Donald Harstad: The Big Thaw

We walked over toward Mike's patrol car. Art wanted to get a look at Fred, to see if he remembered him.

"Mike," he said, "would you contact State Radio and get the mobile lab up here?"

I resented his talking to Mike like that, particularly since he'd left the department to get away from the rest of us, but Mike didn't seem to mind a bit. "Sure thing, Art." Well, the "Art" did seem to have a thin glaze of sarcasm.

I stepped back with Art. "You recognize Fred, there in the back?"

Art sighed. "Can't tell. I want him out of here, though. Get him back to the office, or something. I don't want him around when we start doing serious stuff."

Fine with me. I told Mike to get him back to the S.O., and to hold him on a burglary charge. I didn't think we had anywhere near enough to do even a Suspicion of Murder on him.

"Let's go do the bodies with the M.E., at least a preliminary," I said, to both Art and Lamar. "As soon as one gets here. I haven't been back to the shed, so I don't have any photos except what I can see with the tarp pretty much in place. We can at least do that."

There was always the question as to who got to do the bodies first… the lab folks, who would gather evidence, or the M.E., who would tell everybody what evidence to look for. Since I had absolutely no idea what had caused the death of the two brothers in the shed, I was going for the M.E.

Art didn't look too sure, but Lamar jumped at the chance to have something to do. "Good."

That ended that discussion.

It was understood among us that, while Art and the DCI were the "detectives" on the case, it was our case all the way. They were assisting the Sheriff's Department. Not the other way around. Lamar was going to call the shots. But he was also smart enough to let Art work. Art had always had a nose for certain kinds of crimes, and knew a lot of people in Nation County.

Our job at this point was to protect and preserve the evidence for the M.E. and the lab team. Not that a frozen body was going to decompose or anything. But we did want photos for the M.E.'s later reference as well as ours. I thought I'd better get my camera. I knew that DCI probably had at least one, but I wanted my own shots, too.

On the way I noticed that the light had changed quite a bit with the headlights of the other cars. Some tracks were more noticeable, others had virtually disappeared. Sunlight was going to wash them out completely.

We all got into Lamar's extended cab, and cozied down.

Lamar lifted the air pot. He glanced at Art, who held his hand over his cup. I held my cup out. As he filled it, he said, "Ain't it something. The way that cold air makes your bladder act up?"

Lamar passed the time sweeping the area with his electronically controlled, state-of-the-art spotlight, mounted well forward on the right fender of the "Awesome Machine." The whole farmstead was in a wide valley, with a small stream running along the far side. I had to really look, but then I saw the track. Or, more precisely, tracks. There must have been a dozen separate tracks, some leading clear down the valley, some rising up a hill and disappearing.

"They look like old snowmobile tracks," I said. "I didn't see ' em before. Must have been the lighting."

"Must have," said Lamar, sarcastically, sipping his coffee. "We know how you never miss a thing." He grinned.

He was referring to an incident where I had left my raincoat at a crime scene, and it had later been found and taken in as evidence by the FBI. Art snickered.

My first thought was that the suspect or suspects had gotten away on snowmobiles. Fred had brought his cousins to the farm in a car. Couldn't have been Fred. Unless, of course, Fred had lied about their coming in a car. But the snowmobile track from the rear of the house sure looked like a possibility for a fleeing suspect.

"That could be our suspect," I said. I'd assumed everybody had been thinking along those lines. "Then," asked Art, "how do we explain the others?"

"Hired man," said Lamar. "He checks the place once in a while, while they're gone. He lives next place down the valley. I know he has a snowmobile."

"I see," said Art, lowering the binoculars. "We may want to talk with him."

"Already had 'em contact his wife," said Lamar. "Before I left the office. She said he's gone, picking the owner, Cletus Borglan, up at the Cedar Rapids Airport. Left about three hours ago. He'll call the office as soon as he gets back." He took another sip of his coffee. "I told the office to let us know when he calls. Didn't know if we wanted him here, or if you would want to talk to him at his place."

Lamar has been around the block.

The M.E. came driving up. Very nice black four-wheel-drive Bronco. Driven by Dr. Steven Peters, my favorite pathologist, and the one I'd hoped we were going to get. He had a forensic ticket, one of very few in the state, and he had a tremendous knowledge of his subject. He was also delightful to work with, and tended to bring his own supply of snack food. I can't begin to tell you how comforting it is to know that your autopsies have been done by a solid M.E., and that regardless what else happens, you always have the firm foundation of the M.E. report to fall back on.

We all got out of Lamar's pickup, as Dr. Peters pulled up. As he got out, he said, "I hope this is in the house! My God, it's cold!"

He knew us all from past cases. Lamar broke the bad news about the bodies being in the machine shed. After a brief consultation, we decided to drive Lamar's pickup and Dr. Peters's Bronco down the slope, and park them right at the edge of the shed. We could use them to warm up in, and to avoid having to walk back and forth for various items of equipment. And, as Dr. Peters said, to keep the doughnuts soft.

We chose a course that would avoid all the visible tracks, and down we went.

Just as we stopped, Lamar picked up his mike and said, "Comm, log the time. 0207."

"Ten-four, One."

"Nine, One?" as Lamar called Deputy Willis.

"One, go…"

"Nine, you want to stay put. Nobody gets in without a badge."

Once we got to the shed, all the lightness left us, and the somber business of investigating two dead bodies began. Everybody had their heaviest coats on by then, and mufflers or scarves wrapped over their mouth and nose. I couldn't help noticing that Art was rather underdressed for the occasion, with a topcoat instead of a parka.

Lamar and I were able to open the door another couple of feet, letting a bit of light in, and making access easier. We cast about, and finally located a light switch on the wall about ten feet from the walk-in door that was padlocked. Large fluorescent overheads flickered, struggled a bit, and then came on, flooding the entire space with light. Perfect.

I took three photos of the inside of the shed, which looked to be about 60 x 30 feet. The inside wall was a galvanized steel. Then three shots of the bodies as I had left them, with the tarp covering everything but the feet. That tarp was an olive-green-colored canvas, with aluminum eyelets, and stiff as a board. Lamar, Art, and I pulled sharply to unstick the frozen edges from the floor, and then slowly lifted it off the victims, and carried it off to one side, still frozen in the shape it had been when it covered them. I turned, and got my first good look at the two dead men.

The nearest one was on his back with his arms at his side, the other about three-quarters onto his face with his arms folded underneath. Both had white plastic trash bags on their heads. They didn't look to be cinched with cord or anything, just sort of twisted. Yellow pull tabs, integral to the bags, had been tied under the chins. Stains on the outside of the bags showed they hadn't been terribly effective. I figured the blood puddle on the water heater, under the basement stairs, was also indicative of that, but we'd have to check. The white bags were stiff, too, but not as bad as the tarp.