Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [27]
A carrot like that’s hard to refuse, especially in high humidity.
Settled in, the edge began to disappear.
‘‘What we need to know is how you got where you were and if you saw anybody on the way.’’ I held up my hand to stop Mitchell. ‘‘If you don’t publish it right away, I can tell you that there was more than one shooter, that they got both our man and the doper, and that they likely got in by the same route you did.’’
‘‘Wow,’’ said Mitchell. She looked at her younger partner.
‘‘Since you’re print media,’’ said Hester, ‘‘you don’t have quite the rush on a deadline, so you can sit on this for a short while. Right?’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘So, how did you get to the scene?’’
Mitchell pointed in the general direction of our trek up the hill. ‘‘Over there, just past the big maple trees, we went up the hill.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Hell of a trip, must have taken us two hours.’’
‘‘How did you know where to go?’’ Hester asked. That was a really good point. If they had simply observed the crowd at the foot of the path that all the cops were using, there would have been no way to tell that it wound up to the left, and that the crime scene was on the other side of the hill they had climbed.
Silence. Then Rumsford spoke up. ‘‘It’s a little embarrassing. I mean, there’s not, like, any secret or anything.’’
‘‘So?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘You know KGGY’s ‘Eye in the Sky’ helicopter?’’
‘‘Oh, sure.’’ I exchanged glances with Hester. ‘‘They told you?’’
‘‘Not really,’’ said Rumsford. ‘‘They actually told their ground crew that it looked like they could go up over that hill and get there.’’
‘‘And?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Well, they said ‘no way’ when they saw it . . . at least their camera guy did, lugging all those heavy batteries, you know.’’ Rumsford looked at Mitchell. ‘‘They are heavy, I know they are.’’
Mitchell, who obviously would have carried her cameraman on her back to get to the story, snorted. ‘‘Yeah. Well, we made it. They could have too.’’
No lead there. ‘‘So,’’ I said. ‘‘You got there, you see anybody or anything worthy of note along the way?’’
‘‘Like, who?’’ asked Mitchell. ‘‘Sasquatch?’’
‘‘Like, the killers,’’ I said.
There was a pause again. Finally, Mitchell spoke. ‘‘We had a feeling, you know? Like we were being watched . . . Jesus, I feel silly saying that.’’ She looked at Rumsford. ‘‘But we did, didn’t we?’’
‘‘Yeah, we did,’’ he said. ‘‘Both of us, about near the top of the hill.’’
‘‘Any idea why you felt that way?’’ asked Hester.
Neither of them said anything. That made sense to me. I had had that feeling only twice in my life, once correctly. Yet I’d never been able to put my finger on what had tipped me off, either time.
Mitchell finally spoke. ‘‘Maybe we heard something?’’
Nine
WE SORT OF REGROUPED on Friday, the 21st. We were notified that the autopsies were complete. That meant that all tissues had been received at the laboratory, all photos taken, all nonmicroscopic evidence had been obtained, and the remains embalmed. Now all we had to do was wait for the results. That could take a week, or better.
My regrouping meant typing a very thorough report of my own. That took the rest of a long day, and resulted in twenty-six pages, if you counted evidence lists and the like. My eyes were fried, but at least that part was done. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a real drag to do that, but it can really help focus your mind, and forces you to review everything that’s happened to date. And, as is so often the case, if you go into court two years down the road, that report will save your ass.
Kellerman’s funeral was Saturday, the 22nd of June. So was Howie Phelps’s. We had a surveillance team go to Howie’s, just to see who showed up. The two-man team turned out to be about a quarter of the attendees. They helped load the casket into the hearse, as five of the other people were older women.
I went to Kellerman’s, held in Worley, in his home county. We had surveillance there too, but they were really outnumbered. There were about two hundred cop cars, from all over Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and as