Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [34]
‘‘You might have a couple of weak points in the theory here,’’ I said.
Nichols actually laughed. ‘‘Tell me about it,’’ he said. ‘‘But I think there’s a really good chance that we’re right.’’ He grinned. ‘‘And, no, I can’t tell you everything, and you know that.’’
Hester grinned back. ‘‘True. But I’ll go on record as thinking you’re wrong on this one. Just because it’s too hard to arrange that way . . .’’
Hester’s background in narcotics was, by the way, impeccable. She’d worked undercover for about five years, and very successfully. They transferred her into General Crim. Only when it became apparent that she’d busted too many people in too many places to go unrecognized anymore.
‘‘That’s fine, Hester,’’ said Nichols affably. ‘‘But my information’s just a bit more current than yours.’’ He grinned again.
Personally, I was with Hester. Current information aside. I was also developing the uneasy feeling that Nichols was relying on the FBI for his theory. It sure explained the gaps.
After the meeting, Lamar hauled Hester and me into his office and locked the door.
‘‘That’s all bullshit,’’ said my boss.
‘‘Probably,’’ I said.
‘‘Not probably, it’s bullshit plain and simple. Nobody blows smoke up my ass in my own office. I don’t want you two to back off at all, and I don’t want you to go along with what they say if you don’t agree.’’
That was fine with me.
‘‘I know the bikers don’t shy away from the woods,’’ he said, ‘‘but it doesn’t make a bit of difference. They’re already holding something back, somewhere, and I don’t like it.’’
Neither did Hester. Neither did I.
‘‘You,’’ Lamar said, looking right at me, ‘‘have my permission to look into anything you want. Don’t worry about steppin’ on no toes. It’s my county, and we by God do it my way. Only toes that can get stepped on are mine. Nobody else’s count.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I said with a chuckle. ‘‘Just be sure to tell the Feds that.’’
‘‘No problem. And one more thing, Carl. You too, Hester.’’ He positively grinned for the first time. ‘‘I just want you to know that between the two of you, you’re about as smart as any Fed.’’
That was about it. That day. That week. And for what seemed a long time after that. We had nothing. Oh, we had a lot of physical evidence. A phone call to Dr. Peters’s office gave us some preliminary autopsy data and some ballistic information. We finally established that there were likely only two shooters, and that they were the only ones who apparently hit anything that day. Lots of shell casings, MRE debris, some partial prints, a quarter of a bootprint we had finally found that may or may not have been involved. Two dead bodies. The usual thorough autopsy reports were promised. Two failed suspects. And a lot of people, including us, who couldn’t figure out why we couldn’t get any further on a scene as messy as that one was. DCI had started pulling off the extra help after the third week, as there was absolutely nothing for them to do. They were remarkable in having stayed after the first week, to tell the truth. That left Hester, primarily, as the case officer. DNE remained active, we thought, but since they wouldn’t tell us what they were up to, we couldn’t be sure. Probably just as well, as I’m sure they’d have to kill us if they told us. Johansen had taken a leave of absence, but I was betting that he wouldn’t be back. That meant we were two officers short. Everybody had to work an extra day each week to fill in. We were all getting