The Big Thaw (15 page)

“Sergeant Thurman.”

“Phil, it’s Houseman. How are ya?”

“Dad! Hey, understand you had a cool double murder up there! You got all the luck…”

“Sorry you left?”

“Just about! What can I do for you guys?”

I asked him about the dead Colson brothers. He certainly knew them. “Yeah, those two been a pain in the ass for five years or more.”

I asked him about Fred. He knew him, too. “The quiet one. He was with those two a lot. Not a bad kid, you know? Just not too smart about who he hung with.”

I asked him about the impersonation of an officer story. He hadn’t exactly heard about that one. “Sounds just like ’em, though. Hell, it sounds just like half our store owners, for that matter.” He did think that, since the store was open after dark, at least in the account I had, he might be able to track it down. Most stores in Oelwein, as in Maitland, closed at five o’clock.

“Good enough,” I said.

I told Lamar what Phil had said and asked Lamar if he’d like to have lunch at the buffet in the pavilion of the
General Beauregard
, moored at Frieberg. He declined, but I decided to drive up anyway. Hester Gorse was working the gaming boat up there, and I really wanted to discuss the case with her. I needed an unbiased opinion. I also needed a really good meal, out of the reach and notice of the local media. It was only twenty miles or so.

I called Hester at her office at the boat.

“Houseman, by God! You been busy?”

Just hearing her voice cheered me up. “‘Busy’ ain’t the word for it. Like to do lunch? I can bring you up to date, and see if I can get Art assigned to Minnesota.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I heard. Things okay other than that?”

“Things are interesting. Two corpses, no real suspects. How ‘bout it?”

“Oh, you do know how to convince a girl. Sure. Love to.” I could hear the grin in her voice.

The
General Beauregard
was moored in the Mississippi River, separated from its associated pavilion by a railroad track and a highway, both of which paralleled the river. The bluffs that formed the prehistoric banks of the river rose to over 100 feet, within a block or two of the boat. It was really a pretty setting. Even with the river frozen over, and the stark black trees outlined against the white snow.

The pavilion was a combination theater, office, and restaurant complex, containing everything to make the boat into a casino, as opposed to a simple floating slot machine. Iowa law forbade gambling on the land, so the boat was more or less a dedicated gambling platform. The pavilion provided the rest of a mini-Las Vegas aspect to the operation. Nice, in a way. Families could use the pavilion facilities without being near gaming, which some seemed to prefer.

Iowa also required that the Division of Criminal Investigation maintain a presence at each and every casino. The legislature neglected to provide any additional agents for that purpose, so General Crim. had to spread itself even thinner than usual to accommodate the mandate. They accomplished that by three-month assigned tours. No exceptions. This was Hester’s turn in an eighteen-month rotation.

I hadn’t seen her for several months, and hadn’t actually worked a case with her for over a year. She was one of the best agents I’d ever worked with, and totally reliable. And very, very smart.

She was also a few years younger, and very fit. Something I tried never to bring into a conversation, and something she brought up every chance she got. She was waiting near the buffet entrance.

“Hi.” She grinned broadly. “Looks like life agrees with you.”

“Everything but work,” I said. “It’s a tough one this time. Great case, though. Fascinating.”

We spent about half an hour in her office, and I ran through the basic details of the double murder. She was into it instantly.

“I don’t think it was Fred, either,” she said, “based on what you’ve given me. Does Art think it was him?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got to understand, he thinks he’s under pressure to produce a conclusion.” She held up her hand, forestalling my protest. “I know, but it’s true. You know him as well as anybody does. He’s always wanted to be the best, and in his mind, the best is also the fastest to get the bad guy.”

I finished up by telling her about everybody assuming that it was a pair of cops who’d been killed.

“That’s what we call a clue, Houseman,” she said, seriously.

We found a table in the main dining room, off in a corner. A couple of people spoke to me as we walked through the place, and a couple more eyed me closely. People I knew. I was with an attractive woman, not my wife. They were checking Hester out, and could be relied upon to keep an eye on us throughout lunch. I loved it.

I was in a fine mood. Hester noticed. “The case really tripped your trigger, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah.” I smiled. It really was good to see her. “I’ll buy.”

“Wow, Houseman. This must be the case dreams are made of. It’s affected your mind.”

We put our coats on the chair backs, and hit the buffet line.

I gave in to my conscience, and had the grilled chicken plate, with whipped potatoes, peas, carrots, and a roll. $4.50. Hester just picked up a taco salad. $2.98. Less than $10.00. I was encouraged. Easily affordable. Not that I’m cheap…

Just as the food arrived, so did our favorite reporter, Nancy Mitchell. She’d been through a particular kind of hell on our last murder case. She’d not only witnessed a murder, she’d also been threatened and generally put through the wringer. Helping us out, at out request. We owed Nancy, and we owed her big-time.

“How’re my favorite cops?”

“Have a seat,” I said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, since you can’t provide any information, it was time to work on a feature article about the boat. And have a great lunch, at the same time.” She pulled out her chair.

“Lunch is on Carl,” said Hester. “Great to see you again.”

“I’d like you to meet Shamrock,” said Nancy. “She’s my photographer this week.”

“She’s welcome to join us, too,” said Hester, standing and reaching out her hand to the pretty blonde with the cameras. “I’m Hester Gorse, DCI, and this is Carl Houseman, Nation County. He’s buying lunch today.”

I stood, as well, and shook Shamrock’s hand. She was about twenty-two or -three, small, slight, and about as pretty a young woman as had graced Nation County in years. Really small, I noticed as I stood. More than a foot shorter than I was. Not more than ninety pounds, I’d guess. With camera. She looked like she was in junior high. Well, from my perspective, at any rate.

“Shamrock really your name?” Cops. We say things like that.

“Yours really Carl?” Big grin.

I was beginning to feel hemmed in. “I’m buying, cut me some slack.” I grinned, and sat back down.

She laughed. I sure hoped that she didn’t go the way of Nancy’s last photographer. Shamrock could grow on you.

“So, Nancy,” I said, “what brings you here?”

Nancy looked at Shamrock. “He just sounds that dumb. He’s really not.”

“You gotta take that on trust,” said Hester.

“Should I leave?” I asked.

“Not till the bill comes,” said Hester.

“The murders brought me to Maitland,” said Nancy.

“I hope you packed,” I said. “You’re gonna be here a while.”

Nancy glanced around. “Lamar going to join you?”

“No,” I said.

“Then I’ll stay,” she said, barely able to keep a straight face. “Wouldn’t want to make him mad … We’ll hit the line,” she said, “and be back in a second.”

Nancy came back with a taco salad. Shamrock appeared with a cheeseburger, cheese balls, and chocolate milk. Youth. Hers came to $4.50. Not too bad.

“So,” said Nancy. “How you two comin’ on this one?”

“Grinding it out,” I said. Instantly on guard. Nancy was, after all, the press. “And it’s not us two, either. Hester’s just having lunch with me … Really,” I said. “She’s on boat rotation.”

“Oh, sure,” said Nancy. “Then you haven’t told her of any of your great leaps of intuition this time?”

Hester laughed. “Now that you mention it…”

Thankfully, that got us off on what I would term “Houseman’s intuition,” intuition in general, and ended up with women’s natural intellectual superiority over men. It also got us to the end of the meal. Hester and I were engineering a graceful escape, when Nancy scored.

“So, before you two go running off, how come we were hearing that it was two cops that were killed in there?” She knew she had us. I could tell, because she was still seated as we were standing. She knew we weren’t going anywhere. The carrot had been dangled.

We sat back down. “Where did you hear that?” I must have looked interested or something. A crack in the poker face.

“Well, first from a neighbor down the road. Then from an older man at the Borglan place.”

Unfortunately, we all now ordered dessert. Another $9.00 plus tax. Pie all around.

“We heard some of that, too,” said Hester, pressing her fork through a slice of lemon meringue. “Do you know who these men were?”

“I think one was a Grossman … hired man or something,” said Nancy. “I’d have to look around for the second one’s name…” She carefully balanced large red cherries on the end of her fork, with fragments of a beautifully crumbly sugared crust clinging to the thick syrup.

“We don’t know where that came from,” I said, which was pretty much true. Just who might have started it when they were interrupted in a burglary. But they hadn’t told anybody, that was for sure. So I wasn’t really lying.

“They were sure convinced,” said Shamrock. She took a bite of French Silk, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

“Well, there weren’t cops killed. So I don’t know how that got going,” I said, again. I fiddled with my pumpkin pie, sans whipped cream. My diet program.

“Maybe somebody thought they were cops?” asked Nancy. “Good lead story, any way you cut it.”

Ah. The stick.

“Wouldn’t something more accurate be better?” asked Hester.

Of course it would. But what could we do?

My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress. “Phone for you, Carl.”

I excused myself, and took the call at the phone in the kitchen. It was Sally. The bodies were thawed and Dr. Peters was ready to do the autopsies. Would an officer be available at the Manchester Hospital in the next hour or so? Art was still busy, so it was going to have to be somebody from our department. Right. If I knew Art, he was ducking the autopsy, the same way he did when he was a deputy sheriff. He’d hated autopsies as long as I’d known him…

I walked back to the table. “Shamrock, I don’t have my camera with me. Could we hire you to do some shots for us. In Manchester?”

Nancy knew an opening when she saw one. “Sure, she will,” she said. “I’ll come, too.”

Hester shot me a glance, and mouthed “autopsy.” I nodded. She grinned. We do think alike.

The deal was, the department got professional, first-class autopsy shots, for a reasonable price. Shamrock got to take two cameras in, taking whatever shots for herself that she thought she’d need. I’d provide death-related information, and they’d get to hear the comments of Dr. Peters. Just the latter, in itself, was one hell of a lot. I let on as if I was really sticking my neck out, but the truth was we had used professional photographers many times before. Although it was true that the
Maitland Examiner
newspaper was usually the provider. Nonetheless, it was a precedent, and I felt covered. There was a chance that Lamar would be pissed, but if the results justified this…

In exchange, Nancy and Shamrock would latch on to the folks who thought the victims had been cops, and find out what the hell was going on with them. Especially the older male subject at the Borglan place. For us. They’d tell us just the information that was in regard to the cop bit. No obligation to say anything else. Deal? You bet.

“So, how soon do we get to release this stuff?” Nancy got out her notebook, a pen, and poised.

“Not sure,” I said, “but I can guarantee you get it before anybody else.”

“Gotta have at least twenty-four hours on everybody, or no deal. ‘Before anybody else’ won’t cut it.”

“Okay. But there has to be at least one critical detail held back,” I said. “Number of shots, for example. Or caliber.”

“
Number
of shots?” said Nancy. “Oooh, I like it when you talk like that.”

I turned to Shamrock. “You ever do an autopsy before? I don’t want to have to get you a wastebasket…”

“All the time. Bread and butter since fourth grade.”

“No distractions for the doc,” I said. “I’m serious. If you start to quease out on us, just excuse yourself, and leave me the camera.”

“Sure, boss,” said Shamrock. “No problem.”

As we left Hester, she gave me some of the best advice I’d ever had on a case.

“Houseman,” she said, “the Art business is distracting you from the case. You try too hard to get along with him, you’ll end up with a mess.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. And keep in touch.”

We headed off to Manchester, me going one way, Nancy and Shamrock another, to throw off any of their competition who might be looking at us. Since most of them didn’t know me from a hole in the ground, I don’t think they ever did catch on.

Dr. Peters had no problem with Shamrock the photographer, as long as he was not identifiable in the photos. Shamrock said there’d be no problem.

She looked at the two bodies, covered by white plastic sheets. “I, uh, hope I do okay on this…”

“You’ll do just fine,” said Dr. Peters. “Just focus on the areas I tell you. We’ll keep them to a minimum, just those that will grossly affect the investigation. Most likely,” he said, pulling back the sheet on the first body, “just the heads…”

The bodies were both supine, naked, with the heads resting on shaped wood blocks. I’d seen the same kind of headrests in a TV program on Egyptian mummies, used in their embalming process. Commonality of form and function. They still looked damned uncomfortable. Both mouths were open, eyes open, a little mucus in the nostrils of the first one. Part of the thawing process.

External examination of the two victims revealed nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the three gunshot wounds. Each had a couple of routine tattoos, poorly drawn and poorly executed, on their upper arms. Their initials, apparently, with M.F.D. underneath.