take the house with maximum force. The armored vehicles. You understand?’’
Silence.
‘‘Our insurance carrier is Lloyds of London. They know all about dealing with the IRA and all that. They know we gotta do what we gotta do. They know that if you don’t come out now, we’re comin’ in. You understand what I’m saying, Herman?’’
Silence.
‘‘The lady standing back here is the Lloyds representative for Iowa. She’s listening to this pretty close. You see that, Herman?’’
There was some hesitation, then: ‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Good. And I’m sure you understand what I just said. So, in fifteen seconds, the same amount of time the SAS gave the terrorists in London, you come out or we take out everybody in the house. Legal. No lawsuit. ’Cause I warned you.’’
I turned around toward Hester. ‘‘Is that enough, lady?’’
‘‘Uh, just a moment,’’ said Hester. She looked at her watch. ‘‘The time will start in twenty seconds,’’ she said.
‘‘Okay, ma’am,’’ I said. I turned back toward the door, and was startled to see it opening. Herman stuck his head out.
‘‘We’ll give up, but I can only answer for my family.’’ He spoke rapidly, nervously. That was good.
‘‘Is that all right with Lloyds?’’ I asked Hester, without turning.
‘‘Acceptable,’’ she said tersely.
‘‘Come on,’’ said Herman. ‘‘It’s over.’’
Herman, his wife, his two sons, and a daughter-in-law slowly emerged from the dark interior of the house, and came onto the porch. All lightly dressed in dark clothes, looking hot, sweaty, and very nervous. None of them appeared armed, and this was no time to get bogged down in details. ‘‘Okay, folks,’’ I said to the Stritches, as briskly as I could manage. ‘‘If you’ll go over to those two men, they’ll take you safely back to the lines. Do what they tell you, and you’ll be fine. And, please, don’t step on my gun, there…’’
Even though they weren’t quite sure what the hell was going on, Al and George were up to the occasion. They acted more like considerate tour guides than cops, as they ushered Herman Stritch and family back toward the line of officers. I did notice that only Mrs. Stritch looked down as they passed Rumsford’s body. I reached down and picked up my gun, and puffed up my cheeks, and blew out a whole lungful of air. Neither Hester nor I said a word. I inserted the single round back into the magazine, and quietly pushed it into the gun. I grinned at Hester, and she smiled back.
Our little moment of joy was interrupted by the sound of the back door slamming. Other forces were leaving the fort. Well, he’d said he was only responsible for his family. Hopefully, they’d be gathered up by the officers on the hill, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
‘‘Three, Comm?’’ I said into my walkie-talkie.
‘‘Three?’’
‘‘Comm, we have possible suspects leaving the farmhouse, probably going west. Notify the officers on the back side of the property.’’ I said this as Hester and I headed around the corner of the house. By the time I got to the backyard, Hester was ahead of me, and ducking. As she hit the ground, I ducked too, more or less out of respect for her judgment. I just caught a glimpse of a camouflaged man disappearing into the corn, and a tall figure in a camouflage battle dress, complete with turkey netting over his face, swinging what looked for the world like an FN/FAL rifle toward us.
‘‘Ten-four, Three.’’
Ten-four, hell, I thought, as I hit the ground.
He didn’t fire. I mean, it wasn’t like he had to or anything. He’d just stopped us with a gesture.
He disappeared into the corn at the base of the hill. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought there was more than one. I wasn’t about to stand up and find out.
‘‘They’re armed,’’ I gasped into my radio. ‘‘Ten-thirty-two.’’
‘‘Ten-four, Three.’’ Calm, dispassionate. What we paid her for. If only it didn’t sound quite so much like she was bored…
Two deputies and two troopers came flying around the corner of the house.
‘‘Two suspects, armed!’’ hollered Hester. ‘‘Both into the cornfield.’’
Three members of the state TAC team rounded the corner a moment later, having come from their positions in the outbuildings. Two of them immediately went into the corn. The other, along with the four uniformed officers, took up overwatch positions back from the edge of the field.
A few seconds later, I stood up cautiously and backed up a bit, and sat on the porch steps. ‘‘Just too tired to chase ’em,’’ I said to Hester.
‘‘Me too,’’ she said, standing at the foot of the steps, looking into the house. ‘‘But I’m not going to sit until I know they’re all gone.’’
I sighed. ‘‘You’re right.’’ I stood and picked up my walkie-talkie again. ‘‘Comm, Three, get a team here to help us go through the house, will you?’’ I looked at Hester again. ‘‘ ‘Acceptable,’ for Christ’s sake. You are great, there’s no doubt.’’
‘‘You’re no slouch yourself. But next time, tell me what the fuck’s going on, all right?’’
‘‘I always tell you, just as soon as I know,’’ I said. With more truth there than I’d care to admit.
The remaining TAC officer came up. ‘‘What do you think?’’
‘‘I think,’’ I said, still a little breathless and drenched in sweat, ‘‘you’d better get your guys back out of the corn… or at least slow ’em up. The one I saw looks real hazardous.’’
‘‘They both do,’’ said Hester. ‘‘I’d get a K-9 team.’’
‘‘Any idea who they are?’’ he asked. We shook our heads.
After a few seconds, I just couldn’t help myself… ‘‘You gonna say it?’’
‘‘Say what?’’
I gestured toward the cornfield where the man had disappeared. ‘‘Him…’’
She got it. ‘‘Oh, no.’’ She groaned. ‘‘No, no fuckin’ way, man. No.’’
The TAC man was talking on his portable, but was catching our conversation, and looking at us strangely.
‘‘Come on…’’
‘‘Never.’’ She was giggling. ‘‘You’re gonna have to do it yourself.’’
I looked her right in the eye. ‘‘Who was that masked man?’’
‘‘God, Houseman. You have no pride.’’
Whoever the ‘‘masked man’’ was, he and his partner were in a cornfield of some eighty acres, about twice as long as it was wide, which was bounded on one end and one side by a large, heavily wooded hill, which bumped into a string of hills. One side was bordered by a curving gravel road. At the other end of the field was the Stritch house.
We put people on the road, and at the Stritch end. We had a couple of people going onto the hill at the far end, but there was no way that we could put people in the center in a hurry.
Whoever the two were, they had to be pretty damned uncomfortable. It was well over ninety degrees, brightly sunny, and as humid as I’ve ever felt it. In an eight-foot-tall green cornfield, there isn’t a breath of air. It’s even more humid, if possible, because of the wetly green plants. I don’t think it’s actually possible to suffocate in one, but you sure feel like you’re going to. Especially if you’re lying still after exerting yourself. You can’t hear anything further away than ten feet or see anything further than five. Not a pleasant place, especially with a TAC team and a K-9 team after you.
We couldn’t find them.
We had a helicopter from Cedar Rapids PD come up, equipped with FLIR. I talked to the officer who operated it, a man I’d known for years.
‘‘Right now, FLIR is out of the question. That field would just look like a hot pond, with waves. Tonight, it’s possible, but without a breeze to cool the plants…’’
We got a corn picker running, and put four TAC guys on it, with one of our people driving. Went through the field. Not harvesting, just making a lot of noise and beating the corn down. They were the only officers above ‘‘corn level,’’ so to speak. They didn’t find anything either.
During the search of the cornfield, George came over. He was in a bit of a sweat. Seems that SAC Volont had come up. I hadn’t even seen him. He, as it turned out, had seen George walking with the rest of us toward the house. When it was over, Volont had been all over George like stink. Said it was stupid, foolish, and a bunch of other things.
‘‘Well, shit, George,’’ I said. ‘‘It worked.’’ I shook my head.
Turned out there was nobody else in the house. But Hester was right. You really gotta know that sort of thing.
Tired as we all were, we had to jump right in on Herman Stritch, and try to do an interview before we got him to the jail and whatever attorney he was going to have would be telling him to shut up. We did the interview in the Winnebago, just Hester, George, and me. Yeah, I know. It was a custodial interrogation, not an interview. But he was thoroughly advised of his Miranda rights, and he very deliberately waived them.
You have to understand that, after killing somebody, the guilty party has an almost uncontrollable urge to confess. Really. Not, as some attorneys would have you believe, that they ever had an uncontrollable urge to confess to something they didn’t do. But there is some mechanism at work there, if there’s guilt, that compels them to tell. All you have to do is be a listener.
‘‘Herman,’’ I said, ‘‘what the hell happened here?’’
He just shook his head.
‘‘Herman,’’ I said, ‘‘why did you shoot Bud and Lamar? They weren’t gonna hurt you.’’
He shrugged. ‘‘They were throwing me off the farm. I can’t have that.’’
‘‘No, they weren’t,’’ I said, as gently as I could. ‘‘They were just serving papers. You still had other avenues available.’’
‘‘No more.’’ It was said in a flat, final sort of tone. ‘‘Done with that.’’
‘‘With what?’’
‘‘With all the bullshit!’’
As it turned out, Herman had really lost the farm. Borrowed heavily over the years. The entire farm was in hock. The notes had come due five years before. All Herman had done was pay the interest on the notes. No principal. After all sorts of fuss, he got a five-year extension. Then he had decided, on the advice of a good friend whom he refused to identify, not to make any payments at all. There was something in the explanation about English common law, the unconstitutionality of the federal government, the right not to pay taxes or to be regulated in any way. The last part is what got him in trouble. He’d posted his property with a sign that said that no governmental agency could come on his property on pain of death. Fine and dandy, except the poor bastard actually believed it.
‘‘I’m sorry about Bud and Lamar, but I was within my rights as a free man to shoot. It was posted.’’ He gestured in the general direction of the roadway. ‘‘Right over there.’’
‘‘Doesn’t work that way, Herman,’’ said Hester. ‘‘That posting bit doesn’t mean a thing.’’
‘‘You women always think you’re so goddamned educated, so goddamned smart,’’ he said. ‘‘But you’re just women, the servants of men.’’
I thought Hester was going to kill him, but she just shook her head. I didn’t say anything, but merely looked at him over the tops of my reading glasses. Nearly a minute went by with just the sound of the breathing and the whisper of the air conditioner.
‘‘You don’t understand,’’ he said. ‘‘You don’t know about the takeover. The stealing of our soil. The Jews, the bankers. They’re all in it, you know.’’
Right.
‘‘We saw the black helicopters,’’ he said. ‘‘We saw ’em.’’
‘‘Black helicopters?’’ said Hester.
Damn. I was sure he was referring to the National Guard Huey we used for marijuana surveillance. Not black, but olive green. But we’d flown this area less than a month ago, when we’d picked up on the big patch in the park.
‘‘How long ago was that?’’ I asked.
‘‘Month or two.’’
‘‘Uh, Herman, I think that was us.’’ I explained to him that just about any helicopter, but especially an Army one, would look black at anything over two hundred yards, against the background of the sky.
Ah, but he was positive it was black. No further discussion. Not even when Hester said, ‘‘But, Herman, if it was me, I wouldn’t paint it black to hide it. I’d paint it blue and white, and put lettering like News Copter on the side. Wouldn’t you?’’
He didn’t buy it. But it was apparent that his sighting of the chopper had started the anxiety escalation that led to the shooting. The things you never think of.
‘‘They’re takin’ over,’’ he said. ‘‘The Jews and the UN. They’re takin’ the whole country.’’
Turns out that Herman had been shown a map. A map of the United States, with the so-called Occupation Zones carefully designated.
‘‘Herman, you can’t believe that.’’ I was really stunned.
‘‘Oh, yes. And we’re in Zone Five, us and Minnesota and Illinois and Wisconsin. The Belgian Army is going to occupy Zone Five after the takeover.’’
‘‘The Belgian Army, Herman? All ten of ’em?’’
‘‘You’ll see. The Jews slinking around here have it all arranged. You’ll see.’’
‘‘Herman,’’ I said, ‘‘what Jews?’’
‘‘They’re around,’’ he said, almost slyly. ‘‘I see ’em all the time.’’
‘‘Herman,’’ I said, ‘‘you wouldn’t recognize a Jew or a Belgian if one bit you in the ass.’’
He looked at me very coldly. ‘‘We can get you too.’’
About an hour after the two men went into the corn, Art arrived. Our chief deputy. He’d been gone on vacation since the day before Herman decided to shoot people. Fishing in Wisconsin. But he was back now, and was wasting no time. I made a mental note to find out who’d decided call him back early.
His car pulled up, and I could hear his reedy voice before I saw him.
‘‘Where’s Houseman? Find Houseman!’’
‘‘Over here, Art,’’ I hollered. ‘‘By the fence.’’ I glanced at Hester. ‘‘This oughta be good.’’
‘‘Houseman,’’ said Art as he bustled over to us. ‘‘I’m in charge now. You’re relieved here. I’ll take over.’’
‘‘Okay, Art.’’
‘‘I’m serious. I’m taking over. There’s going to be no more killing now.’’
‘‘Okay, Art,’’ I said. ‘‘You do that. I’m going with DCI to the jail, to start interrogating the prisoners.’’
‘‘The prisoners?’’ He looked around him for the first time. ‘‘What about the two suspects in the cornfield?’’
‘‘Well, I guess that’s pretty much up to you now. Everything else is pretty much over.’’
‘‘Over?’’
‘‘Yeah. Look, you go ahead and wrap it up here. They apparently aren’t in the cornfield. As investigator, I have to go do the interrogations.’’
He didn’t say a thing.
‘‘And, Art, DCI lab’s comin’ up, to do the scene. We have to protect it until they get here. And…’’
‘‘What’d you do, fuck up?’’ he interrupted.
Art always was good with people. I just looked at him, suddenly tired. ‘‘Yeah, I suppose I did. Why don’t you look into that while you’re at it.’’
‘‘Believe me,’’ said Art, ‘‘I will.’’
I headed toward my car, with Hester alongside.
‘‘He’s still a real asshole,’’ she said. Just a flat statement.
‘‘Yep. But I’d really worry if he changed.’’ I grinned. ‘‘Just being himself. No real problem unless you start to take him too seriously.’’
Suddenly the press was coming at us. Just as soon as Herman and family had been hustled out, apparently somebody thought there was no reason to keep the press corralled anymore. They still couldn’t get past the fence, but all our cars and facilities were now in press territory. Hester saw them first. A disorganized group, spreading out from the press corral. And four or five of ’em had seen us and were on the way.
‘‘Shit.’’ The last thing I wanted was the press.
‘‘I’ll handle them,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Just stay back.’’
That was easy.
‘‘He,’’ said Hester to the first two reporters, pointing toward Art, ‘‘is in charge of everything here. You’ll have to talk to him.’’
They were gone like magic, swarming poor Art. And I heard one of them say, ‘‘That’s two known dead now, right?’’ My stomach started to burn.
‘‘Thanks, Hester.’’
‘‘Sure thing.’’ We continued toward the cars. ‘‘Just one more thing, Houseman.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I sighed. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘You got your raincoat this time?’’