Vanessa Ballard looked up from her notes.
“Fine, gentlemen. If we’re all ready, we’ll proceed.”
She turned on her Pearlcorder, read the time and date, and started to name the officers present.
Rowdy Klein was looking increasingly worried. When she got to the end of her list, he leaned forward and raised his hand, waving it to get her attention.
“What is it, Sergeant Klein?”
“Ahh—ma’am, shouldn’t we wait for Staff Sergeant McAllister?”
“He’ll be along,” said Meagher. “Relax, Rowdy. You’ll get your chance at him.”
Ballard looked at Klein over the tops of her glasses. “That okay with you, Sergeant?”
Klein flushed red and wiped his face with a large gingham handkerchief. He folded it and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
“No, ma’am. I mean, this’ll be … if you think it’s okay?”
“I do.”
Klein had a mean streak in him, especially where Beau was involved. The ugly scene between them in the aftermath of the shooting at Bell’s Oasis was just one of a long string of confrontations. Meagher figured that Klein was jealous of Beau’s reputation. Or maybe Klein was just an asshole. If Klein had been directly under Meagher’s command, he would have been looking at the world from behind the grill in evidence storage over in Bozeman. But he wasn’t. The Criminal Investigation Bureau was a separate department of the state’s Department of Justice, created to spread the scarce resources of the detective operation around the state. They had their HQ in Helena, where they played Hide the Bunny with the FBI and generally involved themselves in what the department liked to call Serious Crimes. Meagher was only nominally Klein’s superior.
Ballard was up to speed now. She ran through the reported events of last Friday, including the shooting at Bell’s Oasis, running down the events in simple, clear terms, providing the context for the shooting board and, not incidentally, also setting up her sightlines in the event that criminal charges might arise from the evidence to be presented today.
Meagher sighed and forced himself to focus.
Rita Sonnette came in, told her part in a slightly shaky voice. It was her first shooting board, and like all rookies, it worried her. But there was iron in her. Meagher thought she was shaping up nicely. She’d be a good trooper.
Ron Thornton came next, and everything he said about the Bell shooting corresponded neatly with Beau’s report and with Rita Sonnette’s.
Very neatly. Even some identical turns of phrase.
Obviously, Ron and Rita had taken the time to work out their stories, which was fine with Meagher as long as Vanessa didn’t object. As Ron talked, his young face bright with radiant sincerity and earnest professionalism, Ballard kept her head down and made notes, looking up now and then to stare at Ron over her reading glasses.
When Ron was finished, Ballard sent Meagher a loaded glance and called for the next witness.
They came in no particular order. Vanessa Ballard liked to run it that way. It helped to keep the witnesses off-balance and interfered with their tendency to try to corroborate one another. It hadn’t seemed to work with Thornton and Sonnette.
Marla LeMay told her story, unimpressed and cynical, neither a support for Bell nor an accuser. She told it straight and seemed not to give a damn what they thought of it. Meagher was attracted to that quality in people. The world was too stuffed with people, especially civilians, who wanted to impress you with how much they knew.
Joe Bell would have been called in next, but since he was suing the county, he would have needed legal representation, and that was a delicate area right now.
“Why?” asked Finch Hyam, intrigued, his antennae up.
“Let’s just say the situation is fluid, Detective Hyam. We can proceed without Bell’s information right now. We have plenty of witnesses.”
Hyam let it pass, but his eyes were bright with interest, and he looked over at Meagher, raising an eyebrow. Meagher frowned at him and shook his head once.
Ballard called Finch next.
It was clear from Finch’s tone and the way he stared solidly ahead as he answered Ballard’s questions that he had no doubts about the rightness of Beau’s actions, that he thought Joe Bell was a danger to himself and others, and that anybody who pulled a gun around a Montana Highway Patrol trooper had better expect to get himself shot. That included any demented Indian fanatics suicidal enough to lock horns with a cop. He finished and nodded to Rowdy Klein.
Rowdy Klein tied himself in knots trying to make his case that Beau McAllister had mishandled his part of the incident at Bell’s Oasis, but he didn’t have much in the way of evidence, unless sheer bad will was evidence.
Meagher interrupted him, his voice hard and clipped. “As McAllister’s CO I want to get in the record that there had been an exchange of fire before the sergeant arrived on the scene, but we do not seem to have established who initiated the exchange. So it seems to me that he can’t be accused of interfering with a citizen’s right to self-defense and defense of property until it’s been clearly shown that Bell was actually defending himself. All I hear so far is proof that some kind of hostilities were being engaged in, and that McAllister’s arrival helped to prevent further exchange of fire. If Sergeant Klein wants to bring formal charges against my sergeant, he’s got the legal right to do so, but I’m not gonna sit here and listen to him talk about something that took place while he was off somewhere practicing his quick-draw. Due respect, ma’am.”
“Hell, Lieutenant,” said Klein, “how can you say there was no robbery attempt? What else did it look like?”
“That’s enough,” said Ballard. “Thank you, Sergeant Klein.”
The next witness was Dell Greer, followed by Moses Harper.
They both described the events leading up to the Arrow Creek confrontation as simply as they could, referring to their notes and reciting the details in a lockjaw singsong cops use when talking to DA’s. The details corroborated other testimony, and they were both excused with thanks.
Out in the hall, they picked up their hats, waved to the rest of the witnesses, and split for the parking lot at a slow run. From there they went straight to the Muzzleloader and ordered a Coors and a Corona, which they downed in two takes.
Danny Burt was next.
Burt came into the room surrounded by dead air. He smiled briefly at Meagher and the two CIB men. They had all gotten swilled together more times than they could count, at Twilly’s or Fogarty’s New York Bar. But today was formal, and Burt seemed to know that one of the results of this hearing might be a contributory negligence charge against him. The first thing he said made his position clear.
“I just want to make a statement, ma’am?”
“Certainly, Mr. Burt.”
“I give—I retained a lawyer this morning, and he’s saying that if this meeting gets into anything about the hijacking and that, then I’m gonna clam up. Okay?”
Ballard looked at him for a moment, her face blank.
“To whom did you give the retainer?”
“Spellman Sterling.”
Everyone around the table tried not to react to that information. Ballard’s eyes were bright and amused. “Are we to assume by this that you intend not to answer questions in this matter?”
Burt’s blunt face closed up and his brows came down.
“I’m not sayin’ I won’t say anything. I’m just sayin’ that if it gets into blamin’ me or stuff like that, then I’m outta here.”
“You can be subpoenaed, Mr. Burt.”
“Fire away. I haven’t been summoned for this hearing. I’m giving my testimony freely and of my own good will. It’s just I got no intention of being no scapegoat for a police fuckup.”
“Hey, Danny, come on, man,” said Klein, looking hurt. Ballard raised a delicate, long-fingered hand and he snapped his mouth shut.
“Mr. Burt, these proceedings are not criminal. We are gathered here merely as a committee of inqu
iry, to examine in an orderly way the events surrounding the several deaths that took place this past Friday. I can assure you that, as assistant district attorney for Yellowstone County, I would be seriously remiss in my duties if I were to allow any development of evidence here that provided a prima facie basis for an indictment without first ensuring that you—that any person appearing here, any person who might be the subject of a criminal inquiry leading to an indictment—had been apprised of your rights under the law, including the right to counsel and the right not to make self-incriminatory statements. Now, if you have reason to believe that there is a material possibility that information will come forth at these informal hearings that might … incriminate you or create some inference of guilt or culpability, then I would most strongly advise you now to get up from this table and leave. Mr. Sterling and I have a long professional acquaintance, and I would be delighted to communicate with him in this regard and to have him present at any formal interrogation.”
Burt’s face went through a number of changes. “I—I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“And no one here thinks you have, Mr. Burt.” Her tone softened. She shut off the recorder.
“Look, Danny. This is merely an administrative function here. Obviously, Spellman thinks so, too, or he’d be here with his moustache in flames. Nobody thinks you’ve done anything that could, or should, result in any charges at all. Now, I know how sorry you must be, and I know you feel that, in some way, you are responsible for Peter Hinsdale’s death.”
“Hell, Ms. Ballard—I feel like shit about it! Can’t get any sleep! Been pissed—been drinking all weekend! Poor little bastard. I mean, the kid was a pain in the butt, only—not even—I mean, I think the whole thing sucks. Ma’am.”
“So do we all, Danny. We all think it … sucks. Now that I’ve tried to reassure you, may we continue?”
Burt looked around the table.
“Sure, Ms. Ballard. I’m sorry for my language.”
She smiled and turned on the tape recorder again. “Now we have reached the time when, as it has been reported by other witnesses, you and Peter Hinsdale arrived at the scene of the first shooting. Perhaps you could go on from there, in your own words?”
“Sure. Well, me and Pete, we had another call to make, over at Laurel. Mr. Gentile has a contract with Zweibeck’s Nursing Home, so we were trying to get this done. The medical examiner had already been there, and Rowdy said—”
“Let the record show that Mr. Burt has made reference to Dr. Marco Vlasic, acting as coroner, and to Sergeant Rudolph Klein of the CIB.”
Klein refrained from mentioning to Ballard that he preferred to use the name Rowdy.
“Yeah, and Sergeant Klein told me that it was okay to take the sti—the client away. So me and Pete, we bagged him and filed him in the cooler.”
“Try to resist the idiom, Mr. Burt.”
“What?”
“Please speak in plain terms, Mr. Burt.”
“Oh. Okay. We placed the client in a body bag, and we put him in the tray, and we slid the tray into the wagon. Then we—well, I got on the CB and Bob—Mr. Gentile—says that the people at Zweibeck’s called to say that the old far—the elderly client who died was Jewish, and since it was Friday and the guy was orthodox, it seems that he hadda be taken by his own family and they’d made arrangements with the synagogue to take charge of the body and get him buried within twenty-four hours. So we had nothing to do, and I figured, you know, it was hot as hell and we’d had a long day, and the kid was yarfing at me—I mean, Pete was whining and complaining about the shift. Kid complained a lot, ma’am, he was kind of a pain in the—well, so just to, I guess, crank him off, I decide to stop in at Fogarty’s for a coupla brews.”
“Fogarty’s being Fogarty’s New York Bar in Pompeys Pillar?”
“Yes, ma’am. So I park the cooler and Pete starts in yarfing again, so I say I’m going in and he kin slide if he don’t—doesn’t—if he isn’t thirsty.”
“And this would have been at what time, approximately?”
“It would be exactly six. Or seven. Maybe.”
“Exactly maybe or perhaps maybe?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Please go on.”
“Well, I had a coupla drinks with Fogarty and we talked about this and that. And then I get into talking with this Indian guy who came in.”
“Can you describe him for us?”
“Yeah. Long black hair, in braids. Not old, but he had a tough face. Like he’d been around, you know. Big guy. But he was friendly and—well, one thing leads to another, and …”
“Yes?”
“So, I know this is stupid, but I get to drinkin’ and I say to Fogarty and this guy, I’m tellin’ them about the shoot-out, you know, and here I got this kid in the cooler. So we just go out, you know, to take a look at him.”
“And who took part in this … expedition to view the corpse?”
“Me. Fogarty. This Indian guy, said his name was Earl. So we scope out the stiffie and everybody says, you know, like it was too bad. I was feeling kinda bad because it was a dead Indian and here I am showing the body to another Indian. Like it was a sensitive issue. Which I guess it was.”
“Was this Native American male someone you knew, even casually?”
“Nope. I know most everybody in the county. This guy was from nowhere around here. Real hardcase, too. Looked like he’d done time.”
“Thanks for the guesswork, Mr. Burt. If you’ll just relate, in any words you like, just relate the events as you were in a position to observe them, we’ll take care of the forensic inferences.”
Burt ducked his head, swallowed, and ran them through it. After a few more drinks, the Indian named Earl had paid for his beers and gotten up from the barstool just as Burt and Hinsdale were leaving. At the door, he asked Burt which way they were going. Burt said into Billings, and the man asked for a lift.
“And that was that. We get about a half-block away, and suddenly I got this machete at my throat and Pete is crying, and next thing I know we’re out at the end of the street. Earl gets me to pull in behind the grain barn there, you know, Minnocks Feed Barn? And there’s a whole gang of them there. A young girl, pretty thing, but not in any mood for talk. Another man they called James, an old guy whose name I didn’t get, and Earl from the bar. They all get in, Earl in beside me and Pete, and the rest in the back with the stiff. Pull the curtains around, and boom, we’re outta town.”
“Did you see any other weapons?”
“Oh yeah! Metal bows and arrows. Real modern stuff. Expensive. And knives. They didn’t talk much. They were … scary.”
“Did they discuss the events at Joe Bell’s gas station?”
“Not a lot. I got the idea that it was the kid they wanted. Like it was a religious thing. The girl was pretty strong on that point. I got the idea getting the body back had been her idea, and they were going along with it to please her. But the old guy, he was pretty pissed about it. He opened up the crate—the casket—and man, was he cranked about that! I thought, that’s it. Good-night nurse. Touched the wound, rubbed the blood on his cheeks and his forehead. Total fruit-basket! But you got the idea he was running things, and that the other two guys were muscle.”
“Did you form any opinions regarding their intentions?”
“They were getting the hell outta town, ma’am.”
“Yes. I meant, what their intentions might have been in their initial approach to Bell’s Oasis.”
“Intentions, ma’am? I’d say their intentions was to rob the shit outta the place. They had the bows, and they was sure as hell a gang. Had a boss and a plan and a skinfulla bad intentions. They went there to rob Joe Bell. I already been over this with Finch and Rowdy.”
“Were they specific about that? They named Joe Bell?”
“Yeah! Joe Bell, they said. They said they were going to get the man, get Joe Bell. They said they had gone after ‘the old man,’ and I took that to mean Joe Bell.”
“Yeah. I got the impression that’s what they wanted. Like they had picked out Joe Bell’s place, and the rest had just happened. They said something about the shotgun, about it being under his desk, and one of the younger guys, I think it was James, says, ‘We should have taken him at the pumps,’ and then the old man tells them all to shut up. I guess he was worried about them talking in front of us.”
“And it was your distinct impression that this group of people, one young woman and one young male, and two middle-age males whom you knew as Earl and James, and the elderly man—”
“Donna! They called her Donna! She was crying and carrying on, and the old man said something like ‘Be still, Donna!’ and she clammed right up. That old guy, yeah, he was definitely running things.”
“Thank you. That Earl and James and—Donna? And this ‘old man’—it was your impression that they had initiated the contact with Joe Bell in order to carry out an armed robbery of the premises.”
“Yes, ma’am. They had the bows and shit. They were as pissed off as a buncha scorpions in a frying pan. They were all fired up. I figured, listening to them growling at each other, I figured I could just bend over, kiss my—”
“I’m sure. And what happened then?”
“Then? Then they get me to drive to the Ballantine road and off into the creek. That’s one thing. It was like they knew the creek, you know? Knew that it was shallow enough to drive in. And we get a few miles up the creek—by now, I’m hearing on the CB from Mr. Gentile and from you guys”—he nodded at Finch Hyam and Rowdy Klein—“so I know, like, the search is on.”
“I understand, from other reports, that you were now separated from Peter Hinsdale.”
“Yes, ma’am. They stopped up the creek there, by the big bend below the bluffs. They go around, open up the back. Take out the kid’s body. That was when I figured we was dead, because the girl, she goes nuclear. Rangy! Crying and stuff. The men were just sort of solemn and sad, but she—I don’t wanna run into her, she’s got a gun or something.”
Lizardskin Page 28
