‘‘But we never shot the newspaperman.’’
‘‘I’ll buy that, Nola,’’ I said. ‘‘Herman’s carbine didn’t pack the punch, for one thing. But after you got that message, Gabriel sure had to.’’
She was quiet.
‘‘At least, one shot. I know he fired once. But he couldn’t be on both floors at the same time. Remember how Rumsford just sort of stood there, and then the second shot came to make sure… I’ll be honest, I have some thoughts about that being Billy…’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Or the guy who was with Gabriel,’’ I said, starting to rummage through my papers again…
‘‘Wittman,’’ she said, helpfully.
Well, thank you, God.
‘‘Nice,’’ said Miller. ‘‘Very nice. But I want to advise my client to stop talking at this point.’’
‘‘She’s not incriminating herself,’’ said Hester, ‘‘but if that’s what you want…’’
‘‘Time to stop,’’ said Miller.
‘‘I never should have said Connie’s name, you mean?’’ asked Nola.
Connie. Well, thanks to stress, we now had what might be the first name of Wittman. All right!
‘‘Thank you both,’’ I said. ‘‘I have no interest in seeing anybody railroaded. If you need to know anything, just ask us.’’ That was directed at Nola, but intended as much for Miller. He was going to need a bargain.
Just as we were finding our way out, I saw Herman Stritch being ushered into another interview room, which contained Volont and another man. Volont looked up as we went by. I couldn’t resist. I smiled and gave him a discreet wave.
Connie Wittman was our first order of business. We called the Nation County Sheriff’s Department, and got Sally, bless her. We had her start running driver’s license information in the form of a fifty-state inquiry. All we had for her was a partial name. We thought Connie might be short for Constantine. Hester, who was the only one who had even glimpsed the man, thought he’d been about five feet ten, and light. He had to be over twenty, and likely under sixty-five.
‘‘You’ve got to be kidding,’’ said Sally. ‘‘Can’t it be a little more vague?’’
‘‘Sorry, but that’s about all we have until I can get back up there and start going over some of the other stuff, and maybe talk to Melissa.’’
‘‘It’s way outside parameters,’’ she said. ‘‘State’ll get pissed.’’
‘‘Explain it’s part of our murder investigation,’’ I said.
‘‘Yeah, right. Maybe to their supervisor.’’
‘‘Do what you can. I’ll be up in a couple of hours.’’
‘‘Gonna eat, huh?’’ she asked.
‘‘Never mind,’’ I said.
We’d used Sally and my department because if we’d used Linn County, we figured Volont would have a lot better chance of knowing we were doing the checks. At least, right away. We knew he’d help where he could, but we also knew his sense of security could get in our way in a hurry.
I was so happy overall that I took Hester to a late supper. Most unlike me. We ate in a small restaurant that served excellent seafood. I had nothing breaded. The diet, you know.
I relaxed for the first time in what seemed like months.
‘‘I don’t know why,’’ I said before the entree, ‘‘but I finally feel like we’re making progress.’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Hester, using her fork to push the little mushroom slices to a far corner of her salad plate. ‘‘Maybe when I can tell you why Johnny Marks was killed, and by whom.’’
We had a fine meal. About the time I was deciding whether or not my mood would justify chocolate cheesecake, Volont walked in. He was persistent, I’ll give him that. Neither Hester nor I had checked out on the radio.
He slid into our booth beside Hester. Obviously, he wanted to talk to me.
‘‘Enjoying your meal,’’ he said. He wasn’t asking. He was commenting.
‘‘Sure am,’’ I said. ‘‘You think we should have the cheesecake?’’
He looked at me for a beat. ‘‘Are you trying to screw this case up on purpose?’’
I’d had it. He was now going to thoroughly ruin my meal, as well as complicate my case. ‘‘I could ask you the same question,’’ I said pleasantly. ‘‘If I really gave a fuck what the answer would be.’’
He was the more mature one at that point. ‘‘We aren’t communicating very well, are we?’’ he asked.
‘‘No,’’ I said, conversationally, ‘‘we aren’t.’’
The waitress chose that moment to ask me if I had made up my mind about the cheesecake.
‘‘Sure,’’ I said, smiling at her. ‘‘Make it three. This gentleman’s going to be here for a bit.’’
Volont started to protest, but I cut him off. ‘‘You want peace, yellow hair, you gotta smoke the pipe.’’ I grinned. I was really making an attempt.
‘‘I’ll take some coffee too,’’ he said.
There was a short silence.
‘‘Can I put my gun away?’’ asked Hester.
Just before the dessert came, Volont said, ‘‘What is the problem? Seriously, I want to know.’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘it’s this.’’ A brief interruption as the dessert was placed on the table. ‘‘You have no jurisdiction in the murders. Okay. You have an interest, though, and not just the weapons charges. Okay. You have lots of information that you obviously can’t share. That’s not okay, but I could probably live with that. But you seem to think you can actively interfere with my obtaining that information myself. That’s what I don’t appreciate. You are a narcotics man, with that as your chief area of interest. I understand that. But your primary interest isn’t the murders.’’
‘‘I see.’’ Volont sipped his coffee, and took a bite of the cheesecake. ‘‘Not bad,’’ he said. ‘‘What you don’t see, Deputy Houseman, is that you are getting into a very sensitive and dangerous area.’’
‘‘Tell Lamar and Bud,’’ I said. Unfair, maybe. But true.
‘‘Point well taken,’’ he answered.
‘‘You know what I want.’’ I looked at him. Were we doomed to repeat this conversation every day until the case was solved?
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘You also know that,’’ I said evenly, ‘‘aside from his involvement in the shooting of a narc cop, DEA couldn’t give a damn about what Gabriel does with his life.’’
‘‘Very true.’’
‘‘You should also know that I have a very deep interest in who he is, and what he does, and whom he associates with. Not to mention where he is.’’
‘‘I know that too. Yes,’’ said Volont. ‘‘I don’t doubt it.’’
‘‘What you obviously don’t know is that I am also able to differentiate between intelligence data and prosecution data.’’
‘‘Oh, no,’’ said Volont. ‘‘I don’t doubt that. Not at all.’’
‘‘Then,’’ I asked, ‘‘what’s the problem? Why won’t you brief us, Hester and George and me, and let us get on with the business at hand? With George to play watchdog for you. We have no problem with that.’’ Well, just a little bit of a lie, but I didn’t want George to get in any more trouble than he was already in.
‘‘There are things I’m not allowed to disclose.’’ He looked at both of us. ‘‘I simply can’t. You know that.’’
‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘the identity of Gabriel is one of those, right?’’
‘‘I shouldn’t even say that,’’ said Volont, and a small smile flickered over his face. ‘‘But, yes.’’
‘‘Do you have to obstruct our efforts, though?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘I’ll have to ask,’’ said Volont. Very serious. Wow.
‘‘I’ll tell you,’’ I said, ‘‘I’d rather go through you than have to try other approaches. And I’d think you, or your boss, or whoever would agree with that.’’ I forced a grin. ‘‘Better the devi
l you know …’’
He smiled. ‘‘I agree… Just who do you think my boss is, by the way? Nichols at the DEA?’’
‘‘Well, yeah,’’ I said, realizing that I really didn’t have any idea who his boss was.
‘‘I don’t believe I ever said I was in narcotics,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m a counterterrorist agent. I do counterintelligence. I have no interest in narcotics-specific cases.’’
Well, damn. Pieces clicked furiously. I began to feel we were right about the right-wing extremists, then. If that was it, then that was Volont’s interest in the whole thing.
‘‘I don’t think you’d have any connection with my boss,’’ he said.
‘‘Well,’’ I said, playing the only trump card I could think of, ‘‘I was thinking of a man I know with Mossad. One with Shin Beth. I even know a guy with GSG 9, for God’s sake. And I’ve got a friend with a connection with the SAS, now that I think of it. Could they know him?’’
‘‘What,’’ he said, ‘‘no CIA connections?’’ He smiled again.
He thought I was kidding. ‘‘I don’t know anybody in CIA,’’ I said. ‘‘I did attend a lecture by Admiral Bobby Inman once. But I sure wouldn’t want to imply that he’d even talk to me.’’
Volont was silent.
‘‘Your guys were the ones who brought the Mossad agent to our office to talk with us.’’
That got him. It was true. The Israelis had been checking on possible Nazi connections with the extreme right in the United States. We were far from the only ones the Israeli had talked with, and I personally think he was there because he’d pissed off his boss. But it had happened. The fact that I didn’t even remember his name, let alone have a way to reach him, had nothing to do with it. Volont wouldn’t be able to confirm that, and confirmation is the key word in the intelligence business.
That also got Hester, by the way. I’d only seen her look that surprised once before.
‘‘I really want to keep this in the family,’’ I said. I held up my thumb and forefinger, in a pinching motion. ‘‘But I want to solve these killings just a little, tiny bit more.’’
Volont pursed his lips. ‘‘Thanks for the dessert,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll be in touch.’’
For the record, I felt a little angry with myself for having become angry at Volont. This was balanced, I felt, by my being delighted with the Mossad bit. If you threw in a meal that was excellent until dessert, the evening had been a plus. Hell, even the dessert wasn’t that bad.
I got to Maitland about 2300. Long, tired drive. I waited to use my radio until I pulled my unmarked into our garage, just so they wouldn’t be tempted to give me anything to do. I picked up the mike, and went 10-42, giving my ending mileage to the office, as required.
Sally was working. She acknowledged my transmission, and requested I phone her at the office ASAP.
Wonderful.
I walked in the door, and met Sue, who was bringing her popcorn dish to the kitchen sink. We kissed, and I said, ‘‘I’m supposed to call the office.’’
A short hug later, and I was on the phone.
‘‘Nation County Sheriff’s Department.’’
‘‘I hope you know what you’re asking, here,’’ I said.
‘‘ME!!!’’ She nearly took my ear off. ‘‘ME! Holy shit, Houseman. You should talk. You gave me some son of a bitch that doesn’t exist. I can’t get anywhere with this Connie Wittman. I mean it, I can’t get shit.’’
She was talking so fast I couldn’t get a word in.
‘‘What do you want, for shit’s sake? You want me to start running women with that last name, and then call ’em up and ask where their son Connie is? Huh?’’
She ran out of breath. I really liked that about Sally. She gave that job everything she had, and would drive herself harder than any boss ever could.
‘‘No. That’s okay,’’ I said blandly. On purpose, just to slow her down.
Silence. Then: ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Yeah, that’s okay. You can’t get ’em all.’’ I waited a beat. ‘‘Just go home and get a good sleep. It’s okay.’’
‘‘Well…’’
‘‘Sure. Good night, Sally.’’
‘‘Well… night.’’ As I put the phone down, I heard an increasingly faint ‘‘I’ll try again tomorrow…’’
Twenty-one
The next day was Sunday. I got to the office just after lunch. There was an envelope waiting in my box, sealed with red evidence tape. It just had ‘‘Houseman’’ written on it, in Sally’s hand.
Inside was this:
A handwritten note that said, ‘‘Don’t EVER ask me to do this again, ’cause I can’t. Sally.’’
Stapled to the note were two sheets of teletype paper.
The first one looked like this:
TCAM CANCELED SSN 933 99 9901 OLN 933 99 9901 WITTMAN, JULIUS CONSTANTINE HWY 220 CLOSTOWN, IA 52933 COUNTY: HOMER PROCDAT: 02-12-91 DOB: 02-10-47 SEX: M RAC: W EYS: BLU HT: 510 WT: 225
It was followed by three traffic entries in ’93.
The second sheet looked like this:
NCIC FEDERAL OFFENDER CRIMINAL HISTORY NAME FBI NO. INQUIRY DATE WITTMAN, JULIUS CONSTANTINE 995622441AQ 07/28/96 SEX RACE BIRTHDATE HEIGHT WEIGHT EYES HAIR POB M W 02/10/47 509 235 BLU GRY IA ARREST-1 06/11/86 AGENCY-US MARSHAL’S SERVICE CEDAR RAPIDS IA (IAUSM0002) CHARGE 1-PASS COUNTERFEITED SECURITIES COURT-IA CEDAR RAPIDS 09-22-86 DISPOSITION-CONVICTED OFFENSE-PASS COUNTERFEITED SECURITIES SENTENCE-6M CONFINEMENT, 30M SUSPENDED, 3Y PROBATION
She’d got him from his middle name. I didn’t want to think how many DLs she’d had to run… and Julius Constantine, for God’s sake? What was his mother, a Roman?
It was the same dude, all right. Right up to the tiny discrepancies in the height and weight fields. (The Feds measured and weighed upon entry to prison… whereas a driver’s license station took your word for it. The DL people got little vanity figures like an inch or two added to height, and pounds shaved off.)
He was forty-nine. Well, the age was about right. At least in our area, the dyed-in-the-wool members of the extreme right tended to be between forty-five and sixtyfive.
A federal arrest and conviction. Interesting. Phony securities was the sort of thing the extreme right sometimes got into to finance their operations. They usually passed it off as a ‘‘defiant gesture’’ directed toward the Feds and the federal monetary and credit system. Sure. Sad part about it was that they tended to foist the stuff off on people who were in financial difficulties, who, in turn, either tried to use it as collateral or were counting on it for their future. People who believed in them.
Driver’s license ‘‘canceled’’ was expected, and another conforming data bit. The extreme right tended to cancel their driver’s licenses as a gesture. Nobody had the right to impose a ‘‘tax’’ for using the ‘‘free roads,’’ you see, and everybody had a God-given ‘‘right’’ to drive. For sure.
A federal conviction… served six months with thirty months suspended. Hmm. Five-sixths of a sentence knocked off spoke of cooperation with the Feds. Large, happy, and profitable cooperation, in fact. Great. I was willing to bet that his compatriots weren’t aware of that… except the others who’d done the same. And, I thought, a man who’d cooperated in the past was a fairly easy mark for the future. As it turned out, that was a bit of a mistake.
Sally hadn’t found out where he’d served his time… not that I was complaining. But it would be of interest to see who else was there at that time. Especially if one of them had an a.k.a. of Gabriel.
Now came the dilemma. God, how I wanted to see the case file on this guy. Who had access to the case file? Well, basically, it was Volont, of course. But it might also be George, who could lose his job over divulging even a part of it. Well, it was going to be a bit warm for George no matter which way he jumped.
I called Hester at home. We deliberated. Hester said she’d check around. Frequently, the federal charge would arise from a state or local investig
ation. If that had been the case…
Half an hour later, I got a call from Dr. Peters. He had finished the autopsy data on both Bud and Rumsford. I got a yellow pad and sat down to learn.
The information he had on Bud was pretty straightforward. What appeared to be a 7.62 mm round, full-jacketed, had struck him in the right shoulder, transected the lung, and struck the spine, where it took a sharp left, and came out just about the middle of his back, taking almost one whole vertebra with it. The second shot, into his head, appeared to have occurred post-mortem, and had entered from the rear. Most of the skull had disappeared into the yard area, in very small pieces, as the blast had caused quite a bit of rebounding out of the ground. Nearly point-blank, as far as he could tell.
Rumsford was a little bit different. Two rounds, but not quite the same as those that had struck Bud.
‘‘The ones that struck the officer, judging from parts of the jacket and the texture of the cores, were of either Chinese or old Soviet-Warsaw Pact manufacture. The ones that seem to have struck the reporter were possibly just a tad bit lighter, but definitely of much better manufacture. NATO at least, but I’d say something like a really high-quality round, like a Norma.’’
Okay.
Apparently both rounds that hit the reporter had been moving at a pretty good clip. The first one had entered the mediastinum straight through the sternum, at a slight angle from the right, and slightly down. Missing the spine, it took a path just below the heart, raised hell with the plumbing in the left lung, and exited the left rear of the body after nicking the fifth rib.
‘‘Wouldn’t that have knocked him down?’’ I asked.
‘‘At less than twenty yards, not necessarily. It didn’t really hit anything super solid, like the spinal column. That would have rocked him. This just zipped through the breastbone and barely touched a rib. Stopped the heart instantly, of course.’’
Of course. Shock wave.
According to Dr. Peters, the second round came blasting through from a little steeper angle, and going almost straight on. The entrance wound was just about two inches above the first hole. This one struck the heart, pretty well disintegrating it, then hit the spine head-on, split, with a part that skidded to the left and down and exited Rumsford after passing through his liver and intestines, furrowing the inside of his right pelvis, and blowing out through his bladder. In the front, out the front. The other half continued on completely through the spine, and lodged in the muscles of his back.
Known Dead ch-2 Page 28
