Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [78]
‘‘Well, I guess that’s pretty much up to you now. Everything else is pretty much over.’’
‘‘Over?’’
‘‘Yeah. Look, you go ahead and wrap it up here. They apparently aren’t in the cornfield. As investigator, I have to go do the interrogations.’’
He didn’t say a thing.
‘‘And, Art, DCI lab’s comin’ up, to do the scene. We have to protect it until they get here. And . . .’’
‘‘What’d you do, fuck up?’’ he interrupted.
Art always was good with people. I just looked at him, suddenly tired. ‘‘Yeah, I suppose I did. Why don’t you look into that while you’re at it.’’
‘‘Believe me,’’ said Art, ‘‘I will.’’
I headed toward my car, with Hester alongside.
‘‘He’s still a real asshole,’’ she said. Just a flat statement.
‘‘Yep. But I’d really worry if he changed.’’ I grinned. ‘‘Just being himself. No real problem unless you start to take him too seriously.’’
Suddenly the press was coming at us. Just as soon as Herman and family had been hustled out, apparently somebody thought there was no reason to keep the press corralled anymore. They still couldn’t get past the fence, but all our cars and facilities were now in press territory. Hester saw them first. A disorganized group, spreading out from the press corral. And four or five of ’em had seen us and were on the way.
‘‘Shit.’’ The last thing I wanted was the press.
‘‘I’ll handle them,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Just stay back.’’
That was easy.
‘‘He,’’ said Hester to the first two reporters, pointing toward Art, ‘‘is in charge of everything here. You’ll have to talk to him.’’
They were gone like magic, swarming poor Art. And I heard one of them say, ‘‘That’s two known dead now, right?’’ My stomach started to burn.
‘‘Thanks, Hester.’’
‘‘Sure thing.’’ We continued toward the cars. ‘‘Just one more thing, Houseman.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I sighed. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘You got your raincoat this time?’’
Sixteen
LET ME TELL YOU . . . By Thursday, the 25th of July, it seemed like everybody wanted a piece of Herman. The DNE, as soon as they found out that he was involved somehow in the killing of their officer in the woods, wanted exclusive rights to interrogate him. They thought it was a narcotics-based conspiracy and just closed their minds to the possibility that it wasn’t. It didn’t help that they weren’t the state’s homicide investigators. The DCI did that, and they seemed to think that the DNE officer was more important than any Nation County deputy that had just happened to get in the way and get himself killed. Or any Nation County sheriff who happened to get himself shot, for that matter. Their reasoning was pretty good, though; the DNE officer was the central figure because he was first, and established the chain of events leading to subsequent shootings. It really wasn’t their logic, I guess. It was just the way they stated it.
The Attorney General’s office sent two of their best, along with two gofers, just to oversee the interrogations. Our county attorney was at his best, underpaid and overwhelmed. And, to top it all off, now that the hostage aspect of the business was over, the FBI was taking official notice of the whole situation. Melissa and her daughter, you see, were now being considered ‘‘hostages’’ and ‘‘possible kidnap victims.’’ The upshot was, if the individual officers hadn’t been used to cooperating and working together, the whole case would have fallen apart right there. As it was, we at least understood that we were all in this together.
The first thing we did was have an informal meeting, just the working officers, as we like to call ourselves. It happened in the kitchen of the jail, as usual, and involved Hester, George, Agent Bob Dahl, Hester’s boss Al Hummel, and our dispatcher Sally Wells, who was to coordinate communications for the investigative team. No attorneys. We didn’t need the complications. I’d invited Art, but he was ‘‘too busy.’’ Doing what, I didn’t know.
Since the crimes happened in our county, I chaired the meeting. I do that well. I stopped at the bakery, picked up a large box of pastries, made the coffee myself, and