Known Dead (8 page)

‘‘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.

‘‘We are forming this task force,’’ he continued, ‘‘for the purpose of bringing the considerable resources of our agencies to bear on the problem. We feel that these officers were killed because they got too close to the operations of a cartel in South America.’’

It was too bad that nobody had told him that ‘‘two officers’’ weren’t killed, but that one of the dead just happened to be a miserable little doper instead. Not that it probably mattered. I should have seen this coming from the sinsemilla marijuana, though. That was sure to have been read as a sign of possible organized involvement. But foreign? The problem was, any foreign concern would be crazy to raise it here in Iowa. Risk the growth stage? Hell, even a bunch of dummies like us could find it here. We just had, after all. It would be a hell of a lot easier to ship it in. Sinsemilla was what I’d raise to
compete
with foreign imports.

‘‘Special Agent in Charge Volont will be the officer in charge of the task force.’’

Volont stood up and walked to the center of the room. He was fit, well-groomed, and had a very intelligent look in his eye. You could see a lot of energy burning behind those eyes. He somehow struck me as being more than just a cut above the rest of the officers in the room. A bureaucratic aristocrat, so to speak. They’d handed this one to a top agent. It would take somebody like that to get to the bottom of a complex, foreign-involved, murderous, narcotics-oriented case. I knew it sure as hell would be beyond me.

‘‘Those of you who’ve been working this case until now have done an excellent job.’’ That helped. ‘‘I’d appreciate it, Agent Gorse and Deputy Houseman, if you would continue your work just the way you have been going about it.’’ That helped a lot more. ‘‘All I ask is that, if you get into an area where you think there might be foreign involvement, you report it immediately.’’

This was good. No problems yet.

‘‘I want to meet every few days, to share information.’’ He paused. ‘‘To share what information I can. There will be things we at my end cannot share with you. I’m sure you understand that, but I want to repeat it, and apologize for that at the same time. I certainly mean no professional disrespect to you or your organizations.’’

Now, I knew that that was mostly for the benefit of the DCI, as a state agency, and all that. But what he was doing was laying the groundwork for his cutting us off from important information as soon as he had some. He only said the other stuff to get his point across and keep the task force functioning from the beginning. Well, he had to, didn’t he? As it turned out, I was almost right on that one.

He looked right at me. ‘‘Questions?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘I’d like to discuss the rules of engagement, as it were, with you, maybe after the meeting. We may have something already, and I want to know where I have to relinquish my investigation.’’

‘‘You don’t have to relinquish it.’’ That was good, but he was talking down to me just a bit. ‘‘But I’d be glad to find out what the involvement might be. Go ahead with your information.’’

‘‘Okay. All the 7.62 mm casings were of Warsaw Pact manufacture.’’

‘‘What percentage of the casings were 7.62 mm?’’

‘‘About sixty percent.’’

‘‘Excellent. We’ll get you more information about that very quickly.’’

He turned to the group. ‘‘That’s what I want.’’

I glanced at Hester. Deadpan. She knew I’d said that just to see if he’d had access to our reports yet. She also knew that he’d fielded it in such a way that I didn’t know. He was good.

I raised my hand, again.

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘One more . . . Why would homegrown marijuana lead you into foreign involvement? . . . Just curious.’’

He grinned. ‘‘Better to grow it here than to risk the seizure as it comes across the border.’’

Well, that sure wasn’t what I’d heard, but what the hell. ‘‘Thanks.’’

‘‘And,’’ he said, in a condescending sort of way, ‘‘there was also some physical evidence at the scene that indicated that.’’

Whoa, Nelly. Two things flashed into my head: (A) He’d just divulged that he had access to our evidence. (B) I wasn’t aware of anything like that sort of evidence, so if it was there, it had been withheld or covered up. The explanation was, unfortunately, forthcoming.

He reached down behind his little table and pulled up a wad of green rubberized cloth, with a State of Iowa evidence tag stuck on it.

‘‘This is very similar to the gear worn by members of a certain cartel we’ve been working in this country.’’ He paused for effect. ‘‘It was recovered at the crime scene. No label. No means of identification.’’

With a lead feeling in my stomach, I raised my hand again.

‘‘Yes?’’ Just a hint of irritation this time.

‘‘Could you spread that out for a second?’’

‘‘Pardon?’’

‘‘Like you were going to hang it on a hanger . . .’’

He did. It was.

‘‘Uh,’’ I said, ‘‘uh, that’s mine. My rain jacket.’’ He just stared at me. ‘‘It has a tear in the right elbow . . . and I tore the label off because it irritated my neck . . .’’

He looked. It did. Total silence.

‘‘I, uh, tossed it aside that day, when I got to the scene, because it was too hot. I guess I forgot about it.’’ It was a very bad moment. I’d embarrassed myself, of course. I’d done that often enough to handle it fairly well. No problem. But I’d just embarrassed this Volont fellow in front of his peers. That could prove fatal.

The meeting continued for about thirty minutes, with DEA telling us how hard they were going to work. I’d expected that, as they just hate it when a cop gets killed, just like we all do. But they double hate it when he’s killed working narcotics. That’s their bailiwick, and they don’t let anybody screw with that.

When the meeting broke up, I realized I’d had no rolls. I was working my way toward the food table when I saw Al and Hester going up the stairs. I’d call her later. I imagined she was a little leery about this business too, but that she’d had no real choice in the matter either. I knew that we both realized we would need the Feds.

Much to my surprise, Volont flagged me down just as I got to the doughnuts.

‘‘Carl, isn’t it?’’ he asked, extending his hand. We shook.

‘‘Carl it is.’’

‘‘I’m Steve.’’

‘‘Okay, Steve.’’

‘‘You’re probably not too comfortable about this.’’

‘‘Well, you’re right about that.’’

‘‘I’ll tell you the truth . . . if we find an international suspect who’s behind all this, you’ll probably never hear about it. You know that, don’t you?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ I grabbed a doughnut.

‘‘But the good news is, if we do, I’m just about certain that whoever did the shooting was not foreign. They wouldn’t do that. They use local talent. They pass so much more easily than, oh, South American nationals, for example. Less attention. So you’ll probably get your perp, even if they’re foreign-paid.’’

‘‘That’s good.’’

‘‘Just didn’t want you to worry.’’

‘‘I worry a lot.’’ I smiled. ‘‘We don’t have a hell of a lot of a case here. Not a lot at all. You read our reports yet?’’

‘‘Not yet. The people from the AG’s office have. They think you don’t have much either. That’s the problem.’’

‘‘Yeah. We should, given what happened.’’

‘‘Yes, we should. That’s what makes us think there’s something else involved here.’’

‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘you sure could be right. Anyway, I appreciate your honesty.’’

‘‘Look, you’re doing as much as you can with this. It just may be something you can’t find because you don’t have the jurisdiction to look in the right place.’’

He was right about that. Generally, the Feds aren’t that much brighter than any other investigative unit. Their advantage was resources; in the case of the FBI, massive resources. But they had a tendency to simply throw resources at the problem, trying to make up for what they lacked. Mostly, what they lacked was knowledge of the local area, and I don’t just mean the geography. And sometimes, what they lacked was expertise in some areas. By the very nature of their jurisdiction there wasn’t a ‘‘beat cop’’ among ’em. Most Feds had virtually no homicide experience. They only had jurisdiction over murders that occurred on federal property. Most agents had never been there, never done that. Only, sometimes, it really would have helped if they had.

Then, again, I’d never refused their help. I might be a little offended, but I’m not stupid. Those of us who have virtually no resources have virtually no scruples about using theirs. It works, and all of us know it. The Feds count on our greed. Resource envy.

‘‘I understand you know George Pollard from our Cedar Rapids office?’’

I certainly did. One of the resident FBI agents. We not only knew him; we liked him enough to refer to him as ‘‘George of the Bureau.’’

‘‘Oh, I know George. Good man.’’

‘‘He’s on vacation now, but he’ll be assigned as soon as he returns. Just wanted you to know that.’’

Well, that was good news. I was sure he’d arranged to have George assigned so we would be more comfortable with the situation.

‘‘Hey, I’m sorry about the raincoat. I just forgot about it in all the fuss.’’

I shouldn’t have brought it up again. I knew that as soon as I said it.

‘‘I’ll arrange to have the state get it back to you.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ He couldn’t do that. They’d give it back on their own, or not, regardless of what he said. But he had to save a bit of face.

When I got back, Lamar collared me. After I told him about the task force, he told me to take my scheduled days off on Monday and Tuesday.

‘‘That’s not necessary, Lamar.’’

‘‘Yeah, it is. I think this is gonna be a long one, and I want you in shape for the long run. Let the state and the Feds earn their keep for a couple of days.’’

I really didn’t want to go home for two days. Which, come to think about it, is as good an indication that you should as any you could find.

I drove myself nuts on Monday. I’d been building a model of HMS
Victory
for nearly a year. She had been Nelson’s flagship at Trafalgar in 1805. I was researching the rigging, wanting it to be truly accurate. I had purchased copies of
The Anatomy of Nelson’s Ships
and
The Masting
and Rigging of English Ships of War.
They usually relaxed me past all reason. After I had read the description of the winding around the forestay and the fore preventer stay, and the method of bringing both stays into their collars, I read it again. And again. And again. Well, that obviously wasn’t going to work out. I covered the ship and came up out of the basement, books under my arm.

‘‘Done already?’’ asked Sue.