She’d got him from his middle name. I didn’t want to think how many DLs she’d had to run . . . and Julius Constantine, for God’s sake? What was his mother, a Roman?
It was the same dude, all right. Right up to the tiny discrepancies in the height and weight fields. (The Feds measured and weighed upon entry to prison . . . whereas a driver’s license station took your word for it. The DL people got little vanity figures like an inch or two added to height, and pounds shaved off.)
He was forty-nine. Well, the age was about right. At least in our area, the dyed-in-the-wool members of the extreme right tended to be between forty-five and sixtyfive.
A federal arrest and conviction. Interesting. Phony securities was the sort of thing the extreme right sometimes got into to finance their operations. They usually passed it off as a ‘‘defiant gesture’’ directed toward the Feds and the federal monetary and credit system. Sure. Sad part about it was that they tended to foist the stuff off on people who were in financial difficulties, who, in turn, either tried to use it as collateral or were counting on it for their future. People who believed in them.
Driver’s license ‘‘canceled’’ was expected, and another conforming data bit. The extreme right tended to cancel their driver’s licenses as a gesture. Nobody had the right to impose a ‘‘tax’’ for using the ‘‘free roads,’’ you see, and everybody had a God-given ‘‘right’’ to drive. For sure.
A federal conviction . . . served six months with thirty months suspended. Hmm. Five-sixths of a sentence knocked off spoke of cooperation with the Feds. Large, happy, and profitable cooperation, in fact. Great. I was willing to bet that his compatriots weren’t aware of that . . . except the others who’d done the same. And, I thought, a man who’d cooperated in the past was a fairly easy mark for the future. As it turned out, that was a bit of a mistake.
Sally hadn’t found out where he’d served his time . . . not that I was complaining. But it would be of interest to see who else was there at that time. Especially if one of them had an a.k.a. of Gabriel.
Now came the dilemma. God, how I wanted to see the case file on this guy. Who had access to the case file? Well, basically, it was Volont, of course. But it might also be George, who could lose his job over divulging even a part of it. Well, it was going to be a bit warm for George no matter which way he jumped.
I called Hester at home. We deliberated. Hester said she’d check around. Frequently, the federal charge would arise from a state or local investigation. If that had been the case . . .
Half an hour later, I got a call from Dr. Peters. He had finished the autopsy data on both Bud and Rumsford. I got a yellow pad and sat down to learn.
The information he had on Bud was pretty straightforward. What appeared to be a 7.62 mm round, full-jacketed, had struck him in the right shoulder, transected the lung, and struck the spine, where it took a sharp left, and came out just about the middle of his back, taking almost one whole vertebra with it. The second shot, into his head, appeared to have occurred post-mortem, and had entered from the rear. Most of the skull had disappeared into the yard area, in very small pieces, as the blast had caused quite a bit of rebounding out of the ground. Nearly point-blank, as far as he could tell.
Rumsford was a little bit different. Two rounds, but not quite the same as those that had struck Bud.
‘‘The ones that struck the officer, judging from parts of the jacket and the texture of the cores, were of either Chinese or old Soviet–Warsaw Pact manufacture. The ones that seem to have struck the reporter were possibly just a tad bit lighter, but definitely of much better manufacture. NATO at least, but I’d say something like a really high-quality round, like a Norma.’’
Okay.
Apparently both rounds that hit the reporter had been moving at a pretty good clip. The first one had entered the mediastinum straight through the sternum, at a slight angle from the right, and slightly down. Missing the spine, it took a path just below the heart, raised hell with the plumbing in the left lung, and exited the left rear of the body after nicking the fifth rib.
‘‘Wouldn’t that have knocked him down?’’ I asked.
‘‘At less than twenty yards, not necessarily. It didn’t really hit anything super solid, like the spinal column. That would have rocked him. This just zipped through the breastbone and barely touched a rib. Stopped the heart instantly, of course.’’
Of course. Shock wave.
According to Dr. Peters, the second round came blasting through from a little steeper angle, and going almost straight on. The entrance wound was just about two inches above the first hole. This one struck the heart, pretty well disintegrating it, then hit the spine head-on, split, with a part that skidded to the left and down and exited Rumsford after passing through his liver and intestines, furrowing the inside of his right pelvis, and blowing out through his bladder. In the front, out the front. The other half continued on completely through the spine, and lodged in the muscles of his back.
‘‘This is a powerful weapon here,’’ said Dr. Peters.
No shit.
‘‘You might be looking for a rather longish barrel.’’
Thank you.
‘‘Oh,’’ he added. ‘‘Did you hear these shots?’’
‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ I said, ‘‘I heard ’em.’’
‘‘How far from them were you?’’
‘‘Oh, probably twenty yards.’’
‘‘Were they loud?’’
‘‘Very. I felt the first one, as much as I heard it.’’
‘‘That’s quite strange,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘You know, we examined the half round that lodged in the reporter’s back. It had those strange brushed marks that look like it was fired through a silencer . . .’’
‘‘Boy, I don’t think so, Doc,’’ I said. ‘‘Sounded very loud to me . . .’’
‘‘Strange,’’ he said. ‘‘Very strange . . . oh, well . . .’’
‘‘Same shooter?’’ I asked. ‘‘Rumsford, I mean.’’
‘‘Not sure,’’ he said. ‘‘Could have been, if he was prone for one shot and kneeling for the second. Or it could have been two men using the same ammunition type . . .’’
That made a lot of sense. The shooter, from a prone position, smacks Rumsford, who just stands there. The shooter rises slightly for a better angle, kneeling. Smacks him again, and sees him topple. Couple of seconds separate the shots.
I’d only been off the phone for an hour when I got a call from Harry over in Conception County, WI. He had preliminaries on the body of Johnny Marks.
Marks had been strangled with a leather belt. Markings from the stitching on the edges of the belt were visible within the main ligature mark, and indicated it had been machine-stitched. Cool. The massive chest wound was, in fact, two holes. It appeared that they had driven the spike through him the first time, just about perpendicular to the beam, and it had pulled out when they propped the beam up. Tearing, front and back, so they had driven it through him a second time, at more of an angle. Spoke volumes for their determination. All that had been post-mortem as well. The damage to his face and other parts, which had appeared to me to be incidental and possibly from a beating, turned out to have been inflicted post-mortem too, likely by the fall from the beam.
‘‘Wanna hear the best part?’’ asked Harry.
‘‘Sure.’’
Chuckle. ‘‘He had splinters in his butt, also post-mortem. From sliding down the beam when the first spike pulled out.’’
Oh, that was the best, all right.
‘‘Oh,’’ he said, laughing so hard to himself that he had difficulty getting it out. ‘‘One more bit . . .’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘When they were driving the spike, they apparently used a maul. Missed the spike a couple of times.’’ He started to break up again. ‘‘And I get mad when, when I, when I, I hit my thumb . . .’’
Harry cracks me up too.
Harry still had no solid infor
mation for us on a suspect, other than probably a gang member. He did have one fascinating thing. Time of death. ‘‘Been dead about three days,’’ he said. ‘‘Probably done sometime on the 24th.’’
‘‘Any ideas yet as to why?’’ I asked.
‘‘I was hoping you had some.’’
All Harry could tell was that it was probably done to ‘‘set an example for others.’’
Hmmm. The time of death had him being done in on the same day as Rumsford. Significance? Unknown.
I spent the rest of the day eating antacid tablets, drinking coffee, and worrying.
Monday, July 29th, was the date of Rumsford’s funeral in Canada. Fittingly, it was also the day we discovered the whereabouts of Julius Constantine Wittman.
Hester called me at 0921. She’d gotten hold of a friend in the DCI records section and a friend in DCI intelligence. They had found that Wittman had, indeed, been involved in a scam or two in Iowa, including the one that eventually resulted in federal charges. She was going to Des Moines to get the case file.
‘‘You know,’’ she said, ‘‘Noyagama seemed impressed.’’
Howard Noyagama was the best intelligence analyst at DCI, and I thought one of the top people in the country. There were highly placed people across the country who would agree with me.
‘‘Really?’’ That in itself impressed me.
‘‘Yeah.’’ She hesitated. ‘‘I think we’re getting into a group of connections we’d rather not open up.’’
‘‘You’re probably right.’’
‘‘I mean,’’ she said, ‘‘I’ll go for it. But we might really need Volont and company on this one.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ I admitted. ‘‘I agree. I was thinking about that a lot.’’
‘‘You wanna make the call?’’
I chuckled. ‘‘You mean the decision, or the telephone call to Volont?’’
She was very serious. ‘‘I don’t think there’s any real decision to make here, Carl. The phone call.’’
‘‘I’ll do it.’’
‘‘But not just yet,’’ she added quickly. ‘‘Let me get to Des Moines and back out before you call. I don’t want access shut down before we get the file.’’ She chuckled herself. ‘‘Just in case.’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘So I’ll contact you as soon as I get on the Interstate with the file in my hot little hands.’’
‘‘I’ll be waiting,’’ I said.
I hate to wait. It would take Hester about three hours to get to Des Moines, and I didn’t know how long after that to get to the DCI files, copy or write down what was necessary, and get back on I-80. You can imagine all sorts of things, waiting like that, so I decided to keep my mind busy.
I went through a list of LEIN officers, and called one in Homer County, where Wittman lived. Turned out he was new to the program. That meant that, when he found out how long I’d been in, he was very reluctant to ask me any questions, but would tell me just about anything. Nervous, but oh, so eager. Just what I wanted.
He thought Wittman was ‘‘still on the old farm’’ but wasn’t totally sure. He could check. I asked him if he knew anybody whom Wittman could, maybe, hang around with.
‘‘I haven’t been here that long, let me check the file . . .’’
I sat there, drumming my fingers on the desk and wishing I still smoked, for about three minutes, before he came back on the line.
‘‘I’m really sorry,’’ he said, ‘‘but the only thing I can find in the files is from years ago, when he got busted for counterfeit stuff.’’
Oh, yeah. Only that . . .
‘‘Too bad,’’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘‘There might be something in that, though . . . Look, go ahead and fax us the basic stuff, will you?’’
‘‘Sure . . .’’
‘‘And I’ll buy you a beer at the convention . . .’’
I don’t get butterflies in my stomach very often, but I did waiting for that FAX. Like so many cops, including myself, he really needed his secretary, I was sure, to run the damned machine. Since it was ‘‘important,’’ he’d probably try to do it himself. This could take a while yet. I notified Dispatch to let me know immediately, because we might be having some secure stuff coming over from Homer County via fax, and I would have to get it right out of the machine myself.
They called right back.
I got to the center and watched the first sheet come out of the machine. Blank. Followed by the second, third, fourth . . .
We placed a call to the deputy, who was obviously doing the faxing himself. He was embarrassed. Told him that was okay, anybody could put the sheets in wrong side up.
I waited in the Dispatch Center. Pretty soon, here they came. Faint, hard to read, but they were coming in. He was obviously sending copies of the ‘‘pinks,’’ the third sheet on a standard form, the ones that the officers keep in the file along with the white original copies. Oh, well.
Fifty-six pages. He probably used up his fax budget for the month. The last sheet was from him, asking if I wanted him to fax the DCI and FBI documents. I telephoned, told him to hold up on those. Hester should have them, and he had done a lot already.
I was just about finished with the report when Dispatch buzzed me and said I had a call from Hester.
‘‘Houseman . . .’’
‘‘I have the stuff. It’s GREAT!’’
‘‘All right!’’
‘‘Noyagama says ‘Hi’ and for you not to eat too many cookies.’’
‘‘Cool. Should I call Volont now?’’ I asked.
‘‘Wait till I get there,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m just going past the first rest area . . . Should be there in, oh, three and a half hours or so.’’
That put her about thirty miles out of Des Moines, if memory served.
‘‘I got some stuff from the county where our man was busted,’’ I said. ‘‘They faxed it up.’’
‘‘Good. See you in a while.’’
Hester drove into the lot at 1630, by which time the faxing deputy of Homer County had confirmed that Wittman was, indeed, at the ‘‘old farm.’’ Did we want him?
Well, yes, we did.
Hester and I got our ducks in a row, went to a magistrate, and got an arrest warrant for Wittman for murder (a co-conspirator), and I placed the call to Volont at 1658. Two minutes before closing time, as it were. He wasn’t in. Did we want him paged? Yes.
We’d decided not to let Volont know we had the old case files . . . at least not yet. It wasn’t really applicable, not to the immediate situation anyway.
Volont’s call was put through to my office.
‘‘Houseman,’’ I said, motioning Hester to pick up the other line.
‘‘Volont here. You called?’’
‘‘Sure did,’’ I said. ‘‘You on a secure line?’’
‘‘Very.’’
‘‘Okay, then. Hester and I are on this line. We found out who the subject was who was in the house with Herman. Actually, who both of them were, the ones who took off through the corn?’’
‘‘Yes . . .’’
‘‘One of ’em is a man named Julius Constantine Wittman, goes by Connie.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Volont, as noncommittal as always.
I told him where Wittman was, how his name had come, in effect, from Nola Stritch during our interview, and how we’d found out who he was. Told him that there was an old FBI case involved too. He didn’t seem too surprised.
‘‘Are you going to pick him up?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yeah, but not without you,’’ I said. ‘‘This guy’s at least as much of a conspirator as Billy Stritch, and that’s another federal charge. Plus,’’ I hastened to add, ‘‘with federal priors, he might be a little more willing to talk.’’
‘‘Might,’’ said Volont. He thought for a second. ‘‘How about we meet you over at the sheriff’s office in, what, uh, Homer County, in about two hours?’’
‘�
�Yep. Homer County. See you then,’’ I said.
We called Homer County, and I spoke with the faxing deputy again. I told him what was up, and he just about fell off the phone. Eager. I just love eager.
Hester and I pulled into the Homer County Sheriff’s Department at 1914. We were in two cars, naturally, as Hester sure wouldn’t want to be driving me back.
It looked a little crowded. Turned out, it was.
Apparently, when it sank in with Homer County exactly what we wanted Wittman for, they called out everybody and his brother. They even asked for assistance from the state, for a TAC team, and got it. Volont, at the same time, had apparently used his considerable resources, and an FBI tactical unit was also there. Wow. Twenty-two officers in camouflage (Iowa) or black (federal) BDUs. I was impressed. I figured Wittman would be too.
The faxing deputy, whose name was Gregg Roberts, was really happy to meet me. He was so impressed, and thought I had done it all, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him I couldn’t have gotten those two TAC teams if I had said I was being held hostage. As the local LEIN officer, he was dead center in the middle of the action, and was having the time of his life. I made sure to tell his sheriff that he’d been of great importance in the investigation. Cross the t.
Volont, although he tried to cover it up, was also having great fun. He was even nice to George. He introduced me to the federal TAC team leader, and actually clapped me on the shoulder. The team leader, by the way, was introduced just as that. No name.
Since we had both a state and a federal arrest warrant, we had it made as far as grabbing Wittman was concerned.
A couple of members of the federal and the Iowa TAC teams crawled up on the place out of the corn and did a thorough recon. It was dark by then, and Wittman had lights on in the house. The other TAC team members were waiting in sweltering vans about half a mile away, pulled back in a field entrance among towering cornstalks. The recon team would say ‘‘when.’’
Volont, Hester, George, Deputy Roberts, and I were in Volont’s minivan, which was equipped with enough radio equipment to run a small White House. We were further up the road than the full-sized TAC vans, and had our engine running. That meant we had our air conditioning on. We were probably the only comfortable people in the unit. We sat there, just able to hear an occasional cricket, and watching the fireflies in the corn. It was beautiful.
Known Dead Page 29
