Donald Harstad - A Long December

We drove in silence for a moment.

“You’re just gonna have to help me carry some stuff, that’s all.”

I laughed. “Oh, I will. Especially since you’ll be taking the shotgun.” We carried our shotguns in a case that ran along the lower front edge of the seat.

“What the hell do I need that for?”

“If I knew,” I said, “I’d tell. Always take as much firepower as you can reasonably carry,” I said. “You know that.”

“How about I take as much as you can reasonably carry?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Sooner or later, you’re gonna want a sandwich,” she said. “Think about it.”

We got to the Heinman boys’ farm about fifteen minutes later. We pulled both cars into the lane, and all got out as Jacob came to the door.

“Jacob! How’s it goin’?”

“Fair. You need somethin’?”

“Yep,” I said. “We need to park these two cars here, if it’s all right with you.”

He scrutinized us very closely. “Looks like you’re goin’ squirrel huntin’.”

I just explained that we were going to be watching the old Dodd place, and we needed to keep our cars out of sight of anyone who might be going there. Jacob directed us around the back of the barn. He seemed glad to be of assistance.

“Think you’ll catch the people who did it? “he asked.

In the spirit of cooperation, I said, “We already got one of ‘em, Jacob. I think we’ll have everybody pretty soon.”

“Mind if I tell Norris?” he asked me.

“No, not a bit. Just keep it under your hats for a day or two, though.”

The bemused Heinman brothers watched us loading up all our gear.

Sally gave George and Hester a run-down on all the great stuff in her cooler while I loaded up as much gear that had straps as I could. That meant my AR-15, the shotgun, my ammo bag, my camera bag, and Sally’s Girl Scout backpack over one arm.

“We better start moving,” I said, “or I’m gonna poop out just standing here.”

“Right,” said George. He slipped a full-fledged super pack with frame over his shoulders, and carefully adjusted a tube that emerged from the bottom of the pack and ran up over his left shoulder.

“What’s that?” I asked, beating Sally by an instant.

“What? Oh, this tube? This is what they call a ‘hydration pack.’ Carries lots of stuff, and has a water bag attached at the bottom.”

“Okay,” said Hester. “So what’s with the pickax there?”

There really was a strange looking tool dangling from a loop on the side of the pack.

“That’s an ice ax,” said George.

“There’s no ice,” I said. “There’s not even snow.”

“That’s okay,” said Hester. “He can use it to break up the ice in the pack when his hydration system freezes up.”

“Ah, but look,” said George. “Voila!” He reached into the backseat of Hester’s car and produced a black box, about a foot square and about half that thick. “Meet Mr. Heater,” he said, grinning. Sure enough, that’s what the label said. Mr. Heater.

“Runs on a one-pound bottle, puts out 9,000 BTUs for six hours on one. I’ve even got a spare bottle in my pack.”

“What the hell,” said Sally. “I’m sticking with George tonight.”

“Me, too,” said Hester. “Carl, you can stay in the shed if you want.”

“Where,” I asked George, “do you get that stuff?”

“I shop around,” he said. “This was only a hundred bucks. Want to see what all I’ve got in my pack?”

“There’s gonna be plenty of time after we get there,” I said. “We’ve got a way to go.”

Hester produced her own duffel bag. “I don’t have a shotgun. Department’s a little short right now, and we keep ‘em in the office and draw one out when we think we’re going to need one.”

“I don’t, either,” said George.

“I’m disappointed, George,” I said. “I was sorta hoping you’d have a small cannon with wheels.”

We set off down the road, with George and me carrying most of the packs and blankets, and Hester and Sally toting the rest along with the cooler between them. When we got back up onto the roadway, Sally said, “Is that dark spot…?”

“Yep. That was where the body was,” I said.

“Boy,” said George. “This is sure a lonely spot to die.”

“Well,” I said, “Rudy really didn’t have much time to think about that.”

“Do you and Hester think you’ve got the right man?”

“If you mean Skripkin,” I said, “yeah, I think so. But I really want that Hassan or that Alvarez, or whoever he is. That sonofabitch is the trigger man.” I adjusted my load, nearly dropping the shotgun off my shoulder. “Skripkin’s only a co-conspirator. That, and a lying sonofabitch, to boot. We’d really like some solid physical evidence.”

The law says that you cannot convict an individual based solely on the testimony of a co-conspirator. It’s a very good rule, when you think about it. But it also means that you have to have something else linking the suspect to the act. Like a large amount of physical evidence, for example. I didn’t think other testimonial evidence, such as that available from Jacob Heinman, would be enough in a strongly contested case.

Along with that, Skripkin’s lying continued to haunt me. I knew he was telling mostly the truth about the murder, but there were little holes in his account that a decent defense attorney would be able to drive a truck through.

“Like what kind of evidence?” George asked, more to make conversation than out of real interest.

“I’d be happy with the murder weapon,” I said. “It’s a twelve-gauge shotgun, and we have that plastic wadding. It will have some marks, so I think we can maybe do a match. His fingerprints all over the gun would help, too.”

We rounded the curve, and Sally said, “Shit, Houseman, how much further?”

“Way down around the next curve,” I said. “It’s all downhill.”

“Way down there?”

“Yep.” I turned around and walked backwards for a few steps. “Gettin’ tired?”

She stuck out her tongue.

Another hundred yards down the road, and Sally spoke up again. “You mind tellin’ me why you didn’t just drop us off down here, and then go park the car?”

“Too many tracks. People make lots of tracks, especially when they stand around waiting for somebody. It’s best this way.”

“Be sure to tell me that on the way back up,” she said.

“Wait till you see the farmyard,” said Hester. “It gets worse.”

When we turned into the farm lane of the old Dodd place, Sally let out a groan. It was quite a distance to the abandoned barn, all uphill and over rutted, frozen tracks. A gust of ice-cold air whipped down the little valley, right into our faces. It was going to be chilly tonight.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2001 15:23

We paused at the end of the lane and set most of the stuff down to give ourselves a break.

“Anybody know anybody else who’s crazy enough to go on a winter picnic? “asked Sally.

“It won’t be so bad,” said George, “once we’re out of the wind.”

Sally shivered. “Yeah. But it’s a long way to that barn. I just hate it when it blows right in your face. Makes it ten times colder.”

George turned his back to her. “The zipper pocket on the upper right,” he said. “There’s a muffler in there. Go ahead and use it.”

Sally pulled out a maroon and gold muffler, complete with fringed ends. “Wow, thanks,” she said, wrapping it around her face.

Hester lifted one end of the cloth. “Hogwarts?”

“USC,” said George. “Same thing.”

Rested and wrapped, we loaded up again and started up the lane.