The Big Thaw (23 page)

I went to the window, and looked out over the parking lot. A dark blue Ford sedan was parked beside George’s dark blue Ford sedan. Twins. I opened my mouth to make some sarcastic remark to him, when I recognized who was getting out of the second car.

“Oh, shit” was all I said. “Goddamn it, George. You could have told us in advance…”

Special Agent in Charge Volont, Federal Bureau of Investigation, stuck out his hand. “Deputy Houseman, how’ve you been?”

“Fine.” We shook hands. “Yourself?”

“Except for the fact that some of the people assigned to me are idiots,” he said, deadpan, “fine, thanks.” He glanced around. “Sorry I’m late. Sheriff Ridgeway close?”

“Right here,” said Lamar, emerging from his office. “You’re lookin’ healthy.”

They shook hands, and Volont took notice of Lamar’s limp. “Any improvement?” he asked, with a hint of warmth in his voice.

“Still bothers me some,” said Lamar. “You want to talk in my office?”

As I followed Volont and Lamar into the doorway marked SHERIFF, I glanced at George. He looked a little apologetic. He should. Volont was the FBI equivalent of Machiavelli. We’d worked together before. Not exactly my kind of guy. If those two agents, Brandenburg and Hernandez, had been working for him, we were in deeper that I had thought. Much deeper. Volont was in charge of counterterrorist operations in a large chunk of the United States, and he’d worked with us once before. He was honest, fair, and very unlikely to share any useful intelligence with anybody in a rural Sheriff’s Department.

I managed to keep any expression of joy off my face as we all sat down. The twinge in my back had nothing to do with it.

It’s not often you get to watch a real expert at work. Volont was, among all the other things I thought he was, an expert in handling people.

He began by apologizing for any inconvenience his subordinate agents may have caused. He expressed concern about the snowmobile accident, and said that the Feds would gladly pay for any damage to our car. He further expressed concern for the behavior of Agent Brandenburg for kicking me, and for Agent Hernandez being so inept as to creep about the outside of the jail.

At that point, the con was in.

He then asked how we had come upon Brandenburg in the first place. Between Lamar and myself, we managed to tell the basic details of the encounter with the agents. We also gave a basic description of the two homicides, as background.

“I feel an apology is in order, for not touching base with your department, Sheriff, before we started the spot surveillance. I hope you understand, we have some problems with obtaining permission to divulge certain … aspects … of our work.”

Smooth.

Lamar accepted that. No real choice. “But,” he added, “I want to know why they were out there.”

It was very interesting. Volont had just told us that he was sorry, but wasn’t able to tell us the truth. Since nothing had been said to indicate that the “problems… divulging” had changed in any way, he had already warned us. Obliquely, but nonetheless, warned. So, now, he proceeded to tell us … well, not exactly the truth.

“We’ve had information,” he said, “concerning a possible meeting in this area. Not specifically at the farm where the two killings took place. We were watching, to see who attended.” He gave one of his familiar little tight-lipped smiles. “This is all concerning another matter, of course. One that has nothing to do with the area being observed.” He shrugged, regretfully. “I’m sorry, but my agents tell me that you really can’t see much of the Borglan place from their position.” He paused. “So, we don’t have any surveillance data we can share with you. I wish we did.”

“Me too,” said Lamar.

At this point, he’d really said he was sorry it had happened, he wasn’t able to tell us the truth, he’d proceeded to tell us something other than the truth, and had just reassured us that it was all better. Very smooth. If I hadn’t known him from before, he would have been a comfort. I was beginning to understand my feeling of being watched at Borglan’s, though.

I glanced at George, wondering if he was buying this. I couldn’t tell from his expression.

Lamar just said, “Maybe you should tell him some more, Carl.”

I did. I told him that the Colson brothers had been known to impersonate undercover officers on previous, documented occasions.

“I see,” he said. Noncommittal, but interested.

I told him that we had incontrovertible evidence that a person or persons unknown had called the Borglans at their Florida home on the night of the double murder. That, upon receiving that call, Cletus Borglan had left for Iowa the following morning. That he had appeared very concerned upon receipt of the call. That, upon arriving at his farm, he had indicated that he believed that two officers had been shot there, not two burglars.

I stopped.

Volont didn’t bat an eye, but I swear I could almost hear relays popping in his head.

“Where,” he asked, quietly, “did the call to the Borglans’ Florida home originate?”

“Just a second,” said Lamar. He picked up his phone. “Where’s Mike? No shit? Bring it in, will you?” He looked at Volont. “Tell you in a few seconds,” he said. He addressed me. “Mike got here a few minutes ago, and dropped off our letter…”

There was a knock on the door, and Judy stuck her head in, and held out an envelope. “Mike dropped this off a few minutes ago,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you…”

Being closest to the door, I reached up and took the envelope from her. It was sealed, but it had the phone company logo on it. “That’s okay, Mike should have said something…”

“Thanks, Judy,” said Lamar. After the door had closed, he said, “Go ahead, Carl.”

I carefully opened the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper. It was Cletus Borglan’s telephone records, as requested by our court order. And there it was.

LONG DISTANCE

1. 1-11 ORLANDO FL 407-555-3344 1047 P.M. 8.5 DDD NGT 2.87

One call. 10:47
P.M.
Central time. Make it 11:47 Florida time. Eight and a half minutes. Direct Distance Dial. Nighttime rates applied. Two dollars and eighty-seven cents. That was it. One single call. But that was plenty.

“Just a sec,” I said, reaching for the phone. Sally answered at dispatch. “Sally,” I said, as evenly as I could, “what’s the Florida number that the Borglans left for us … for contacting them if anything was wrong while they were on vacation?”

She sounded a bit stressed. “You need that right away?”

“Faster than that,” I said. I could hear her muttering something to herself as I held my hand over the phone. “Just a second … I think we might have it…”

“Carl, that number is 407-555-3344. Orlando, Florida.”

“Yee hah!” I startled her, but I just couldn’t help myself. “I’ll be damned.”

“You guys must have lots of fun back there,” said Sally. “Need anything else?”

“No, sorry about the yelling, just good news. Thanks!” I put down the phone.

“So?” said Lamar.

“So. So, the telephone company record here,” and I held up the sheet of paper, “tells me that a call was placed from Borglan’s residence here in Nation County … the murder scene … at about ten forty-seven our time … to a number in Orlando, Florida. The same number that the Borglans left with us on their residence check form. And,” I added, “with the time difference, the call would have been received in Florida at about a quarter to midnight.” I looked at Lamar. “Just when your source said it was.” I was grinning all over myself.

“Well, bingo,” said Lamar. “Just like we thought. Looks like our boy’s been holdin’ out on us. He’s gotta know who it was that he talked to…”

“‘Source’?” asked Volont.

I looked at Lamar, and he nodded. “We have a source who was with Cletus Borglan when he received the call from Iowa,” I said. Being as matter-of-fact as I could.

It was time to bring Cletus in. I said I wanted an arrest warrant.

“Let me contact Davies.” For Volont’s benefit, I added, “Iowa Attorney General’s office. He’s got this case.” I spoke toward Lamar. “You can damned well bet Cletus Borglan knows where he is. And that phone bill should be enough to charge Cletus as an accessory in a double homicide. Let’s just see how far his loyalty to these murderers extends.”

“Even so,” said Volont, “there will be arms, and people to use them, around him, too. Perhaps even the killers themselves. You may well need a TAC team, either way. It would be best to wait…”

I smiled. “Nope. I don’t think so. I just have to have a warrant for his arrest…”

You have to know who you’re dealing with. It always comes down to that. I got Davies on the phone, and did just exactly what he told me to do. I sat down, typed a complaint and affidavit against Cletus Borglan, affirming in part that he “received a confirmatory call regarding the double murder, from the murderer, at the murder scene, while at his residence in Florida. This is confirmed both by confidential testimonial evidence sworn to the court, and a telephone company record of that call, placed on the night of…” The “testimonial” part was Lamar’s sister-in-law’s account. He called her, and told her to write it out, get herself to the Orlando PD, swear to it, and have them fax it to us. We teletyped them to the same effect, and referred to it as an FBI case. Volont made a telephone call to FBI, Orlando. Reluctantly, I think. But it was for them to assist in whatever way they could.

“You’re going to have to move very, very fast, here,” he said. “Not just on this Borglan. But very fast on the suspects afterward, as well… They’ll know just about as soon as Borglan’s been arrested.”

“We’ll move fast,” I said, “but we’re going to have to find out just who the suspects are, and that’s going to depend on Borglan.”

The fax copy of Lamar’s sister’s statement was in our possession before I got my complaint and affidavit typed out. She was also remaining at Orlando PD until further notice, just in case the judge wanted to have telephone contact with her. The FBI, as it transpired, had given her a ride. Volont was a heavy dude, no doubt about it.

George went with me to the judge.

By 1626, I was slipping and crunching in my car down Cletus Borglan’s lane. George was with me, more as encouragement than anything else. I had outlined my plan of attack, and Volont had dragged his heels. Lamar said I could pull it off.

Volont had said, “You’re asking for big trouble.”

Lamar had said, “Smaller than Waco.” Not fair, really. But effective. I got to go.

I parked my car at the edge of the little rise in Borglan’s yard, where we’d descended to the shed to retrieve the bodies, a good hundred feet from Borglan’s front door. I felt that ought to be enough. Ought to be.

I got out of the car. “Come on, George.” There were two cars and two pickup trucks parked in Borglan’s yard, all at the other end of the house, near the fancy garage.

The front door of the house opened, and I purposely opened the back door of my car, and reached for my camera bag. I kept an eye on the figures that emerged from the house through the back window. Sure as hell, Cletus detached himself, and came stomping over toward us, making loud noises. Two others followed, but hung back just a bit. Confrontation with cops wasn’t something relatively normal people undertook lightly. Unless you were Cletus Borglan, and had yelled at cops for a long time.

I backed out of the car, and made a show of opening my camera bag. “You understand him yet, George?”

“I think it’s something like ‘What the hell are you doing?’ or something like that.”

“Cool.” I rummaged in the camera bag. I was sort of worried about it, too, as it was my wife’s camera. Sue had let me borrow it about ten years before. I just never got around to getting it back to her, and it had been acting up ever since the night of the Colson brothers discovery. I would have returned it to Sue if the department had bought me one, but people like Cletus had always objected to expenditures.

“Get off my property!” Cletus. Beautiful.

“What?” I hollered back, waiving, and watching him stomp closer. He was so determined he was causing a fine spray of whitish mud to splatter around his ankles as he came toward us. I looked back into my bag.

“GET THE HELL OFF MY PROPERTY! YOU BETTER HAVE A WARRANT!”

I looked up. Son of a bitch was fast. He was already at the back of my car.

“Hi, Cletus!” I grinned.

“EITHER SHOW ME A WARRANT, OR GET OFF MY PROPERTY!”

I checked the other two. They were a good fifty feet away, but coming on. Coming in for the fun, I thought.

By that time, Cletus had come around my car, and grabbed me by my shoulder. “YOU HEAR ME?”

I just stepped back, held out a copy of the arrest warrant, and handed it to him. As his eyes dropped to read it, I pulled my handgun out, and stuck it in his face.

“You’re under arrest for murder,” I said. “Get in the car.”

“What?” He was too startled to even be particularly loud. He just stared at the gun barrel three inches from his nose.

George had stepped in behind him, and Cletus was handcuffed in two seconds flat.

“Watch your head,” I said, as we stuffed him into the car, and shut the door.

“What the FUCK is going on here?” Cletus’s support group was about twenty feet off the rear bumper.

I kept my gun in my hand, but pointed downward. “Cletus is under arrest for murder,” I said. They both stepped forward. “Interference with this arrest permits me to use deadly force,” I said, perfectly evenly. It was hard to say it that way. I was nearly laughing. “Think twice, gentlemen.”

They were absolutely rooted to the spot. Stunned. These weren’t hard-core professionals, obviously.

I got in the car, looked over at George, grinned, shut the door, and was backing up before the two men in the drive could even move.
Splash
. Not intended, but funny as hell.

As we hit the end of the drive, I let out a loud “YES!” and hit the gas.

“You can’t do this,” said Cletus. He didn’t sound too convinced.

“You’re under arrest for murder, Cletus,” I said. “You might want to remember that you do have a right to remain silent…”