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I was just about finished with the report when Dispatch buzzed me and said I had a call from Hester.

‘‘Houseman . . .’’

‘‘I have the stuff. It’s GREAT!’’

‘‘All right!’’

‘‘Noyagama says ‘Hi’ and for you not to eat too many cookies.’’

‘‘Cool. Should I call Volont now?’’ I asked.

‘‘Wait till I get there,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m just going past the first rest area . . . Should be there in, oh, three and a half hours or so.’’

That put her about thirty miles out of Des Moines, if memory served.

‘‘I got some stuff from the county where our man was busted,’’ I said. ‘‘They faxed it up.’’

‘‘Good. See you in a while.’’

Hester drove into the lot at 1630, by which time the faxing deputy of Homer County had confirmed that Wittman was, indeed, at the ‘‘old farm.’’ Did we want him?

Well, yes, we did.

Hester and I got our ducks in a row, went to a magistrate, and got an arrest warrant for Wittman for murder (a co-conspirator), and I placed the call to Volont at 1658. Two minutes before closing time, as it were. He wasn’t in. Did we want him paged? Yes.

We’d decided not to let Volont know we had the old case files . . . at least not yet. It wasn’t really applicable, not to the immediate situation anyway.

Volont’s call was put through to my office.

‘‘Houseman,’’ I said, motioning Hester to pick up the other line.

‘‘Volont here. You called?’’

‘‘Sure did,’’ I said. ‘‘You on a secure line?’’

‘‘Very.’’

‘‘Okay, then. Hester and I are on this line. We found out who the subject was who was in the house with Herman. Actually, who both of them were, the ones who took off through the corn?’’

‘‘Yes . . .’’

‘‘One of ’em is a man named Julius Constantine Wittman, goes by Connie.’’

‘‘Right,’’ said Volont, as noncommittal as always.

I told him where Wittman was, how his name had come, in effect, from Nola Stritch during our interview, and how we’d found out who he was. Told him that there was an old FBI case involved too. He didn’t seem too surprised.

‘‘Are you going to pick him up?’’ he asked.

‘‘Yeah, but not without you,’’ I said. ‘‘This guy’s at least as much of a conspirator as Billy Stritch, and that’s another federal charge. Plus,’’ I hastened to add, ‘‘with federal priors, he might be a little more willing to talk.’’

‘‘Might,’’ said Volont. He thought for a second. ‘‘How about we meet you over at the sheriff’s office in, what, uh, Homer County, in about two hours?’’

‘‘Yep. Homer County. See you then,’’ I said.

We called Homer County, and I spoke with the faxing deputy again. I told him what was up, and he just about fell off the phone. Eager. I just love eager.

Hester and I pulled into the Homer County Sheriff’s Department at 1914. We were in two cars, naturally, as Hester sure wouldn’t want to be driving me back.

It looked a little crowded. Turned out, it was.

Apparently, when it sank in with Homer County exactly what we wanted Wittman for, they called out everybody and his brother. They even asked for assistance from the state, for a TAC team, and got it. Volont, at the same time, had apparently used his considerable resources, and an FBI tactical unit was also there. Wow. Twenty-two officers in camouflage (Iowa) or black (federal) BDUs. I was impressed. I figured Wittman would be too.

The faxing deputy, whose name was Gregg Roberts, was really happy to meet me. He was so impressed, and thought I had done it all, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him I couldn’t have gotten those two TAC teams if I had said I was being held hostage. As the local LEIN officer, he was dead center in the middle of the action, and was having the time of his life. I made sure to tell his sheriff that he’d been of great importance in the investigation. Cross the t.

Volont, although he tried to cover it up, was also having great fun. He was even nice to George. He introduced me to the federal TAC team leader, and actually clapped me on the shoulder. The team leader, by the way, was introduced just as that. No name.

Since we had both a state