Known Dead (30 page)

‘‘I haven’t been here that long, let me check the file . . .’’

I sat there, drumming my fingers on the desk and wishing I still smoked, for about three minutes, before he came back on the line.

‘‘I’m really sorry,’’ he said, ‘‘but the only thing I can find in the files is from years ago, when he got busted for counterfeit stuff.’’

Oh, yeah. Only that . . .

‘‘Too bad,’’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘‘There might be something in that, though . . . Look, go ahead and fax us the basic stuff, will you?’’

‘‘Sure . . .’’

‘‘And I’ll buy you a beer at the convention . . .’’

I don’t get butterflies in my stomach very often, but I did waiting for that FAX. Like so many cops, including myself, he really needed his secretary, I was sure, to run the damned machine. Since it was ‘‘important,’’ he’d probably try to do it himself. This could take a while yet. I notified Dispatch to let me know immediately, because we might be having some secure stuff coming over from Homer County via fax, and I would have to get it right out of the machine myself.

They called right back.

I got to the center and watched the first sheet come out of the machine. Blank. Followed by the second, third, fourth . . .

We placed a call to the deputy, who was obviously doing the faxing himself. He was embarrassed. Told him that was okay, anybody could put the sheets in wrong side up.

I waited in the Dispatch Center. Pretty soon, here they came. Faint, hard to read, but they were coming in. He was obviously sending copies of the ‘‘pinks,’’ the third sheet on a standard form, the ones that the officers keep in the file along with the white original copies. Oh, well.

Fifty-six pages. He probably used up his fax budget for the month. The last sheet was from him, asking if I wanted him to fax the DCI and FBI documents. I telephoned, told him to hold up on those. Hester should have them, and he had done a lot already.

I was just about finished with the report when Dispatch buzzed me and said I had a call from Hester.

‘‘Houseman . . .’’

‘‘I have the stuff. It’s GREAT!’’

‘‘All right!’’

‘‘Noyagama says ‘Hi’ and for you not to eat too many cookies.’’

‘‘Cool. Should I call Volont now?’’ I asked.

‘‘Wait till I get there,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m just going past the first rest area . . . Should be there in, oh, three and a half hours or so.’’

That put her about thirty miles out of Des Moines, if memory served.

‘‘I got some stuff from the county where our man was busted,’’ I said. ‘‘They faxed it up.’’

‘‘Good. See you in a while.’’

Hester drove into the lot at 1630, by which time the faxing deputy of Homer County had confirmed that Wittman was, indeed, at the ‘‘old farm.’’ Did we want him?

Well, yes, we did.

Hester and I got our ducks in a row, went to a magistrate, and got an arrest warrant for Wittman for murder (a co-conspirator), and I placed the call to Volont at 1658. Two minutes before closing time, as it were. He wasn’t in. Did we want him paged? Yes.

We’d decided not to let Volont know we had the old case files . . . at least not yet. It wasn’t really applicable, not to the immediate situation anyway.

Volont’s call was put through to my office.

‘‘Houseman,’’ I said, motioning Hester to pick up the other line.

‘‘Volont here. You called?’’

‘‘Sure did,’’ I said. ‘‘You on a secure line?’’

‘‘Very.’’

‘‘Okay, then. Hester and I are on this line. We found out who the subject was who was in the house with Herman. Actually, who both of them were, the ones who took off through the corn?’’

‘‘Yes . . .’’

‘‘One of ’em is a man named Julius Constantine Wittman, goes by Connie.’’

‘‘Right,’’ said Volont, as noncommittal as always.

I told him where Wittman was, how his name had come, in effect, from Nola Stritch during our interview, and how we’d found out who he was. Told him that there was an old FBI case involved too. He didn’t seem too surprised.

‘‘Are you going to pick him up?’’ he asked.

‘‘Yeah, but not without you,’’ I said. ‘‘This guy’s at least as much of a conspirator as Billy Stritch, and that’s another federal charge. Plus,’’ I hastened to add, ‘‘with federal priors, he might be a little more willing to talk.’’

‘‘Might,’’ said Volont. He thought for a second. ‘‘How about we meet you over at the sheriff’s office in, what, uh, Homer County, in about two hours?’’

‘‘Yep. Homer County. See you then,’’ I said.

We called Homer County, and I spoke with the faxing deputy again. I told him what was up, and he just about fell off the phone. Eager. I just love eager.

Hester and I pulled into the Homer County Sheriff’s Department at 1914. We were in two cars, naturally, as Hester sure wouldn’t want to be driving me back.

It looked a little crowded. Turned out, it was.

Apparently, when it sank in with Homer County exactly what we wanted Wittman for, they called out everybody and his brother. They even asked for assistance from the state, for a TAC team, and got it. Volont, at the same time, had apparently used his considerable resources, and an FBI tactical unit was also there. Wow. Twenty-two officers in camouflage (Iowa) or black (federal) BDUs. I was impressed. I figured Wittman would be too.

The faxing deputy, whose name was Gregg Roberts, was really happy to meet me. He was so impressed, and thought I had done it all, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him I couldn’t have gotten those two TAC teams if I had said I was being held hostage. As the local LEIN officer, he was dead center in the middle of the action, and was having the time of his life. I made sure to tell his sheriff that he’d been of great importance in the investigation. Cross the
t.

Volont, although he tried to cover it up, was also having great fun. He was even nice to George. He introduced me to the federal TAC team leader, and actually clapped me on the shoulder. The team leader, by the way, was introduced just as that. No name.

Since we had both a state and a federal arrest warrant, we had it made as far as grabbing Wittman was concerned.

A couple of members of the federal and the Iowa TAC teams crawled up on the place out of the corn and did a thorough recon. It was dark by then, and Wittman had lights on in the house. The other TAC team members were waiting in sweltering vans about half a mile away, pulled back in a field entrance among towering cornstalks. The recon team would say ‘‘when.’’

Volont, Hester, George, Deputy Roberts, and I were in Volont’s minivan, which was equipped with enough radio equipment to run a small White House. We were further up the road than the full-sized TAC vans, and had our engine running. That meant we had our air conditioning on. We were probably the only comfortable people in the unit. We sat there, just able to hear an occasional cricket, and watching the fireflies in the corn. It was beautiful.

Strategically placed in the surrounding area were some twelve patrol cars, each with two officers. Their job, basically, was to seal off the roads just a minute or two before the TAC teams hit the residence.

Coming up in a hurry was the ex-Army OH-58 from the Cedar Rapids Police Department, with its FLIR equipment. Its job was to watch the area of Wittman’s farm with the FLIR and track anybody who might leave before they were supposed to.

We waited for the recon team’s report.

‘‘God,’’ I said, after a minute, ‘‘I just
love
resources.’’

‘‘This is mainly to ensure that nobody gets hurt,’’ said Volont.

Sure. But, if we’d been able to afford a band . . .

The recon team leader, Tac One, called in. I looked at my watch, out of habit. 2218.

‘‘TAC One has four vehicles in the yard, and what we count as eleven people in the house.’’

‘‘Fuck,’’ said Deputy Roberts.

‘‘Great,’’ said Volont, and meant it. He picked up his mike. ‘‘What does it look like they’re doing?’’

‘‘Looks like a 4-H club meeting,’’ whispered TAC One.

‘‘Adults?’’ asked Volont.

‘‘Mature,’’ came the whispered reply.

‘‘Check the surrounding area,’’ said Volont.

‘‘Done,’’ came the reply. ‘‘Clean.’’

‘‘Well done,’’ said Volont. He switched channels. There was absolutely no doubt as to who was in charge. ‘‘Sky One,’’ he called, addressing the CRPD chopper. Since it was on the federal payroll for the duration, they changed the call sign.

‘‘Go ahead,’’ boomed Sky One. Volont had turned the volume up to hear the whispers of TAC One. I think we all jumped.

‘‘ETA?’’

‘‘We’re orbiting about five miles out. We can be there in two minutes.’’

‘‘Come in and hold at a mile and a half,’’ said Volont. ‘‘TAC One?’’

‘‘TAC One,’’ came the whispered reply.

‘‘Break your packs, Sky One will be holding at a mile.’’

‘‘Roger that.’’

‘‘Break your packs’’ referred to little heat packs that were Velcroed to the shoulders of the officers in the corn and around the farm. Smacking them caused them to mix their chemicals and heat to about 150 degrees. That way, the FLIR could tell the good guys from the bad guys by the intense white spots on their shoulders.

‘‘TAC Six,’’ called Volont, addressing the federal TAC team leader.

‘‘Six.’’ Crisp, calm.

‘‘Sky One is holding at a mile or so. Are you go on the data from recon?’’

‘‘We’re go.’’

‘‘Right,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Do your thing.’’

‘‘Roger that.’’

‘‘Sky One has two vehicles in motion. Those your guys?’’

‘‘From the east, on the highway about now, two vans,’’ said Volont.

‘‘Ten-four.’’

‘‘They’re friendlies, Sky One,’’ said Volont.

We began to move.

Volont changed channels again. ‘‘All units, take your positions,’’ he said.

‘‘I got lots of vehicles movin’ down there,’’ said Sky One.

‘‘That’s us,’’ said Volont.

The federal team went in the house, with recon and the Iowa team securing the perimeter. We pulled in the yard about ten seconds after the federal team hit the residence. There were lights on all over the place, including the basement of the house, with flashlights shining beams inside the darker rooms. I could see the bright basement light shining out of the storm door that led to the basement from the outside.

‘‘One got out of the basement!’’ said a breathless voice.

‘‘We’re on him,’’ said Sky One. ‘‘He’s headed west, into the trees . . . and he’s headed right to two heat packs . . . and it looks like they’ve got him . . .’’

‘‘TAC One has one in custody,’’ came another breathless voice.

Clean sweep. We followed Volont into the house.

It was just about a minute and a half since the TAC team had entered the house through just about every ground-floor opening. In that time, ten people were handcuffed, on the floor in the living room, and guarded by three men with H&K MP-5 submachine guns. There were officers in the attic and in the basement. It was very quiet.

The TAC team leader came up, his eyes extraordinarily white as they peered from his black ski mask.

‘‘Sorry about the one from the basement,’’ he said. ‘‘Apparently was just going down there for something when we came in.’’ His wide grin was very apparent in the mouth opening. ‘‘One of our guys thinks he hit him in the back with the kitchen door as he came through, and probably knocked him down the basement steps.’’

Volont turned to Deputy Roberts. ‘‘Which one’s Wittman?’’

Roberts pointed to a rather soft-looking individual in a gold-and-brown-plaid short-sleeved shirt, green wash pants, and crepe-soled shoes. ‘‘Right there.’’

‘‘You want to do the honors?’’ asked Volont.

‘‘I do,’’ I said.

I walked over and squatted down by Wittman. ‘‘Hi,’’ I said. ‘‘How the hell are ya?’’

‘‘Fuck you, kike,’’ he said.

I smiled. ‘‘Not if you were the last Aryan stud on earth, chubby,’’ I whispered. ‘‘My name is Houseman,’’ I said in a normal tone, ‘‘and I’m a deputy sheriff in Nation County. I’m here to charge you with a murder.’’

No response.

‘‘You have the right to remain silent,’’ I said. Not necessary unless we were interrogating him, but always good for the soul. ‘‘Anything you say . . .’’