Known Dead ch-2

by Donald Harstad

  ‘‘What do you mean by machine gun, Beth?’’

  ‘‘Well, you know, it’s black, and it fires real fast, and Howler says it is.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘How big is it?’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ said Beth, extending her hands about three feet apart, ‘‘like this or so, with a thing hanging down from the bottom, like.’’

  ‘‘Where is old Howler these days?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘On a farm between here and Maitland, on the highway, you know, by the old train station…’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I think so,’’ I said.

  We had to talk to Howler.

  We stayed with Beth for a few more minutes, and I checked to make sure we had a unit talking to Marks, before we left. We did. The Freiberg officer. He’d been the only one available. We headed right up to Marks’s place, both because we wanted to talk to him and because the unit already there had damn little idea what they were doing with him.

  On the way, we started sorting things out better. And were faced with a pretty familiar dilemma. Do we talk with Marks on the fly, to get him while he’s still off balance? Or do we wait, and talk to him later, when we have more information, and ammunition enough to impeach his story? We figured that, since we had to protect Beth, we’d better do it now, and then hit him again later if we had to. And we’d probably have to.

  Then, we had Howie with a shotgun, and nobody that we saw had been hit with a shotgun. But, according to Hester, the shotgun had been fired. She had seen no blood trails at any of the other obvious locations. Therefore, Howie had missed? Most likely. But who had he been shooting at? Bill probably. But were we sure? No. And why in the hell did Howie have a shotgun in the first place? It wasn’t like him at all.

  Ah, but we knew that Marks and Howie were working together. Marks was almost guaranteed to know something worth our while, even if he hadn’t been out there today.

  Johnny Marks was about twenty-five, a little over six feet, slender, tanned, black-haired, and very indignant.

  ‘‘I said,’’ he said to me, ‘‘I want to know just what the fuck you people are doing here.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you do,’’ I replied, and continued my introduction. ‘‘As I was trying to say, my name is Houseman, and I’m a deputy sheriff here in Nation County. And this is Special

  Agent Gorse of the DCI.’’

  ‘‘Big fuckin’ deal.’’

  ‘‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’’

  ‘‘Fuck you. I’m leavin’ town for a vacation.’’

  ‘‘May we come in?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  I reached out and grabbed the front of his Hawaiian shirt. ‘‘Then you get to come out.’’

  ‘‘Get your fuckin’ hands off me!’’

  ‘‘I’m placing you under arrest as a material witness. You will come with us.’’ I pulled, hard. He came out the door, stumbling. ‘‘Now.’’

  Hester shot me that damned eyebrow again.

  ‘‘You heard him say he intended to leave?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she said. ‘‘I did.’’

  ‘‘I want my attorney, and I want him now!’’ Typical. ‘‘You can’t arrest me!’’ Natural progression. ‘‘For what?’’

  The handcuffs went on easily.

  ‘‘I’m going to handcuff him in front, if that’s all right with you?’’

  ‘‘Fine with me,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘You can’t handcuff me!’’

  ‘‘He doesn’t look like much of a threat,’’ she said.

  ‘‘You can’t do this!’’

  ‘‘Take him in our car, Carl?’’

  ‘‘No. Let’s get a marked car.’’

  ‘‘You can’t do this!’’

  I pushed him toward the Freiberg officer. That officer was aware that he’d been the choice of desperation, just to get somebody up there. He’d been very patient with both us and Marks. I’m not sure about us, but he was definitely losing patience with Marks.

  ‘‘You hold him for us for a little bit?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’ He grinned.

  ‘‘I said…!’’

  I stopped, Marks stopped. ‘‘You have the right to remain silent. ..’’

  He actually listened. Then: ‘‘What am I charged with?’’ Civil, calm, with no sign of the excitement of a few moments before. Typical of an experienced criminal. As soon as you’re truly serious, the show stops and we get down to business.

  ‘‘You weren’t listening,’’ I said, reasonably and with a smile. ‘‘You’re under arrest as a material witness. You aren’t charged with anything.’’

  ‘‘Witness to what?’’

  ‘‘Oh, manufacturing of dope, for instance.’’

  ‘‘Hey, I don’t cook anything!’’

  ‘‘Marijuana. Patch.’’

  ‘‘Oh, well, I don’t know nothin’ about no patch, man.’’

  ‘‘Conspiracy to manufacture.’’

  ‘‘Nope. Not me.’’

  ‘‘Murder.’’

  Stunned silence.

  ‘‘Conspiracy to commit murder.’’

  ‘‘Whaaa?’’

  ‘‘Murder of a police officer in conjunction with manufacturing a controlled substance.’’

  ‘‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’’

  Well, we had his complete attention now.

  ‘‘You’ll be taken to the Nation County Sheriff’s Department,’’ said Hester, ‘‘where we will ask you for a statement. You may call your attorney as soon as you arrive at the station.’’ She smiled sweetly at him, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her smile and not mean it. At least not mean it in a friendly way. ‘‘You really should, you know.’’

  ‘‘Should what?’’

  ‘‘Call your attorney. I sure would if I were you,’’ she said.

  Six

  As the Freiberg police officer closed the back door of his patrol car, thereby preventing Marks from hearing us, Hester turned to me.

  ‘‘That go the way you planned?’’

  I grinned. ‘‘Well, no, now that you ask.’’

  ‘‘Material witness?’’

  ‘‘Hey, he’s leaving… or was going to.’’

  She sighed. ‘‘Carl, sometimes…’’

  I grinned again. ‘‘What?’’

  She shook her head. It was, after all, a valid arrest. ‘‘Never mind.’’

  ‘‘All right. Now, then, as long as he’s not going to be worth a shit to us until he talks to his attorney…’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Well, I was thinking we’d better pay this Howler dude a visit.’’

  Since Howler had a ‘‘machine gun,’’ prudence sort of dictated that we have some assistance. Hester used her cell phone to talk to Al, avoiding all the monitors of police radio frequencies. Given what we suspected was going on with Howler, we pretty well had to assume he’d have a scanner. We had to go back down through Freiberg, and out the other end to get to Howler’s place. We stopped and got a couple of cans of pop, and by the time we got to Howler’s farm, at 1643, there were six or seven patrol cars pulled up around the place. I was impressed. A crowd of cops in our county is normally three officers. In two cars.

  There were troopers and deputies on all four sides of the house. No sign of activity. Hester had called information and gotten Howler’s telephone number. She called the house while we walked toward the porch. He answered after about ten rings.

  ‘‘Yeah…’’

  ‘‘This Howler?’’ she asked, in a normal tone of voice.

  ‘‘Yeah, honey, this is the old Howler.’’ His interest increased as soon as he heard a female voice. ‘‘You want some?’’

  ‘‘No, I’d like to talk to you, though.’’

  ‘‘Hey, phone sex is good, sweetie. Not as good as what old Howler’s got here, but if that’s what you want?’’

  ‘‘What I really want, Howler, is for you to step out on th
e front porch.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Just come on out, where I can see you.’’

  Old Howler was no fool. ‘‘Who the fuck is this?’’

  ‘‘Agent Gorse, Iowa DCI.’’

  He laughed. Maybe he wasn’t a fool, but he wasn’t convinced either. ‘‘Yeah, right.’’

  ‘‘Look out the window, Howler. You’ll see me out by the swing set.’’

  He actually looked. I don’t think he ever did see Hester then, but he sure saw the cop cars.

  ‘‘Holy fuck!’’

  He hung up.

  Hester held the cell phone above her head, and said, in a very loud voice. ‘‘He’s broken contact. Look alive.’’

  Howler, ‘‘old Howler,’’ heard that too. Of course.

  There was a shadow at the front screen door, and then it opened a crack.

  ‘‘Don’t shoot!’’

  ‘‘Just come on out, Howler.’’

  ‘‘What the fuck you want?’’

  ‘‘Gotta talk, Howler,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Gotta talk now. ’’

  ‘‘What about?’’

  ‘‘About what will happen if you don’t,’’ said Hester.

  While she and ‘‘old Howler’’ had been chatting, a youngish trooper had crept up onto the porch area and was standing pressed to the wall, about two feet from the screen door. The door opened more, and Howler stuck his head out. I had the impression of gray hair, in a ponytail, no shirt, thin…

  The trooper’s hand shot out, grabbed the ponytail, and in one very smooth move Howler was on the porch floor, facedown with one arm behind his back, and the right knee of the trooper firmly against his spine.

  ‘‘Ow, man, that hurts!’’ The call of the wild.

  Hester and I were on the porch in a hurry. We stood looking down at Howler for a second. I looked at the trooper. ‘‘You do good work.’’

  ‘‘Hey, nothing to it.’’

  ‘‘You fuckers,’’ asked Howler, ‘‘gonna stand there and fuckin’ chat while this fucker’s tearing off my fuckin’ arm?’’

  ‘‘Watch your language,’’ I said, ‘‘there’s a lady present.’’

  Howler looked up, saw Hester, and said, ‘‘Oh. My apologies, ma’am.’’

  I had to turn around and face the yard. He was funny enough, but Hester just hated ‘‘ma’am.’’

  ‘‘Let him up,’’ said Hester.

  The trooper, who was probably all of twenty-three or twenty-four, stood Howler up, smartly, and asked Hester, ‘‘Do you want him cuffed, ma’am?’’

  ‘‘No, thank you.’’

  I turned around. ‘‘Do you want to talk to him now, ma’am?’’

  Mistake. ‘‘No,’’ said Hester evenly. ‘‘I was thinking of hauling him in as a material witness.’’

  ‘‘Can’t,’’ I said. ‘‘Been done already today. Only allowed one a day.’’

  ‘‘What’s goin’ on?’’ asked Howler. Reasonably.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Hester, ‘‘we have to talk to you about a couple of things.’’ She eyeballed him pretty well, especially his many tattoos. ‘‘You’re a felon, right?’’

  ‘‘I did my time, ma’am. I got out two years ago. I’m clean.’’

  ‘‘Except for a couple of things,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Like your assault rifle, for instance.’’

  Silence.

  ‘‘If you give it to us now,’’ said Hester, ‘‘I’ll tell the court you were cooperative.’’

  He thought for a minute. ‘‘I don’t want you searchin’ the house.’’

  ‘‘If we get the gun, we won’t have to.’’

  He thought for another few seconds. ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘We’ll come in with you,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘And you just tell us where to look for it,’’ I said. ‘‘Let us get it.’’

  ‘‘Sure, man,’’ said Howler. ‘‘You think I’m nuts?’’ He grinned. ‘‘Just reach around the door, it’s right there.’’

  I pulled my last two surgical gloves from my pants pocket, donned them, and reached my hand around the doorframe. I put my hand on a piece of cold metal. I pulled out an old Russian Army rifle, semiauto. Tokarev. 1940. Had a box magazine under the stock, for ten rounds. I’d seen one once before, in a museum. World War II vintage. But 7.62 mm, all right. How handy.

  I pulled back the bolt, and a round popped out, striking the edge of the porch and spinning onto the floor. With the bolt still back, I dropped the magazine, which hit the floor with a solid thunk. The bolt stayed open. I tried to smell the chamber, but with my sinuses, it was hopeless. But old Howler didn’t know that.

  ‘‘When did you last fire this?’’

  ‘‘Early this morning.’’

  ‘‘Where.’’

  ‘‘In the woods.’’

  I looked at him. ‘‘At what?’’ I bent over, and retrieved the round and the magazine, which contained several more.

  ‘‘A deer.’’

  ‘‘Howler,’’ I said, straightening up slowly, ‘‘that’s illegal. You can’t hunt deer in Iowa with a rifle. You know that.’’

  He just looked at me.

  ‘‘Howler,’’ said Hester, ‘‘we’re going to have to ask you to come to the Sheriff’s Department with us. We have some questions to ask you.’’ She turned to the trooper. ‘‘Cuff him now, please.’’

  ‘‘Sure thing, ma’am.’’

  ‘‘I’ll give you a receipt for the rifle,’’ I said, smiling, ‘‘as soon as we get to the office. We’ll have to keep it.’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ said Howler. ‘‘It’s these new fuckin’ gun laws.’’ He caught himself instantly. ‘‘Excuse my language, ma’am.’’

  We gave Howler to a deputy from James County, who had come over to assist, and let him take Howler to our jail. We thanked the young trooper again, eliciting another barrage of ‘‘ma’am.’’ Hester wasn’t in the best of moods when we left.

  I notified Lamar that we were en route to the office for an interview. Hester called her boss, Al, and gave him more detail over her cell phone. We just had to get those things for our department.

  When she was done, we talked. Mostly about Howler and the gun. It could be a murder weapon. The caliber was right. But the owner didn’t seem to be a good possibility.

  ‘‘He’s not nervous enough,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Not by a mile.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I know. And he was sleeping, but not apparently drugged.’’

  ‘‘So?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. I wonder, though. I mean, shit, Hester, these dudes are both into Howie. They know about the dope. They either know, or should, who was with him. They’ve just about got to be involved, at some level or another. Don’t you think?’’

  Even as I heard myself, I knew that there was something wrong.

  ‘‘I wonder.’’ Hester slid down in the seat a bit, and reached for her now warm can of pop. ‘‘Something isn’t working.’’

  I nodded. ‘‘Tell me.’’

  Seven

  When we got to the office, the mood was more somber than I had ever seen it. Hester and I, having generated some activity, and having been away from the crime scene for a while, had managed to push the gravity of the events to the back of our minds. You learn to do that. But back at the office, it all came homing in on us with a rush. Nobody was crying, or anything like that. But there was no life. No remarks. No rapid movements or speech. All the noises seemed muted. Even the phones didn’t sound right.

  I called Sue first thing. News gets around, and although the office had called her and said that I was all right, I wanted to touch base. She was glad I was alive, and wondered when I could get back home. I told her I didn’t know, but that I was anxious to be there too. Which I was. I was also glad to be at the office and in the middle of things. Hard to explain to a wife, so I didn’t bother. She knew that anyway.

  I checked in at the dispatch desk, just to be certain that they knew we were
in the building. Sally, my favorite dispatcher, was at the main console.

  ‘‘Carl,’’ she said, not looking up, ‘‘the ME has a message for you. Call him at the Maitland General Hospital.’’

  ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘It’s about the autopsy. That’s all I know.’’

  ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘One of the agents from the scene will be in in a couple of minutes. He wants you to be sure to wait for him.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be in the back room.’’

  ‘‘The Freiberg officer is waiting for you in the kitchen, with a prisoner.’’

  We don’t have interrogation rooms. The kitchen is the best place, because it has fresh coffee.

  ‘‘That’s fine. Can I go now?’’

  She looked up for the first time. No smile, but she spoke softly. ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘Either of the guys talk to you about what they were doing up there?’’

  She shook her head.

  ‘‘That’s all right, they really shouldn’t have anyway. You remember Turd from a few years back?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘You get a chance, leave me a note about what you know about him, will you?’’

  ‘‘Won’t be a very long note.’’

  ‘‘ ’S all right. Anything will be a help.’’

  ‘‘Want me to run stuff?’’

  ‘‘Yep.’’

  By 2200 hours, what we had was this: We had a dead DNE officer, killed by gunfire. A dead doper, also killed by gunfire. An officer witness, who hadn’t actually seen anybody but the two dead people, but who had heard at least one and most likely two shooters. He’d never actually seen either of the two victims shot. Two possible suspects, who were linked to the shootings only by their association with the dead doper, and with no evidence of their actual presence at the murder scene. A preliminary report from the lab crew at the scene which indicated that the only footprints available were going to be those from the trail area, as the grass was simply too thick to let a footprint be made elsewhere. We also had sixty-seven empty shell casings. That’s right, sixty-seven. All rifle ammunition, either 5.56 mm or 7.62 mm. Turd’s shotgun had been a pump-action model, and he had fired only one round, and apparently he hadn’t either the time or the presence of mind to jack a second round into the chamber. Moreover, his shells had been 6? shot. Both too small and possessing too little energy at the involved ranges to enable him to shoot through an officer’s vest and seriously injure him, let alone kill him. And, in the person of Dr. Peters, who was sitting at the kitchen table with us, the preliminary autopsy reports. The pathology laboratory details were going to take a bit of time, but the preliminary was what we were after. It didn’t clear anything up. And maybe complicated things for us, instead.