The Big Thaw (12 page)

Then there would be the spent shell casings. Revolvers don’t throw their empty shells out the way auto pistols do. Rifles have to eject the preceding cartridge case in some way, regardless. Art was assuming a revolver. I was waiting to see what the lab team found in the bag of the Borglans’ vacuum cleaner. It would all be moot, however, ever, if we didn’t find the murder weapon. Only then would we be able to try to test to see if the bullets or shell casings came from that particular weapon.

I hated the .22 for another reason. The size of things made it very difficult to do comparisons, and they were all what they call “rim fire” cartridges. No pin striking the center of the cartridge, here. That would be too easy, because center-firing are all a bit off center, and that can be an ID point. No, with a .22, you have a small rectangular notch struck in the edge of the shell rim. Hence “rim fire.” They aren’t nearly as individually distinctive.

That’s why it was always so very nice to find the murder weapon at the scene.

“I sure wish we had something puttin’ our man there,” I said.

“We’re doing all right,” said Art.

“I’d feel a lot better if we could place him at the scene. You know,” I said, “even if Fred confesses, we can’t convict unless we have some evidence puttin’ him at the house when they were shot.”

“You,” said Art, “are just depressing the shit out of me.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

It was pretty close to 1500 by the time we got back to the office. Waiting for us there were the press. About four separate units, three of them television. With them I recognized Nancy Mitchell, formerly of the
Des Moines Register
, and now with the
Cedar Rapids Gazette
. She was close to forty, fit, and a good sort. She had the unusual virtue in the media of being accurate. I had first met her when she’d helped us out with a right-wing case a couple of years back. The same one where Lamar got shot, and Bud got killed. She lost her partner, as well, shot through the chest while standing in the yard of the barricaded suspects’ residence. He’d been about to go in to do an interview they’d requested. She and he had drawn straws for the interview. He’d won.

Nancy half waved when she saw me. I waved back. Unfortunately, the reporter for KRNQ thought we were waving at her, and hustled over to us along with her camera person.

“Can you tell us what’s going on with the triple murder?” she asked, in her best “on” voice, pushing her epiglottis as hard as she could. “How many were officers?”

I don’t function at my best with a light in my eyes, a mike in my face, and no sleep. The best I was able to manage was “Huh?”

Art, on the other hand, excelled. While I started to duck inside, he began to speak blather about “investigative confidentiality,” “reasonable progress,” and things like that. He was good. As I moved away, he was beginning a statement for another camera unit.

“Three?” I said, mostly to myself. “Where in the hell did they get three?”

I headed for my office in the rear of the building. I opened my door, and was startled to find Iowa Assistant Attorney General Mark Davies seated at my desk. He’d been recognized, and was avoiding the fourth estate by hiding in my office.

“Hi, numbnuts,” he said, standing as we entered. “What took you so long?”

Every cop that ever worked with him liked Davies. He was intelligent, aggressive, energetic, and had a great conviction record. What more could you ask?

“I didn’t see an ambulance,” I said. “You must be chasing the media today, for a change.”

“No, they’re chasing me,” he said. “Art with you somewhere?”

“He’s out there.”

“Figures. I really think he wants to wear makeup someday. So,” he said, “Nation County has another murder.”

“Looks like,” I said. “Double.”

“Well, naturally. You guys don’t do anything simple up here. I’m surprised there weren’t little slimy space alien tracks around the scene.”

“Obviously,” I said, “you haven’t seen the latest report…”

He chuckled, reaching past a little plate of pastry to a steaming cup of coffee. I made a mental note that our secretary was overimpressed by attorneys. “So, what we got here?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Why don’t we start with leads? You do have lots of leads?”

“Well,” I said, thinking fast, “we have a possibility. Not much more right now.”

He took a sip of coffee. “You mean to say that you’ve been out flying all over the county at
state
expense, and you only have a possibility?” He chuckled. “The director ain’t gonna like that.”

“What we have,” I said, “is a fairly good circumstantial case. Unfortunately, it’s against somebody I don’t believe did it.”

Davies sat back, and put his penny-loafered feet on my desk. “Hey, I do circumstantial. When I have to. Tell me more.”

I did. Art came in about halfway through the briefing, and between the two of us, we gave Davies an accurate picture of the case to date. Just as we were through, Davies put his finger right on the thing that had been making me uneasy most of the day. I knew it as soon as he said it.

“You ever think,” he said, chewing part of a doughnut, “that there might have been a snowmobile at the Borglan place the killer could have used to make his getaway? Borglan’s got bucks. He could own a snowmobile or two.”

Well, hell. Wouldn’t have to drive in, just drive out. Placing Fred right back on the front burner.

“That way,” he continued, “all you have to do is make a stolen snowmobile case, and leave the rest to me.” He grinned. “Piece of cake.”

If Cletus Borglan had been a bit friendlier, I would have called him right away, and simply asked. As it was, I went hustling out to dispatch, and asked Sally to run all snowmobiles registered to Clete. Zip. Nothing.

“Huh. That really sucks.”

“Well, it surprises me all to hell,” she said, “since he was the president of the Maitland Valley Snowmobile Club three or four years ago.”

“He was?” I’m usually a bit snappier than that, but I was really beginning to feel tired.

“Same time my sister and her husband were in it,” she said. “Why don’t you check with the treasurer’s office? They maintain their registration records for five years.”

I explained to her that I didn’t want to make a big deal of it by doing it myself. But that I, Nation County, and the State of Iowa would really appreciate it if she would just make one little phone call.

“I suppose the three of you are gonna give me a raise, too?”

“Sally, you’ve become so cynical the last few years. What would your mother think?”

She sighed. “I’ll call you when
your
work’s done,” she said, picking up the phone.

I did the polite thing, and hung around. It only took her a few seconds. She wrote furiously, then said, “Beats me. They could.” She hung the phone up, and smiled.

“Three sleds in Clete’s? name, one in his wife’s. Last registered two years ago. Then stopped.”

“He sold them?”

“No records of sale or transfer. He just stopped registering.”

Well, that’d be in keeping with some of the books in his library. Several people protesting taxes and the like would stop registering their cars, getting driver’s licenses, and things like that.

Sally was typing letters and numbers into her teletype.

“What are you running?”

“If I get the numbers, I can pull ’em out for several years back.

“Mildred,” Sally referred to our county treasurer, “wanted to know if you guys thought the killers escaped on snowmobiles.” She sat back smiling, as the printer began to whisper several sheets out.

You can’t get away with a damned thing.

“Just a hunch,” I said, ignoring the question, “but would you run all vehicles registered to Clete?”

“Shouldn’t we include his wife, Inez, in this, too?”

I thought for a second. “Of course.” You really shouldn’t let dispatchers get ahead of you that way. Two or three hundred times, they begin to get ideas.

“Good,” she said, radiating perky. She handed me the papers. “That’s what you got there, along with the snowmobile stuff.” She grinned. “Now run along and eat your doughnut.”

Sally has always been efficient like that. Sometimes it’s a game we play, and sometimes she really catches me about a step behind her. She’s usually magnanimous enough to make it seem like a game.

On the way back to my office, I ran over the lists in my hands. Interesting. Four snowmobiles. Two four-wheelers. All six of them had once been registered, which meant that Cletus had, at one time, run them on public right of way. Two Chevy pickups, a Bronco, an Oldsmobile. The off-road stuff had ceased registration two years ago. The trucks and car, though, were current. The snowmobiles and the four-wheelers were registered to Freeman Liberty Enterprises, Inc. Only the oldest pickup was in Clete’s name. The new pickup and the Bronco were also registered to Freeman Liberty Enterprises, Inc. The Olds belonged to his wife.

I shared that data with Art and Davies.

“How did you find out about this Freeman Liberty Enterprises, or whatever?”

“Same SSN on the corporate registration as is on Mrs. Borglan’s driver’s license,” I said. “When Sally ran the DL numbers, everything with that SSN came back.”

“Probably has his wife as treasurer of the corporation,” said Davies, absently. “I’m not sure I like the name of this corporation, though. More right-wing shit?”

“Could be. There was some indication in the house, but not as strong as some we’ve seen.” I was just being honest.

Davies thought for a second. “So, what does this tell us?”

“Well, he has right-wing leanings, maybe,” I said. “And it tells me that it’s possible that he gave his snowmobiles to his hired man.” I just hate the “right-wing” label, because it’s come to mean irrational in some circles. Sometimes it’s right. Sometimes not. But to jump at that tends to skew your thinking.

Art looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

“There were snowmobiles in Grossman’s machine shed. They didn’t have registration stickers.” I grinned. “Didn’t have those little orange flags, either, in fact.”

“Point for my man Houseman,” said Davies.

“Since we have the VINs for the equipment, why not just go out to the hired man’s place and check the numbers?”

A VIN is the vehicle identification number put on all motor vehicles by their manufacturers. In more than one place. They do that so a thief has a hard time selling them. Well, has a hard time selling them to somebody who cares, at any rate.

“Fine with me,” I said.

“Good!” Davies stood up, and reached behind him for his coat. “Take me along. I’d like to meet him, and then we can swing by to meet Mr. Borglan and let me see the scene.” He put an arm over his head, pulling on a coat sleeve. “If we’re really lucky, maybe we can get to meet Mr. Borglan’s attorney.”

Art was reaching for his coat.

“Why don’t you stay here?” said Davies. “Carl and I can just run out there. We wouldn’t want old Clete to think he’s too important. After all, he didn’t die, two other guys did.”

“What do you want me to do,” asked Art, “while you’re gone?”

Davies answered him as he stepped into the hallway. “Cop shit. Do lots and lots of cop shit.”

We dodged what remained of the press by the simple expedient of going out a side door, and walking behind their cars to mine. It was far too cold for them to simply stand outside for hours. They were all sitting in their vehicles, which were pretty thoroughly steamed over, and never had a hint we were anywhere around.

On the way over to Borglan’s, Davies explained that he would only be here today, had to go back to Des Moines, then a trial date in six days in Mahaska County. After that, a big forcible rape case in Bettendorf.

“No rush, though. It isn’t like you guys are ready to charge that kid yet. It ought to take the lab another two or three days, at least, if there’s any evidence there…”

“True,” I said.

He went on, to reiterate the points he and Art had discussed when I was getting the snowmobile information. They’d covered the ground pretty well, because he ticked off the main points, rapid-fire, almost like he was reading them.

“And I understand that you don’t believe the only logical suspect did it?”

“Havin’ a hard time with it,” I said.

“Houseman, I don’t know what to do with you some of the time.” He chuckled. “But you do know a lot about these people around here.” He chuckled again. “From your uniform days.”

“That would have been yesterday…” I looked over at him. “You got that from Art.”

“Oh, yeah. He thinks relating to people is some sort of disease that comes from wearing uniforms. You having any problems working with your ex-chief deputy?”

“Yeah. But I can cope.”

“What are you thinking about doing to settle the question about this suspect kid?”

“We got the cops in Oelwein talking to the family of the two dead guys. I figure I’ll go talk to Fred’s mom and sister tomorrow. Then Fred, if his asshole attorney will let me,” I said, turning into Borglan’s driveway.

“Check with me before you talk to this Fred?”

“I’ll make sure Art talks to the aunt,” he said.

It was getting a little dark, by this time, with the sun having disappeared behind Borglan’s hill. Kind of pretty, with the sunlight across the little valley, and the shade in the yard. There were lights on in the living room, but I couldn’t see anybody around. Three pickups in the yard, one of them brand-new, and one of them a twenty-year-old rolling wreck. Quite a contrast.

We knocked on the door, and after about fifteen seconds, during which I was sure we were being observed, Cletus answered the door.

“Mark Davies from the Iowa Attorney General’s office. I’m here to look at the crime scene. I’m the prosecuting attorney in the murder case. I’ll look around outside for a bit while you contact your attorney. Then I’ll want to take a quick look around inside.”

“I don’t think so,” said Cletus.

“We have this scale in the AG’s office. Starts at Interference with Official Acts, goes to obstructing, ends up at coconspirator. A coconspirator, in this case, can get out in maybe fifty years. Talk with your attorney, while we check a couple of things out here.” Very fast, but very pleasant. Said completely deadpan, and then ending with that infectious smile of his. Just like in court.