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By Root 1275 0

a respite after we got the ‘‘suspects’’ in jail. But not now. Especially after one of their own had been killed. Poor old Rumsford was being elevated to a kind of sainthood within the fourth estate. Talk about sad . . . they would have nominated him for a Pulitzer, if they’d been able to find anything that he’d ever done. Instead, they hovered around our jail like electronic vultures, waiting to pounce on a sound bite. One of the first things they did was go around Maitland interviewing anybody who walked slowly enough to catch. I will say this, though. They seldom got what they wanted.

One memorable sound bite was aired in what I think was desperation. They stumbled on Harvey Tinker, an elderly gentleman who nearly always wore seedy gray slacks, a white shirt, blue suspenders, and an Ivy League sort of hat. Smoked cigars one after another. I saw him on TV early on, being interviewed in front of the courthouse.

The interviewer was a young man, blond, eager, and very outgoing.

‘‘I’ve been talking with Harvey Tinker, a longtime resident of Maitland,’’ he intoned. He turned to Harvey, who had kept his cigar in his mouth. ‘‘Tell me, Mr. Tinker, what do the residents of Maitland think of all this?’’

Harvey looked squarely at him and said, ‘‘Shouldn’t shoot cops.’’

‘‘Do you mean there’s a sense of outrage here over the shooting of the local lawmen?’’

‘‘Nope. It’s just dumb to shoot a cop.’’

‘‘Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Straight from the heart.’’

The press aggravated us no end, except one French-Canadian team who did the neatest shots of the jail with the sunset turning the old limestone building orange and with a real live deer in the background. It turned out they were doing a travelogue on the Mississippi when their home office sent them inland a few miles to do us. They were attuned to nature shots. They were nice.

To top things off, the extreme right descended on Maitland like a pack of locusts. Not the armed groups. Not militias or paramilitary folks. Oh, no. We weren’t that lucky. No, we got the ‘‘political’’ people. The ones who had convinced themselves they knew what they were doing, and so offered their services to ‘‘represent’’ Herman and family. They were only egos with big appetites, but they could drive you crazy if you let ’em. Especially one named Wilford Jeschonek. We came to call him ‘‘W.J.’’ or ‘‘Rotten Willie,’’ depending on our mood. We hadn’t known him before he came to the jail and demanded to see Herman Stritch and family. Claimed he was an attorney of the common law.

I first saw him as he was arguing with Norma, the duty jailer. She was refusing to let him talk to the Stritch family until she cleared it with the clerk of court.

‘‘Who is that asshole?’’ I asked nobody in particular.

‘‘Sounds like a right-winger,’’ said Al as he passed. ‘‘Wants to bail ’em out with a homemade credit slip, or something like that.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

Old W.J. thought he’d made it impossible for us to see who he really was. Had no license plate on his car. Had no driver’s license. Had canceled his social security number. Had filed a paper with the clerk of court declaring his birth certificate, marriage certificate, U.S. citizenship, etc., invalid. Denied citizenship in anything but the Free and Sovereign Republic of Iowa, as a matter of fact.

‘‘Jeschonek, Wilford Frederick, DOB: 03/19/40, SSN 900-25-0001, 5’7’’, 180, brown and brown,’’ said Sally, five minutes later. ‘‘Nearly a hundred traffic violations, from speed to no seat belt . . . mostly no registration, no DL, stuff like that. Got it for carrying a concealed weapon in Minnesota two years ago, busted for sex with a minor in Wisconsin four years ago, two public intox. in Iowa, and one domestic abuse assault in Iowa last year.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ She was good. ‘‘Get his wife’s name, will you? Might want to interview her sometime.’’

‘‘Martha June,’’ said Sally absently. ‘‘Lives in Oelwein.’’

‘‘Right.’’ I went back toward the investigator’s office. Speedy, too. If the wife was separated or divorced, she might have information regarding his contacts.