The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [28]
“Possibly,” said Art.
“Possibly” my ass. “So, why then sit on the road and draw attention to yourself, on the off chance that a cop might come along? I just don’t think so.”
“Well, with the bodies salted away in the shed, the only person who might stumble on them was the hired man, right?” Lamar was off on his own track.
We all agreed.
“Let’s not rule him out,” said Lamar. “He might have been at the place when the two guys showed up. He might have done it.”
“That could be,” said Art, “but what motive would he have, really? He could just watch them, and call the cops when they left.”
“Maybe he knows Fred?” said Lamar. “Let’s get this checked out, too.”
“Sure,” I said. “Will do.”
“Murder makes the mind do strange things,” interjected our prosecutor. He just does that sometimes. Tosses in whatever is in his head. He does it in court, too. Leaving an occasional flabbergasted judge in his wake.
“So, what’s with the bodies in the machine shed?” asked Art. “Why there? Just for argument’s sake.”
“Not enough room in the refrigerator?” I just stuck that in. Well, I was tired, and I thought it was funny Apparently, I was a little more tired than everybody else.
“The ground is frozen solid,” said Lamar, quickly. “Can’t dig anywhere, so you store the bodies. Just like they do at all the cemeteries this time of year. Either that or heat the ground. Mostly, though, just come back later, haul ’em away, and dig a hole someplace.” Lamar looked around the table. “Nothin’ in the machine shed the hired man would need.”
That, of course, implied that the Borglans’ itinerary was pretty well known to the suspect. I said as much. This led to a brief discussion as to how many people knew where the Borglans were. Many, as it turned out. But it brought the hired man right back into the limelight.
What I couldn’t understand was why Fred would salt the bodies away, clean the house, and otherwise erase any sign of his presence, and then come to the cops. It just didn’t make any sense. I said as much.
“It would have if he’d changed his mind,” said Art. “Guilt working on him, especially after he contacts his aunt, to make his alibi, and sees how worried she really is.”
“Hell,” I said, “if he was feeling guilty, he’d just confess and get it over with.”
“Look,” said Lamar. “So far, I think Carl’s on the right track, here. We have no evidence linking Fred to the scene, and no motive for him to kill them.” He looked at Art. “I know we don’t need to prove motive, but it sure as shit would help to have one.” He looked at me. “For anybody.”
“Do we have any idea yet,” asked Art, “where they were selling the stolen guns? That might get us somebody who knows more about the three of ’em. More background.”
Actually, no, we didn’t. This was shaping up into a long investigation, any way you cut it.
Then the county’s finest prosecutor came up with the most telling point against Fred, and one that I had been missing. “I get the impression that we’re all assuming that Fred planned this out in advance. Maybe not. Maybe he was there, and they just got into an argument. Maybe it was spur of the moment. Or, just maybe, Carl, it went down like the Whiting case.”
About ten years ago, a man named Whiting got into an argument with a drinking buddy at a remote river cabin. Killed him. In the presence of another drinking buddy. He’d convinced the survivor to help him dispose of the body and the evidence. The guy had done so, apparently frightened and glad to be alive. He also had no place to run. Or to call for help. Then Whiting killed the second man.
“Could be,” I said, “but don’t forget that Whiting was a really dominant sort of guy. Fred isn’t. And Whiting was really a cold man. Fred isn’t that, either.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Art. “Standing there with a gun …”
“And,” said Lamar, “we only have Fred’s word that he dropped them off. He could