Donald Harstad - Known Dead

‘‘Did he have an accent of any sort?’’ asked Volont.

She took a deep breath. ‘‘Yeah. Not really an English accent… you know how educated Brits talk? That way, but not with the nose, so much…’’

‘‘Just what had you done to provoke these people?’’ asked Volont.

Nancy glared at me. ‘‘Oh, just what I said I’d do for you…’’

‘‘More specifically, please,’’ said Volont.

‘‘Well, I got to Borcherding. I let him buy me a fuckin’ drink, for God’s sake. Asked him about his stupid rag, and about his computers, and just got the conversation going along. He started to talk about his right-wing opinions, and I guess I got a little mad, and I asked him if he thought them killing Rumsford was justified.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ I said. More than I had bargained for.

‘‘What did he say to that?’’ asked Hester.

‘‘He said that he thought it was!’’ she said. ‘‘That son of a bitch. I told him so too. Told him that he didn’t have to sound so fucking sanctimonious about it. Like he was goddamned proud of it or something.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ said Hester.

‘‘Then it went on for a second or two,’’ said Nancy, ‘‘and then he said, ‘You better watch out, you don’t know who you’re talking to,’ or something like that, and then I slapped him.’’

The surprised laugh I barked out just came, unbidden. I looked at her. ‘‘You don’t do undercover stuff often, do you?’’

‘‘It’s not my fuckin’ fault, Houseman.’’

As soon as Sally showed up, we placed her in charge of Nancy, to see that she was undisturbed with her shower, and to get her any communication services she needed. Just before Nancy and Sally headed to the shower rooms, Volont stood.

‘‘You’re Sally?’’ he asked.

She looked up at him. ‘‘Yes.’’

He stuck out his hand. ‘‘I’ve heard a lot about you. My name is Volont.’’

While Sally and Nancy were occupied, we all started in on the sandwiches the Maitland city officer had brought up.

‘‘It wasn’t him,’’ said Volont, eating a hamburger.

‘‘It wasn’t?’’ asked George.

‘‘No. Jacob Nieuhauser’’-he swallowed-‘‘is about six feet two, about two hundred pounds. He has a midwestern U.S. accent, with a little bit of southern drawl he picked up in the Army.’’

‘‘Good description,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s just what he sounds like on the phone.’’

‘‘I’ll get the description of the man to the RCMP,’’ he said, ‘‘and see if it fits anyone they know.’’ He paused. ‘‘These are really very good hamburgers,’’ he said.

George looked happy about that. It meant that Volont was in a good mood, or at least getting there. George wasn’t out of the woods yet, but the wolves were falling behind.

We had to keep it quiet, among us. The real reason for transferring Nola back to the Nation County jail. The official reason was that we had to do extensive interviewing with her. That would help too. There was always the chance that she could provide the names of the real shooters in the park.

Sally and Nancy came flying around the corner, Nancy’s hair so wet that she was leaving a trail of spray. Thankfully, she was dressed.

‘‘Why didn’t somebody tell me about Borcherding and blowing up the jail? I gotta get the hell out of here, I can talk to him… Christ’s sake, the man fuckin’ loves me… He’ll talk to me. I can get the whole front page…’’

The woman was resilient, I’ll give her that. She insisted, so she left.

I got to break the news to Art that Nola Stritch was coming back to Nation County. He had to put on extra security. He didn’t like it.

Then it was time for serious planning.

Volont felt that Gabriel would bite. He wasn’t sure that he’d actually, as he put it, ‘‘scale the walls himself,’’ but he did think that he’d be close enough to take direct control of any operation to spring Nola. We agreed. After all, he’d not been in the woods with his subordinates when the killings took place. He’d not been at the Stritch farm when Bud was killed, if not by a subordinate, then by a follower. It was a subordinate who’d panicked and started the sequence that had killed Rumsford. He’d sent a subordinate to frighten Nancy. He’d sent a subordinate to rocket the Linn County jail. None of those things had gone as planned. It was time for the colonel to take direct command.

That said, things got difficult. We didn’t know when, how, or with what he would act. Hell, we couldn’t be positive he’d act at all. That makes readiness a little tedious. What we needed was information, and of a sort that would give us at least a little warning. Trip wires.

Volont wanted to scatter several of his people around the town in critical positions, such as restaurants, bars, motels, etc. To be alert for Gabriel and his people. Basically a good idea, except, as I said, ‘‘it’s gonna look like a CPA convention.’’

That was a problem. In a city, perhaps, FBI agents can blend. Not in the rural areas. They aren’t from around here, and it’s very obvious.

He sort of agreed, and suggested Iowa DCI provide the people.

‘‘So,’’ said Hester, ‘‘just how many agents we talking here?’’

Volont figured, given ten positions, thirty would do it.

‘‘Sorry,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Even I know we’re way too thin on the ground for that. Two, maybe four, but for no more than a week.’’

The legislature continued to refuse to fund Iowa DCI at a reasonable level. Some of us suspected it was because the legislators feared DCI would establish a vice unit.

We thought. ‘‘You know,’’ said George, ‘‘there’s a really good chance that some of the people used to come for Nola will be the same people who killed Kellerman in the woods.’’

We could live with that.

‘‘No,’’ said George. ‘‘You miss my point. Nichols wants those people at least as badly as we do.’’ He beamed. ‘‘ His people can pass for just about anything.’’

The preliminary call to Nichols got his fullest cooperation, and an estimate of fifteen agents almost immediately, for two weeks.

Volont shook his head. ‘‘I always knew DEA was squandering our tax dollars.’’ He carefully stacked his note pages on the desk in front of him. ‘‘That takes care of the trip wire.’’ He kept stacking. ‘‘Now we need something to make damned sure that, one, we can take them, and, two, that they don’t get Nola.’’

‘‘Don’t look at me,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m just an idea man.’’

‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘first things first. How soon do we want Nola up here?’’

‘‘Friday would give us a couple of days, Gabriel might still be a little off balance, and it is a court day,’’ I said. ‘‘That give us enough time?’’

We needed a formal request, either from our county attorney or from the State Attorney General’s office, to have Nola transferred. I tried our county attorney. He got right to the point.

‘‘Why in the name of God would you want to do that?’’

‘‘We need to talk to her,’’ I said.

‘‘I’ll have to consider this’’ was the answer I got.

It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but it did bring up a very good point. Legal believability. Hester took care of that for us. She called Nola’s local appointed attorney. Told him that we were going to have Nola back in the county on Friday, the 2nd of August, and if he wanted to proceed with any motions, he’d better hurry, as we didn’t want to transport her twice. Then she called the county attorney and told him that Nola was going to have to come back up on Friday, for a hearing on a couple of motions her attorney was filing. He, assuming that I and DCI weren’t communicating, told Hester that Nola was coming back anyway and not to worry about it.