The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [33]
The consensus among us was that we had achieved very little. This was expressed by Sam Younger as we walked back to the cars.
“Well, shit…”
We parted company with Sam, who had to go on a deer-poaching call. I was sorry there hadn’t been anything more for him to get his teeth into.
Back in my car, Art and I did some serious thinking. I could remember very clearly that there had been no other car tracks when I drove into the Borglan yard the day before. With what I’d say was a high probability that there were two sets of tracks going from the roadway, over the hill, and to the farm, I just couldn’t see how it was possible for Fred to have gotten there to do the deed.
“Simple,” said Art. “One of the brothers was already there.”
Well, I have to admit, I hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Why?”
“Don’t know, yet,” he said. “But I’ll figure it out.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” I said. “Somebody was already there. Any way you cut it. It could have been Fred, too, for that matter. Could have been.”
So. Two sets of tracks going in. Two dead bodies, both shot in the head. They hadn’t killed each other, nor had they killed themselves. No obvious involved weapon at the scene. (There wasn’t a .22 in the gun cabinet. All shotguns and larger caliber handguns.) No spent shell casings, which indicated to me a revolver. The mess pretty much cleaned up. The bodies put in the shed, covered with a tarp, as if awaiting disposal at a later date.
“Who do you think was going to go back and dispose of the bodies?” I asked of no one in particular.
“Fred,” said Art. Instantly “Probably as soon as he got a buddy to help.” He paused for a second. “Or, maybe, if he wasn’t able to get a friend to help him out, that’s why he just gave up and went to the cops?”
“Yeah?” I said. I just didn’t think Fred had done it. I did have to admit, though, that I still didn’t have another suspect.
“You still skeptical?” asked Art. “Well, that’s good. Keeps us honest.” Condescending. Immediately separating me from “them,” the true professionals. I resent things like that, but there are simply times where you can’t let it show.
I cleared my throat. “Which still leaves us with the snowmobile tracks,” I said. “Time to talk with the hired man.”
“I’d like to see ’em from the air first,” said Art. “To see where they all go.”
Well, sure. Who wouldn’t? It was just that some of us weren’t used to working with choppers available. We checked through dispatch for the status of his flying machine.
“They’re supposed to be at the Maitland Airport in about ten,” she said. “They report a ‘window’ of about an hour, and then they want to head back. There’s a front moving in.”
Reasonable, as they had probably come from Des Moines to Dubuque, refueled at the Dubuque Airport, and then headed up to Maitland International, as we called it. Reverse that to go home, and you’re talking about three or more hours. Maitland International, also known as MAX, was a grass strip and one tin shed with a wind sock on the curved roof, and a large machine shed that was called a hangar. But it was ours.
We had just enough time to get to MAX, to meet them. I really hoped we’d get a Huey.
We hit the airport about fifteen minutes later, and there was an Army-drab Huey sitting there. Yahoo! My lucky day.
We met the pilots and the crew chief, they opened the large sliding doors on the sides for us, and closed them as soon as we were secured in the canvas bench seats. We were held in by thin seat belts, and