Donald Harstad: The Big Thaw

"These two gentlemen," said Dr. Peters, "are very thoroughly frozen. I suggest we leave them here until the lab team can see them, too. There's certainly no harm in that, as long as they get here fairly soon."

"They should be here in a couple of hours," said Art.

"That long," said Dr. Peters, pulling off his gloves. "Well, we have to defrost them before we can do much else… no matter. That'll take twenty-four to thirty-six hours."

"Damn," I said, pretty much to myself. "That long?"

"Just about the same formula you'd use to thaw a frozen turkey before Thanksgiving." He grinned. "Don't worry, Carl," he said. "I'll X-ray the heads as soon as we get them to a machine. Most of the information you'll need right away should be available then.

"The heads should thaw a little quicker than the rest of them, as well," he said.

"Freezing going to affect the tissues… the tests?" asked Lamar.

"Oh, sure. But not in an appreciable fashion. Burst cell walls won't prevent toxicology testing, for instance." Dr. Peters smiled. He looked around. "It's fairly obvious they weren't killed here. Any ideas?"

I told him what I'd seen in the house.

"Very good news," said Dr. Peters. "I'll need to take a look inside, then." He glanced at me. "The heat was on in there?"

"Yes."

"Ah, excellent," said Dr. Peters.

"Let's hurry up," said Art, "I'm freezing to death."

"Next time," said Lamar, dryly, "maybe you could wear a real coat…"

We went into the house via the kitchen door, and were very careful not to disturb any evidence. If it had just been a burglary scene, nobody would have gone in again until the lab team got there. But it was important for the homicide investigators to see the scene in the least disturbed state possible. That outweighed the lab requirements.

I walked Dr. Peters through the path I'd taken in the house. He agreed that the carpet stain could well be a bloodstain that had been cleaned up. The hole in the wall he didn't want to speculate on, but the diameter looked about right for a.22 caliber round. The small dried puddle on top of the water cooler was, to the best of his knowledge, blood.

Dr. Peters had to leave, as he had to autopsy a questioned death victim in Manchester. He said that he'd do ours as soon as the bodies were warmed sufficiently.

"X rays first," he said. "And I'll be in touch with the lab team."

We waited in the house for the mobile lab, who arrived about half an hour after Dr. Peters left. They'd made remarkable time.

We showed the lab team the area we were most interested in, and then did an initial inspection of the rest of the house, as a preliminary, and to make sure we weren't overlooking anything that could be of primary importance. We didn't find anything useful.

What we did find was a normal home, with two possible exceptions. First, there were two PCs in the back bedroom. Both were on and running. Many farms were equipped with computers, so their mere presence wasn't unusual. The monitors, of course, were in the "rest mode," and I couldn't see what was on the screens. But, as I looked, the hard drive light on one of them flickered, and the faint buzz told me that the hard drive was being accessed for some reason. Running, all right. My first thought was of an elaborate security system. I didn't touch them, being a little reluctant to activate an alarm. I also thought that an alarm system might explain one of them being on. But two? Maybe one as a backup? Legally, I couldn't even turn the screens on, as materials contained within the machines had the same constitutional protections as to privacy as anything else. I did make a mental note to ask Lamar why these were so much newer than our department machines. Curious.

The second possible exception was an extensive library, in the upper floor of the older portion of the house. Long shelves of computer books, weapons books, explosives manuals, an escape and evasion manual, and books on subjects such as the inner workings of the IRS, and countersurveillance practices. There were books describing conspiracies of several sorts, along with survivalist manuals, surviving Y2K, anti-federal government pamphlets, do-it-yourself legal volumes with emphasis on how to beat the IRS, the common law, and books on military history. Some of the latter volumes I had on my shelves at home. This little library was quite extensive, however, and tended toward the how-to end of the materials. On the table there were maps of North America, the United States, and Iowa, all shaded in a variety of colors in various areas, with no key. Some had arrows in red, some in blue, some both. Fascinating, like I said.

We had known for years that Cletus tended toward the vocal right wing, but this stuff was quite a bit more antigovernment than I'd expected.

The only possibility of additional evidence was the discovery of bedclothes in the dryer. They appeared freshly laundered. The reason that was considered possible evidence of "something" was that a woman on the lab team named Mary thought it unlikely that the wife in such a clean and tidy house would leave on an extended vacation without folding and putting away the laundry. She was probably right, but just try explaining that to the males on a jury.

The lab crew said right away that the dark areas I'd uncovered on the carpet did contain traces of blood. They also said that whoever had cleaned them up had done an exceptional job. Same for the area on the wall that looked to have been wiped clean.

A preliminary test confirmed Dr. Peters's judgment about the dried pool of blood on the top of the water heater.

This was a phase of the investigation that could easily lose the case. You not only had to locate and carefully examine all items of evidence, you had to preserve them in such a way that a defense team could conduct their own examinations. That took much, much time.

It looked like the lab team would be there for several hours. Lamar used the radio to order food brought to the farm. Great idea. About a minute later, Deputy Willis called from the end of the lane. The owner, Cletus Borglan, was here.

He was about medium height and build, in his middle fifties. He was fit, from working as opposed to working out. He also had a loud voice, which he was using. Not particularly angry. Just loud.

"Damn, Lamar! What's goin' on here? Why the little army at my farm?" He was standing in the kitchen doorway, and was using a voice that would enable him to be heard in the machine shed.

"Been a problem," said Lamar.

"So I hear," said Cletus, loudly. "What are cops doin' on my property in the first place?"

"We're investigating a murder," said Lamar.

"What? How the hell can there be a murder here when there's nobody home?" He headed toward the archway, louder as he went. "What the hell are they doin' to my carpet?"

I was by the archway, and just stepped sideways into his path. "Sorry," I said. "You can't go in there just yet. They're not…" I was going to say "done."

"Who the hell are you to tell me that I can't go in there?" Very loud, but he'd stopped.

"Calm down, Clete," said Lamar. "Like I said, we're here on a murder investigation."

Cletus spun around to face Lamar. "And I said, 'How the hell can there be a murder here if there's NOBODY HOME?'!"

Lamar stood his ground, and I stepped one step closer behind Cletus.

"Like I been trying to tell you," began Lamar, patiently, "one of my officers had a reason to come here, and look for somebody. He found who he was looking for, but not alive."

Cletus cut him off. "What happened? One of you guys get killed trespassing on a farm again?"

Lamar went white, and I suspect I did, too. Cletus was referring to an incident about five miles from his house, where Lamar had gotten shot and Civil Deputy Bud had been killed, attempting to serve a notice on a farmer and his wife. Our people had not been, of course, trespassing.