Several cups of Linda Grossman's coffee later (I was really running on caffeine at this point), it certainly didn't appear that I was even close to being right. After we'd all gotten settled around the kitchen table, Harvey Grossman, wife Linda, and their nine-year-old daughter, Carrie, had pretty well explained things to us.
Carrie struck me as a pretty cool little kid. About four and a half feet tall and very thin, she had brown hair and brown eyes that were pretty intense. Especially when I showed Linda Grossman my badge. I showed it to Carrie next, including her in the business just like everybody else. Carrie examined it very closely, and nodded.
The Grossmans told an interesting story.
First of all, the entire household had been awakened about 2 A.M. on Sunday, by the sound of a snowmobile running through their yard at an apparently very high rate of speed.
"Just tore right through the yard," as little Carrie put it. "I hollered out, it scared me so much."
I could imagine it did. At 0200, with the temperatures hovering at minus forty or colder, no wind, over two miles from the nearest gravel road, which wouldn't have any traffic anyway, it would be just about as dead quiet as it could get. A high-speed snowmobile passing within fifty feet of the house would shatter that silence, and very likely wake the whole family.
Carrie had run to her folks' room, who had also both been awakened. Nobody could figure out who it was, since the Borglans weren't home. After settling Carrie down, Linda Grossman had come downstairs and had a cup of cocoa, because she wasn't able to get back to sleep. She thought she'd heard another snowmobile, or possibly the same one, off in the distance, but wasn't sure.
All three Grossmans were certain that the snowmobile had departed heading southwest. Carrie had apparently heard it first, and said it sounded like it was coming from the Borglan place.
We asked, and Harvey told us that he'd been at the Borglans' on Thursday, and was scheduled to go there tomorrow. He hadn't been there since he heard the snowmobile. Some farm people are like that. He'd go up and see when it was time to do his job at the Borglans'. Otherwise, he had enough to do without taking an unnecessary excursion. Not what I would have done, but I was a cop and he was a farmer.
We asked the three of them for written statements, and they complied. Carrie was really cute, so very serious and studious, and showing off a bit for the company.
Mrs. Grossman, Linda, struck me as being somehow edgy. It took me a few minutes, but I finally recognized the behavior pattern. She seemed overalert, and kind of watchfully aggressive in a way that reminded me of an abused woman. Most people imagine women who are abused as shy, meek, and downcast all the time. Not so. Very often, they come on a bit too strong, in a way that will seem uncalled for, or out of character. The best defense is a good offense, and they are really trying hard to conceal the fact they're being abused. They become almost too gregarious. An overcompensation that will fool most people. Anyway, that's how she struck me. Abused, but not to the point of real hazard or flight. With my batting average being nearly zero at this point, though, I just filed it away. No point in embarrassing myself completely.
Anyway, she made a mean cup of coffee. I mentioned that.
"Thanks," she said. "I learned that when I worked at a hospital in Kansas City."
"You want me to put down the last time I was up at the other place?" interrupted Harvey.
"Uh, sure, yeah," I said. God, I was tired. I turned back to Mrs. Grossman to continue, but she was bent over her statement.
I almost got the impression that he didn't want her to talk to me. Not about her past, anyway. Abuse? Maybe. Or, maybe he just didn't want her talking about his past. Or, maybe he was just antisocial. God knows, it couldn't have been my charming ways.
I had an unsettled feeling that I thought had begun when Art and I had compared notes about an hour ago. I got more unsettled when I discovered I couldn't figure out why. The last time I'd felt this way, I'd left a burner turned on on our stove at home, before Sue and I took a short trip to Dubuque. I remembered it about ten miles out. That kind of persistent, almost ominous feeling. Coupled with my feeling that I was being watched up at the Borglan place… Lack of sleep? I thought that might have a lot to do with it. Especially since I felt no sense of fatigue at all, so I could assume I was still wired from the case. I refilled my coffee cup.
Then, as he finished up his statement, Harvey Grossman asked a question of his own.
"Just how were those burglars killed?"
Before Art could leap in with his standard disclaimer about how we just couldn't possibly discuss this, I said, "They were shot, Harvey."
"Oh."
Simply that. No further curiosity, no further questions. Didn't ask where, when, or why. Really didn't seem all that interested, either. It didn't tell me much, but it was the sort of thing I liked to hear and see. Most of the time, if you give a little, you get a little, and in the information business, that could become important at the oddest times. Harvey sort of owed me one.
We collected the statements, all three of them, and cautioned the Grossman family not to discuss anything that had been said with any outsiders. Standard procedure. They said they wouldn't. Also standard procedure. Except I believed Carrie.
As we were tearing off the pink copies of their statements and handing them back to them, I noticed that Harvey and Linda had both used military time as they wrote about the events of Sunday night. Things like: "We were upstairs by 2300," from Harvey, and "We went to bed about 2230," from Linda. Unusual. Carrie had said, "I was to bed at nine-thirty." I chuckled to myself. Two military times, and one Olde English.
Back in the car, the consensus was that Carrie had, single-handedly, eliminated her father as a suspect. She was absolutely believable. You can tell, especially with kids. Well, within their knowledge, of course. But there was no doubt that both her parents had been present when that snowmobile came blasting through the yard. And, if that was our killer, and it sure looked like it could be, she'd eliminated her whole family as suspects.
As we stopped at the end of the lane, before entering the roadway, Art said, "Looks like what we got left is Fred."
Sure did. Great news, except that I didn't think he'd done it.
We discussed things.
What we had was a fairly good circumstantial case against Fred. Sure. At this point, however, we had absolutely no physical evidence placing him in close proximity to the two victims when they were shot. None.
We had no evidence of animosity between Fred and his cousins. Fine. Interviews were required there, and we'd get on them. They'd be lengthy, though, and we decided to use whatever other officers we could.
We had to find out if Fred had access to a.22 caliber weapon. True, several.22s had been stolen in the course of the residential burglaries, but we didn't know where the weapons were. That had to be checked.
We had to try to see if it was a.22 rifle or handgun. That would be a good start, and we'd have to rely on the expert opinion of Dr. Peters for that. As soon as he could open the heads, he might be able to give us some idea.
.22 caliber ammunition comes in three flavors: short, long, and long rifle. Short being the least powerful, long rifle the most. Problem: the longer the barrel of the weapon, the higher the velocity of the bullet. So, a short fired from a rifle could hit with the same force as a long or long rifle from a handgun.
It gets worse. Pistols come in two basic types: revolvers and semiautos. Because of the fit of the pieces, a lot more gas escapes from the gap between the cylinder and barrel of the revolver than escapes from the sealed chamber of the semiauto. Yep. That means that a long rifle fired from a revolver might hit with the same force as a long from an auto. Even worse, with the small bullet and small forces we were dealing with here, the differences might not even be pronounced.
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, 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.
"I'll call him right now," said Cletus.
"Well, I hope to hell you will," said Davies. "It's cold out here."
While we waited, I showed Davies around. He was especially interested in the shed where I'd found the two bodies.
"No point in wading through the snow," he said. "Just reassure me that you could see a track leading to the shed from the house."
"Sure. No problem."
"You get photos of it?"
"It was pretty faint. I sure hope so."
"Me too." He looked over the garage. "Impressive. Not the 'poor' farmer, is he?"
"Hardly. Smart, and a hell of a worker. That, and a little luck, you can make it."
"Yeah." He cupped his hands, and blew into them, to warm his face. "Let's go bug Cletus. I'm getting cold."
This time, Cletus invited us in. "He says to cooperate with you."
"You got a good attorney," said Davies. "They are so rare these days. So," he said to me, "where did the dirty deed happen?"
I showed him. We spent all of five minutes examining the living room, the basement steps, and looking out the basement door. I was brief to the point of terse, not wanting to give anything away. Davies was even more controlled, just making little humming sounds once in a while. He took no notes.
There were at least two other people in the house. One was a sixty-year-old farmer I knew, but whose name I couldn't remember. I did know he was the owner of the ugly pickup in the yard, now that I saw him. The other man was about forty or so, and one of the people we'd seen here earlier today.
Cletus stayed right with us during the whole inspection. When we'd finished, Davies turned to him, abruptly.
"So, what do you think happened?"
"Huh?"
"You. What do you think about this?"
"I'm just wondering," said Cletus, "why the Iowa AG is involved in this."
"It's what you pay us to do," said Davies. "You have no ideas, huh?"
"Why would you want to know what I think?"
Frankly, I was sort of asking myself the same question.
"Thought you could help us with what you thought they might be after." Davies paused. "And if you had any thoughts on who could have been here when they arrived."
"Beats me," said Cletus.
"You own any snowmobiles?" asked Davies.
"Nope. Not anymore, gave one to Harvey Grossman. Junked the rest."
"You just gave it to him? Just like that?"
"No use for the things anymore. He needs them to do chores."
We headed toward the door. "If you find anything unusual that we missed," I said, following routine, "let us know, would you?"
"You people sure do try," said Cletus. Once again, there was a sarcastic ring to his voice that bothered me. Like he was trying for innuendo, and missing his target. He was sure missing if I was his target, anyway.
We opened the door.
"My attorney said to cooperate, but not to say anything." Cletus shrugged. "I guess you'll have to earn your keep without me doin' your work for you." He paused a second, but couldn't resist. "But, like I said before, there was nobody home."
"You have any thoughts, check with your attorney, and then give us a call," said Davies.
"What about the black helicopter?"
I looked at the speaker, the forty-year-old I didn't recognize. "What?"
"We saw it," he said, with an air of accusation and defiance. "Who was flying it?"
"I don't know his name," I said, "but I was in it. I waved. Did you see me?"
Silence.
"Thanks again," said Davies, and we trudged across the yard to my car.
As soon as we got in the car, Davies started to laugh. "'We saw it,'" he mimicked. He looked at me. "Houseman, you smart ass. You actually waved?"
"Yeah. They were outside, right under us, looking up. Just a reaction, I guess."
"How high were you?"
"Oh, thousand feet, more or less."
"An Army-green Huey?"
I nodded.
"Black Helicopter. Great observers," he said. "Must have shaken the whole house. Hey, while we're out here, show me where they went over the fence." He sighed.
"Yeah. We better go to Grossman's and check the damned VINs on those snowmobiles."
On the way, I showed him the entry tracks. It was pretty dark by then, and I had my headlights on. I shined a flashlight out the window, showing him the path. All he did was make that little humming sound. With my window rolled down, I found myself thinking about how alert I was, again. Nothing like bitterly cold air to wake you up.
We went directly to Grossman's, and I cashed in my marker with a request to look at the VIN numbers on the snowmobiles. It took about five minutes, but I found them all, and wrote them down. I thanked him.
Davies gazed out the window on the way back. "You know, without anything linking him to the inside of that house, Fred could walk." He leaned back in his seat. "All we got him on is conspiracy to commit a burglary. That works. He said he took 'em there for the purpose of burgling. They sure were where he said they'd be. Packaged. Nicely packaged."
"What… you think he delivered them?"
He snorted. "No, probably not. But it's a possibility, isn't it? Somebody says, 'Hey, I wanna kill your cousins…' and Fred sets the boys up."
I thought about it for a second. "Too many possibilities, not enough leads," I said. "We could be chasing our tails forever…"
We drove about another mile.
"You get the feeling," I said, "that there's something missing?"
He snorted. "Like evidence?"
"Not so much evidence… more like information."
We got back to the Sheriffs Department fully intending to have supper with Art. Instead, we found a bit of a flap. Fred had bonded out on the burglary charges.