Donald Harstad: Known Dead

He’d rushed on, and as he came to where the dead doper was lying, he saw someone in camouflage clothing rise up and point a gun at him. ‘‘Shit, I thought it was Kellerman, you know?’’

Oh, yeah. When you’re expecting to see a particular person, you see ’em. Even if it’s not them at all.

‘‘I said, ‘It’s me,’ and then I saw it wasn’t him, and I just dove into the bushes and the son of a bitch just started shootin’ at me.’’ He shuddered. ‘‘I fuckin’ landed on Bill, man. Right across his legs. Oh, shit, I mean, he was alive…’’ He looked at Hester. ‘‘I hope I didn’t hurt him…’’ He was going pale. ‘‘And…’’ Ken looked around. ‘‘I think I’d better sit down,’’ he said. And did. Plop. We all tried to grab him at the same time, but he sat too quickly.

Lamar was on us in a second, talking on his walkie-talkie. ‘‘Get me a couple of EMTs up here, I have a man who needs some attention, possibly heat.’’

Dr. Steve Peters, the deputy medical examiner, was with Ken in about two seconds.

We just sort of stood around, looking dumb. That’s what happens when you want to help and either can’t or can’t do anything useful. We stayed around long enough to make sure Ken was okay.

I gestured with my head, and Hester stepped aside a bit with me. ‘‘Okay if I look at the doper?’’

Hester smiled. She has a great smile. I mean, it really looks like she’s glad to see you. An honest smile, I suppose you’d call it. She’s about ten years younger than I am, which makes her mature enough for most anything, and still young enough to do it. At about five feet six, she’s also close to a foot shorter than me, very fit, with short hair. That makes her look even younger. Just based on appearances, you wouldn’t consider her much of a threat. Not unless you knew her.

‘‘Sure, Carl.’’

‘‘Thanks, Hester.’’ I grinned back. I must have looked a little more stressed than I thought.

Her smile faded. ‘‘This is a bad business, Carl. Very bad.’’

‘‘You got that right.’’ I stopped at the body. ‘‘We don’t know who he is?’’

Agent Dahl spoke up. ‘‘No. Not yet, anyway. We’ve checked him for ID, but there’s none on him.’’ He paused. ‘‘There probably shouldn’t be any, anyway.’’ I wasn’t aware he’d been following us.

‘‘Can I move him a bit?’’ You should always ask, to make sure all the photos are done, and all the ‘‘in place’’ data has been gathered.

‘‘Go ahead, Carl,’’ said Hester. She lifted the blanket.

The body was a real mess. Blood had soaked his faded blue jeans, and the front of the unbuttoned shirt was so sticky it matted to his ribs. He’d been torn up from the lower belly through the side of his head. Half dozen wounds, at least. The head wound had pretty well removed the top of his head, making a channel as it did so, so that he looked like a purple smiley face with a bite out of the top. His lips puffed out, and one eye was completely gone, probably having come out under the terrific pressure that builds up with wounds like that. But I thought I recognized him. His chin, the scraggly beard, and the awful teeth. I pulled a pair of rubber gloves from my camera bag, put them on, and very gently moved the body over in a quarter roll to his left. I pulled aside his blood-soaked red-and-blue short-sleeved shirt. The tattoo of a skeleton on a motorcycle, hair streaming in the wind, was on his right shoulder blade.

‘‘I think this is Howie Phelps,’’ I said, looking up at the two agents.

‘‘You know him?’’ asked Dahl.

‘‘If it’s Howie, and I think it is, I busted him for dope about ten-twelve years ago.’’ That was to tell Dahl two things; that I had made dope arrests of my own, and that they had been made while Dahl was still working Capitol Security. I mean, he likely knew a lot about dope cases, maybe a bit more than I did. But I wanted him to know that we were on a pretty even playing field.

I looked at Dahl. ‘‘It’s true,’’ I said, and grinned at him. ‘‘I used to hate old fart deputies who said they knew everybody and really didn’t. I really do know this dude. Had an a.k.a. of Turd, if that rings any bells with you?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘They’re all turds. No bells. What kind of dope?’’

‘‘Grass and meth.’’

‘‘Much?’’

‘‘No, small time. Maybe a pound of grass at a time, just enough meth to get his ego up, so to speak.’’

‘‘He seems to have had a shotgun,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Did he usually go armed?’’

I looked at her. ‘‘Never, as far as I know.’’

‘‘And a small water pump, and a battery, and some hose,’’ she said.

‘‘That time of year,’’ said Dahl. He was right there. The little pile of equipment would be used to pump water from a little stream up into the patch.

‘‘Seems to me,’’ I said, looking back down at the remains, ‘‘that Turd here’s got a girlfriend… lives with her, in Freiberg.’’ Freiberg was about five miles from Basil State Park. Right on the Mississippi River. ‘‘Give me a while, I’ll think of her name.’’

I stared at Howie, then took out my camera and snapped a couple of shots. I put my camera back, and said, to nobody in particular, ‘‘That was a pretty powerful rifle.’’

‘‘We have over fifty 7.62 mm casings, about thirty 5.56 mm casings, and probably a lot more to come. In four different locations so far,’’ said Hester.

I digested that for a moment. ‘‘Those little white boxes I see everywhere?’’ She nodded. ‘‘Two different calibers?’’ Again, a nod. ‘‘No shotgun shells?’’ She shook her head. Four locations.

‘‘So the dead doper had a couple of friends our guys didn’t see? Not till it was too late?’’ I was just speculating.

Silence.

‘‘Agent Dahl?’’

‘‘I don’t know. It sure looks that way, though.’’

‘‘Hester?’’

‘‘Looks like it.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Maybe.’’

‘‘If that’s what it is,’’ I said, ‘‘we’re lookin’ for at least two people. Do we know which casings are from our guys?’’

‘‘Not yet,’’ said Hester. ‘‘I’d bet on three people myself. However, there’s one bunch of 5.56 rounds, maybe five to ten of ’em, in that general area.’’ She pointed to some heavy underbrush down near Kellerman’s body. ‘‘Those are probably officers’ rounds.’’

‘‘Okay…’’ I turned to Dahl. ‘‘Just how big is this patch, anyway?’’

He looked at me, deciding. ‘‘Hundred six plants. Sinsemilla.’’

That gave me pause. ‘‘That was grown here back in the middle eighties. DEA said it couldn’t be done in this climate.’’ I smiled. ‘‘Iowa farm boys can grow just about anything on a slab of concrete. Kind of makes you proud.’’

I’d been squatting down, and stood up slowly. My back acts up on occasion, and I don’t like to push my luck. I looked the area over again, sweat dripping down from my forehead. I swiped at it with my gloved hand, so it only moved around. I peeled the glove off, and brushed my forehead with the back of my hand. The glove was dripping. High humidity.

Hester handed me a small cloth. ‘‘You’ve got powder from your glove all over your forehead.’’

‘‘Thanks, Hester.’’ I looked at both her and Dahl. ‘‘Thing is, I can’t really see Turd havin’ this kind of patch. I mean, both quality and quantity. He isn’t… wasn’t bright enough to tend it properly. That stuff takes a lot of attention, doesn’t it?’’ Dahl nodded. ‘‘Let alone afford it,’’ I finished up.

Alan Hummel, the special agent in charge of the DCI in our area, chose that moment to come up.