The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [19]
“That could be our suspect,” I said. I’d assumed everybody had been thinking along those lines.
“Then,” asked Art, “how do we explain the others?”
“Hired man,” said Lamar. “He checks the place once in a while, while they’re gone. He lives next place down the valley. I know he has a snowmobile.”
“I see,” said Art, lowering the binoculars. “We may want to talk with him.”
“Already had ’em contact his wife,” said Lamar. “Before I left the office. She said he’s gone, picking the owner, Cletus Borglan, up at the Cedar Rapids Airport. Left about three hours ago. He’ll call the office as soon as he gets back.” He took another sip of his coffee. “I told the office to let us know when he calls. Didn’t know if we wanted him here, or if you would want to talk to him at his place.”
Lamar has been around the block.
The M.E. came driving up. Very nice black four-wheel-drive Bronco. Driven by Dr. Steven Peters, my favorite pathologist, and the one I’d hoped we were going to get. He had a forensic ticket, one of very few in the state, and he had a tremendous knowledge of his subject. He was also delightful to work with, and tended to bring his own supply of snack food. I can’t begin to tell you how comforting it is to know that your autopsies have been done by a solid M.E., and that regardless what else happens, you always have the firm foundation of the M.E. report to fall back on.
We all got out of Lamar’s pickup, as Dr. Peters pulled up. As he got out, he said, “I hope this is in the house! My God, it’s cold!”
He knew us all from past cases. Lamar broke the bad news about the bodies being in the machine shed. After a brief consultation, we decided to drive Lamar’s pickup and Dr. Peters’s Bronco down the slope, and park them right at the edge of the shed. We could use them to warm up in, and to avoid having to walk back and forth for various items of equipment. And, as Dr. Peters said, to keep the doughnuts soft.
We chose a course that would avoid all the visible tracks, and down we went.
Just as we stopped, Lamar picked up his mike and said, “Comm, log the time. 0207.”
“Ten-four, One.”
“Nine, One?” as Lamar called Deputy Willis.
“One, go …”
“Nine, you want to stay put. Nobody gets in without a badge.”
Once we got to the shed, all the lightness left us, and the somber business of investigating two dead bodies began. Everybody had their heaviest coats on by then, and mufflers or scarves wrapped over their mouth and nose. I couldn’t help noticing that Art was rather underdressed for the occasion, with a topcoat instead of a parka.
Lamar and I were able to open the door another couple of feet, letting a bit of light in, and making access easier. We cast about, and finally located a light switch on the wall about ten feet from the walk-in door that was padlocked. Large fluorescent overheads flickered, struggled a bit, and then came on, flooding the entire space with light. Perfect.
I took three photos of the inside of the shed, which looked to be about 60 × 30 feet. The inside wall was a galvanized steel. Then three shots of the bodies as I had left them, with the tarp covering everything but the feet. That tarp was an olive-green-colored canvas, with aluminum eyelets, and stiff as a board. Lamar, Art, and I pulled sharply to unstick the frozen edges from the floor, and then slowly lifted it off the victims, and carried it off to one side, still frozen in the shape it had been when it covered them. I turned, and got my first good look at the two dead men.
The nearest one was on his back with his arms at his side, the other about three-quarters onto his face with his arms folded underneath. Both had white plastic trash bags on their heads. They didn’t look to be cinched with cord or anything, just sort of twisted. Yellow pull tabs, integral to the bags, had been tied under the chins. Stains on the outside of the