Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [69]
‘‘Now wait a minute,’’ said Mitchell. ‘‘We don’t take anything in we don’t normally take. Like bugs.’’
‘‘No, no,’’ I said. ‘‘We aren’t asking that you do anything like that.’’
‘‘He just wants to talk with print media, and you’re just sending us in?’’
‘‘That’s right. We just want to give him a bit of what he wants, and see if it’ll put him in a better mood to come out. Peacefully.’’ I saw her writing that down, and hoped she got it right. ‘‘Underline ‘peacefully,’ would you?’’
Nancy Mitchell was not susceptible to charm. At least, not the charm of a cop at a crime scene who she suspected was trying to use her.
‘‘We’re going to need ground rules here,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to understand this thing just a bit better before I go in there.’’
‘‘Sure.’’ I reached back to the table and got two cans of ice-cold pop. ‘‘Here, drink these and I’ll tell you exactly what I want.’’
My charm she could hold off. On a terribly hot, humid day, however, cold pop had an irresistible charm of its own. We all sat under a tree, and took notes of what each other said. Slowly becoming more relaxed. Sipping cold pop, and munching on our sandwiches. Yeah, sandwiches. I’d grabbed a fourth.
‘‘What I want is this,’’ I said. ‘‘You go in, and you do your story any way you want. Print whatever you decide to. But,’’ I said, taking a bite of sandwich, ‘‘tewo uss fisrnd.’’ I swallowed. ‘‘I mean, tell us first. What he’s said.’’
‘‘Well . . .’’
‘‘How can that be a problem?’’
‘‘It isn’t really,’’ said Nancy. She took a long drink of her pop. ‘‘Just in general, or do you want a blow-by-blow?’’
‘‘If he’s in a manifesto mood,’’ I said, ‘‘just say that. But any details of what he thinks about this situation, who he blames, that sort of thing . . .’’
‘‘I can handle that,’’ she said.
‘‘Okay. And if you get into the house, and I think you will, I want a description of who and what’s inside.’’
‘‘Oh?’’ She took another swig of pop. ‘‘Like, what kind of stuff?’’
‘‘Oh, like if there are any booby traps, how many people, if they’re all armed. That sort of thing.’’
‘‘Hey,’’ she said, ‘‘we’re not ‘Force Recon’ here.’’
‘‘Force Recon? What are you, an ex-marine?’’
She actually laughed at that. ‘‘No. I had a boyfriend who was.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘Well, that’s not what we’re asking.’’ I grinned at her. ‘‘Just so you don’t think you have to paint your face green. Just information that’ll keep anybody from getting killed. Is that out of the question?’’
She hesitated.
‘‘We really want him to realize that we’re not going to get bored and go away. He’s really messed up here, and he’s going to have to answer for it. No question about that.’’ I looked her straight in the eye. ‘‘I just don’t want to have to start shooting again.’’
She still hesitated. ‘‘I understand that. But I’m not a negotiator.’’
‘‘Sure. I know that. Look, do you just want me to send someone else?’’ I asked. My trump card.
‘‘Like, who did you have in mind?’’ she asked. ‘‘Him, for instance?’’ She pointed back toward the press area, or ‘‘corral’’ as the cops called it. There were several press types, dressed for the occasion mostly in blue jeans, talking on cell phones, typing into laptops, or writing notes. Busy-looking. The print media people had a more relaxed air, while the TV folks were tense. A matter of deadlines, I’d discovered.
‘‘Which one?’’ I asked. Just out of curiosity.
‘‘The tall one with the beard and the laptop, sitting on the tailgate of the pickup.’’
I saw the one she meant. He was the one I’d noticed at Kellerman’s funeral. ‘‘What about him?’’
‘‘He’s the reporter for The Freeman Speaks. Extra-conservative rag out of some small town near Decorah. Prints it in his garage.’’
‘‘What’s his name?’’
She laughed again. ‘‘Get it yourself. And his social security number. You’re the cops.’’
‘‘Okay, good point. Anyway, no, not him, I guess.’’
‘‘You know, I’m surprised he didn’t ask for him,’’ she said.
‘‘Might