Donald Harstad: Known Dead

‘‘You love it,’’ said Hester. She wiped the sweat off her own forehead with the back of her hand. ‘‘That’s why you look so pretty.’’

He grinned, but she was right. Of all the people at the crime scene, only Al looked cool. He had removed his suit coat, and carefully rolled his pale blue shirtsleeves up two rolls, and barely loosened his navy blue tie. There was just a hint of perspiration on his shirt. Shirtsleeves, mind you. Sleeves.

‘‘How’s he do that?’’ I asked Hester as he began moving uphill.

‘‘What, walk without falling over?’’

‘‘No, damn it. Always look so neat.’’

‘‘You’ll never know, Houseman.’’ She grinned. ‘‘Back to work.’’

We got together with Dr. Peters, and talked over what we had. Not a lot, but too much for anybody but a very meticulous lab team to make much use of.

‘‘Anything at all that’s unusual, Doc?’’

‘‘Not really, Carl. Pretty straightforward gunshot wounds, all through and through. Those vests aren’t much good against high-powered rifles, are they.’’ A statement, not a question.

‘‘Well, they say they’re only effective against pistols.’’

‘‘Hmmmm. Did you notice the range seems pretty short?’’

‘‘Yeah, I thought so too… Did you see any powder or tattooing?’’

‘‘No, but it’ll be there. I’m sure of it. The clothing probably trapped most of it.’’

‘‘Less than fifty feet, with high power?’’ Hester asked.

‘‘I’d say so. But let’s check. I’ll tell you, though, any further than that and whoever it was wouldn’t be able to see a target. Not in this undergrowth.’’

That’s one of the many things I like about Doc Peters. He does medical examining very thoroughly, and is something rare in our state; a forensic pathologist. Another thing I like about him is that he sort of takes the bite out of bad events. I don’t know how, but he does. I was already distancing myself from the emotions permeating the scene, and it was talking with Doc Peters that was doing it. Being clinical helps, I guess.

‘‘Okay, look, Doc, I have to get to an interview before this thing gets all over the state. Girlfriend of the dead doper up there. So I’m sure you and the lab people will have things well in hand… and DCI will provide autopsy coverage.’’ That meant an officer to witness the proceedings and take photos. Every effort would be made to have an officer who didn’t know Kellerman do the work.

‘‘Oh, yes.’’

‘‘So, if it’s all right with Hester here, maybe she could come with me for the interview…’’ It’s always good practice to have a woman officer present when you interview a female… In fact, sometimes it’s better to have her do the interview.

‘‘Sure,’’ said Doc.

‘‘Fine,’’ said Hester.

‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘let’s meet later…’’

We had to run a small press gauntlet on the way down from the scene. I tried to think of a way around the little media cluster, but there were thick woods on both sides of our path until we hit the meadow just off the road. Trapped.

‘‘Officer, can you tell us what happened up there?’’

‘‘Officer, were any of the victims police officers? Can you confirm that there is an officer involved?’’

‘‘Did this happen today, or is this a discovery of old bodies?’’

That was original. I kind of liked that one. And then, of course: ‘‘Can you confirm the known dead? How many known dead?’’ It rankled.

Hester, fortunately, was quite adept at this sort of thing.

‘‘An official statement will be issued in a short while. Thank you …’’

I glanced at her as we got into my car. ‘‘Who’s going to issue a statement?’’

‘‘Don’t know,’’ she said, slamming her door. ‘‘Not me.’’

On the way into Freiberg, in the blessed air conditioning of my car, Hester and I discussed just what we had. Or, more precisely, didn’t have.

‘‘So we agree that our people received fire from three separate locations?’’

‘‘At least,’’ said Hester. She leaned back in the seat and put her feet up on the dashboard, clasping her knees with her arms. ‘‘But not necessarily simultaneously.’’

‘‘Oh?’’

‘‘Nope… the two 7.62 mm locations could be the same shooter, and he moved.’’

‘‘Hmm. What’d Ken say about that?’’

‘‘I don’t think he got that far.’’

‘‘Ummmm.’’ I stopped at the stop sign, then turned off the gravel and onto a blacktop road. That scenario fit just about exactly with the faint popping I’d heard from near the barn on the hill.

‘‘So that leaves us with two, possibly three suspects.’’

‘‘Or more,’’ I said. ‘‘In firefights, not everybody always shoots.’’

‘‘What, are you being difficult?’’

I grinned. ‘‘No, just thinking.’’

We drove in silence for a few moments.

‘‘Can I ask you a personal question?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ she said.

‘‘Do you feel anything special. I mean, with an officer involved and dead?’’

She thought for a second. ‘‘No, not really.’’

‘‘Me either,’’ I said. I looked over at her. ‘‘Should I be worried about this? I mean, I knew everybody up there, even the doper.’’

‘‘No, Carl. Don’t worry. You’ve had years to build up the defenses. Look on the bright side… they work.’’

She had a point. Although I thought that I should have felt more.

We went a couple of miles in silence.

‘‘So,’’ said Hester, ‘‘just what do we want to know from this girl we’re going to see?’’

‘‘Oh, the usual stuff.’’

‘‘No, what do we really want to know?’’

‘‘Well,’’ I said, passing a pickup truck, ‘‘maybe why Howie was there in the first place, for starters.’’

‘‘I’d rather know why he came back after he saw the officers yesterday.’’

‘‘WHAT!’’

She smiled. ‘‘Thought that’d get your attention.’’

‘‘You’ve got to be kidding.’’

‘‘Nope. He even left them a note. ‘Fuck You Pig,’ or something like that.’’

‘‘You sure?’’

‘‘That’s what Dahl said. But Ken said that the doper was in cammo yesterday. He sure wasn’t today.’’

‘‘Cammo? Turd?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’

‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘No, never happen. He’d never wear something like that. Especially not to go tend a patch. Too much attention.’’

I glanced at Hester. She was giving me the old one-raised-eyebrow look.

‘‘Really,’’ I said. Maybe a bit on the defensive.

‘‘You his dad or something?’’

‘‘He was a snitch for me for a while.’’

‘‘Do you any good?’’

‘‘Two defendants.’’

‘‘Over how long?’’

‘‘None of your business.’’

‘‘Humph,’’ she snorted. ‘‘Not much of a snitch.’’

‘‘Hey, we do what we can.’’

‘‘So,’’ she said, ‘‘you think he’s got a partner?’’

‘‘Probably not… but this girlfriend might think so.’’

Freiberg is a town of some seven or eight hundred souls, sandwiched between hundred-foot bluffs and the Mississippi River. It just fits. Five streets, two of which are the main highway as it enters from the west and leaves to the north. The one that comes down the bluff eventually becomes Main Street as it heads toward the river. A double line of red- and orange-brick two-story buildings, two blocks long… commercial businesses with apartments above. None built after 1903, according to the date and logo on most of the buildings. The only remodeling of the apartments after the 1930s had been all cosmetic. Most of it had occurred in the late 1960s and consisted of dry wall and dropped ceilings. All of which was now over thirty years old, and hadn’t been treated too well the last ten years.