Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [23]
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘would you be willing to talk to a DNR officer about that?’’
‘‘Sure. I mean, shit, man, you got me on that one.’’
The rest of the interview was unremarkable, except for his reaction when we asked what kind of guns Johnny Marks had.
‘‘Oh, shit,’’ he said. ‘‘Oh, hey, lots of ’em, man. Lots of ’em. Rifles, at least three. Four handguns. At least three, for sure.’’
Hester and I exchanged glances. ‘‘Where are these guns?’’
‘‘He keeps ’em in his gun locker, ma’am.’’
‘‘You have observed these guns yourself. At his place?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’
‘‘Recently?’’
‘‘Oh, about a week ago or so. Yeah, I’d say recently. About then.’’
‘‘Can you tell me what kind?’’ I asked.
‘‘You know,’’ he said, ‘‘I never handled those or anything. Just saw the bunch of ’em in the locker when he opened it. It don’t have a glass door or anything, so I could only see . . . but the handguns were on little pegs, and hanging from their triggers, like . . .’’
Since Johnny Marks was a convicted felon, that was enough. Three hours later, we had our search warrant for his house, and just after midnight, we were through the door.
We found lots of interesting stuff, including a little dope. And the guns. All either muzzle-loading rifles or cap-and-ball revolvers. Black powder. Iowa considers them not to be firearms, for felonious matters. I’ve always been under the impression that those guns, which killed soldiers by the hundreds of thousands in the American Civil War, were a technology that was quite capable of killing today. And they are. But, apparently, if they make a lot of smoke, they’re not what the legislature considers a firearm.
As Hester said: ‘‘A chickenshit dope charge and some antique guns!’’ Hester has a way with words.
Dahl, our intrepid dope cop, had found lots of stuff in the infamous gun locker. Written records that indicated a connection to several large dealers in the Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota triangle. ‘‘Indicated’’ being the key word. Evidence enough to keep Dahl on the track, but not nearly enough for a charge. We charged Marks with simple possession. Pretty much to make it look like we had done something. But it did give us something to trade for real information, if he had any.
We ended our day at 4:24 A.M. Knowing just about as much of real worth as we had at 4 P.M. Not a good first day on a murder investigation. A pretty good rule of thumb is that, if you haven’t developed a good suspect within forty-eight hours of the start of the investigation, you have a serious problem, and may never get the thing solved. Time was getting short, and we’d hardly started.
Damn.
Eight
THE NEXT DAY started at 0726, when I got a call from the office telling me that there had been a development and that I should be there within half an hour. Sue, who had been awakened by the phone, and who had been sort of listening to me, asked what time it was. I told her.
‘‘God.’’ Then: ‘‘What time did you get in last night?’’
By that time I was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to remember where I’d left the floor. ‘‘Oh, I dunno . . . four or five, I think . . .’’
She was now sitting. ‘‘Three hours’ sleep?’’ Obviously she was more awake than I was. I could tell because she could do the math. I thought for a second, still trying to get the cobwebs out.
‘‘Yeah,’’ I said, ‘‘I guess you’re right.’’
‘‘That’s terrible,’’ she said, lying back down. ‘‘It was that state officer being killed, wasn’t it? The one I saw on TV.’’
‘‘Yep.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘Actually, it’s bullshit.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Nothing,’’ I said as I dialed the phone. ‘‘Just calling the office.’’
The phone was portable, so I carried it into the hall as it rang.
‘‘Sheriff’s Department . . .’’
‘‘Yeah, hey, it’s Carl. What’s the development you called me about?’’
‘‘I don’t know, they didn’t say. Just said to call you.’’
‘‘Is this Brenda?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Brenda was pretty new at this. ‘‘Okay, Brenda, who told you to call me?’’
‘‘Nine.’’
Nine was the call number for Deputy Eddie Heinz, also relatively new. We all liked Eddie. He was one of