Known Dead ch-2

by Donald Harstad

  Dr. Peters put down his coffee cup. ‘‘Pretty good.’’ He spread his hands. ‘‘Let’s do the civilian first?’’

  ‘‘Fine,’’ I said. Lamar, Hester, DNE Agent Dahl, a man named Frank who was doing the photos for the lab, and I were all present. Dahl, Lamar, and this Frank had been at the autopsies, along with two DCI General Crim. agents.

  ‘‘Right,’’ said Peters. ‘‘Well, we have a nearly emaciated white male who was struck at least six times by high-velocity rifle rounds. I say ‘at least’ because there is a possibility that there could have been a second round into the head. Not a strong one, but a chance. However, all six or seven rounds appear to have exited the body. Just small metallic fragments on the X-rays. Lots of nearly vaporized bone fragments. Massive damage.’’

  He took another sip of coffee. ‘‘I’ve seen the patterns of automatic weapons fire before, and that’s what this reminds me of. It looks to me like the first round entered just below the navel, through and through, with the subsequent rounds… one more in the upper abdomen, one in the lower chest, one in the upper chest, one at the base of the neck, and one in the head.’’ He smiled apologetically. ‘‘Or, possibly, two.’’ He leaned back in his folding chair. ‘‘The body was beginning to move, but since this was, I feel, full auto fire, there wasn’t any time for movement to be pronounced. A fairly modern military weapon, with a high rate of fire.’’

  ‘‘Any thoughts on caliber?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘Well, from the casings, it’s got to be either 7.62 or 5.56 mm. But with no projectiles remaining in the body, it’s extremely hard to tell. The small fragments appeared to be metallic jacketing material. Until we hear from the lab, I’ll just go with a rifle. But if I had to wager, I’d say 5.56 mm. One of the jacketing fragments appears to have been from the base of the round, or at least partially. Pretty small, as far as can be determined.’’ He took another sip of his coffee. ‘‘The important thing, I think, that we can tell from his wounds is that the rifle was fired from close range. I’d think, to keep five rounds that close as it rises, possibly ten, fifteen feet. No more than that.’’

  ‘‘Wow.’’

  ‘‘Yes. And, that’s consistent with the visibility at the scene. Plus,’’ he said, ‘‘that would explain the civilian’s shotgun being fired, but no visible effect, and the empty round not ejected. Struck so often, and especially in the head, he probably fired from reflex.’’

  ‘‘But,’’ said Hester, ‘‘he’d have to have seen something, to put his finger on the trigger in the first place, don’t you think?’’

  Dr. Peters thought for a second. ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘But,’’ said Hester again, ‘‘not soon enough to fire.’’

  ‘‘Right. So,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘we come to Agent Kellerman.’’

  I took in a breath, and some coffee as well. So did just about everybody else. In other circumstances, it might have been funny.

  ‘‘He, also, was struck what appears to be five times,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘But in this case, there’s something very interesting. He appears to have been hit twice by 5.56 mm rounds and three times by 7.62 mm rounds. From the same approximate direction, but from possibly two different levels. And at virtually the same time, based on Officer Johansen’s recollections.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’ asked Dahl.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘Johansen heard what he thought was basically one burst of fire, and a second or two later, another. When Johansen reaches Kellerman, the wounds we have are already there. There is subsequent firing, but no further hits on Kellerman. And that, by the way, is borne out by the approximate angles and directions of entry on the wounds. I’ve talked to Johansen, and he estimates that each burst of fire was probably about one second in duration. Yet we have two distinct types of round, entering at the same approximate angle and direction.’’ He leaned forward. ‘‘Fragments again, I’m afraid, but the fragments are larger because of his ballistic vest.’’

  Oh, swell.

  ‘‘The casings found at the scene confirm two calibers,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘and Agent Dahl says they’re at almost the same angle from the officer.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ said Dahl. ‘‘But one’s back further, isn’t it, Hester?’’

  ‘‘About fifteen yards,’’ said Hester. ‘‘And to the right of the 5.56 shooter.’’

  ‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘can we state with any certainty that Kellerman shot Howie, and that the two unseen dopers shot Kellerman?’’

  ‘‘Yep,’’ said Dahl.

  ‘‘Uh, no, I don’t think so,’’ said Dr. Peters. ‘‘In fact, from the statement of Officer Johansen, I don’t see how Officer Kellerman could have hit the civilian from the front…’’

  Oops.

  ‘‘You mean,’’ asked Lamar, ‘‘that the other dopers shot both this Phelps dude and the officer?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Dr. Peters, ‘‘and from the testimony of Officer Johansen, about two seconds apart.’’ He raised his coffee to his lips, then brought it down a bit. ‘‘That’s not what Officer Johansen thought happened at the time, though. He, too, thought that Officer Kellerman had shot the civilian.’’

  We digested that for a few seconds.

  ‘‘Judging from the evidence from the autopsy, and from the scene of the murders, I believe that one man shot the civilian, and then both that man and his partner shot the officer.’’ Dr. Peters tapped a finger on his notes. ‘‘Can’t prove it, of course. Not yet. That’s up to you.’’ He smiled.

  He held up one of the larger, 7.62 mm casings. It was a dark brown. ‘‘Chinese-made,’’ he said. ‘‘Fires the 7.62 short Soviet round. So, if it’s full auto, I’d suggest an AK-47-type weapon.’’

  ‘‘Or a modified SKS?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘But definitely not one of the older 7.62 Russian, like from World War II?’’ Dr. Peters was a gun collector, and would be likely to know that.

  ‘‘I don’t think it would.’’

  ‘‘Like,’’ I asked, ‘‘one of the semiauto Tokarevs?’’

  ‘‘Not likely. That had, if I remember, a round with a funny kind of rim…’’

  ‘‘Thanks.’’ I shook my head. The cases from the scene were what were known as rimless. ‘‘Well, we got a Tokarev, model 1940, from a possible suspect. Aside from the fact that it’s only a semiauto, it also fires the wrong 7.62 round.’’

  ‘‘Keep looking,’’ said Dr. Peters.

  ‘‘Oh, yeah. We will.’’

  So, there we were. With virtually nothing but two dead people and a lot of shell casings. Complete with two suspects who looked like they weren’t going to pan out.

  We sent another team up to reinterview Beth. We needed any information we could find linking Johnny Marks to the dope. And to the crime scene. We needed a warrant to search his place for a suspect weapon. We didn’t have enough yet. In the meantime, we had several people out interviewing everybody he knew. Getting background data, but just inserting a question about an assault rifle at some point. We needed something, anything, to place that kind of rifle in his possession.

  Hester and I did the Howler interview. He had been tested with chemical swabs, and had fired a firearm recently. It began to appear that he really had shot at a deer.

  ‘‘I told you I did,’’ he said. ‘‘I didn’t hit it, but I shot at it.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘would you be willing to talk to a DNR officer about that?’’

  ‘‘Sure. I mean, shit, man, you got me on that one.’’

  The rest of the interview was unremarkable, except for his reaction when we asked what kind of guns Johnny Marks had.

  ‘‘Oh, shit,’’ he said. ‘‘Oh, hey, lots of ’em, man. Lots of ’em. Rifles, at least three. Four handguns. At least three, for sure.’’

  Hester and I exchanged glances. ‘‘Where are these guns?’’

  ‘‘He keeps ’em in
his gun locker, ma’am.’’

  ‘‘You have observed these guns yourself. At his place?’’

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’

  ‘‘Recently?’’

  ‘‘Oh, about a week ago or so. Yeah, I’d say recently. About then.’’

  ‘‘Can you tell me what kind?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘You know,’’ he said, ‘‘I never handled those or anything. Just saw the bunch of ’em in the locker when he opened it. It don’t have a glass door or anything, so I could only see… but the handguns were on little pegs, and hanging from their triggers, like…’’

  Since Johnny Marks was a convicted felon, that was enough. Three hours later, we had our search warrant for his house, and just after midnight, we were through the door.

  We found lots of interesting stuff, including a little dope. And the guns. All either muzzle-loading rifles or cap-and-ball revolvers. Black powder. Iowa considers them not to be firearms, for felonious matters. I’ve always been under the impression that those guns, which killed soldiers by the hundreds of thousands in the American Civil War, were a technology that was quite capable of killing today. And they are. But, apparently, if they make a lot of smoke, they’re not what the legislature considers a firearm.

  As Hester said: ‘‘A chickenshit dope charge and some antique guns!’’ Hester has a way with words.

  Dahl, our intrepid dope cop, had found lots of stuff in the infamous gun locker. Written records that indicated a connection to several large dealers in the Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota triangle. ‘‘Indicated’’ being the key word. Evidence enough to keep Dahl on the track, but not nearly enough for a charge. We charged Marks with simple possession. Pretty much to make it look like we had done something. But it did give us something to trade for real information, if he had any.

  We ended our day at 4:24 A.M. Knowing just about as much of real worth as we had at 4 P.M. Not a good first day on a murder investigation. A pretty good rule of thumb is that, if you haven’t developed a good suspect within forty-eight hours of the start of the investigation, you have a serious problem, and may never get the thing solved. Time was getting short, and we’d hardly started.

  Damn.

  Eight

  The next day started at 0726, when I got a call from the office telling me that there had been a development and that I should be there within half an hour. Sue, who had been awakened by the phone, and who had been sort of listening to me, asked what time it was. I told her.

  ‘‘God.’’ Then: ‘‘What time did you get in last night?’’

  By that time I was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to remember where I’d left the floor. ‘‘Oh, I dunno… four or five, I think…’’

  She was now sitting. ‘‘Three hours’ sleep?’’ Obviously she was more awake than I was. I could tell because she could do the math. I thought for a second, still trying to get the cobwebs out.

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ I said, ‘‘I guess you’re right.’’

  ‘‘That’s terrible,’’ she said, lying back down. ‘‘It was that state officer being killed, wasn’t it? The one I saw on TV.’’

  ‘‘Yep.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘Actually, it’s bullshit.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Nothing,’’ I said as I dialed the phone. ‘‘Just calling the office.’’

  The phone was portable, so I carried it into the hall as it rang.

  ‘‘Sheriff’s Department…’’

  ‘‘Yeah, hey, it’s Carl. What’s the development you called me about?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know, they didn’t say. Just said to call you.’’

  ‘‘Is this Brenda?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  Brenda was pretty new at this. ‘‘Okay, Brenda, who told you to call me?’’

  ‘‘Nine.’’

  Nine was the call number for Deputy Eddie Heinz, also relatively new. We all liked Eddie. He was one of the most enthusiastic people I’d ever worked with.

  ‘‘Where is he?’’

  ‘‘In his car.’’

  ‘‘Right, Brenda, look… have him call me when he gets in.’’ I yawned.

  ‘‘Uh, he wasn’t going to come in. He wanted you at the scene.’’

  ‘‘What scene?’’ Regardless, I had now talked so long it would be impossible to get back to sleep.

  ‘‘Up near the park area. I think he’s found something…’’

  ‘‘All right, Brenda, thanks. I’ll get up there as soon as I wake up.’’

  I had a cup of coffee, and left the house at 0812. Sue had come downstairs with me, and tried to persuade me to eat something healthy. I scarfed down a banana with my vitamin pills and my blood pressure meds. Ten years ago, I thought, I would have been there by now. Closer to the truth than I wanted to dwell on.

  I kissed Sue as I left. ‘‘Thanks for the breakfast.’’

  I contacted Eddie via radio when I was about six miles from him, and got directions. It’s a fairly wild area up there, and I didn’t want to waste time looking for him. As I dropped down into the heavily wooded valleys, the fog was thick just below the tree line. The tops of the trees looked like islands sticking up out of the sea. Then I dropped below the ‘‘water level’’ and was in a fairly thick, very damp fog. Windshield wipers on. I still could see about fifty feet. I was almost past Eddie when I saw his car in one of the little picnic areas cleared by the state. He was outside, and motioned me in beside his car. I got out, and sloshed as much as walked through the wet grass over to where he was.

  ‘‘Hi, hope you don’t mind, but I thought you should see this.’’

  ‘‘Whaddya got?’’ Reserving judgment as to whether or not I ‘‘minded’’ until I saw why he’d called.

  He led me over to an area of very deep grass at the edge of the mowed picnic area and pointed to a spot where the grass appeared bent. There were what seemed to be several cardboard boxes, some just plain cardboard-colored, and some red, white, and blue printed boxes. They all appeared to be empty. The colorful ones said ‘‘USA Made Quality Assured’’ and ‘‘Famous Quality Ammunition.’’ And then, stamped in black on the white ends, ‘‘Cal. 5.56 mm FMJ.’’ As I peered over the pile, I could make out the printing on the brown boxes. ‘‘Republic of China.’’ ‘‘7.62 mm Ball.’’

  ‘‘Glad you called me.’’ I straightened up. ‘‘How in the hell did you find these?’’

  ‘‘I pulled in here to take a leak, and I always shine my light around just a bit before I do.’’

  ‘‘You didn’t…?’’

  ‘‘Oh, no, I did over there a ways.’’

  ‘‘Good, I’m short of rubber gloves.’’

  I looked around, but couldn’t quite orient myself. ‘‘How far are we from the crime scene?’’

  ‘‘About two hundred yards.’’

  ‘‘Fog’s thick.’’ And I’m still not quite awake. Didn’t say that, though.

  We returned to my car, where I unpacked my camera and fumbled through the bag until I had everything I thought appropriate attached to the frame. Made a little small talk as I did.

  ‘‘Whaddya do, drive around all night lookin’ for a toilet?’’ Said with a grin and in a lighthearted manner. We often did. As it transpired, he hadn’t. It seems that he was bringing some coffee to the reserve officers we had watching the crime scene and keeping the curious out. He had decided to relieve himself when he arrived, but was followed by a female trooper to the scene. He was too embarrassed to head for a convenient bush with her standing there, so he made an excuse and drove down here. Well, you take ’em when you can get ’em.

  I radioed the office and told them to get word to the DCI that I was going to need one of them up at the new scene as soon as possible. Then we went back, and photographed the little pile of debris very thoroughly. I used a 70-210 mm zoom lens, as well as a standard 55 mm, and took about half the shots with a flash. It was really foggy. As I maneuvered around the trash pile I saw a couple of small round cans wh
ose labels indicated they had contained green cammo makeup. Fascinating.

  When Hester got there, we spread out a bit and checked out the area. Got soaked to the knees, but it was worth it. We found a freshly dug hole, where somebody had buried a bunch of modern military rations. MREs. Stood for ‘‘Meal, Ready to Eat.’’ You could get these at about any surplus or sporting goods store. But if these had been used by our suspects, they’d been here for a while. There were twenty-four empty MRE bags.

  ‘‘Okay,’’ I said. Trying to be a math major. ‘‘That’s eight people, three meals a day. Or one person for eight days. Or…’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘I’ll go for four people for two days myself.’’

  That was one combination I hadn’t thought of. Among many, I admit.

  ‘‘Or maybe I’d prefer two people for four days,’’ she said, grinning.

  Eddie, who was known for allowing his concentration to overwhelm his sense of humor, got more to the point. ‘‘There aren’t any breakfasts here,’’ he said. We were silent for a moment, clearing the threes out, and doing twos. Pointless. There were twenty-four bags. That’s what we knew. It told us they, however many, had stayed for a while, for however long. But if they were related to the crime, and it sure looked like they could be, then they didn’t pull their people out at sunset like we did. That meant, at least as a possibility, that they had watched our people enter and leave the area. Spooky.

  The sun was finally starting to burn the fog off as we finished collecting and labeling the evidence. It started getting hot, and the humidity was already unbelievable. I suggested we go back to the crime scene and walk a much wider area. And I suggested that we should proceed to the scene from where we were standing. Just like ‘‘they’’ would have.