A Long December

by Donald Harstad

  “I’ll take you to the clinic first,” Terri told her. “You’re going to need something…”

  Linda just nodded.

  I wasn’t happy about the clinic, but Terri was right. Since Linda wasn’t a suspect, we’d be able to talk again even though she may have had a mild sedative. Interviewing any witness who’s in an induced state is a pretty slippery slope, but I really didn’t see a problem with this one.

  Hester and Dr. Steven Peters met me at the office for lunch. They had grabbed some burgers, but I was sticking to my new diet and had put rice and low-fat sausage patties in the microwave in the jail kitchen. To make the stuff palatable, I’d bought a bottle of Uncle Bob’s Hickory Smoke Flavor, which I sprinkled liberally on the “food” in the plastic bowl before I nuked it. It hadn’t tasted too bad the other times I’d had it, but the odor took a bit of getting used to.

  “Is there something burning?” asked Hester.

  “No, it’s my lunch.”

  “You sure? “she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “It does smell like smoke,” said Dr. Peters. “Really.”

  I went to the cupboard and showed them the bottle. “Want some? It tastes better than it smells.”

  “Hard to believe,” said Hester dryly. “No thanks. Besides, the smell’s already affecting my taste.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “So, I hope there was nothing unexpected about the cause of death?”

  “The cause of death,” said Dr. Peters, “was remarkably easy to determine, if that’s what you mean. GSW, head. Massive trauma. More the effect of the gas pressure than the shot pellets,” he said. He took a swig of pop from the can. “Toxicology will be back in a day or two, but I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary.” He grinned. “Anything toxic would have to work very, very quickly to beat the gunshot wound in this one.”

  “That’s a lot to be thankful for,” I said. “The simpler the better. You knew, didn’t you, that we have a new county attorney?”

  “No! Really? What happened?”

  Hester laughed, but said nothing. Dr. Peters looked questioningly at her. “Better if he tells it,” she said, nodding toward me.

  “The old one developed a skin irritation, or an allergy or something. Really. They said it was the pollen, maybe herbicides, maybe mold spores. So he moved.”

  “Really? “Dr. Peters looked quizzically at Hester.

  “That’s not the funny part,” she said.

  “Nobody wanted the job,” I said. That was quite true. The county considered it a part-time job, so they paid whoever it was about thirty thousand bucks a year. Nation County was lucky to get any lawyer at that rate, and what they ended up with was often an attorney who had to have a full-time regular practice on the side just to make ends meet. When they did that, they’d occasionally find themselves being asked to prosecute their own clients. Not good. Nobody who’d made it through law school wanted those hassles, with one general exception. Newbies.

  “So you don’t have one, currently?”

  Hester laughed again. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “We have one,” I said. “Named Carson Hilgenberg. He passed the bar last July. This is his first job.”

  Hester couldn’t let it drop. “Tell him the rest of it, Houseman.”

  I looked at Dr. Peters. Hell, he had to know, if for no other reason than to be able to anticipate what he might have to face with the courts. “He’s the nephew of the chairman of the Board of Supervisors.”

  “Does that complicate things?” asked Dr. Peters. “It isn’t really nepotism if he’s elected.”

  “Carson didn’t actually run for office. The Board appointed him. That’s not the problem. Even his uncle can’t stand him and was hoping he wouldn’t pass the bar. The problem is, there were no other applicants. That and he literally couldn’t find a job anywhere else.” I cleared my throat. “He’s kind of an idiot.”

  “Oh,” said Dr. Peters. “What’s he like in court?”

  “Never seen him there,” I said. “He even bargains traffic tickets. Far as I know, he’s never tried a case even in magistrate’s court.”

  “I guess we get really specific for him, then,” said Dr. Peters.

  “Pictures,” said Hester. “I’d suggest lots and lots of pictures.”

  CHAPTER 07

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2001 13:27

  HESTER AND I WENT TO BATTENBERG, stopped at Linda’s apartment, above the local hardware store, and picked up a manila envelope taped to the door. It was addressed to me, and contained two photos of the late Jesus Ramon Cueva, along with what appeared to be copies of a birth certificate and a Social Security card in his name, and a home address for his mother Maria in L. A. Attached was a note saying that Terri and Linda were at the clinic and would be back later.

  We took the stuff to the Battenberg City Clerk, to have copies made. The birth certificate said Cueva was born in Los Angeles County, California. Mother’s name was given as Maria Helena Cueva, father as Jesus Ramon. The home address of Maria Cueva was 4024 Radford Avenue, Studio City, California, 91604. No phone number. I phoned the Social Security number in to Sally at the office.

  “Hey, run this SSN for me in the criminal history files, will you? Nationwide, of course.”

  “You always want that,” she said. “You sure you don’t want international? That’s fun.”

  “No, just the States and territories.”

  “Well, all right. So, then, what else? You always need more than that.”

  “Well, get a teletype off to LAPD, and see if a Maria Cueva still lives at forty-twenty-four Radford Avenue, Studio City, California, will you? She’s our victim’s mother, and they’ll have to notify her that her son Ramon is deceased.” We absolutely never notify the survivors over the phone.

  “No problem. What else?”

  “That ought to do it, actually.”

  “You kidding me?”

  “Nope. That’s all. Really,” I continued, into the silence at the other end.

  “You’re no fun,” she said.

  While we were in Battenberg, I thought it was a good idea to connect with Hector in person. I wanted to introduce him to Hester and to check on what he knew about Rudy. I called his cell phone and asked if he could meet us at the Battenberg Public Library. Hector went there quite often to use their computers and check his Hotmail account. He said he was headed there anyway.

  Martha Taylor was the librarian. She’d been in my class at Maitland High. Small, slender, and in her middle fifties, she waved as Hester and I walked in.

  “Carl. Good to see you again.” She said that while looking at Hester.

  “Martha, this is an agent friend of mine,” I said. “Hester Gorse.” They shook hands. “You mind if we sit at that table over there? We’re expecting my usual guest.”

  “No, that’s fine. If you need anything, let me know.” She pointed to the Christmas decorations festooning the children’s section. “I’ll be over there, putting tinsel on the tree.”

  “Thanks.” Martha was just great about my meeting Hector at the library. Never asked. Never pried.

  Hector was with us in five minutes. He seemed a bit taken aback when he saw Hester but was impressed with her credentials. His shyness lasted about two seconds.

  “Rudy was in heavy with some very bad people,” he told us. “Nobody knows why they did him, man, but they truly did it. His whole head was really gone?”

  “Just about,” I said. I pushed the photos over to him. “Those look much like him?”

  He looked for a moment. “These are pretty good. This one, this is a very good likeness.” He held up one that depicted a good-looking man with a mustache.

  “Thanks,” I said, and retrieved the photos. “We’re going to notify his relatives in L.A. You wouldn’t happen to know them, would you?” I always hope.

  “Hell, man, he ain’t got no relatives in L.A.”

  Hester and I exchanged glances. “You know that
for sure? “I asked.

  “For certain, man. I got relatives in L.A. Not Rudy.”

  “You know where I could find them? Mexico?”

  Hector laughed in amazement. “Hell, man, Rudy wasn’t no Mexican. He’s a high and mighty dude from Colombia.”

  I don’t know about anywhere else, but in the close confines of Battenberg, the Mexican and Colombian communities didn’t get along very well. The Colombians tended to look down on the Mexicans for some reason, and the Mexicans reciprocated.

  “How did you know him, Hector?” asked Hester.

  “Oh, he started in the plant same day as me. We did the cleanup on the guts that spilled on the floor. Everybody’s the same, that job,” he said, with a broad grin. “Nobody better than anybody in that stink. Besides, he was illegal,” said Hector.

  “Illegal?” I asked. “How do you mean that?”

  “He was an illegal alien,” said Hector. “What you suppose? Hell, man, I thought you would know that already.”

  “We’re just getting started,” I said. Crap. Immigration and Naturalization should be notified, and that was very likely to add another layer or two of complication and delay.

  “Okay. Anyway, Rudy, he needed somebody to help him out, and we talked about things on break. He wanted to know things about L.A., about if I was from a barrio, the names of places and streets, people and things.” He smiled. “He was hard to make out, you know? He din’ speak much English, and I cannot understand his Spanish hardly at all. All the Colombians speak funny.”

  You learn something every day. “Like the way we speak English here?” I asked.

  “You got that right,” he said, and laughed. “Ya, you betcha,” he said, sounding just exactly like he’d been born in Minnesota. It was remarkable.

  “Hey, that’s good!” I said.

  “Thank you, I think so too,” he said. “My sister says I have a talent.” He got very serious, very quickly. “Rudy’s illegal. So are the ones who did this, but I don’t know names or where they are right now.”

  “Do they work in the plant?”

  “Rudy did, for sure. The others, though, I don’t know. I doan think so. They’re around, you know? The plant. But not regular, not like they gotta work there. They are there sometimes. But they ain’t around any one special place. They sometimes hang around in the break room.”

  “Are they Colombians, too?” Hester asked.

  “Not all of them, ma’am. Some are,” and he leaned forward to whisper, “some are from other places. Some are Hispanics, some are dark-skinned from somewhere I doan know, some are whites.”

  Oh, great.

  “One of those whites happen to be a tall, kind of blond dude?”

  “I would say there is a very good chance of that,” said Hector, with a smile. He did like to kid me. “But really, yes. I do not know his name, but I think they call him Cheeto, you know, like the corn chips in the bag.”

  “Any of’em live here in Battenberg?” I hoped.

  “I cannot say that, man. I never see them go home anywhere here.”

  “What do they drive? “asked Hester.

  “More than one set of wheels,” said Hector. “Sometimes in a Chevy pickup, sometimes a Jap car.”

  “What kind of Jap car? “I asked.

  “Honda, maybe Subaru, or something like that.”

  “What color?” asked Hester.

  “Kind of a calf-shit yellow,” said Hector. He’d picked up local descriptors in a hurry, I noticed.

  “Tan?” asked Hester. “Cream-colored?”

  Hector looked about the room. “Like that,” he said, pointing at a tropical poster on the far wall. “Like the sand in the picture.”

  It could have been described as cream-colored. Maybe. Under certain lighting conditions.

  “Okay, got it,” I said. I lowered my voice. “So, you’re telling us that this is dope-related?”

  “No way, man,” said Hector. “Not with Ramon, anyway. I doan know what, but it’s much bigger than dope.”

  “What is it?” asked Hester.

  “I don’ know.” His accent was beginning to thicken. Hector was nervous.

  “Got a guess? “I asked. I figured he knew.

  “All I know,” he said, “is that the word is ‘you do not in any way fuck with these people.’ And before you ask me, no, I don’ know who they are. I have seen them, I think. I don’ even know that for sure, man. I’m telliri you, these are very, very bad men.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If you think you’ve seen them—assuming it might have been them—what do they look like?”

  He hesitated. “I don’ want to say this,” he whispered. He took a deep breath, and let it out. “Hokay. Look, there is one tall white guy, man, and two Latinos, one is very ugly in the face. Like an accident with a wall, man. And one dark-skinned man who dresses really well, you know? Expensive things. Very long nose. Very quiet. And one dark-skin dude with an Anglo nose. Maybe he comes from Argentina or Brazil or something. He’s always got on a Yankees baseball cap. He’s crazy, like wired, you know? But I doan think he’s doin’ much dope. He’s natural crazy.” He looked around. “I think maybe I should go.”

  “New York Yankees? You think he’s from New York?” I always hate asking obvious questions.

  “No way, man. Maybe he’s a baseball fan,” said Hector.

  “The white guy… is he local?”

  “I doan know.” He looked around. “I never met this dude, man. That’s the way I want to keep it.”

  White. Well, the local label sure fit. But Battenberg also had a substantial Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian community, all first-generation and very recent. White would apply to them as well. I wasn’t done with that line of questioning yet, but I thought we could keep up an informal but cooperative relationship if I didn’t pressure him, at least not yet.

  “At least some are connected to the meat plant, though?” I asked. We were going to have to start interviewing a broader set of witnesses. Well, just as soon as we developed something to ask them.

  “There’s a bunch that work at the plant who might know something, but good luck with that today.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The plant is closed. They say it’s in honor of Rudy, but the real reason is that most of the workers ain’ there.” Hector grinned. “Illegals. You know how it goes. They won’t be back for a while… three, four days, most of them.”

  “You’re kidding.” The last time this had happened it cost us three days. There had been a murder in the Hispanic community, and they all thought they’d be deported if they talked to us.

  “No, I am not. Some of them even went away last night.” The grin got bigger. “Just like last time.”

  “Any idea where they went? “asked Hester.

  Hector shrugged. “Probably most of them are here somewhere. Just not at work, where you can find them.” He grinned again. “Not even to the Casey’s for cigarettes, not today. Maybe not tomorrow, too.” The grin faded. “The ones who know Rudy the best, they have probably gone a distance. They worry about the cops and the Immigration Service.”

  Well, damn. Now we’d have to go to the plant, get home addresses, and try not to scare any illegals into running before we could talk to them.

  “Did he have any close friends you know of?”

  “Maybe two. Maybe three. You already talk to Linda?”

  I nodded.

  “She better be careful, too. She don’ know the way things are. She’s from Iowa.”

  “You think she’s in danger? “asked Hester.

  Hector shrugged. “I don’t know what she knows. Maybe she don’t know what she knows, either. You know?”

  I thought he’d summed it up pretty well. “Yeah, I know. Hell, Hector, there are some days I’m not even sure of what I know myself.”

  He thought that was funny. “I got to go, to look normal. But you be careful, Mr. Houseman. I would miss you.”

  “Stay in touch,” I said. “Ma
ybe it would be best it we just talk on the phone for a while.”

  He stood, and stuck out his hand to Hester. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  Hester shook hands with him, and he walked over to the bank of half a dozen public access computers, picked one, and sat down, completely ignoring us. If someone had walked in ten seconds later, there would have been absolutely no indication we’d ever talked.

  “Second one from the right,” said Hester. “Remember that.”

  “Got it.”

  We headed out the door. “He works in the plant?”

  “Yep. Well, that’s his official job,” I said, as soon as we were outside.

  “Official?”

  “Well, he’s a dope dealer in real life,” I said. “Ecstasy and meth, in small quantities. Makes a profit, though. That’s what I hear, anyway. Can’t prove it yet.”

  “You get interesting snitches, Houseman. For a Norwegian.”

  “He says he likes it here in Iowa,” I said, as we got in the car. “Just like a lot of the Latino dope dealers do. They’ll tell you that the cops here don’t beat ‘em up just because they’re Mexicans. The other dope dealers don’t shoot ‘em here, and the local customers pay up front.”

  “What more could you ask for, right? “She shook her head. “Let’s hear it for family values.”

  “Like Hector says, ‘Ya, you betcha.’”

  Hester and I headed back to Linda’s apartment, to return the originals we’d been given. I called the office on the radio and let them know we were in the car.

  “Ten-four, Three,” said Sally. “Ten-twenty-one the office.”

  She wanted me to phone in. “Ten-four.” I handed Hester my cell phone, and she dialed as I drove.

  “Hey, Sally, it’s Hester. Is this for us, or just for Houseman?” There was a pause. “No kidding? Really? Okay, I’ll pass it along. Oh, he’ll love this, all right. No, you tell him.”

  She handed the phone back to me. “It’s Sally.”

  “I knew that,” I said. I took the phone. “Well?”

  “Well, looks like your case is going to shit, Houseman,” said Sally. “The address in Los Angeles you gave me? The one where his mother lives?”