Donald Harstad: The Big Thaw

I picked up a pen. "What are your cousins' names, again?"

"Dirk Colson and Royce Colson. They would be brothers. Both of 'em."

"Okay, Fred." I wrote the names down. "And how old?"

"My age or so," he said. "Are you gonna help 'em, Mr. Houseman?"

"Of course."

Mike followed Goober and me as we drove back along the track of the chase toward the Borglan farm. We left John at the accident scene, to help the wrecker with any possible traffic control as they pulled Goober's car out of the ditch.

About a quarter mile from Borglan's farm drive, just around a curve screened from the farm by a low, tree-covered hill, Goober told me to stop.

"Here's where I let 'em off," he said.

"Look here on the right," I said to Mike, over the radio.

Mike turned on his right alley light, and I squinted through the window on Goober's side. Although the ditch was filled, you could just make out faint depressions in the snow, from inside the barbed-wire fence line, up and over the hillside. Filled in almost completely by the new snow, the tracks would have escaped all notice if they hadn't been pointed out to us. There could have been two sets. It was hard to tell.

"Right there?" I asked Fred.

"Yeah… ooh, shit, I wish they'd of come back…"

"And you were to pick 'em up here, too?"

He began to rock again. "I didn't, I didn't screw it up. I was here!"

I picked up my mike. "Delivery and pickup point," I said. I began to move down the road, toward Borglan's lane. "Let's just go on in, Five," I said.

It took us about three minutes to negotiate the lane at the Borglan place. It wound to the right, then back to the left, among the stark and leafless trees. The branches were outlined with fresh white snow, which proved to be a distraction in my headlights. I nearly slipped off the lane and into a small ditch on the right. As I concentrated on the lane, though, I noticed that there were absolutely no indications of any tracks. None. Given the faint tracks where Fred had told me he let them off, I thought there surely would have been some indication if his cousins had left by this, the easiest route.

Fred was becoming more and more frightened and nervous the closer we got to the Borglan house. He was tapping the heel of his left foot on the floorboard so vigorously his left knee was jumping in and out of my peripheral vision.

"Fred! Knock off that foot-stompin' shit! It's bothering me."

He stopped abruptly. "I don't like this. I sh, sh, shouldn't be here…"

"Why not?" I asked, distractedly.

"I don't know. I just sh, sh, shouldn't be…"

"Don't worry," I said, as we pulled into the Borglan farmyard. I stopped, and rolled down my window to obtain a totally unfogged view. No tracks here, either. Not even faint.

It was a nice place. Nice house and large garage. Fresh paint on the outbuildings. Bright orangish light provided by a sodium vapor streetlamp on a high pole. Really looked homey.

There were no lights on inside, except the faint glow of what I assumed was a night-light in the kitchen.

I walked back to Mike, who was rolling his window down at my approach.

"You want to get Fred back here to your car? I'll have a look around, but I don't want to leave him alone in my car too long."

"In the cage?" asked Mike.

"Naw. He isn't in custody. If we need to secure him, though, I'll let you know."

"How we gonna know that?" asked Mike.

"If I have signs here of forcible entry, we just pop him for suspicion of burglary. He drove 'em in, according to him."

"Suits me," said Mike, with a wide grin. "From those tracks, you mean?"

I grinned back. "Yep. It's beginning to sound like he and his cousins have done the whole series over the last month or so. Cool."

I went back to my car, instructed Fred to get in with Mike, and grabbed my winter coat and flashlight. It was terribly cold.

I crunched and squeaked my way around to the left of the house, where the ground sloped away to reveal a limestone basement wall. I swept my flashlight back and forth on the slope. No signs of any tracks down there, so I stayed up top, not sure I'd be able to keep upright if I tried to walk the slope. I retraced my steps toward the right side, and newer section, of the house, looking for a point of entry. As I passed close to the sliding glass door, I flicked the beam of my flashlight toward the lock and handle. I noticed it seemed to be open just a crack. There was also a very obvious silver metallic mark on the flat black frame, near the lock. I stopped, and squinted in the bright beam of my flashlight. I clumsily took off my glove by holding a finger in my teeth, unzipped my vest, and reached in under my sweater to my shirt pocket, and took out my reading glasses. I looked more closely. Yep. A very small pry mark at the latch, probably from a quarter- or half-inch screwdriver. Not all that big, but in the beam of my light it was like a little mirror. I reached out, and put side pressure on the handle. Sure enough, the door slid to the right. Point of entry, no doubt. I put my glasses back, zipped my coat, and put on my glove, and closed the door again, most of the way. I left a small crack, because, with my luck, although pried, it was still functional, and I didn't want to lock myself out.

I walked back to Mike's car. He unrolled his window again.

"Looks like a forcible entry," I said. "You want to do the honors?"

As I squeaked and crunched back to the Borglan residence, I heard Mike begin to recite a Miranda warning to Fred again, having just placed him under arrest for burglary.

"Not gonna be your day, Fred," I said to myself.

Having been burned a couple of times by assuming one obvious entry point and later finding the real one, I continued around to the right, checking toward the rear of the house. The slope was gentler here, partly illuminated by the headlights of our cars, and I ventured carefully down. I played the beam of my flashlight around, and saw lumps and bumps all over the backyard, probably small bushes, and lawn stuff covered with snow. There was a gazebo sort of structure, all snow and ice. It reminded me of some sort of a Russian village church. A snow and ice gas grille stood on its silver pedestal in what had to be a patio area. There were very slightly depressed tracks, visible only as I looked back up the slope, fairly close to mine. I'd missed them in the glare of the headlights, but now that I was in the shadow, they were easier to see. More were around the rear, and some at the back door, which was recessed and in even deeper shadow than the rest of the place. I checked it. It was protected here, though, and there was almost no snow near the walls. I stood on a narrow concrete walkway, and looked at the door. There appeared to be a fresh dent in the white steel storm door casing, and fresh pry marks on the wooden main door. I tested it with a gentle push, and it stayed firm. I pushed a bit harder. No result. Out with the glasses again, which I dropped in the snow. Made them wet, and very cold, but at least they hadn't broken. I peered at the marks on the door. Looked to be about quarter- or half-inch screwdriver marks. There was also a pretty good footprint near the lock. I grinned. Burglars almost never noticed the print they left when they tried to kick a door in. At night, when it was fresh, it probably just looked wet. But everything outside has a coat of dust, and with snowy boots making wet dust, and with wet dust making very fine mud, you'd frequently get a very fine shoe print. At least after it froze or dried. I angled my flashlight more, and could even make out a possible section of lettering from the label on the sole. Cool.

I pushed the door once more, very hard. Nothing. Tough door. Most good modern doors were. I noticed the rubber doormat had been pushed away from the door. A couple of drops of white paint on the concrete, and three or four pink ones. Sloppy painters, I thought. I removed my glasses, which were beginning to freeze to my face, and put them back in my pocket. I stepped back, out into the reflected light from the headlights.