Known Dead

by Donald Harstad

  We had finally completely assembled and wired up two of the machines, leaving the laptop aside. It appeared to have a dead battery, and we sort of thought that it would likely just have copies of the stuff in the desktop anyway. The lab crew had seized the printer, thank God. And now we were into the machines at last.

  ‘‘Well,’’ I said, turning on the tower, ‘‘let’s see what he’s been running . . .’’

  A mouse click on ‘‘Start . . . Documents’’ showed us the last fifteen documents that had been opened. Most of them started with ‘‘ltr’’ and had a date. All we had to do was click on one of them, and the word processor of choice automatically loaded from the hard drive. Click on ‘‘save as’’ and we had a complete list of documents. We printed them all.

  Next, on to ‘‘the Net.’’ Click on ‘‘Properties . . . Navigation . . . View History’’ and we got the ‘‘www’’ addresses of every site the machine had accessed in the last twenty days. Almost six hundred of them. Print ’em, Dano.

  Next, I went to the e-mail section. That was where we hit the dread ‘‘Crypto’’ device. It said ‘‘Enter Password for Access.’’ There were two boxes. I typed in ‘‘Herman’’ on the top, and ‘‘Nola’’ on the bottom. That’s all there was to it. Got every message they’d sent or received since, apparently, April 11, 1995. I started the printer, a neat little ink-jet. Quiet too. I began with the ‘‘Messages Sent’’ list. I had to print them out individually, so it took a while. Had to reload the paper twice.

  ‘‘Well, damn,’’ said Hester.

  I chuckled. ‘‘Easy as pie . . .’’

  ‘‘Now for the hard part,’’ she said. ‘‘Will the lab team be able to figure out we were in?’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ I said, ‘‘probably.’’ I got busy bringing up the ‘‘Messages Received’’ section. ‘‘ ’Cause if we erase the record of our entry, we erase all of ’em. To do that, we have to go one layer further down than the ‘clear entry’ boxes, and that gets easy to grunge up.’’

  ‘‘Grunge up? Is this, like, a computer term?’’

  ‘‘Well, kind of. What I mean is, if we do that, and it hasn’t been done on anything else, it looks like somebody did something really different on the box . . . and this setup is so simple, it would look funny if somebody cleaned it up.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  ‘‘So,’’ I said, inordinately pleased with myself, ‘‘shall we try the next one?’’

  Since it was so easy, and neither of us really had to do anything, we started reading the received messages. They started with the most recent, and progressed in reverse order to the first received. It was about the third one down. It looked like this:

  FROM: BRAVO6@XII.COMONCOMON.COM

  TO: STRITCHHERMN@WIDETALK.COM

  SUBJECT: YOUR GUEST

  DATE: WEDNESDAY, JULY 24, 1996 2:31 PM

  DON’T LET HIM IN. HE’S GOT A BOMB.

  BE SAFE.

  KILL HIM.

  We looked at each other. I spoke first. ‘‘Son of a bitch.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ said Hester, with a long breath. ‘‘Son of a bitch.’’

  ‘‘We should get a long sheet . . .’’ I said.

  ‘‘We don’t need one,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Wednesday. Two-thirty. Two thirty-one. Adjusting for the time . . .’’

  ‘‘God . . .’’

  ‘‘Right when they shot Philip Rumsford.’’

  ‘‘Remember,’’ I said, ‘‘remember when Nola spoke to somebody inside and then they shot him?’’

  ‘‘Oh, yeah . . .’’

  ‘‘Somebody who got that message . . .’’

  ‘‘We gotta see more of these,’’ breathed Hester.

  We did. Just as easy. Just as productive. All that remained to do was to wait for the printer to finish with the first one. That’s when we heard voices in the outer office. Cops. Now how in the hell could we come out to get more paper, or to do anything else, with cops sitting right outside the door. Granted, not only were they our cops but we outranked anybody who could possibly be there. But, in the first place, it would look like Hester and I were fooling around in the evidence room. I was absolutely certain that there was no way we could come out of that room without looking guilty. And a little excited, for that matter. In the second place, as soon as that rumor got going, sure as hell somebody who knew the lab agents would pick up on it, and then the shit would really hit the fan. Stuck. I reached up and turned off the light.

  ‘‘Shit,’’ hissed Hester. But she obviously understood. She reached over and turned off the computer monitor.

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ I whispered, ‘‘but they can see the light under the door.’’ I knew that for a fact since that was frequently the way dispatchers and officers could tell that I’d left the light on.

  Just to make matters worse, there was a little static on my walkie-talkie, and then Sally’s voice . . .

  ‘‘Don’t y’all do anything I wouldn’t.’’

  Well, by the time the night-shift people had had their coffee, discussed everything from ball scores to murders, and finished a couple of accident reports, we had spent the better part of two unproductive hours in the evidence room, in the dark. Hester was asleep in the corner. It could have been the dark. It might also have been the lack of air.

  When I was sure that the night troops had left the building, I called Sally on the walkie-talkie. No answer. I tried again. Nothing. Hester woke up when I turned the lights on.

  ‘‘What’s the problem?’’

  ‘‘I can’t get Sally,’’ I said.

  She looked at her watch. ‘‘Holy shit.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Four hours, give or take.’’

  ‘‘How long was I asleep?’’

  No matter how uninvolved the relationship, you never want to tell a woman that you didn’t know when she nodded off. ‘‘Oh, only about thirty minutes or so.’’ I had no idea.

  ‘‘Sorry.’’

  ‘‘Not as sorry as Sally’s gonna be if she went home . . .’’

  ‘‘You suppose,’’ asked Hester, ‘‘that burglars feel tired like this?’’

  I grinned. ‘‘Well, I know at least one who does. Have to start callin’ you the Sleepin’ Bandit.’’

  I called on the walkie-talkie again.

  ‘‘Go ahead . . .’’

  ‘‘Three’s no longer ten-six,’’ I said. Ten-six being the code for ‘‘busy.’’

  There was no answer, but about ten seconds later there was the soft ratchety sound of a key in the padlock, and the door opened.

  ‘‘You guys okay?’’

  ‘‘Where you been? I called two times . . .’’

  ‘‘We’re fine.’’

  ‘‘I was in the john when you called. I’m sorry, but I don’t correspond from the john . . .’’

  ‘‘We’re fine,’’ said Hester for the second time.

  ‘‘Well, you get done?’’

  ‘‘With the first one,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Did you know,’’ asked Sally, ‘‘that George and the lab agents were back after you went in the room?’’

  ‘‘What!’’

  ‘‘Oh, yeah. God, I thought I was gonna die,’’ she said.

  ‘‘When?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘Not more than thirty minutes after you’d gotten in there. It was all George could do to keep ’em out in the kitchen.’’ She held her hand to her chest. ‘‘I thought I was gonna have an anxiety attack. I didn’t know whether or not to try to tell you or what!’’

  ‘‘I am so glad,’’ said Hester, ‘‘that you didn’t tell us.’’ She started to move past me. ‘‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think a rest-room call would be in order . . .’’

  ‘‘Is George still around?’’ I asked Sally.

  ‘‘He should be in his car, on the way home.’’

  ‘‘Get him, and see if you can get the number for his cell phone . . .’’

  ‘‘Over the radio?’’ she asked, raising a
n eyebrow. ‘‘Wouldn’t it be better if I had him call here?’’

  Well, that’s why she was the one we always called on.

  Hester and I both talked to George. He just about fell out of the car when we told him about the message.

  ‘‘This is good,’’ he said. ‘‘This is oh my God good. Who sent it?’’

  I read him the e-mail address.

  ‘‘Let me handle this one,’’ he said. ‘‘I do this really well.’’

  ‘‘Fine with us,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘I’ll know as soon as I can get to the office,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Kind of makes you feel a little better about treason, doesn’t it?’’ Hester asked.

  He paused a beat. ‘‘I never want to do that again, thank you.’’

  ‘‘Well, look on the bright side, George,’’ I said. ‘‘If word about this ever gets out, you’ll never have to.’’

  Hester and I spent the remainder of the evening attempting to sort and print everything we could, with help from Sally, who made two copies of the documents we considered important, interesting, or just plain neat. We also wondered.

  ‘‘Who in the devil could this Bravo6 be anyway?’’

  ‘‘Anybody,’’ answered Hester as she picked up a stack of sorted papers.

  ‘‘Well, yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘Sure. But somebody who knew Herman, who knew generally what was going on, who could communicate with him, and who knew that Rumsford was going to go in at about two thirty-one.’’

  ‘‘Just a second,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Not ‘who knew he was going to go in.’ Nobody knew that except us folks. And Nancy, but she was with us all the time, wasn’t she?’’

  ‘‘As far as I remember.’’

  ‘‘Yes. What you need to say is that they ‘knew he was going in.’ Not future tense. Present tense.’’ Hester paused, and idly straightened a stack of paper. ‘‘In fact, since he didn’t go in,’’ she said, ‘‘but was killed as he stood outside on the driveway, somebody not only could see him but knew what the plan was . . .’’

  The tower was back up, and I was printing out whatever I could, as fast as I could get them on the screen. There were several messages on the 24th from Bravo6. Two on the 23rd. No outgoing messages. This is what we had, in chronological order.

  The first was at 1255 hours on the 23rd. Just after we had gotten Lamar and Bud out of there. It read:

  MESSAGE RECEIVED. WILL LET HIM KNOW.

  The second was at 1419 on the 23rd.

  HE’LL CONTACT YOU HERE ON THE WEB IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. I’LL BE IN TRANSIT. WILL CALL YOU HERE AS SOON AS I GET NEAR YOU.

  The third at 1950.

  I SEE HE’S THERE. I’M IN POSITION. I COUNT 24 COPS IN UNIFORM, EIGHT IN PLAIN CLOTHES. I DON’T RECOGNIZE ANY OF OUR FRIENDS. NO BIRDS AS FAR AS I CAN TELL.

  The fourth at 0228 on the 24th. About the time Melissa had come out.

  WHAT’S GOING ON IN THERE?

  The fifth at 0241:

  CAN YOU ANSWER ME?????

  The sixth at 0309:

  SHE’S IN A TENT WITH THE TOP COPS. I CAN’T HEAR THEM BUT SHE’S BEEN IN THERE FOR A WHILE.

  The seventh at 1220:

  THE BOYS FROM THE ZOG ARE HERE. ONE BIRD. LOOKS ALMOST WHITE FROM HERE. YOU THINK UN???????

  And, of course, the one telling them to kill Rumsford.

  The one about Melissa being in a tent with us kind of bothered me. I said as much.

  ‘‘You should feel flattered, you ‘top cop,’ ’’ said Sally.

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ I put the messages down. ‘‘Was this guy there, or was he watching on TV? Were there any live feeds going on, especially when Rumsford was killed?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Sally, ‘‘I don’t think so. Everybody here was watching for you all on TV all the time. They had clips on the regular news, but no special or live broadcasts.’’

  ‘‘Well, ‘the boys from the ZOG are here’ sounds to me like he’s on-site,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘What’s ZOG?’’ asked Sally.

  ‘‘Zionist Occupation Government,’’ I said. ‘‘Extremeright-wing term for the U.S. government.’’

  ‘‘Zionist?’’

  ‘‘They like to say that the United States is run by Jews,’’ I said. ‘‘It seems to appeal to the bogeyman crowd.’’

  Hester leaned over and put her hand on my shoulder. ‘‘They should really worry when it’s run by Norwegians.’’

  ‘‘What about the UN?’’

  ‘‘That,’’ said Hester, ‘‘is another favorite scare story. They think the UN is somehow going to take over the United States. White helicopters are UN birds, while black helicopters are ZOG birds.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘The News Channel 6 chopper up at the scene was white with light blue trim.’’

  ‘‘It doesn’t take much,’’ I said to Sally. ‘‘All the black choppers they see are usually U.S. Army stuff, dark green, at a distance and against the light background of the sky. They just look black.’’

  ‘‘Well, if you wanted to sneak around, why would you paint your chopper black?’’ asked Sally.

  ‘‘You got it,’’ I said.

  We had one more message, one that we weren’t able to figure out.

  YOU BETTER GET UP HERE.

  Nothing more than that. But it was sent at 1239, after the reinforcements were in the house. ‘‘Calling for some more company?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘Maybe.’’ I looked at the sheet. ‘‘All we have to do is find out who ‘creeper@kitbag.com’ is.’’ I suspected it was pretty close to us, and a ‘‘friend of the family.’’

  It was early in the morning before we got all the data. We put everything back the way it had been, and I locked the considerable stack of our paper in my own evidence locker. It was after 0100, and it was time to go home.

  Friday, July 26th, I got up about 0700, and made coffee. Then I called the office and asked about Lamar. It looked like they had been able to save that leg. I was impressed. I had one slice of toast, and I was at the office at 0800 sharp. So were George, Hester, and the two lab agents. The lab guys were very nice, and thanked us for letting them store their evidence in our room. No problem. They were on their way to the Cedar Rapids airport by 0820. By 0825, George, Hester, and I had cups of coffee in the investigator’s office, and a huge stack of paper to go through.

  ‘‘Shouldn’t we,’’ said George, ‘‘be a little more ordered about this?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘I want the stuff that got Rumsford killed first . . . all of it.’’

  So that’s where we began.

  ‘‘Who’s the e-mail address to, George?’’ asked Hester.

  He came through with last night’s promise. In a way. ‘‘It’s to a fellow who calls himself Adam A. Freeman, with an address that’s a P.O. Box in Harmony, MN.’’ George looked smug. ‘‘Obviously not his real name.’’

  ‘‘Obviously,’’ said Hester. ‘‘So who is he?’’

  ‘‘Just a bit harder,’’ said George. He grinned. ‘‘But I have friends. All you have to do is dial up that e-mail address, and my friends can tell you where the call is routed in about two seconds.’’

  We were pleased for George too.

  ‘‘So?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘Gregory Francis Borcherding, RR, Preston, MN.’’ He grinned and pulled out a little slip of paper. ‘‘I’ve got an SSN, a DOB, the whole nine yards . . .’’

  ‘‘I think,’’ said Hester, ‘‘that that’s pronounced ‘bork her ding.’ Just in case you two ever meet.’’

  ‘‘Not ‘borsher ding’?’’ asked George.

  ‘‘Nope.’’

  He made a note on the slip of paper.

  ‘‘So,’’ said Hester, ‘‘what’s he do, and what’s he got to do with all this?’’

  George didn’t know. That was all right with us, because the FBI hardly ever ‘‘knows’’ anybody until they’re ‘‘introduced’’ by the locals. Hester and I both knew a real
ly sharp deputy in Preston. We placed a call.

  ‘‘Whoever he is,’’ said George as we waited, ‘‘he had to know Rumsford was going into the house.’’ He thought for a second. ‘‘Did any of the networks have a live feed going when it happened?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ said Hester. ‘‘We sort of took them by surprise. Remember?’’

  ‘‘And we had the phone line locked up,’’ I said. ‘‘By the phone company, no less.’’

  ‘‘You know,’’ said Hester, ‘‘as much as they use the Net, I’ll bet they have a dedicated line for that.’’

  ‘‘I don’t suppose we could call the lab agents?’’ I asked facetiously.

  That got a dirty look from both Hester and George. It looked like that could develop into a sore point.

  The intercom buzzed. It was for me, Jack Kline, a deputy sheriff for Fillmore County, MN.

  ‘‘Hey, Houseman, how the hell you been?’’

  ‘‘Shitty, thanks.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I hear all about you guys down there. Busy.’’

  ‘‘Too busy. Hey, you know a dude up there name of Gregory Francis Borcherding?’’

  ‘‘Oh, that asshole ... yeah, what, he bothering you people down there?’’

  ‘‘Kind of. What’s he do for a living?’’

  ‘‘Damned if I know. He runs a little right-wing rag for a hobby, though. Real idiot.’’

  I talked with Kline for a few more seconds. After I hung up, I looked at George and Hester. We’d been on the speaker phone.

  ‘‘Wasn’t he the one Nancy Mitchell pointed out to us up at the farm?’’ asked George.

  ‘‘And he was at Kellerman’s funeral too,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Didn’t he have a laptop up at the farm?’’

  ‘‘Sure did,’’ I said. ‘‘I can almost see it.’’

  ‘‘So, with a cell phone and a modem . . .’’

  ‘‘That’s right, George. He could communicate directly over the computer, without us knowing there was anybody on the telephone.’’ I shook my head. ‘‘Technology triumphs again.’’

  ‘‘Only if Stritch has a dedicated line,’’ said Hester.

  We put in the call that would tell us.