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“Not yet, I think,” said George. “Wait and see what he does.”
The dumb one started waiving his assault rifle in the air and screaming something at us.
“Gotta be stoned,” I said. “Gotta be.”
“Any idea what he’s saying?” asked George.
“No,” I said. “Don’t even know what language. But I don’t think he’s trying to surrender.”
Suddenly, the dumb one lowered the assault rifle to hip level and pointed it right at us.
“Down!” yelled George.
CHAPTER 01 TUESDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2001 15:34 (#ulink_03726317-787a-50dc-8835-54ae4db45fad)
MY NAME IS CARL HOUSEMAN, and I’m a deputy sheriff in Nation County, Iowa. I’m also the department’s senior investigator, which is a title that probably has as much to do with my being fifty-five as it does with my investigative abilities. It’s also a title that can get me involved in some really neat stuff, even in a rural county with only twenty thousand residents. That’s why I like it.
On that pleasant, twenty-degree December day, we were just beginning one of the mildest winters on record, the one that we’d later call “the winter that wasn’t.” I had some of my Christmas shopping done, was nearly caught up on my case files, and intended to take a few days off over Christmas for the first time in twenty-some years. On the down side, it was beginning to look as if it wouldn’t be a White Christmas. Snow or not, I was already about halfway through my usual noon to eight shift, and it looked like I’d be able to coast through the rest of it. Hester Gorse, my favorite Iowa DCI agent, and I had just finished interviewing Clyde and Dirk Osterhaus—brothers, antiques burglars, and new jail inmates—regarding seventeen residential burglaries that had been committed in Nation County over the previous two months. The interviews had been conducted in the presence of their respective attorneys, who were both in their late twenties. The young brothers had thrown us a curve when they’d readily confessed to only fourteen of the break-ins. Why just those fourteen, when we all knew they’d done the whole seventeen? Some sort of strategy? A bargaining chip? It beat both Hester and me. Maybe it was just the principle of the thing.
Anyway, the attorneys had left and the brothers were back in the jail cells, arguing with the other prisoners over whether or not they were all going to watch Antiques Roadshow at 7:00 P.M. We only had one TV in the cell block. I was pretty sure the Osterhaus boys were going to win. Research comes first.
Hester and I were in Dispatch, having a leisurely cup of coffee. We were talking to the duty dispatcher, Sally Wells, about whether she should take her niece to see Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings when she got off duty. The phone rang, and our conversation stopped.
Sally answered with a simple “Nation County Sheriff’s Department,” which told me it wasn’t a 911 call. They answer those with “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency? “I relaxed a bit, and had just brought my coffee cup to my lips when she reached over and snapped on the speakerphone.
“…Best get the Sheriff down here… there’s this dead man in the road just down from our mailbox… “came crackling from the speaker.
“And your name and location, please?”
“I’m Jacob, Jacob Heinman,” replied the brittle voice. “Me and my brother live down here in Frog Hollow… you know, just over from the Dodd place about a mile.”
“I’ll be paging the ambulance now,” said Sally, very calmly, “but keep talking because I can hear you at the same time.”
“We don’t think he needs a ambulance, ma’am,” said Jacob, also very calmly. “I saw ‘em shoot him just about right smack in front of me. We went back up there. He’s still laying there just like they left him. He’s awful dead, we’re pretty sure.”
I suspect that even in departments where they have two or three hundred homicides a year, the adrenaline still flows with a call like that. In our case, with maybe one or two a year, the rush is remarkable. Hester and I headed out the door.
As we left, I said, “On the way. Backup, please.”
Sally waved absently. She knew her job, and would have everything she could drum up out to help as soon as possible. But you like to remind even the best dispatchers, just in case something slips their mind.
The Heinman brothers were known throughout the area as the “Heinman boys.” Confirmed bachelors, neither of the so-called “boys” were a day under eighty, and you couldn’t excite either of them if you set his foot on fire. Or, apparently, if you shot somebody right in front of them. As I got into my unmarked patrol car, started the engine, and strapped on the seatbelt, I could hear Sally over the radio, telling a state trooper that she was looking the directions up in her plat book. Frog Hollow was an old name for a very remote stretch of road, about two miles long, that wound down through a deep, milelong valley where there were just two farms. I don’t think anybody except the rural mail carrier and the milk truck went there in the daytime, and only kids parking and drinking beer ended up there at night. Sally probably had a general idea where it was, but considering there were more than two thousand farms in Nation County, this would be no time to guess and end up giving the trooper bad directions. Hester, behind me in her own unmarked car, couldn’t possibly know where we were going and was going to have to follow me to the scene. Her call sign was I 388, so I waited until the radio traffic between Sally and the trooper paused, and picked up my mike.
“Three and I 388 are ten-seventy-six,” I said. That meant we were heading to the scene, and was meant as much for the case record as anything else. You always need times. “Which trooper you sending?”
“Two sixteen is south of you. I’m working on the directions…” There was no stress in Sally’s voice, but I could tell she was really concentrating. “Be aware I’ve confirmed there are at least two suspects. Repeating, at least two suspects.”
Two for sure. That always meant, to my mildly paranoid mind, that we were talking a minimum of two. Okay. Well, there was Hester, 216, and me. Fair odds, as 216 was new state trooper sergeant named Gary Beckman, who’d transferred into our area about six months ago. He was about forty and really knew his stuff.
“I’ll direct him,” I said, so she could forget the directions for him and concentrate on getting an ambulance and notifying our sheriff. “Two sixteen from Nation County Three, what’s your ten-twenty?” I needed to know his location before I could give him directions. I also needed to find out where he was because we were both going to be in a hurry, and it would be extremely embarrassing if we were to find ourselves trying to occupy the same piece of roadway at the same time.
“I’m four south of Maitland on Highway Fourteen, Three.” I could hear the roar of his engine over his siren noise. He was moving right along. Hester and I pulled out onto the main highway and headed south. The trooper was four miles closer than we were.
“Ten-four, two sixteen. We’re just leaving Maitland now. Okay, uh, if you turn right at the big dairy farm with the three blue silos, take the next right, and, uh, continue on down a long, winding road into the valley. That’s the right road, and the farm you’re going to is the second one.”
“Ten-four, Three.” His siren was making a racket in the background. My siren was making a racket under my hood. Hester’s siren was making a racket behind me. I reached down and turned the volume way up on my radio.
“Okay, and the, uh, subject is right in the roadway, so…” The last thing I wanted was for a car to run over the victim. “And Comm confirms two suspects.”
“Understood.”
I hoped so. After 216 and I shut up, I heard Sally talking to our sheriff, Lamar Ridgeway, whose call sign was Nation County One. From listening to their radio traffic, I could tell he was a good ten miles north of me. Since he drove the department’s four-wheel-drive pickup, he wasn’t going to be able to make more than eighty or so. Which begged a question.
I called Sally. “Comm, Three?”
“Three, go.”
“Subject say whether or not the bad guys are still there?”
“Negative, not there. Repeating, the caller says the suspects have fled the immediate scene. He thinks they went southbound from near his residence, but he didn’t get a vehicle description, just heard it leave, as it apparently was around the curve from his place, and out of his line of sight.”
Great. “Give what you got to Battenberg PD.” The small town of Battenberg was about five miles south of the Heinman boys’ farm, and their officer could at least say who came into town from the north. Assuming that the suspects continued that way.
“He’s already on the phone.” She sounded a bit irritated. I wisely decided to stop interfering and let her do her job.
It had taken us about three minutes to cover the four miles to the cluster of three blue silos, and I braked hard to slow enough to make the right turn onto the gravel. I had anticipated the turn because I knew the road. Hester, who didn’t, just about ended up in my trunk.
“Could we use our turn signals? “came crackling over the radio.
“Ten-four, I 388,” I said to her. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
We were having a pretty mild winter so far, and there was no snow at all on the roadway. Just loose gravel. Almost as bad as ice and snow, if you oversped it. Without snow cover, though, there was much better traction. There was also a lot of dust from 216. Another reason I was unhappy he was ahead of me. Hester, behind both of us, had to back off quite a distance just to be able to see.
At that point, I heard “Two sixteen is ten-twenty-three” come calmly over the radio as the sergeant told Comm that he had arrived at the scene. After a beat, he said, “The scene is secure.”
That meant that there was no suspect at the scene who was not in custody. Good to know, and it tended to affect how you got out of your car. Hester and I both shut down the sirens as soon as he said that.
I almost missed the next right due to the dust. It was just over the crest of a hill, and judging from the deep parallel furrows in the gravel, 216 had almost missed it, too. I was in an increasingly thick dust cloud for almost a minute, and when it tapered off I knew I was at the point where 216 had slowed. In a few seconds, I rounded a downhill curve and saw his car about fifty yards ahead, parked in the center of the roadway, top lights flashing. Excellent choice, as he was completely protecting the scene. Nobody could get by him on an eighteen-foot road with a bluff on one side and a deep ditch on the other. I stopped near the ditch and waited until I saw Hester in my rearview mirror.
“You go on up,” I said on the radio. “I’ll make sure nobody hits us.” I carefully backed up around the curve until I was sure somebody cresting the hill could see the flashing lights in my rear window before they got into the curve. This was no time to get run over by an ambulance. Or the sheriff.
“Comm, Three, and I 388 are ten-twenty-three.” I hung up the mike, grabbed my walkie-talkie, and opened my car door.
Sally’s acknowledging “Ten-four, Three” just about blew me out of the car. I’d forgotten about cranking up the volume in order to hear over the sirens. I took a second to turn it way down, and then got out of the car, locked it up, and headed toward the scene. You always leave the engine running in the winter, so radio traffic doesn’t run down your battery. It’s also a good idea to have at least three sets of keys.
The Heinman farm sat well below road level, about fifty yards to my left. On my right, a steeply sloped, heavily wooded hill rose maybe a hundred feet above the roadbed. The farm lane came uphill toward the mailbox at a slant, with bare-limbed maple trees between it and the road. As an added measure, between the road and those trees was an old woven-wire fence covered with a thick tangle of brush and weeds. Put up, I was sure, to keep the larger debris from the roadway out of the Heinman property. There was an old, rusty Ford tractor from the fifties, quietly decomposing within ten feet of the galvanized mailbox that was perched on top of a wooden fencepost. That old tractor had been there the very first time I’d seen the farm, nearly twenty-five years ago. By now it and its rotting tires had become part of the landscape.
I saw 216 talking to the two elderly Heinman brothers. They were near the mailbox, looking toward the area ahead of the patrol car. As I approached, a body came slowly into my view in front of 216’s car. It was lying kind of on its left side, parallel with the direction of the road, with its feet pointing away and downhill from me. I started making mental notes as I walked. Faded blue plaid flannel shirt, blue jeans, one black tennis shoe…and hands bound behind its back with yellow plastic binders. Damn. We call them Flex Cuffs, and use them when we run out of handcuffs. They’re like the bindings for electrical wiring: once they’re on, they have to be cut off. What we had here was an execution.
Two more steps, and I saw the head. More accurately, I saw the remains of the head. You often hear the phrase “blow their head off,” but it’s rare to actually see it.
Hester and 216 stepped over and joined me at the body.
“Hi Carl,” said Trooper 216.
“Gary. Glad you could come.”
“Notice the hands?”
“Right away. And the one shoe. And the head… or what used to be the head.” From what I could see, from about the ears on up was gone. Although nearly all the cranium seemed gone, lots of skin was left and had sort of flapped around back into the cavity. One ear, perfectly recognizable and still attached to the neck by a flap of flesh, seemed to be pretty well intact. Seeing things like that always has a sense of unreality to it. Guess that’s what keeps you sane.
“Uh, yeah,” said Gary. ‘“Used to be’ is right. I think I’m parked over top of some, uh, debris, from the head and stuff. I didn’t even see it until I was just about stopped.”
“Okay.” His car was about fifteen feet from the top of the body’s head, and still running. That was fine. We could have him move his car back when the crime lab got there.
Hester spoke to him. “Doesn’t leak oil, does it?”
He looked offended. “No.”
“Just checking.” She smiled. “Wouldn’t want oil all over the… debris. Just make sure your defroster or air conditioner’s off. It’s a lot easier if we don’t get condensed moisture on the stuff.”
“Right. Uh, you two better talk to the two old boys over there. Very interesting stuff.”
“Just a few seconds more,” I said. “Tell ‘em we’ll be right there.”
Hester and I just stood and looked at the scene for a short time. You only get one chance to see a scene in a relatively undisturbed state, and I’ve learned to take in as much as I can when I have the chance. An ambience sort of thing, you might say. You just try to see, smell, and hear as much as you can. It helps when you try to return to it in your imagination, later in the case.
A sound was the first thing that distinguished this scene from the hundreds of others I’d been at before. The Heinman brothers had some galvanized steel hog feeders near the roadway. Looking like huge metal mushrooms, they had spring-loaded covers on them, and every time a hog wanted to eat, all it had to do was press its snout into the mechanism and open it. When it was done, out came the snout, and that spring-loaded lid slammed down with a loud clank. Usually two or three clanks, in fact. One, a beat, and then two very close together. All the time we were at the crime scene, those hog feeders made a constant racket in the background.
Now, bodies look smaller dead than they do when they’re alive. I’m not sure why; they just do. This one was no exception, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was a half a head shorter, so to speak. Even with the legs straightened out, he’d probably only be about five-three or five-four. It was sobering to see this wreck of a corpse, and think that he’d been alive and well only half an hour before. I just stood there looking for almost a minute, sort of taking it all in. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. But if you don’t do it, you always seem to regret it later in the case. I looked around for his other shoe, but didn’t see it.
“Sure looks dead,” I said.
“You must be a detective,” said Hester.
“Kneeling, you think? When he was shot?”
She paused a moment. “If the debris is under Gary’s car… I’d think it would have gone further if he’d been standing, maybe. But there’s always the angles… but sure. I’ll go with kneeling until we find out differently.”
“Restrained and shot. Whether he was kneeling or not doesn’t matter. Talk about malice aforethought.” Binding the wrists surely eliminated sudden impulse. I took a deep breath. “Well, let’s see what our witnesses have to say.”
Hester and I crossed to the two old men standing by their mailbox. “I’m Deputy Houseman,” I said, not sure if they’d remember me, “and you’ve already met Agent Gorse?”
“Sure have. You was at the bus business, right?” asked the one I thought was Jacob.
He was referring to a car crash about fifteen years ago, when the two brothers in their old Dodge had been rear-ended by a school bus. They’d stopped in the middle of this very road to have a discussion, regrettably just into the hill and curve where I was now parked. The bus didn’t see them until it was too late to completely stop. The brothers were just shaken up, but the bus driver was furious. I’d given them a ticket.
“Yeah, that was me.”
“You put on a little weight,” said Jacob.
“Yeah.” I glanced at Hester, who was doing an admirable deadpan. “So, what happened here, Jacob?” I asked. “What did you see?”
“Well,” he said, “I was comin’ up to put a letter in the box, and Norris was in the barn feedin’ the cows, and there was this commotion down the road there.” He pointed downhill to where the road curved around to the right. “I said to myself, ‘well, what’s all that commotion?’ and just then this young man here come a hell a kitin’ round that curve, about as fast as he could go, and I thought there was something funny about him, and then I saw he had his hands behind his back, like he was ice skatin’.” He shook his head. “Had to be hard to run that way.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. I already had questions, but I let him go on with his story. Witnesses have a way of clamming up on you if you keep interrupting their train of thought.
“And he kinda came up short on one leg. I think that’s ‘cause he only had one shoe on. Anyways,” he said, “these other two come runnin’ behind him, and they was gaining pretty fast, and one of ‘em had a shotgun.” He paused. “I ducked down right quick. I was at Anzio, you know. Ever since, I see somebody runnin’ my way with a gun, I duck.” He smiled, almost shyly. “Instinct, they call it.”
“Okay… me too, and I’ve never been to war.” It still surprises me to see how much the WWII vets are aging.
“So I’m kinda behind the tractor, but I’m still lookin’. Then this one fella hollers something I didn’t catch, and the one laying over there sorta turned his head to look, and he musta tripped, ‘cause he just fell flat. Kerwhump.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t get up fast, ‘cause of his hands, so they was on him just like that.”
“Sure.”
“They was saying something, but I didn’t get it. Mostly another language, you know?”
“Like what?” I thought I could ask that without inhibiting him.
“Oh, golly. There was some different language… maybe Spanish? Sounds a lot like Italian to me, but I couldn’t make out words I knew. Then English, too. That I could make out. That one word was ‘motherfucker.’“He looked startled. “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am!”
“Think nothing of it,” said Hester. “Did they say any proper names or anything?”
He shook his head. “Nope. They just seemed real upset, you know? Anyway, the one on the road over there, he was crying, I think, and they got him up on his knees, and the one with the shotgun, he just come up behind him, and put the gun to his head, and shot him. Bang. One time. A terrible thing. And that one there, he just flopped into the road so hard and fast the dust flew.” He reflected a moment. “Musta been like getting hit with a truck, almost. That close and all.”
“Musta been,” I said.
“Then the others, they just looked around real fast, and I think they really saw the barn and the house for the first time, down there, you know? Like they saw it before, but it didn’t register…” Jacob’s hands had been in the pockets of his overalls throughout, and now he brought one of them into the conversation by pointing toward a cat in the barnyard. “It’s like, you ever notice how a cat fixes on its prey? He’s aware of everything, but just doesn’t care about it bein’ there. All he sees is the mouse, until the job’s done. It was like that.” Mission completed, his hand returned to his pocket. “Anyway, these two just turned around and ran back down the road and disappeared.”
“Do you think they saw you?” asked Hester.
“Pretty sure they didn’t. Their eyes just passed right over me.”
I felt it would be best to lead him to the end before I backed up through the events. “Then what’d you do, Jacob?”
“Well, I didn’t stand up right away, that’s for sure.” That shy smile again. “But when I did, I did it real careful, just in case they was comin’ back for somethin’, you know?” He paused. “But then I heard a car leaving down the way, and I supposed it was them. I don’t take no chances, so I just took off for the barn lickety split, and got Norris, and we called from the telephone in the barn.”
“That’s what we did,” interjected Norris. “Just that way.”
“We thought it’d be best if we brought the shotgun, too,” said Jacob, pointing toward a fencepost just behind the mailbox with a twelve-gauge leaning up against it. I’d missed it in the weeds and scrub.
“Figured we’d better,” said Norris. “You never know.” Given the afternoon’s events, it was really hard to argue with that.
Jacob smiled again. “Norris, here, he was on Guadalcanal. Jarhead.”
“Ah. Always good to have a Marine around. You two didn’t happen to recognize any of the three, did you?” It hadn’t sounded like it, but you can always hope.
“No, I didn’t…. I think the dead one was a Mexican boy, but I’m not sure,” said Jacob. “One of the other two might have been, too, but he looked… different than that, but like that? I don’t know how to put it…”
