"Three…" came the familiar voice of my favorite dispatcher, Sally Wells. She was obviously the second dispatcher called in. That made me feel a lot better, as Sally had been with us for years, and was a certified departmental asset.
"Go ahead," I said, turning my head toward the mike mounted on my left shoulder.
"Ten-sixty-nine on items two and three."
"Ten-four."
"Regarding item two, the mobile unit will be ten-seventy-six within ten minutes or so, with the other assistance to be ten-seventy-six shortly." Translated, that meant that the mobil crime lab would be on its way to us within ten minutes, and a DCI agent or two would be coming in shortly. The bad part was that the mobil crime lab was in Des Moines, about three to four hours away. The good part was that the agents were based much closer.
"And… uh… Three, could you get back to a phone?"
That was unusual, and I really didn't want to do it, because it meant that I'd have to traipse back through part of the house again. But Sally knew what she was about, and she wouldn't ask if it weren't really necessary.
I let myself back in the Borglan house, and called the office.
"Sheriffs Department…"
"Better be good," I said, grinning.
"You're not gonna like this one bit," said Sally.
"So…?"
"The assigned agent is Art Meyerman."
Oh, great. Just great. Art Meyerman had been the chief deputy in our department for several years, was a thoroughly unpleasant man, and had left under a bit of a cloud. He'd gotten a job with state, with what I suspected was a bit of political assistance, and had become an agent for the Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation. It was rare, but it happened.
I suspected that state wouldn't send Art back into his old county lightly. He'd been with them in Waterloo for almost two years, and as far as I knew, had never set foot in Nation County during that time. There had to be a shortage of available agents, for some reason.
I took a deep breath, and exhaled. "Hokay, Sally. Why don't you get Lamar to stop off in the office on his way through town, and give him the news. Maybe he can make something else happen…"
I truly didn't want to be working with Art again. Although he and I could get along if necessary, he hated Mike, Sally, and just about half the rest of the department. With a double homicide, I wanted a really smooth investigation.
"Maybe Hester Gorse is available?" Hester was just about the best General Crim. agent in the state.
"Already checked, she's still on her temporary gambling boat rotation. They won't pull her out. I tried." The General Beauregard, a Mississippi River gaming boat was home-ported in our county.
"Right." Well, we'd just have to make the best of it. If there was a best. "Right," I said, again. "Well, as long as I've got you on the phone, get an ETA for the medical examiner, will you? And find out who it is."
"You bet. Sorry about Art."
"Not your fault. Just remember that you secretly love him…"
"Yeah," said Sally. "Right." If she could have spit over the phone, she would have.
I got that spooky feeling again, just as I hung up the phone.
I talked to Mike on my way to my own car. "You might want to move your car around over there," I said, pointing in the general direction of the steeper of the slopes leading to the backyard, where his lights would do the most good and he could observe the back door. "I'd feel better, just in case there's still somebody in the house."
He gave me a startled look, and I kind of grinned to myself. Had him spooked, now, too. Misery loves company.
Then I sat in my warm car, and waited for everybody else to arrive.
I could hear the radio traffic begin to pick up as people came to work, or got closer. First, as John Willis, Deputy Number Nine, hit the road, and then as Lamar started out from the office. Shortly afterward, I heard a terse, one-line announcement from State Radio that an agent was en route to our county.
It was just warm enough in the car to destroy any adaptation I might have made to the cold. I reloaded my camera, and then began to scratch out a series of notes to myself. And I started to think about Fred.
Could he have done this? Sure. In this business, you learn early on that anybody can do just about anything. The real question was, did he? I didn't think so. If he'd done it, I thought it would be more likely that he simply would have run away, and sure as hell wouldn't have been discovered sitting out on the road, honking his horn. After all, running requires the least, immediate effort. We probably wouldn't even have discovered the bodies until the Borglans came back. Which reminded me…
"Comm, you might want to try to get hold of the owner here, wherever they said they could be reached. Not too many details, okay, but I think we might need one of them up here."
"Ten-four."
"And, let me know if you reach them…"
"Ten-four," she said, being a bit short. Of course she'd let me know. Telling her something that basic was just a bit of an insult. I was sure I'd hear about that one later. I was wrong. I heard about it right away.
"Comm, One?" That was Lamar.
"One?"
"You want to let him know when you tie his shoes, too?"
"If it makes him feel better," said Sally. She sounded happy.
I could hear Lamar chuckle as he said, "Three, we're already on that."
I grinned, and got back to my notes. Back to Fred. Back to the Borglans' vacation. They were in Florida. Great. Should probably be a day or more before they could get a plane… Oh, well. We'd need their permission to search the place, just as a courtesy, and to possibly extend that search over their entire farm. Not only that, but they were the only people who could tell us a lot of things, including whether or not anything was missing. Whether or not Fred knew them. Who would have had access to the place. What was disturbed. All the stuff that I needed to know.
We'd just have to do what we needed to do without them. It occurred to me that I'd be a little irked if I had to come back from Florida into this deep freeze, for something like this. Hell, for any reason, really.
"Three, Comm" jarred me back to reality.
"Comm?"
"Have contacted the subject you requested. They will be ten-seventy-six ASAP."
"The property owner?"
"Ten-four."
Cool. Almost like magic. "They give an ETA, Comm?" I still thought it would be at least forty-eight hours.
"The male subject is already on his way, was coming up for some business things, for a couple of days."
"Well, ten-four, Comm. Excellent!" I just love it when things happen to go smoothly for a change.
"Should be arriving at the Cedar Rapids Airport in an hour or so, according to his wife."
"Ten-four!" Perfect timing. How about that.
"Three, the other subject is ten-six, but will be able to head up in about an hour or so, from the Manchester area."
I thought rapidly. Who was the other subject? Oh.
"Last name end in a nine?" As in 10-79, which would be the M.E.
"That's the one." She was quick, as usual.
"Ten-four." The one I really wanted was based near Cedar Rapids. Manchester threw me. "Comm, did they say which one it was?"
"Negative, Three."
I hung the mike back up. All right. I wasn't sure just how much of a rush we should be in for the M.E., with the bodies in a deep freeze. If they'd gone out to the shed on Sunday, and it was way up in the twenties, would they be frozen through by now? Would it make an appreciable difference? How in hell was the M.E. going to come even close to a time of death? They did have frost on them. Warm when they got out there? I thought for a second. If they'd been covered as soon as they were deposited, would the frost have formed? Or did it mean they were covered afterward? Damn. If they'd been pretty warm, I thought we might just get frost as they froze. And just what did that tell me? Nothing, yet.
We'd need to try for a core temperature, but what would that tell us? With the ambient temperature varying from what… room temperature to minus thirty-five degrees, with pauses at the mid-twenties, how would temperature determine time of death? Or, rather, how close could it get us? I didn't have much hope for that approach.
Stomach contents. There was a chance for you. Frozen food, so to speak. We'd have to find out when they'd last eaten.
What other evidence would there be in the house? I was really anxious to do the whole place. There had to be something in there. Then Fred's question about whether or not I'd charge him with manslaughter popped back into my head. Why had he asked that? Just dumb luck? I thought so, but I was far from sure.
I was beginning to be afraid his was going to be an interesting case.
I jotted down the questions, and was just going to pick up my mike when I saw Lamar coming down the lane in his four-wheel-drive pickup, completely marked in the white with blue-outlined gold striping of a normal patrol car. It had the newest set of top lights in the department, as well. "Lamar's Awesome Machine," as Mike called it. I waved, and he pulled up on the left side of my car, motioning me to join him. I did so, gratefully. My car was a standard-sized Chevy, and bearable; but Lamar's truck was larger, and almost luxurious inside. I'm six feet three, and about 260 or so. I like to be able to stretch out a bit in a vehicle.
I clamored in, and shut the door. Lamar gave me a long look. "I posted Nine at the end of the lane, so the DCI can find this place. You know it's Art who's comin'?"
I nodded. "Can't figure that one out."
"I called his supervisor from the office. They've got a major case down in Washington County, and everybody else is out with the flu." He looked at me for a second. "Art ain't gonna know I called his boss."
"Right."
He sighed, the way only a stressed sheriff can. "So, just what the hell you got here?"
I told him. When I was finished, he only had a couple of questions.
"How were they killed?"
"Dunno, Lamar. Didn't look that close. I didn't move anything, and I just raised the tarp enough to see that it was two males. Very, very dead." I grinned. "And no, I didn't recognize either one of 'em."
"I was gonna ask that," he said. "Okay. Okay." He was thinking. "You think Fred, over there, did it?" He gestured toward Mike's patrol car.
I took a second before I answered. While doing so, something in the truck caught my eye.
"Is that a thermos of coffee?"
Lamar squinted at me. "We'll have a cup after you answer the last question."
"Okay," I said. "Got any doughnuts? Get a better answer for doughnuts."
He reached down behind my seat, and produced a white paper sack with MAITLAND BAKERY in red letters. He sort of waved it in front of me.
"Well," I said, "I think he's pretty much the only suspect we got." I waited a beat. "But I'd be real surprised if he turns out to be the killer. Mike came up on him as he was sittin' out at the pickup point, honking his horn. That worth a doughnut?"
"Sure," said Lamar. "Yours is pretty much the only opinion we got." He grinned. "So far."
They were chocolate, with chocolate frosting sprinkled with those little multicolored things. I took one bite, and said, "You got another one of those, I'll try to think of another suspect for ya…"
Less than thirty minutes later, the assigned DCI agent drove up. Our ex-chief deputy, Art Meyerman. Art was kind of anal retentive; so much so, he'd been stuck with the nickname of "Anus." I wasn't sure if he'd ever found that out.
I gave him a very brief description of what Fred had told me, and a short walk across the front of the house, pointing out the highlights.
"And they're over in that shed?" asked Art.
"Yep."
"And the M.E. isn't here yet?"
True to form, I thought. He had to ask. There were just four of us standing in the middle of the desolate, frozen yard: Mike, Lamar, Art, and me. With a prisoner in the back of Mike's car. Nobody else, no other car, nada. I felt like looking behind me before answering. "Nope, but he should be here in half an hour or so."
"I'm glad to see you left a couple of uniforms at the end of the lane," said Art. He was trying to be nice, but I found it very irritating that he referred to uniformed officers as "uniforms." The way he said it, it meant "second-class cop," and I thought it was very unfair. Partly since he had been mostly uniformed until a couple of years ago. And mostly since I was in my uniform.
We walked over toward Mike's patrol car. Art wanted to get a look at Fred, to see if he remembered him.
"Mike," he said, "would you contact State Radio and get the mobile lab up here?"
I resented his talking to Mike like that, particularly since he'd left the department to get away from the rest of us, but Mike didn't seem to mind a bit. "Sure thing, Art." Well, the "Art" did seem to have a thin glaze of sarcasm.
I stepped back with Art. "You recognize Fred, there in the back?"
Art sighed. "Can't tell. I want him out of here, though. Get him back to the office, or something. I don't want him around when we start doing serious stuff."
Fine with me. I told Mike to get him back to the S.O., and to hold him on a burglary charge. I didn't think we had anywhere near enough to do even a Suspicion of Murder on him.
"Let's go do the bodies with the M.E., at least a preliminary," I said, to both Art and Lamar. "As soon as one gets here. I haven't been back to the shed, so I don't have any photos except what I can see with the tarp pretty much in place. We can at least do that."
There was always the question as to who got to do the bodies first… the lab folks, who would gather evidence, or the M.E., who would tell everybody what evidence to look for. Since I had absolutely no idea what had caused the death of the two brothers in the shed, I was going for the M.E.
Art didn't look too sure, but Lamar jumped at the chance to have something to do. "Good."
That ended that discussion.
It was understood among us that, while Art and the DCI were the "detectives" on the case, it was our case all the way. They were assisting the Sheriff's Department. Not the other way around. Lamar was going to call the shots. But he was also smart enough to let Art work. Art had always had a nose for certain kinds of crimes, and knew a lot of people in Nation County.
Our job at this point was to protect and preserve the evidence for the M.E. and the lab team. Not that a frozen body was going to decompose or anything. But we did want photos for the M.E.'s later reference as well as ours. I thought I'd better get my camera. I knew that DCI probably had at least one, but I wanted my own shots, too.
On the way I noticed that the light had changed quite a bit with the headlights of the other cars. Some tracks were more noticeable, others had virtually disappeared. Sunlight was going to wash them out completely.
We all got into Lamar's extended cab, and cozied down.
Lamar lifted the air pot. He glanced at Art, who held his hand over his cup. I held my cup out. As he filled it, he said, "Ain't it something. The way that cold air makes your bladder act up?"
Lamar passed the time sweeping the area with his electronically controlled, state-of-the-art spotlight, mounted well forward on the right fender of the "Awesome Machine." The whole farmstead was in a wide valley, with a small stream running along the far side. I had to really look, but then I saw the track. Or, more precisely, tracks. There must have been a dozen separate tracks, some leading clear down the valley, some rising up a hill and disappearing.
"They look like old snowmobile tracks," I said. "I didn't see ' em before. Must have been the lighting."
"Must have," said Lamar, sarcastically, sipping his coffee. "We know how you never miss a thing." He grinned.
He was referring to an incident where I had left my raincoat at a crime scene, and it had later been found and taken in as evidence by the FBI. Art snickered.
My first thought was that the suspect or suspects had gotten away on snowmobiles. Fred had brought his cousins to the farm in a car. Couldn't have been Fred. Unless, of course, Fred had lied about their coming in a car. But the snowmobile track from the rear of the house sure looked like a possibility for a fleeing suspect.
"That could be our suspect," I said. I'd assumed everybody had been thinking along those lines. "Then," asked Art, "how do we explain the others?"
"Hired man," said Lamar. "He checks the place once in a while, while they're gone. He lives next place down the valley. I know he has a snowmobile."
"I see," said Art, lowering the binoculars. "We may want to talk with him."
"Already had 'em contact his wife," said Lamar. "Before I left the office. She said he's gone, picking the owner, Cletus Borglan, up at the Cedar Rapids Airport. Left about three hours ago. He'll call the office as soon as he gets back." He took another sip of his coffee. "I told the office to let us know when he calls. Didn't know if we wanted him here, or if you would want to talk to him at his place."
Lamar has been around the block.
The M.E. came driving up. Very nice black four-wheel-drive Bronco. Driven by Dr. Steven Peters, my favorite pathologist, and the one I'd hoped we were going to get. He had a forensic ticket, one of very few in the state, and he had a tremendous knowledge of his subject. He was also delightful to work with, and tended to bring his own supply of snack food. I can't begin to tell you how comforting it is to know that your autopsies have been done by a solid M.E., and that regardless what else happens, you always have the firm foundation of the M.E. report to fall back on.
We all got out of Lamar's pickup, as Dr. Peters pulled up. As he got out, he said, "I hope this is in the house! My God, it's cold!"
He knew us all from past cases. Lamar broke the bad news about the bodies being in the machine shed. After a brief consultation, we decided to drive Lamar's pickup and Dr. Peters's Bronco down the slope, and park them right at the edge of the shed. We could use them to warm up in, and to avoid having to walk back and forth for various items of equipment. And, as Dr. Peters said, to keep the doughnuts soft.
We chose a course that would avoid all the visible tracks, and down we went.
Just as we stopped, Lamar picked up his mike and said, "Comm, log the time. 0207."
"Ten-four, One."
"Nine, One?" as Lamar called Deputy Willis.
"One, go…"
"Nine, you want to stay put. Nobody gets in without a badge."
Once we got to the shed, all the lightness left us, and the somber business of investigating two dead bodies began. Everybody had their heaviest coats on by then, and mufflers or scarves wrapped over their mouth and nose. I couldn't help noticing that Art was rather underdressed for the occasion, with a topcoat instead of a parka.
Lamar and I were able to open the door another couple of feet, letting a bit of light in, and making access easier. We cast about, and finally located a light switch on the wall about ten feet from the walk-in door that was padlocked. Large fluorescent overheads flickered, struggled a bit, and then came on, flooding the entire space with light. Perfect.
I took three photos of the inside of the shed, which looked to be about 60 x 30 feet. The inside wall was a galvanized steel. Then three shots of the bodies as I had left them, with the tarp covering everything but the feet. That tarp was an olive-green-colored canvas, with aluminum eyelets, and stiff as a board. Lamar, Art, and I pulled sharply to unstick the frozen edges from the floor, and then slowly lifted it off the victims, and carried it off to one side, still frozen in the shape it had been when it covered them. I turned, and got my first good look at the two dead men.
The nearest one was on his back with his arms at his side, the other about three-quarters onto his face with his arms folded underneath. Both had white plastic trash bags on their heads. They didn't look to be cinched with cord or anything, just sort of twisted. Yellow pull tabs, integral to the bags, had been tied under the chins. Stains on the outside of the bags showed they hadn't been terribly effective. I figured the blood puddle on the water heater, under the basement stairs, was also indicative of that, but we'd have to check. The white bags were stiff, too, but not as bad as the tarp.
Three shots with each head in the center of the focus, for a total of six. I changed from the 50 mm lens to the 70-210 mm zoom. I fumbled a bit, as my fingers were getting cold. They were dressed in what at first seemed a light fashion. Jackets, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. Not dressed for today, that was certain.
"What was the temperature when they were supposedly dropped off?" asked Dr. Peters.
"Would have been in the middle to upper twenties," said Lamar.
"Hmm. Snow cover at that time?" Dr. Peters was pulling out the shirt from the waistband of the first victim, and sliding his gloved hand up onto the abdomen. Checking for indications of core temperature.
"Not a lot. Maybe, oh, two or three inches?" Lamar glanced at me. "Carl?"
"Yeah, about that." As soon as I spoke, the moisture from my breath froze on my glasses.
"Like ice," said Dr. Peters, mostly to himself, as he pulled his hand away and pulled the sweatshirt of the second victim up, reaching again toward the abdomen. This shirt, too, was stiff, but movable. "Quite a bit of moisture in the clothes, to freeze like this. Not wet…" He struggled for another few seconds with the sweatshirt. "Maybe damp, though." He tried to turn the body over to get his hand underneath in the abdominal area, but failed. "Somebody got a hand?"
I reached down, with my own latex-gloved hand, and grabbed the jacket near the right shoulder of the victim. I pulled, hard, and the body rolled about a half turn. They were as stiff as steel. No movement of any joints, whatsoever. Much worse than rigor mortis, where there was at least some possibility of some movement. "Corpse sickles."
Dr. Peters felt the abdomen of the second victim. "Just like a frozen supermarket turkey," he said. He stood. "Was there any reason they might have, oh, maybe sweat a bit before they were killed? That we'd know of at this point…"
"They were supposed to have walked in from over the hill," I said, letting go of the body, and watching it roll stiffly back to its original position. Just like a log, I thought. With the arms just like stiff, broken branches. "There are what look like may have been tracks in that direction."
"Good. I think that might do it, especially if they'd stopped in a warm place for a while… like the house, for example."
"They sure aren't dressed for snowmobiling, even in the twenties, are they," said Lamar, making a firm point.
"I shouldn't think so," said Dr. Peters. "Not an expert in that, though," he said with a grin. "But if they were to do it, they'd be needing the services of another kind of doctor by now."
"We don't have any injuries yet, do we?" said Lamar.
"Not yet," said Dr. Peters, kneeling at the heads of the victims. "I suspect we'll find something inside the bags, though."
"Asphyxiation," said Art.
Dr. Peters looked up. "Pardon?"
"Asphyxiation," said Art, again. "You think?"
"I shouldn't be betting a large amount," said Dr. Peters. He began tugging at the bag on the closest victim. "These aren't at all tight."
The white bag was stiff, the way that polyethylene gets when it's really cold. It gave Dr. Peters a rough time for a few seconds, since it also appeared to be stuck to the victim's head by frozen blood. He finally tugged really hard, and as it came off, it suddenly revealed a black-haired male subject, approximately twenty-five or so, unshaven, teeth exposed in a grimace. It was sort of startling, and took us all a second or two to adjust.
There was a lot of clotted blood on the right side of the head, stiffly clumped in with the longish hair, and with a patch of frozen polyethylene adhering to the clumped strands. The right eyeball protruded a bit, with the left appearing sunken, at least in comparison. The complexion was sallow.
"Hmm," said Dr. Peters.
"Blunt object?" asked Art.
"Not going to be your day," said Dr. Peters, gently prodding the matted blood and hair. He tapped the protruding eyeball, producing a clicking sound. "Frozen solid," he said. He felt around to the other side of the head. "I suspect a gunshot wound, I think I feel an exit here." He leaned way over, supporting himself with one arm. "Could someone shine a flashlight over here?"
In the yellowish circle of Lamar's light, he was able to clear the left side of the victim's head. "Yes. Appears to be our exit, and… temporal."
Cool. I took four shots of the first victim's face, concentrating in the first two on the clot, the second pair on the protruding eye. Establish, then zoom in. Lamar held a tape measure next to the nose for me. You should have a scale in the shots, whenever possible.
Dr. Peters gingerly removed the white bag from the head of the second victim. This one slipped right off. This fellow had a recently shaved head, and the small goatee I could see from my angle was blondish. There was blood on the second victim, too, but not nearly as much. And what appeared to be a bluish-purple spot on the back of the head, to the right of the middle, and about halfway to the top. Above it, about two inches, was a whitish squiggle of what looked like those worms kids squirt from cans. About an inch or so long, it protruded from another purplish spot.
Dr. Peters pointed to the squiggle. "Extruded brain tissue," he said. "Shot twice."
I was working the camera, so Lamar said, "Gunshot wound on both of them, then?"
"Two of them on this one," said Dr. Peters. He pointed to the upper spot, with the extruded matter. "This is the first shot, this is an entrance wound." He pointed to the lower spot. "Entrance wound, second shot. Pressure from it caused the material to squeeze out the first hole."
Aha. Lamar held the tape again, and I got in as tight as I could, showing both wounds. "Think it was a.22?" I asked. It looked about that size.
"I should think so," he said. "Note the facial features."
The young man's face was all compressed and flattened on one side, like he had his face pressed against a pane of glass. Except there was none. The simile apparently occurred to Art, too.
"World's best mime," he said, dryly. He surprised me so much I laughed. The DCI might have done him some good, after all.
The corpse's tongue was protruding through his lips, and his teeth weren't visible. There was a yellowish tinge to him, as well as a purple discoloration to the rounded portion of his face that looked like a huge bruise. Postmortem lividity. The flattened part of the face, on the other hand, was almost white.
"He was placed here a while after he died," said Dr. Peters. "The face is flattened by this floor, but there is no lividity in the flattened area."
Post-mortem lividity was the purplish color produced by pooling blood in a corpse. Gravity forces the blood to the lower points of the body. The process stops after a time, and if the body is moved to a different position after this time, there will be no liquid blood to pool in the new low spots.
"Affected by temperature, though," said Art.
"Oh, yes," said Dr. Peters. "Very much. But when we defrost him, if freezing interrupted the clotting process, we may well have continued liquid seepage into low spots…"
"Do you think there are two holes in the first one?" asked Art.
Dr. Peters stood again. "Can't say, but I certainly wouldn't be surprised. I want to bag the hands."
He reached into his kit, and pulled out a roll of transparent bags and a roll of tape. I helped him bag the hands. The first victim's hands were easy. The second one's required Art and me to heave the body up and onto its right shoulder, so the M.E. could get at the hands. The body was so stiff it was like tilting a statue.
Lamar asked for Art's cell phone. He reached in his inner pocket and handed it to him. He dialed, and said, "Yeah, it's me. Look, get Christiansen in early and have him take Fred up to the clinic and have Doc or a nurse use the gunshot residue kit on his hands. Yeah. No, he doesn't. No. It ain't testimonial evidence. His lawyer isn't necessary. Yeah? Good." He handed the phone back to Art. "Fuckin' attorneys, I tell ya…"
"These two gentlemen," said Dr. Peters, "are very thoroughly frozen. I suggest we leave them here until the lab team can see them, too. There's certainly no harm in that, as long as they get here fairly soon."
"They should be here in a couple of hours," said Art.
"That long," said Dr. Peters, pulling off his gloves. "Well, we have to defrost them before we can do much else… no matter. That'll take twenty-four to thirty-six hours."
"Damn," I said, pretty much to myself. "That long?"
"Just about the same formula you'd use to thaw a frozen turkey before Thanksgiving." He grinned. "Don't worry, Carl," he said. "I'll X-ray the heads as soon as we get them to a machine. Most of the information you'll need right away should be available then.
"The heads should thaw a little quicker than the rest of them, as well," he said.
"Freezing going to affect the tissues… the tests?" asked Lamar.
"Oh, sure. But not in an appreciable fashion. Burst cell walls won't prevent toxicology testing, for instance." Dr. Peters smiled. He looked around. "It's fairly obvious they weren't killed here. Any ideas?"
I told him what I'd seen in the house.
"Very good news," said Dr. Peters. "I'll need to take a look inside, then." He glanced at me. "The heat was on in there?"
"Yes."
"Ah, excellent," said Dr. Peters.
"Let's hurry up," said Art, "I'm freezing to death."
"Next time," said Lamar, dryly, "maybe you could wear a real coat…"
We went into the house via the kitchen door, and were very careful not to disturb any evidence. If it had just been a burglary scene, nobody would have gone in again until the lab team got there. But it was important for the homicide investigators to see the scene in the least disturbed state possible. That outweighed the lab requirements.
I walked Dr. Peters through the path I'd taken in the house. He agreed that the carpet stain could well be a bloodstain that had been cleaned up. The hole in the wall he didn't want to speculate on, but the diameter looked about right for a.22 caliber round. The small dried puddle on top of the water cooler was, to the best of his knowledge, blood.
Dr. Peters had to leave, as he had to autopsy a questioned death victim in Manchester. He said that he'd do ours as soon as the bodies were warmed sufficiently.
"X rays first," he said. "And I'll be in touch with the lab team."
We waited in the house for the mobile lab, who arrived about half an hour after Dr. Peters left. They'd made remarkable time.
We showed the lab team the area we were most interested in, and then did an initial inspection of the rest of the house, as a preliminary, and to make sure we weren't overlooking anything that could be of primary importance. We didn't find anything useful.
What we did find was a normal home, with two possible exceptions. First, there were two PCs in the back bedroom. Both were on and running. Many farms were equipped with computers, so their mere presence wasn't unusual. The monitors, of course, were in the "rest mode," and I couldn't see what was on the screens. But, as I looked, the hard drive light on one of them flickered, and the faint buzz told me that the hard drive was being accessed for some reason. Running, all right. My first thought was of an elaborate security system. I didn't touch them, being a little reluctant to activate an alarm. I also thought that an alarm system might explain one of them being on. But two? Maybe one as a backup? Legally, I couldn't even turn the screens on, as materials contained within the machines had the same constitutional protections as to privacy as anything else. I did make a mental note to ask Lamar why these were so much newer than our department machines. Curious.
The second possible exception was an extensive library, in the upper floor of the older portion of the house. Long shelves of computer books, weapons books, explosives manuals, an escape and evasion manual, and books on subjects such as the inner workings of the IRS, and countersurveillance practices. There were books describing conspiracies of several sorts, along with survivalist manuals, surviving Y2K, anti-federal government pamphlets, do-it-yourself legal volumes with emphasis on how to beat the IRS, the common law, and books on military history. Some of the latter volumes I had on my shelves at home. This little library was quite extensive, however, and tended toward the how-to end of the materials. On the table there were maps of North America, the United States, and Iowa, all shaded in a variety of colors in various areas, with no key. Some had arrows in red, some in blue, some both. Fascinating, like I said.
We had known for years that Cletus tended toward the vocal right wing, but this stuff was quite a bit more antigovernment than I'd expected.
The only possibility of additional evidence was the discovery of bedclothes in the dryer. They appeared freshly laundered. The reason that was considered possible evidence of "something" was that a woman on the lab team named Mary thought it unlikely that the wife in such a clean and tidy house would leave on an extended vacation without folding and putting away the laundry. She was probably right, but just try explaining that to the males on a jury.
The lab crew said right away that the dark areas I'd uncovered on the carpet did contain traces of blood. They also said that whoever had cleaned them up had done an exceptional job. Same for the area on the wall that looked to have been wiped clean.
A preliminary test confirmed Dr. Peters's judgment about the dried pool of blood on the top of the water heater.
This was a phase of the investigation that could easily lose the case. You not only had to locate and carefully examine all items of evidence, you had to preserve them in such a way that a defense team could conduct their own examinations. That took much, much time.
It looked like the lab team would be there for several hours. Lamar used the radio to order food brought to the farm. Great idea. About a minute later, Deputy Willis called from the end of the lane. The owner, Cletus Borglan, was here.
He was about medium height and build, in his middle fifties. He was fit, from working as opposed to working out. He also had a loud voice, which he was using. Not particularly angry. Just loud.
"Damn, Lamar! What's goin' on here? Why the little army at my farm?" He was standing in the kitchen doorway, and was using a voice that would enable him to be heard in the machine shed.
"Been a problem," said Lamar.
"So I hear," said Cletus, loudly. "What are cops doin' on my property in the first place?"
"We're investigating a murder," said Lamar.
"What? How the hell can there be a murder here when there's nobody home?" He headed toward the archway, louder as he went. "What the hell are they doin' to my carpet?"
I was by the archway, and just stepped sideways into his path. "Sorry," I said. "You can't go in there just yet. They're not…" I was going to say "done."
"Who the hell are you to tell me that I can't go in there?" Very loud, but he'd stopped.
"Calm down, Clete," said Lamar. "Like I said, we're here on a murder investigation."
Cletus spun around to face Lamar. "And I said, 'How the hell can there be a murder here if there's NOBODY HOME?'!"
Lamar stood his ground, and I stepped one step closer behind Cletus.
"Like I been trying to tell you," began Lamar, patiently, "one of my officers had a reason to come here, and look for somebody. He found who he was looking for, but not alive."
Cletus cut him off. "What happened? One of you guys get killed trespassing on a farm again?"
Lamar went white, and I suspect I did, too. Cletus was referring to an incident about five miles from his house, where Lamar had gotten shot and Civil Deputy Bud had been killed, attempting to serve a notice on a farmer and his wife. Our people had not been, of course, trespassing.
The outrageousness of the statement had Lamar temporarily speechless. Cletus, too, for he knew he had gone too far. Before he could try to make amends, though, Lamar spoke up.
"You stupid son of a bitch," said Lamar, quiet but not quite controlled. "Don't ever say anything like that again. Ever. You got that? Ever."
"I'm sorry, Lamar," said Cletus, still too loud, and not quite sincerely. "It was out of line. I didn't mean that."
Well, there it was, though. He'd thought it, and he'd said it, and that was that. Lamar looked at me and said, "You deal with him. I'm gonna step outside for a minute."
Thanks, boss. Thanks a lot.
"Why don't you have a seat at the kitchen table, Cletus," I said. "You quiet down, and I'll tell you some of what's going on."
He turned and looked at me, his face a bit redder than it had been when he first arrived. He said nothing, just walked over to the table, and sat. Then, "What's this country coming to when a man's ordered around in his own house?" He said it almost softly, like he was talking to himself. Almost, but not really. The softness made it deniable, though, if he were to be called on it.
"Just get a handle on it, Cletus," I said. "Things happen for a reason."
"It's my house. What'd you do if I just said to get off my property? Huh? It's MY property."
"Well, Cletus," I said, sitting across the table from him, "first I'd tell you that we have the right to investigate the crime without interference." I kept my voice soft and low, forcing him to listen.
"Bullshit." This was a little louder again. "What were you doing here in the first place?"
"And," I said, "if you persisted, I'd charge you with Interference with Official Acts."
"On my own property?" His voice was rising. "That's pure bullshit!"
Time to change tactics. "Look, Cletus," I said. "Suppose you invited some guys over for a poker game, you lost, got pissed off, and shot all of 'em. You actually think that the courts would allow you to say, 'It's my property, you can't come here'? I don't think so."
He didn't answer.
"So, if you want to calm down, I'll tell you as much as I can about what's going on."
Cletus looked me right in the eye. "Okay. Let's hear it." Very calm. Very matter-of-fact. It crossed my mind that Cletus had been raising hell for effect. Why? I had no idea. Sometimes people were just like that. Bluster, then calm.
Just as I was starting, Lamar came back in, fixed Cletus with a cold stare, and then moved over to the lab people. He didn't say anything, but Cletus was a little cowed for a few seconds.
I told Cletus Borglan just about everything I knew, with some important exceptions. I left out all reference to Fred. I just said we'd been informed that there'd been a burglary. I didn't describe how the victims had been shot. While I was telling him the details, he got up, went to the sink, and began making a pot of coffee. Being cool. He stood with his hips resting against the kitchen counter as he listened. When the coffee was done, he poured himself a cup, opened the refrigerator to get some milk, sat down, and took a long sip. He just looked at me, and smiled.
"My hired man is up here all the time. How come he didn't find no burglary? Care to explain that?"
"Don't know him, Cletus. Maybe that's something you should ask him about." I was unhappy about not being offered coffee. "You got an alarm system or anything?"
"Didn't think I'd need one. What with all you on the county payroll."
Because of Cletus and his attitude, the agent in charge of the lab crew decided that they better stay at the house until everything was done, rather than try to get past Cletus in the morning. The rest of us stayed right along with them.
That was all right. I was there when the bodies were removed, and saw a complete nonreaction from Cletus Borglan. In the dark, with the stark lights, the black hearses, the frost and snow, and all the officers and agents present, it was quite a scene. As I said to Lamar, it was too bad we didn't get a picture. It would have looked great on the Office Christmas Card next year.
I ended up back in the office, sitting alone at my desk about 0445, typing my preliminary report. It helps to do that. Organizes your thoughts. Sure. Well, in this case, there was damned little to organize. Fred let ' em off. They didn't come back. Who but Fred even knew they were there? Nobody.
Before I left the office, I left a note: ANYBODY WITH 43 ON FRED GROTHLER, A.K.A. GOOBER, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE. 10-43 is cop talk for information.
I got home at 0547. It was amazingly cold. Minus forty-four degrees in still air. That's about thirty degrees colder than the temperature in your home freezer. The air was so still the smoke from the chimneys was just standing in straight lines. All the moisture had been frozen and precipitated out of the atmosphere, and the little frozen crystals were all over everything. I stuck my head in the door, and called out to my wife, softly, "Sue?" No answer. She was upstairs, sleeping. She was going to have to miss this.
I couldn't resist. I went to the sink, filled a large plastic cup with hot water, and rushed back outside. I heaved the contents of the glass up into the air… It dissipated in a puff, and was gone. Nothing came back down. I love to do that. I made four more trips, all with the same result. Just cold enough. It made my day. I was almost tempted to wake Sue… almost. She's pretty tolerant, but there are limits…