The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [18]
“I’m glad to see you left a couple of uniforms at the end of the lane,” said Art. He was trying to be nice, but I found it very irritating that he referred to uniformed officers as “uniforms.” The way he said it, it meant “second-class cop,” and I thought it was very unfair. Partly since he had been mostly uniformed until a couple of years ago. And mostly since I was in my uniform.
We walked over toward Mike’s patrol car. Art wanted to get a look at Fred, to see if he remembered him.
“Mike,” he said, “would you contact State Radio and get the mobile lab up here?”
I resented his talking to Mike like that, particularly since he’d left the department to get away from the rest of us, but Mike didn’t seem to mind a bit. “Sure thing, Art.” Well, the “Art” did seem to have a thin glaze of sarcasm.
I stepped back with Art. “You recognize Fred, there in the back?”
Art sighed. “Can’t tell. I want him out of here, though. Get him back to the office, or something. I don’t want him around when we start doing serious stuff.”
Fine with me. I told Mike to get him back to the S.O., and to hold him on a burglary charge. I didn’t think we had anywhere near enough to do even a Suspicion of Murder on him.
“Let’s go do the bodies with the M.E., at least a preliminary,” I said, to both Art and Lamar. “As soon as one gets here. I haven’t been back to the shed, so I don’t have any photos except what I can see with the tarp pretty much in place. We can at least do that.”
There was always the question as to who got to do the bodies first … the lab folks, who would gather evidence, or the M.E., who would tell everybody what evidence to look for. Since I had absolutely no idea what had caused the death of the two brothers in the shed, I was going for the M.E.
Art didn’t look too sure, but Lamar jumped at the chance to have something to do. “Good.”
That ended that discussion.
It was understood among us that, while Art and the DCI were the “detectives” on the case, it was our case all the way. They were assisting the Sheriff’s Department. Not the other way around. Lamar was going to call the shots. But he was also smart enough to let Art work. Art had always had a nose for certain kinds of crimes, and knew a lot of people in Nation County.
Our job at this point was to protect and preserve the evidence for the M.E. and the lab team. Not that a frozen body was going to decompose or anything. But we did want photos for the M.E.’s later reference as well as ours. I thought I’d better get my camera. I knew that DCI probably had at least one, but I wanted my own shots, too.
On the way I noticed that the light had changed quite a bit with the headlights of the other cars. Some tracks were more noticeable, others had virtually disappeared. Sunlight was going to wash them out completely.
We all got into Lamar’s extended cab, and cozied down.
Lamar lifted the air pot. He glanced at Art, who held his hand over his cup. I held my cup out. As he filled it, he said, “Ain’t it something. The way that cold air makes your bladder act up?”
Lamar passed the time sweeping the area with his electronically controlled, state-of-the-art spotlight, mounted well forward on the right fender of the “Awesome Machine.” The whole farmstead was in a wide valley, with a small stream running along the far side. I had to really look, but then I saw the track. Or, more precisely, tracks. There must have been a dozen separate tracks, some leading clear down the valley, some rising up a hill and disappearing.
“They look like old snowmobile tracks,” I said. “I didn’t see ’em before. Must have been the lighting.”
“Must have,” said Lamar, sarcastically, sipping his coffee. “We know how you never miss a thing.” He grinned.
He was referring to an incident where I had left my raincoat at a crime scene, and it had later been found and taken in as evidence by the FBI. Art snickered.
My first thought was that the suspect or suspects had gotten away on snowmobiles. Fred had brought his cousins to