A Long December

by Donald Harstad

  “Damn,” I said. “They’re good.”

  “Yeah,” said Gwen. “They are. Uh-oh…”

  They had just announced that there would be a special report on CNN in thirty minutes.

  Sally looked at Gwen. “Bad news?”

  “It means they have enough to do a long version,” Gwen said grimly. “That means they have more information, and probably interviews.”

  “Time for a good statement,” declared Hawse. “We better get a press conference organized.” He turned to me. “Is there some sort of auditorium available around here?”s

  “Well,” I said, “there’s the Opera House. Seats about four hundred. Stage. Balcony. Even has footlights, if you want ‘em.”

  We assigned Lamar to get the Opera House opened and available for the media. I say “we” in the broadest sense. I suggested his name, and Hawse did the actual assigning. Sometimes, you just have to get even.

  CHAPTER 17

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, 2001 12:21

  THE FEDERAL SEARCH WARRANT for Jose Gonzales’s apartment arrived in our office at 11:55. We were divided into two teams, search and security. As the original case officer, I was listed on the search team. Hester got security. Everybody else was a federal agent. We were just on our way out the back door of the sheriff’s department, when I got called on my walkie-talkie.

  “Coram, Three?”

  I fished it out of my coat pocket. “Comm?”

  “Three, return to the office immediately, authority officer One.”

  That meant that Lamar had ordered it. There was no questioning. I caught up to Volont and George, who were with Hester. “I gotta get back to the office. Lamar needs something. I’ll catch up.”

  As soon as I got inside, Lamar was waiting for me.

  “What’s up? “I was as polite as possible under the circumstances, but I really wanted to go on that search.

  “Quick,” he said, turning and leading me down the hall to his office. “I wanted you to get this first, before anybody else finds out.”

  That was unlike him. “What?”

  “Just pick up the phone,” he said as he shut his office door very firmly behind us. He sounded happy as hell.

  I lifted the phone off the desk. It was obviously an active line, and Lamar hadn’t even put whoever it was on hold.

  “This is Houseman.”

  “Hey! Boy, have I got some good shit for you. You owe me dinner at Mabel’s for this one!”

  It was Harry, from Conception County, Wisconsin.

  “Harry, my man. What’s up?”

  “You want one each Linda Moynihan and one each Yevgenny Skripkin?”

  Hot damn. “We sure as hell want her, but who the hell is this, this Yevgenny whatshisname?”

  “Ho ho, my boy. Da plot thickens. Your girl Linda is sitting in our jail, bawling her eyes out and screamin’ about some attorney she needs. You know anything about that?”

  “Sure. She’s got some attorney in Madison who’s trying to arrange an immunity and protection deal for her.”

  “Okay,” said Harry. “That’s about what she said to us. Shit, she’s about as safe as possible, she’s the only sad broad in the whole women’s cell block. I don’t know nothing about no immunity,” he added, laughing. “I can assume you still want her?”

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “She was shacked up with this Skripkin dude over in Blue Mound, where we found ‘em. The Whispering Pines Motel.”

  “Maybe they’re just friends,” I said.

  “They were in the sack together, naked,” said Harry, with some relish. “We used to call that shacked up, when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah, we did, too. Okay, but who the hell is he? I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “You shittin’ me?” asked Harry. “You really don’t know who he is? Hell, Houseman, I thought you were one shit-hot investigator!”

  “Get to the fuckin’ point, Harry,” I said. He found that uproarious.

  “Okay, Carl. Okay. This Skripkin, a white male Ukrainian, twenty-six years of age, was with the guy who blew away this Rudy Cueva boyfriend of Moynihan’s the other day.”

  “What?” Glib in the face of surprise, as always.

  “You betcha, Norske. This Skripkin was right there when one Juan Miguel Alvarez, also known to his friends as Hassan Ahmed Hassan, stuck the shotgun in the back of your boy’s head and pulled the fuckin’ trigger. Makes no bones about it. Seems to think he’s part of the immunity deal or something. That’s why I thought you knew him.”

  The white boy. Harry’d found the white boy.

  “You still there, Carl?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Harry. Just thinkin’. I don’t know this Skripkin. Whatever else, though, we got enough for an accessory to murder charge. I’ll get the paperwork started on that right away. I don’t suppose they’re gonna waive extradition?”

  “I didn’t ask,” he said, “but I’d be willing to bet your ass that they won’t.”

  “Me, too. How soon can I talk to ‘em?”

  “You got a free pass to this facility anytime you want,” he said. “Should I put the coffee on?”

  “You better put on about sixty cups,” I told him. “You’re gonna have a crowd. And Harry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get a photo of this Skripkin over to me as fast as possible, okay?”

  “Your e-mail up and runnin’?”

  “You bet.”

  “You’ll have it in less than a minute.”

  I did, too. Printing it took about four, and then grabbing a half dozen photos of other white males out of our Jail files took another five. Sally did the picking, while I called Hester on her cell phone and told her what we had.

  “Oh my God. You’re kidding!” She was as delighted as I’d ever heard her.

  I left, and made a flying trip to the Heinman brothers’ farm, where I showed the photos to Jacob. He picked Skripkin out immediately.

  “This one. This is the white boy. No doubt in my mind. Is he from around here?”

  “Well, Jacob, kind of. In a way. I can’t tell you more right now.”

  “That’s fine. Good job.”

  Well, it would have taken too long to explain about Harry, and Linda, and…

  “Thanks, Jacob. We appreciate it.”

  The trip to the Heinman farm and back, plus the identification process with the photo lineup, took twenty-eight minutes.

  We got the ball rolling with the county attorney, who we told to file a complaint and affidavit with the district court and get an arrest warrant out for Skripkin. Carson needed some help, so we told him to come on up. We then called a judicial magistrate, who was just wrapping up his morning traffic court tour, and he came up to the sheriff’s department with his sack lunch and dined at a desk while watching us with a look of bemused detachment. With me dictating, Sally typing, and Carson Hilgenberg signing it, it only took about thirty minutes.

  I grabbed a second with Volont. “Do you know Harry over in Conception County?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, look… Harry uses some pretty rough language. He doesn’t mean anything by it, and he’s one of the best cops I’ve ever known. All you have to do is give it a few minutes, and you don’t even notice it anymore.”

  “That sort of thing,” said Volont, “doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I think you might want to, well, alert some of the other federal officers. You know. Like Hawse.”

  Volont looked like a kid about to pull the wings off a fly. “Oh, sure. Thanks for the warning.”

  That look told me that he wasn’t about to mention anything to his superior. I made a mental note to try to be out of the room if Hawse ever met Harry.

  Fifteen minutes after that, arrest warrant in hand, the four of us left for the Conception County Jail, George and Volont in one car, Hester and me in another. We arrived there at 14:14 on the dot.

  “For Christ’s sake,” said Harry. “It took ya long enough!
”

  Harry had run all the data on our Mr. Skripkin, and gave us a brief rundown.

  “Three or four minor entries on his CCH,” he said. He was referring to the Computerized Criminal History check that is run on every prisoner upon being booked into jail. “One simple po; two traffic, both speed; and one public intox.”

  “Okay,” I said. A first offender, then, in the felony world. “The simple po and the intox come on the same date?” I suspected that possession of a small amount of marijuana and being stoned could easily arise from the same incident.

  “Damn,” said Harry, glancing at the dates. “You still got it.”

  “Thanks. It’s not much of a rap sheet, is it?” I noticed that, while it would have been normal to just hand me the thing, Harry was keeping the sheet to himself. Knowing Harry, that was an indicator that there was something else lurking on that piece of paper. Like he said, I still got it.

  “Well, maybe it’s more than you’d think,” he said. The familiar grin spread over his face. “The charges were all filed by the San Diego PD. Less than a year ago.”

  Ah. “No kidding?”

  “Yep. And when we inventoried his shit when we booked him, we found DLs from California, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Iowa, and Kentucky.” He handed me the sheet, finally. “All with his name, but all with different dates of birth. All bright and shiny, and all ‘issued’ on 02/18/2000.” He looked very pleased with himself. “We ran ‘em all, just to see, but there’s no record of any of these except the California one. Like the others don’t exist, which they don’t.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, looking at the sheet. “Just checking…the OLN on Iowa licenses is the same as the SSN. Just wanted to see if he was using a familiar number…but he isn’t.” I was just a bit disappointed.

  “Any chauffeur’s licenses?” asked Hester.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Harry. “All but California, as a matter of fact. Hester, you are one sharp lady.”

  “Did any of them have hazardous material certification on them?”

  That stopped him. “Shit. Shit, I’ll be right back,” he said, and headed out to the booking area to check the DLs.

  George looked at Hester. “Nice one.”

  It had become something of an indicator, the hazmat certificate on the fake chauffeur’s license. It looked like somebody high in terrorist networks figured that, in case they wanted to ship dangerous materials by road, if they had somebody with that type of license drive the vehicle, they could just breeze through any encounter with the cops. What they apparently didn’t quite grasp was that, with the additional testing for hazardous materials transport, nobody got those certifications just for the hell of it. Only those who did that for a living would have them, and they were able to answer any question a cop had about the proper procedures right off the top of their heads. Arcane questions like which letters on the diamond-shaped warning were required for particular materials.

  Harry returned. “All the chauffeurs have hazmat certification. Every fuckin’ one of ‘em.”

  Volont had been on his cell phone to Harriet Glee at the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Cedar Rapids during most of the conversation with Harry. Dirty Harriet had told him that there had been no agreement reached regarding the immunity or protection, but that she’d be talking to Linda’s attorney within an hour. In the meantime, she’d emphatically told him that the name Skripkin had never been mentioned, nor had any other individual. Period.

  “So,” said Volont, “it looks like Skripkin’s fair game. That was a nice bit,” he said to Hester, “about the hazmat certification. Good job.” The way he looked at George when he said it meant that he thought that George should have caught that first. “You advised him of his rights? “he asked Harry. Fuckin’ ay.

  “And he’s fluent in English?”

  “Sure sounds like it,” said Harry. “He tells a mean story.”

  “Okay.” Volont, who was sitting in a tipped-back chair with his feet on Harry’s desk, made a tent shape with his hands and tapped his chin with the tips of his fingers. I’d seen him do that before, and it told me that he was really being careful.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we do it this way? Carl, you’ve got this Skripkin cold as an accessory to murder, based on an admission against interest after being advised of his rights pursuant to Miranda.” He glanced at Harry. “He did waive those rights, didn’t he?”

  “Of course, my man,” said Harry. “Here.” He handed Volont a rights waiver form, signed by Skripkin. “Black and white.”

  “Excellent. Carl, here, owes you supper.” A satisfied smile appeared on Volont’s face. Things were coming together. “So, then, Carl, you and Hester interview him regarding the Cueva murder. Now, your witness is sure that this Skripkin was not the trigger man?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “Good. Okay, so let’s see what he says to you. Don’t let him know we’re anywhere around. Find out all you can about motive, and just why this Juan Miguel Alvarez is also called Hassan Ahmed Hassan. And remember, you aren’t allowed to even mention the possibility of an immunity agreement with Linda. It could look like an intimidation tactic, by making him believe he was being hung out to dry by his friends. It could contaminate the whole interview.” He looked over at Harry. “Do you have a room where we can view and hear the interrogation without being observed by the suspect?”

  “Shit, yes,” said Harry. “Where do you think you are, Iowa?”

  I wanted to come back with something snappy in defense of my state, but Harry’s jail was three years old, and ours was over a hundred. The only way we could have done what Volont wanted would have been to hide somebody in a closet.

  “Go get ‘em,” said Volont to Hester and me.

  “Just a sec,” I said. “If this guy asks if he’s covered under some sort of immunity deal…”

  “We tell him he’s not,” said Hester. “But only if he brings it up. He has to introduce it himself. You gotta be truthful. He asks, you tell him. Then, if he chooses not to talk, at least we give him something to think about while he waits for his court-appointed attorney.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “Okay with you?” I asked Volont and George.

  It was.

  Hester and I stashed our handguns in individual lockers and gave a jailer the keys. She gave us each a number to be used to repossess our weapons when we were leaving.

  As Harry led us back to the interview room, he said to Hester, “This Skripkin is one worried dude.”

  “I would be, too,” said Hester.

  I noticed how busy and noisy it was in the halls. Lots of staff. In our jail, you could clap your hands and get an echo.

  We entered a room without windows, about fifteen by twenty-five feet, a mirror on the wall, and a long table with four chairs, arranged two to a side.

  I knew the mirror was one-way, but it still could have fooled me. “Holy shit, Harry,” I said. “This looks like a movie set.”

  He chuckled. “Strange you should mention that…the video camera is up in that corner there,” he said, pointing, “and the real video equipment is behind the glass. Great sound, so don’t say anything to each other in a whisper if you don’t want Skripkin’s attorney to hear you. That mike system picks up everything. It’s all digital.”

  “You have popcorn on the other side of the glass? “I asked.

  “I ain’t tellin’,” he said.

  There was a knock on the door, and a uniformed jailer ushered Skripkin in. “I’ll be leaving you now,” said Harry, and meaningfully picked up the fourth chair and took it with him. Now, in order to obtain a weapon, Skripkin was either going to have to ask Hester or me for our chairs, or stand up and use his own. Not too bad an idea.

  My first impression of Skripkin was that of a tall, very thin young man, with large blue eyes, blond hair, a large and narrow nose, and a very pale complexion. He was about two inches taller than I was, making him close to six feet six. He had very long fingers, with th
e nearly round nails you sometimes see in an ectomorph. He appeared pretty calm to me. Like they say, always take your cue from the suspect.

  “Hi,” I said. “My name’s Carl Houseman, and this is Hester Gorse. I’m a deputy sheriff over in Nation County, Iowa, and she’s a special agent of the Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation. We’d like to talk to you about the murder of Rudy Cueva.”

  “Sure, no problem. What do you want to know?” Although he spoke pretty slowly and did have a Russian accent, his English was pretty damned good.

  “Have a seat,” I said. “We need to explain a few things to you before we go any further.”

  “Sure, whatever you need.” He sat, and so did we. I was rather surprised at his seemingly relaxed demeanor. I’d expected more tension, especially since Harry had told us he was worried.

  “Okay, your first name is…” I said, wanting him to say it so I had a pronunciation guide.

  “Yevgenny Ilyavitch Skripkin,” he said. “I am U.S. citizen since July 23 of this very year.”

  “Excellent,” I said, and meant it. It was nice to be on familiar territory. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “First, let me advise you that you have the right to remain silent, and that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court or courts of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have him present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to represent you at no cost to you.” I said it slowly, and with as little expression as possible. “Do you understand those rights?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “With those rights in mind, do you still wish to talk with us without the presence of an attorney?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I hate it when suspects append things like that. An attorney can have a field day, asking why you didn’t explain to him why he shouldn’t really talk to you. All over what is essentially a figure of speech.