Praise for Donald Harstad’s debut novel
Eleven Days
“A GRIPPING AND UNSETTLING work that underscores the simple truth that the threat of evil and its violence is everywhere in America—even the farmlands of Iowa. Harstad seasons the book with a wonderful cast of characters and his insider’s knowledge. His is
A WELCOME NEW VOICE IN CRIME FICTION.”
—Michael Connelly, bestselling author of Angels Flight
“[Harstad’s] dry, even droll account of these macabre crimes makes them all the more terrible.”
—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
“The very best procedural novels are those that follow police personnel through the solving of a crime from its discovery to evidence-gathering to the apprehension of the guilty.… AS A FORMER DEPUTY SHERIFF FROM IOWA, HARSTAD HAS THE PROCEDURE DOWN; HIS STORYTELLING ABILITY ALSO SETS HIM FAR AHEAD OF OTHER FIRST-TIME NOVELISTS IN THIS GENRE.… Deputy Carl Houseman is the epitome of a police officer, and his humanity, intelligence, and ability place him at personal risk as the case races to a HEARTSTOPPING climax.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“ELEVEN DAYS SATISFIES ON EVERY LEVEL. AS a procedural, it systematically details the revelation uncovered by a low-tech department (The police station doesn’t even have a fax!), and Harstad’s disparate group of suspects and officers never fails to rivet our attention.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“A finely crafted tale that is populated by an assortment of well-drawn characters and is, from start to finish, DISTURBING AND SUSPENSEFUL.… Harstad knows how to balance violence and profanity with compassion and intelligence. He also knows how to tell a story.… Neither as coarse as Joseph Wambaugh nor as strictly procedural as Ed McBain—but, in terms of skill, on a par with both—this is ONE FIRST NOVEL THAT WILL LEAVE READERS EAGERLY AWAITING THE AUTHOR’S NEXT EFFORT.”
—Booklist
“Donald Harstad knows what he’s talking about when it comes to murder and mayhem.… Anyone who has hung around cops knows this book is about as realistic as they come.… If the next two books are as good as the first, HARSTAD HAS A WONDERFUL NEW CAREER as a writer.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
Eleven Days
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Doubleday hardcover edition / 1998
Bantam mass market edition / May 1999
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1998 by Donald Harstad
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-15515
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-80890-5
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Inspired by Actual Events
1
Friday, April 19, 1996
23:52 hours
The call came into County Communications from an unidentified source, believed female, possibly under fifty. No callback number was given and no further contact was noted.
“Sheriff’s Department.”
“My God, my God, help us here, help us here, please …”
“Who is calling and what is wrong?” The dispatcher was Sally Wells—no extra chatter at all and very calm. She was new and part-time, but she learned fast.
“Help us, they’re killing everybody! Help!”
“Where are you and who is calling?”
“Just get help”—indecipherable—“killed Francis, he killed him, help us here!”
“Where are you?”
“The Francis McGuire farm! Help!”
“Where is the farm?”
“Jesus Christ, help us up”—indecipherable—“didn’t mean it. Oh God, oh God, I don’t know, please help. Please …”
“Stay on the line!” Sally held fast and with the phone to her ear contacted the available patrol cars.
“Comm, three and five … 10–33 … Possible homicide. Francis McGuire, I think that’s the farm near William’s Hollow. I, uh, think it’s in progress, subject on line. Repeat, this is a 10–33.”
“Comm. Three. Which side of the hollow, north or south?” I said in as soothing a voice as I could manage.
“Three, stand by,” Sally said with relief. “Ma’am, are you north or south of the Hollow?”
“Jesus God, I don’t know. I don’t know! Help!”
“One moment. Hold tight. Three. Unable to advise.”
Five, Mike Conners, came on. “I think they’re on the south side, just before the bridge—about five miles out of Maitland, second or third gravel to the right.”
“10–4, five. Comm, check the caller.” I made the turn to take me to the Hollow.
Sally went back to the phone, and it became apparent that the complainant had heard the radio traffic.
“It’s the second turn, the second turn, oh God, hurry!”
“She says the second turn, three.”
“Tell ’em to hurry!” (Indecipherable) “told me”—indecipherable—“again! He’s just dead. Can’t—” With that, the line went dead. I was only about ten miles from William’s Hollow, while Mike was about twenty-six miles out. Unfortunately I was north, and the directions were from the south.
“Comm, three. I’m in from the north. Find out from what location is the second or third gravel, or which gravel after I cross the bridge going south.”
“10–4, three.”
“And look the farm up in the phone book and call it back.”
“I’m doing that,” Sally snapped.
While she got better directions from Mike in car five, I continued south on the county paving. The roads in our part of Iowa are only twenty feet wide and are exceptionally curvy and hilly. They’ve managed to pack about 1,300-odd miles of them into the county’s 750-square-mile border, and with no sign of a spring thaw, I could count on slipping and sliding the whole way.
“Comm, three. Get 10–78 going.” 10–78 was the backup code. If we had a multip
le homicide in progress, two duty officers on highway patrol could only do so much.
“10–4, three. For your 10–43, I’m getting no answer at the McGuire residence.”
Mike was going to have to travel about nine miles on gravel roads that had the consistency of crushed ice before he would even hit the frozen paved ones. I would beat him to the scene by fifteen minutes or more. The backup in this case meant the one city officer on duty in Maitland, who was between Mike and me. I figured another fifteen minutes response on his side. Anybody else was going to be in bed. I hoped we didn’t need them.
Mike and I were both running with lights at full beam and with sirens blaring, both to alert anyone on the scene that we were on the way and to frighten away any deer on the road in front of us. Hitting a two-hundred-pound deer at over a hundred miles per hour might not kill you, but you would be wasted at the point of impact. The manual says to go to a serious crime “as fast as possible, considering the conditions.” Which means that if you wreck the car, it’s your butt, buddy, not the county’s. If I went by the book on this one, I’d hit the McGuire farm a week from Thursday. I made the first nine miles in just under six minutes.
“Comm, three’s at the bridge. Confirm that it will be the third gravel on my left.”
“10–4, three. Third left past the bridge. Also, three, the hospital received a call like ours and they’ve dispatched an ambulance.”
“10–4, comm. Be sure to tell the paramedics to wait to come in until we’ve cleared them.”
“10–4, three. As soon as they’re in the unit.”
I was going to acknowledge, but I was skidding past the third left turn. I softly nudged a snowbank, backed up about twenty yards, and made the turn onto the slushy gravel road.
“Comm, how far down this road?”
There are 2,200 farms in the county. I couldn’t possibly know where they all were.
“Three, this is five, second farm on the right, it’s down a long lane. I don’t think there’s a name on the mailbox, and you have to go over a little hill before you can see the farm from the road. I’ve been there about, uh, three times … think the house is on the right of the drive, bunch of other buildings on the left, and they’re pretty close together.”
My “10–4” was a little strained. I was just going over the knoll that cut the view from the roadway.
“Comm, three is 10–23.” I was actually still about a hundred yards from the house, but didn’t know if I’d have time to say anything from there on in. In those last hundred yards, I reached down and turned on my walkie-talkie, turned off my siren, unbuckled my seat belt and cleared it from interfering with my personal gear, and unsnapped my holster. By that time I was skidding to a stop. I grabbed my flashlight and got out of the car as quickly as I could. The house was on my right.
It was a frame house. Two stories. Needed paint pretty bad. It had a front porch and what appeared to be a back porch and just about every light in the house was on. No sign of movement inside.
They tell you at the academy that if you’ll need it, the only place for your weapon is in your hand. I drew my revolver, a .44 magnum, and pointed it down and to my right as I approached the house. There was a bluish yard light, similar to a streetlight, illuminating the yard in a roughly circular pattern. My car was behind me, and without remembering doing it, I had correctly pointed the headlights toward the scene. The beams cast my shadow on the front porch, distracting my attention from cataloging what I was up against. My heart leapt every time I picked up my own movement, so I started with the left, at the barn and a couple of outbuildings. Interior light in the barn. The others were dark. No movement. Neither good nor bad. If there’s nobody there, there’s no movement. If somebody is aiming a shotgun at you from concealment, they probably won’t move, either. I put that possibility out of my mind and proceeded toward the house, careful not to slip on the uneven sheets of ice that led to the front porch.
“Twenty-five, comm.”
On my walkie-talkie. It scared the crap out of me, as the speaker was just by my left ear. I turned it off. Twenty-five was the Maitland backup officer, Dan Smith, and since I could hear him on my portable, he was probably within two miles of my position.
I made it to the landing of the screened porch and was able to see into the kitchen at about chest level for anyone standing in there. Nobody was. I would have to go onto the porch to look into the house. I didn’t really want to do that. But I did. I stepped up onto the second of four steps and opened the screen door. The interior of the porch was a real mess, cluttered to the point that I was not sure I could negotiate a path. Garbage—empty boxes, broken glass, tools, tires, a chain saw—surrounded a small dog to my left who just sat there staring. He didn’t move or make a sound. It was the first thing that really worried me.
“Police officer. Anybody in there?”
No response. I said it as loudly as I could without yelling. Tried again. Nothing. I approached the door, stepping as carefully as I could over the mess. I could see through the right-hand window, into the kitchen. Also a wreck, with a table tossed in a corner, its broken leg doubled back underneath. Several chairs were overturned, the refrigerator was dented and at an angle and the top freezer door was open. But no people.
I stood to the side of the front door, put my flashlight in my belt, and knocked as hard as I could.
“Police officer! Is anybody home?”
Again, no answer and then headlights coming down the lane. Twenty-five. I had to turn my portable back on and use my left hand to key the mike.
“Twenty-five, that you?”
“10–4.”
“Okay, I’m on the porch. Park behind my car, and stay back until I can get in the house.”
“10–4.”
Dan Smith was an experienced officer. I felt a lot better. A few seconds later, I heard him jack a round into his shotgun and I didn’t feel quite as confident. I hoped he kept the safety on.
I navigated across the porch and tried the kitchen door. It opened about an inch and then hung up. I pushed it harder and it gave a little with a gentle scraping sound from inside, and then a fairly loud thump, like it was blocked by a hundred-pound sack of potatoes. I pushed a little harder, and it opened about two feet to reveal the open mouth and staring eyes of a man who was obviously dead. I stepped back.
“Twenty-five, I’m going to have to try another entrance—this one is blocked by a body.”
“10–9?”
10–9 means you should repeat your traffic, as the message was not understood. Or, in this case, believed.
“I’ve got a body blocking this door. I’m gonna work my way around the house to the left, here.”
“10–4.”
“Three? Five.”
“Five, go.”
Mike was close. Even better.
“Wanna wait till I get there? Only a minute or so.”
It was tempting, but I was too exposed to stand still.
“No, just cover the right side of the house when you get here. I’ll be around the left and coming right unless I can find a way in.”
I gingerly backed down the steps and went to the left, toward the back of the house, to what appeared to be the back porch. The dog still hadn’t stirred. Keeping my head below window level, I made my way to find that the back porch was actually an addition to the house with a separate entrance. The upper half of the door was glass.
The door was locked, but I could see through to the body in the kitchen. There was something sticking out of his chest or abdomen, but I couldn’t make out what it was. The broken table was obstructing the full view. Then a noise.
“Three has movement inside!”
No reply. I heard running footsteps coming up from my right. Mike ran past me to the other side of the door-well and put his back against the wall. We were both very quiet for a moment and heard the sound again. Like something dragging and then a bump. We looked at each other and nodded at the same time.
I kicked
the door. It didn’t move. I kicked again and the panel cracked. The third kick slammed the door back where it hit the interior wall and broke the glass, causing one hell of a racket. Mike flew by me into the house and stopped just as he hit the entrance to the living room. I moved behind him, but he was frozen, so I nudged him and stuck my gun around the corner of the door frame and pointed it to where he was looking.
“Jesus.”
There was a German shepherd crawling across the floor toward us, dragging his hind legs. His mouth was bleeding, and he had a bloody wound on his head. His eyes were glazed. To the left, the TV was on, but no sound, playing a rerun of Ensign O’Toole. There were, as they say, signs of a struggle—magazines all over, overturned lamps, one stereo speaker knocked over, a houseplant in a broken pot lying on the floor.
“I don’t want to kill him.” Mike said what I was thinking.
“We have to.”
“Who would leave an innocent animal like that?” Mike mumbled.
“Twenty-five,” I said over my portable. “There will be a shot fired. We have to shoot a dog.”
“A dog?”
“Yeah.”
I aimed as carefully as I could, cocked the hammer back, and very gently squeezed the trigger. We waited a few seconds, our ears ringing, stunned by the shot and the strangeness of the situation. Then we slowly made our way to the kitchen.
“Twenty-five?”
“Go.”
“We’re in.”
“Copy you in the house?”
“Yeah. Both of us.”
“Okay. Two’s on the way.”
“Good.” Two was the county’s chief deputy. Although he was in charge of the night shift, he’d had the evening off, Sally must have called him in when Dan reported the body. I had my portable on single-channel mode and wasn’t able to hear the other radio traffic, but Dan was still by his car and would relay our reports to those on the way.
We looked carefully around the kitchen. The body by the door was supine, his legs bent at not quite right angles. The object in his chest was a knife with an ornate handle, made of silver or stainless steel. His right hand was gone, the stump pointing toward the tilted refrigerator. But there was very little blood. He was nude, except for a pair of white socks with yellow toes. They were half on, half off his feet, and dirty. I turned to Mike.
Eleven Days Page 1
