Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [60]
‘‘Tell me,’’ said George, ‘‘that he isn’t a member of some sort of militia group.’’
‘‘Not that I know of, George.’’
‘‘But his property is posted?’’
‘‘It’s posted, but as far as I know, he’s just a typical tax protester. Nothing special about him.’’
‘‘Has he broken any federal laws?’’
‘‘Not today, as far as I know.’’ I sighed. ‘‘I’m sure he has, but it probably has to do with taxes.’’ I knew George. He wanted to help, but he needed a legal reason to do so. Most people don’t realize it, but the FBI has very little to do with murder cases. They only handle them on federal government property and on Native American reservations. They didn’t have much reason to actually work the case, but they could certainly ‘‘assist’’ in every way possible.
‘‘Right. And you say that it was an Original Notice he was resisting?’’
‘‘George, as far as I know that’s what was happening. I didn’t really pay too much attention. Why don’t you get hold of our office, and talk to Margaret. She can tell you all about the civil action.’’
‘‘I’ll get back to you.’’
‘‘Thanks, George.’’
It was 0200 hours. The rain had dropped off to a light mist, the temperature still hovered around eighty, and the humidity was fierce. So were the damned mosquitoes. I had thoroughly sprayed myself and my clothing, but since I was soaking wet in the first place, the repellent didn’t seem to be working well. I was talking with Hester, who had been sent up because there was a murder and she knew our county so well. We were in a large tent pitched by the good captain. Al Hummel, the agent in charge, was there too. We were going over what we had. Not much more than I had known eight hours ago, except that we now had a pretty accurate head count inside the farm perimeter, and they were demanding that we all just turn around and leave. Well, that was about as realistic as that bunch ever got. We had a negotiation in progress, as they say. And getting nowhere. They were a stubborn group, and were in denial. Just go away. Right.
‘‘But the shooter is Herman Stritch, right?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘No doubt in my mind. As far as I can tell, there’s only one way into that little shed, and I had that in view. Herman was in there, and he’s the one who threatened to shoot me.’’
‘‘That’s good.’’
‘‘That,’’ I said, ‘‘depends entirely on your point of view.’’
‘‘Good’’ was right, though. We’d gotten a warrant for Herman Stritch’s arrest earlier that evening. We were still waiting on the rest of the family, but I had the feeling that the young man I’d talked to was going to get it for obstruction. Nobody else yet. But they could all take a hit for accessory before it was finished.
‘‘I’m going to the Winnebago,’’ I said, ‘‘and check with the negotiator.’’ I hadn’t been in the HQ unit yet, and from the sound of its auxiliary generator, I had the strong impression that it was air-conditioned. Hester and Al said they’d be along in a minute. Micro DCI administrative conference. Fine with me.
As I squished over the soggy ground to the Winnebago, I played things over in my head again. It did bother me a bit that there was no longer any activity around the shed where I’d talked to Herman. If he had gotten out, and I believed that he had, it was also possible for someone to get in. Ergo, some ‘‘unknown’’ individual could be postulated as the shooter. By Herman’s attorney, during the trial, sworn to by Herman and his family. I’d always wondered about that aspect of the extreme right. I mean, they’d scream bloody murder about the ‘‘truth,’’ the Constitution, and swearing on the Bible, and then lie like a rug on the witness stand.
One of our biggest problems, from an evidentiary standpoint, was that we couldn’t get the lab team onto the property until the threat had been removed. And that