The Big Thaw Part 8

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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sume 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 circ.u.mstantial 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 p.r.o.nounced.

Then there would be the spent sh.e.l.l casings. Revolvers don't throw their empty sh.e.l.ls out the way auto pistols do. Rifles have to eject the preceding cartridge case in some way, regardless. Art was a.s.suming 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 sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+t 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 Mitch.e.l.l, formerly of the Des Moines Register Des Moines Register, and now with the Cedar Rapids Gazette 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.sistant Attorney General Mark Davies seated at my desk. He'd been recognized, and was avoiding the fourth estate by hiding in my office.

"Hi, n.u.m.b.n.u.t.s," 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 s.p.a.ce 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 state expense, and you only have a possibility?" He chuckled. "The director ain't gonna like that." 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 circ.u.mstantial 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 circ.u.mstantial. 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, h.e.l.l. 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 h.e.l.l," 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 your work's done," she said, picking up the phone. 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 d.a.m.ned 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 s.h.i.+t?"

"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 s.h.i.+t. Do lots and lots of cop s.h.i.+t."

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 ..."