Donald Harstad: Known Dead

‘‘We got set up,’’ he said. ‘‘They were waitin’ for us. Just waitin’… No, no, I didn’t get hit. I’m just fine.’’

Off in the distance, a fragment of a siren’s wail came drifting up the little valley.

‘‘I’m sorry, man,’’ said Johansen, to me.

‘‘Nothing for you to be sorry about,’’ I said, scanning the area around us. I was thinking the siren might stir up the ambushers. ‘‘This shit can happen.’’

‘‘Yeah, I do. I am, I mean,’’ he said softly.

I kept looking up slope. There could be a tank up there, and I wouldn’t be able to see it unless it moved. ‘‘Why?’’ I asked, almost absently, trying to humor him.

‘‘It was me that shot at you, just now. I thought you might be them.’’

I looked at him. ‘‘Oh.’’ I looked back uphill. ‘‘Apology accepted.’’ Sort of.

‘‘I didn’t mean to,’’ he said.

‘‘No problem.’’ I just wasn’t going to think about that. ‘‘How many you mean by they?’’ I asked.

‘‘Lots.’’

‘‘Right.’’

The siren was Lamar Ridgeway, Nation County sheriff, and my boss for more than fifteen years. He was a good sheriff, dedicated, and tireless. He was also the only other one working today, and had come all the way from Maitland. It’s a big county we live in. People don’t seem to realize just how big. Or how few of us there are. Nation County is about half the size of Rhode Island. Now, that’s not exactly huge, I admit. But there are usually two or three cops out, at the most. Seven hundred fifty square miles is a big area.

‘‘Three or Four, can you copy me now…?’’ Lamar’s voice has a raspy quality to it, unmistakable. I picked up my walkie-talkie.

‘‘We copy, One,’’ I answered him.

‘‘Where ya at?’’

The question of the hour. I looked over at Johansen. ‘‘Did you brief One as to how to get up here?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ he said. ‘‘We showed him the aerial photos.’’

I held my walkie-talkie to my lips. ‘‘One, Three. Up the trail. Wait, if you can, for some more backup, before you come up. We might have shooters in the area.’’ I knew he wouldn’t, any more than I had. I just had to say it.

‘‘Yeah, ten-four… What’s goin’ on up there? Somebody shot?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ I answered. I turned my head to look at Johansen, who was getting a dazed look about him.

I brought the walkie-talkie back up. ‘‘688 is down.’’

‘‘Need an ambulance?’’ asked Lamar, hopefully.

‘‘Negative,’’ I said. ‘‘Medical examiner.’’

‘‘Ten-four.’’

I looked at Johansen. ‘‘You able to wait for a bit more?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’

‘‘We’re fine here right now, One,’’ I said to Lamar. I hoped I was telling the truth. But I sure didn’t want Lamar charging up to the rescue and getting blown away for his trouble. ‘‘But let us know when you start up the trail. We’re about a hundred fifty yards up, and just kind of off the trail to the right. We won’t be able to see you until you’re right on us…’’ I glanced at Johansen. I knew about that hazard, all right.

‘‘Ten-four,’’ said Lamar. ‘‘I got people comin’ from all over. Be there right quick.’’

I nudged Johansen. ‘‘You got a canteen, or something? Could use a drink.’’ The heat was oppressive, and there seemed to be even less air here than before. For some reason, the whispering made it seem even hotter.

‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, reaching behind his hip and unfastening the GI canteen. ‘‘Here.’’

I took a long swig. It was warm, but wet. I thought about the three cans of diet soda in my car, in the icefilled cooler. I handed it back to him. ‘‘You better have some too.’’

‘‘No,’’ he said, shaking his head. ‘‘I’m all right…’’ and his voice trailed off as he looked around the brush again.

‘‘Drink some,’’ I said. ‘‘Don’t want you goin’ into shock or anything. We got enough trouble without that.’’

In the distance, there were more sirens.

Johansen swallowed water from his canteen, loudly. He sighed, and said, ‘‘At least we got one of ’em.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Yeah, Kellerman got one of them. He’s up there,’’ he said, gesturing up-trail. ‘‘Just a little ways.’’

‘‘Dead?’’

‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ he said. ‘‘Real.’’

There was a sudden rustling in the brush, just on the other side of the trail. I brought my rifle around just as Johansen’s came up to his shoulder.

‘‘Don’t fuckin’ shoot unless we got a target!’’ I hissed.

‘‘Right,’’ he whispered. He wasn’t convinced.

It couldn’t be Lamar. Not yet, and not from over there. We waited in dead silence for several seconds. Sweat ran off my left cheek, which was pressed against the butt stock of my AR, dripped onto my left hand, and ran down my forearm. I don’t remember ever being so tense. Nothing.

Then a ground squirrel chattered, and there was a faint rustling again. We relaxed a bit, but didn’t talk.

It was about two more minutes when Lamar’s voice crackled over the radio. I sort of jumped.

‘‘Okay, I’m comin’ up. I should be about there.’’

‘‘Ten-four,’’ I said into the walkie-talkie. Way to go, Lamar. I knew you wouldn’t wait. ‘‘Be careful, but there has not, I repeat not, been any activity for ten minutes or so. But keep your eyes open.’’ And at least I won’t shoot at you until I know who you are, I thought. God, the idea of being blown away by Johansen sent a little shiver up my back, despite the heat. God, what a stupid way to go.

Lamar appeared around the corner, in uniform, with his shotgun pointing in front of him. He stopped and looked at the three of us.

‘‘Holy shit,’’ was all he could say.

Two hours later, things were starting to sort themselves out, and get much more complicated at the same time. Typical investigation in that you just couldn’t simplify things, no matter how you tried.

Lamar and I were returning up the trail, after trying to direct the officers who were beginning to search the park. He and I had just gone back through the yellow crime-scene tape and past the hurriedly arriving media. I overheard some reporter, who had set up his own camera and was speaking into it, say ‘‘… there are known dead so far, but how many is still not certain…’’

‘‘They’re all known to somebody,’’ I said to Lamar.

‘‘What?’’ His hearing was going.

‘‘Never mind.’’ Known dead… I didn’t know how else to put it myself. The term just sort of offended me, with the implications of body counts and things. Known dead. Like they wouldn’t count, somehow, until they were known.

We’d also been briefing various investigative people as they showed up, and picking up items from our cars down on the road. The area search was a hopeless task, but it did serve to make those of us who were concerned with the crime scene feel a little more comfortable. As far as I was concerned, though, the shooters were long gone.

‘‘Where’s Johansen?’’ I asked Lamar. I’d lost track of him in the combined process of getting resources assigned to the scene and scrounging gear from my trunk.

‘‘He’s still up there, talkin’ to DNE and DCI. He just doesn’t want to leave. He ain’t hurt, but I’m gonna have to get him out of here.’’

‘‘Yeah, but let me talk to him again first, okay?’’

‘‘Just for a while.’’

I could imagine the conversation between Johansen and the Iowa Department of Narcotics Enforcement and the Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation. A state agent being murdered in the woods was bad enough, but to have heavily armed and unknown suspects to boot…