Known Dead ch-2

by Donald Harstad

  It turned out that to get there we had to go up and over a large steep, slippery hill that was covered with damp fallen leaves, and hotter than hell. The trees were thick, and the area between them was covered with thorny brambles and thick, reedy weeds. Took us about two hours. I hate it when people take my suggestions. I was pretty well shot when we got to the top of the hill, and called a halt.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ I managed to get out, ‘‘let’s stop and catch our breath.’’

  Hester, whose hair looked like she had just gotten out of a shower, said, ‘‘Why?’’ and promptly sat down. Eddie looked like he could keep going the rest of the week, but squatted down beside us just to be polite.

  Eddie, looking energetically about him, asked, ‘‘How we gonna tell if they’re related, sir?’’

  Not unlike Hester when she’s called ‘‘ma’am,’’ I get a bit put off by ‘‘sir.’’ ‘‘Oh,’’ I said, still breathing hard, ‘‘we’ll try for prints. From the shell casings.’’ I took a breath. ‘‘You have to touch ’em when you load ’em.’’ Another breath. ‘‘Then dust the boxes and the MREs.’’ I wiped my forehead, scratching myself with a bramble as I did so. ‘‘Shit. Then see if the same prints are on more than one item.’’

  ‘‘Oh, sure,’’ said Eddie. ‘‘Okay, then what?’’

  Hester, bless her, took up the lesson. ‘‘We run every print through APHIS.’’ APHIS is a computerized fingerprint searching system. Very fast. ‘‘And we talk to whoever belongs to the prints.’’

  He thought about that for a second. ‘‘But what if there aren’t any good prints, ma’am?’’

  Hester looked at him evenly. ‘‘Then we send you out to piss again.’’

  I paused for a second just before we went over the crest of the hill, and looked back. I’d been wondering if we would find a trail left by the perps. We hadn’t. But, looking back, I couldn’t see where we’d just been either. I pointed this out to Hester. She thought she could see a faint area of disturbed leaves, but agreed that in twenty-four hours there’d be nothing left to mark our passage either. Not good.

  We got lucky for the last time on the way down toward the patch. We discovered what was obviously a man-made barrier, sort of a long, shallow hole with three or four fallen branches piled up around it. Rifle pit.

  ‘‘Just like the Army,’’ said Eddie.

  ‘‘Yep.’’

  From the area of the pit, you could see part of the track we had followed up to the scene the day before, and part of the scene itself, with some lab people just starting their day. Thick trees and brush obscured the rest of the view. But, from our standpoint, it was a link. You could also see the southern edge of the marijuana patch.

  Both Hester and I took several photos from the area of the pit, and of the pit itself. We called for a couple of members of the lab team, who were finishing up the original site, to come up to where we were, to process the area around the pit.

  ‘‘Know what, Carl?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘This is kind of the same general area where the media people from yesterday were coming from.’’

  ‘‘Shit, that’s right.’’

  ‘‘I wonder if they saw anybody.’’

  ‘‘Or anything.’’

  Our first try was for Lamar, but he was out of his car at the county attorney’s office, and we didn’t want to bother him. We tried for Hester’s boss, Al, who had also talked to the media, but he was testifying at a murder trial in Linn County and wasn’t available. We finally tracked down one of the two junior state troopers who had confronted the media people. He wanted to drive right out to where we were, but we finally convinced him to go to a telephone somewhere, and we called him. Save a lot of time that way.

  He had the names of both media people and their organization. ‘‘The Des Moines Register. ’’ Nancy Mitchell. Of the Cedar Rapids bureau. Good. Philip Rumsford, freelance photojournalist. Worked for an agency out of Minneapolis-St. Paul, but lived in Dubuque, IA.

  As it happened, both Mitchell and Rumsford were on their way to the park, for follow-up information. At least that’s what the answering machine at their office said. Hester and I waited, this time in her car. The air conditioning felt wonderful, but I made it perfectly clear to the people at the scene that we really had to use the car for communication purposes. We let Eddie go home, with a promise to let him know if anything useful came of his discovery. He was very pleased with having found something. We waited, trying to stay awake in the comfort of the car.

  Hester moved her rearview mirror so she could see herself.

  ‘‘God, I look like shit.’’

  I didn’t say anything for a second, thinking back over what we’d found.

  ‘‘I said,’’ said Hester, ‘‘ ‘God, I Look Like Shit.’ ’’

  ‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘Well, so do I.’’

  ‘‘Jesus, Houseman, you’re supposed to say that I don’t look like shit.’’

  ‘‘Oh. Okay. Sorry.’’ I grinned. ‘‘You don’t look like shit.’’

  She sighed. ‘‘Sue has a hard life ahead of her.’’

  Nancy Mitchell turned out to be the senior partner of the two. Between thirty-five and forty, she was fit, attractive, and although looking very harried, she did not look like shit. Philip Rumsford, who was about twenty-two, wasn’t nearly as fit, and was both photographer and second-string reporter. Harried didn’t seem to be in his repertoire, but sweat sure did. They had come in a small gray car, dusty, rusty, and with nonfunctional air-conditioning. That had been the first thing Philip mentioned, even before we had identified ourselves. ‘‘Damned air-conditioning’s out.’’ He looked a little peeved. Since Nancy was driving, I assumed it was her car.

  Nancy, on the other hand, just seemed a bit surprised that we actually were seeking her out. I was becoming truly jealous over cell phones. Anyway, Lamar’s reputation for hating the press was really well known, and our request to talk with her had come as quite a surprise.

  ‘‘I’m Nancy Mitchell,’’ she said, extending her hand. We shook.

  ‘‘Carl Houseman,’’ I said, ‘‘and this is Agent Hester Gorse.. .’’

  ‘‘I’m Phil Rumsford…’’

  That out of the way, we got toward business.

  ‘‘So, you wanted to see us?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  ‘‘This is unusual,’’ said Mitchell. ‘‘It’s supposed to be the other way around.’’

  I grinned. ‘‘Not in this county.’’

  She grinned right back. ‘‘So I’ve heard.’’

  ‘‘Look,’’ I said, ‘‘let’s get right down to it. You are the two who were up on the hill, aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ said Mitchell, disgusted. ‘‘This isn’t about some sort of trespassing…’’

  ‘‘No, no. Not a bit. Not at all.’’ I glanced at Hester, who seemed quite prepared to let me blunder about on my own. ‘‘Since your air conditioning is out, why don’t we get in our car…’’

  A carrot like that’s hard to refuse, especially in high humidity.

  Settled in, the edge began to disappear.

  ‘‘What we need to know is how you got where you were and if you saw anybody on the way.’’ I held up my hand to stop Mitchell. ‘‘If you don’t publish it right away, I can tell you that there was more than one shooter, that they got both our man and the doper, and that they likely got in by the same route you did.’’

  ‘‘Wow,’’ said Mitchell. She looked at her younger partner.

  ‘‘Since you’re print media,’’ said Hester, ‘‘you don’t have quite the rush on a deadline, so you can sit on this for a short while. Right?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  ‘‘So, how did you get to the scene?’’

  Mitchell pointed in the general direction of our trek up the hill. ‘‘Over there, just past the big maple trees, we went up the hill.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Hell of a trip, must
have taken us two hours.’’

  ‘‘How did you know where to go?’’ Hester asked. That was a really good point. If they had simply observed the crowd at the foot of the path that all the cops were using, there would have been no way to tell that it wound up to the left, and that the crime scene was on the other side of the hill they had climbed.

  Silence. Then Rumsford spoke up. ‘‘It’s a little embarrassing. I mean, there’s not, like, any secret or anything.’’

  ‘‘So?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘You know KGGY’s ‘Eye in the Sky’ helicopter?’’

  ‘‘Oh, sure.’’ I exchanged glances with Hester. ‘‘They told you?’’

  ‘‘Not really,’’ said Rumsford. ‘‘They actually told their ground crew that it looked like they could go up over that hill and get there.’’

  ‘‘And?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘Well, they said ‘no way’ when they saw it… at least their camera guy did, lugging all those heavy batteries, you know.’’ Rumsford looked at Mitchell. ‘‘They are heavy, I know they are.’’

  Mitchell, who obviously would have carried her cameraman on her back to get to the story, snorted. ‘‘Yeah. Well, we made it. They could have too.’’

  No lead there. ‘‘So,’’ I said. ‘‘You got there, you see anybody or anything worthy of note along the way?’’

  ‘‘Like, who?’’ asked Mitchell. ‘‘Sasquatch?’’

  ‘‘Like, the killers,’’ I said.

  There was a pause again. Finally, Mitchell spoke. ‘‘We had a feeling, you know? Like we were being watched… Jesus, I feel silly saying that.’’ She looked at Rumsford. ‘‘But we did, didn’t we?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, we did,’’ he said. ‘‘Both of us, about near the top of the hill.’’

  ‘‘Any idea why you felt that way?’’ asked Hester.

  Neither of them said anything. That made sense to me. I had had that feeling only twice in my life, once correctly. Yet I’d never been able to put my finger on what had tipped me off, either time.

  Mitchell finally spoke. ‘‘Maybe we heard something?’’

  Nine

  We sort of regrouped on Friday, the 21st. We were notified that the autopsies were complete. That meant that all tissues had been received at the laboratory, all photos taken, all nonmicroscopic evidence had been obtained, and the remains embalmed. Now all we had to do was wait for the results. That could take a week, or better.

  My regrouping meant typing a very thorough report of my own. That took the rest of a long day, and resulted in twenty-six pages, if you counted evidence lists and the like. My eyes were fried, but at least that part was done. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a real drag to do that, but it can really help focus your mind, and forces you to review everything that’s happened to date. And, as is so often the case, if you go into court two years down the road, that report will save your ass.

  Kellerman’s funeral was Saturday, the 22nd of June. So was Howie Phelps’s. We had a surveillance team go to Howie’s, just to see who showed up. The two-man team turned out to be about a quarter of the attendees. They helped load the casket into the hearse, as five of the other people were older women.

  I went to Kellerman’s, held in Worley, in his home county. We had surveillance there too, but they were really outnumbered. There were about two hundred cop cars, from all over Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and as far away as Chicago. Nearly four hundred cops, all told, and probably as many civilians. With what seemed to be nearly that many media people around.

  I went with the department, of course. We officers were all in uniform, as were our dispatchers, and got the rows just behind DNE and DCI, on the cop side, as we were working a joint case when he was killed. Eight officers and nine dispatchers from Nation County. I hoped nothing happened back home while we were here, as we had left one dispatcher and two officers to run the place. I was particularly worried about Johansen, as was Lamar. The two of us kept a pretty close eye on him. The funeral was in the local high school gym, because there simply wasn’t a church around that could come close to holding all those mourners. We, the important official folk, sat on folding chairs on the gym floor, while the lesser mortals sat in the bleachers. There was a choir, of course, and a small orchestra. After ‘‘Amazing Grace’’ had done its work, the minister got up and did his thing. I can’t blame him, I suppose, because not only was he new but cop funerals are pretty difficult to do right. I just wish he hadn’t thought it necessary to recite ‘‘The Lord Is My Shepherd, He Rides in My Patrol Car.’’ I hate that little prayer.

  They had Kellerman’s photograph and badge on top of the casket, along with a U.S. flag. The photo of him was with his family, obviously taken when he had just started in law enforcement, because he had his Iowa State Patrol uniform on and everybody looked really proud of him.

  After I finished moving my lips to ‘‘He Walks with Me, He Talks with Me,’’ the color guard gave Mrs. Kellerman her late husband’s badge. She looked not sad, but very unhappy. Most cop wives would feel the same. She broke down as the casket left the gym, and most of the cops around me just looked embarrassed. You can’t cry in uniform, and there really isn’t much else to do. Our dispatchers were sniffling, though. That was permitted.

  When we finally got the entire procession to the cemetery, we found we had to block the highway in both directions. Not too difficult, with two hundred cop cars with their red lights flashing. Most of us accompanied the family to the grave site, and were drawn up in a rough formation. It did look impressive. Johansen was with the family, at their request. Mrs. Kellerman was doing her level best to make him feel that it wasn’t his fault. I thought that was really nice of her, especially at that time.

  The sheriff of Harriman County called us to attention, and at the right moment, gave the order to ‘‘present arms.’’ As we saluted, taps was played. That just about got me. That just about got everybody. When ‘‘order arms’’ rang out, I got a glance at Hester, who was with the DCI contingent, none of whom were in uniform. She was crying. So were all our dispatchers, standing there in their uniforms with handkerchiefs over their faces, heads bowed.

  They gave Mrs. Kellerman the flag. That was it.

  I hate cop funerals.

  While we were in the cemetery, I noticed that several cars drove by more than once. One, in particular, got my eye. The car was a nondescript maroon Chevy, but the driver had a gray beard, and wore granny glasses, and looked very intent on observing us. I checked in with the surveillance people as soon as I could. They had already made him… press, from a small paper up north. Well, you can’t hit ’em all.

  Ten

  All of a sudden, on Sunday the 23rd, we got real formal. I was called by the Iowa Attorney General’s office, and told we were forming an official investigative Task Force to do the murders, and that I was a part of it. Well, how nice, was my first reaction. It was my case. At any rate, there was to be a meeting at the State Patrol post in Oelwein, and I had to be there. In two hours.

  When I got there, I was ushered in to the basement meeting room by a uniformed State Patrol sergeant. I’d known him for years. Excellent, and a genuinely good man to boot.

  ‘‘What’s up, Carl?’’ He and I were stopped just inside the glass doors at street level. It was a one-story building, brick, with a capacious basement. ‘‘If you can tell me?’’

  ‘‘Don’t know for sure, Hank, but it’s about the murders, I know that. We’re gonna form a task force.’’

  ‘‘That’s good, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘Oh, yeah. That’s good.’’ But I had my doubts. Task forces had a tendency to get top-heavy very, very fast.

  When I reached the basement, I saw Hester, Al, two or three DCI people I’d known from previous cases, DNE Agent Dahl, John Fallingstad of the Iowa AG’s office, and about six people I had never seen before in my life. Everybody else except Dahl and me was fairly well dressed, with the state people tending toward slacks and a shirt, the Feds to
complete suits. Dahl and I were in blue jeans. I don’t know about him, but I felt just a bit out of place. I also noticed a lot of bakery goods and a large coffeepot on a long side table. Maybe it wasn’t going to be a total loss, after all.

  Wrong again.

  The people I didn’t know turned out to be a mix of Iowa DNE, federal DEA, FBI, IRS agents, and a man from the U.S. Attorney’s office. Heavy hitters, no doubt. They seemed out of place somehow, but I chalked that up to my provincial outlook. They sure moved fast, though, I’ll give them that. As soon as I sat down (apparently being the last to arrive), they handed out contracts for all present to sign, promising not to reveal anything to anybody, on pain of all sorts of things. I signed. I had before, on other task forces. It had never meant a whole lot before, because I’d never learned anything I hadn’t either already known or surmised. I truly hoped this would be different. I glanced around. Nobody had a doughnut, and only two had coffee. It would cause a commotion to wander over to the food now. I resigned myself to having to wait until the meeting was over.

  They got right to the point.

  The man from the U.S. Attorney’s office stood up and looked around. ‘‘I understand that this case has been handled by Deputy Houseman and Agent Gorse. Would you please stand up?’’ We did, and although Hester was clear across the room with her boss, I got the impression she was as uncomfortable as I was about this. We sat immediately.

  ‘‘We believe this case may possibly have international implications,’’ said the Deputy U.S. Attorney. ‘‘For that reason, much of it comes under the jurisdiction of the DEA and the FBI.’’

  Now, that was bad news. Both agencies having jurisdiction, I mean. DEA and FBI had been competing for the spotlight and the money from the Federal Drug Czar’s office for years. Competition in an investigation wasn’t a good idea, and I began to get a bit more leery of the whole task force business. Somebody up the line was going to bump the locals right out of business. At least, they would as soon as a good suspect turned up. The good suspect was, by the way, identified by locals in well over 50 percent of the cases.