The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [35]
C. He has at least heard somebody go through his yard in a noisy snowmobile after they killed the brothers.
D. The killer is still at the farm.
“I figure,” said Art, “we can pretty well eliminate the ‘D’ above.”
I figured we could, too. Although there were no foot tracks from the house going anywhere except to the machine shed. The only other track was the snowmobile track that was near the back door. If our killer didn’t take the snowmobile, he would have to have been in the house when I was first there. I didn’t believe it for a minute, but it gave me a funny feeling in the back of my neck, anyway.
My feelings must have shown on my face. “Got a case of the spooks, Houseman?”
“Oh, sort of …” I said. Then, “Nah, we searched that house thoroughly.” But I remembered very well the feeling that I was being watched …
I just drove. Back in the days when I smoked, this would have been the time.
I picked up the mike, and called for dispatch to phone Borglan’s hired man, and let him know we were coming.
Art read off the sheet he’d picked up at dispatch earlier that morning. According to his information, the hired man was a fellow named Harvey Grossman. His driver’s license had said he was born in ’62, five feet nine inches, 180 lbs., blue, and brown. I didn’t know him, but Lamar had told me that he’d moved to our county back in ’93 or ’94.
I was getting a little worried. Art was pretty well established as thinking that Fred had done the dirty deed. I didn’t agree, and thought that Fred was telling the truth. All well and good, and an indication of a balanced investigation. The part that worried me was that I thought it was very likely that we were just about to talk with the man who had murdered the two burglars. I mean, if Fred hadn’t done it, and all the snowmobile tracks at the Borglan place led to the residence of one Harvey Grossman, who was left?
Just for the sake of arguing with myself, I assumed that Grossman had been at the residence for some reason, and had caught the burglars in the act. Perhaps there had been some sort of confrontation. Turned violent. Bang. Bang. And then, bang. Put ’em in the shed. Who else would even be looking in there until the Borglans came back? If, as he said, Cletus had been called back unexpectedly for business, then how could Grossman have known he’d be coming? Right. He couldn’t. All the time in the world to dispose of the bodies, as far as he could have known. The forecast was for warming for the next week or longer. Just wait a few more days for enough of a thaw to get them into a shallow pit. Move the corpses later, if necessary.
“How certain are you,” I asked, “that Grossman here isn’t the killer?”
“Just about positive,” said Art. “Why?”
“Well,” I began, and ran my theory by him. Quickly, but with some feeling.
“It’s a point.” He waited in silence. “Okay, it’s a good point. If Fred didn’t do it, this Grossman dude is the most likely suspect. Sure. So …?”
“Well,” I began, again, “if he is a suspect, shouldn’t we just come right out and advise him of his rights as soon as we see him? Let him know, and take it from there?”
“Jesus Christ, Houseman,” said Art, “don’t be so goddamned honest!”
“What?”
“No kidding,” said Art, exasperated, and with uncharacteristic length. “Look. Keep the suspect business in the back of your head, but don’t go getting carried away on me. Let the conversation flow. If he sends the right signals, then we hit him with Miranda and handcuffs all at once. Otherwise, lighten up.”
“I know all that,” I said, getting a little exasperated myself. “But, in court, if some attorney asks when I first thought this guy was a suspect, I’m gonna have to tell him it was before we talked with him for the first time.”
“What did you do?” asked Art. “Watch the entire O.J. trial?” He sighed. “Don’t worry about it. Fred’s the shooter. Trust me.”
Yeah. Right. As I drove, I reached back under my down vest, and unsnapped the restraining strap on my holster. I’d feel a lot better trusting Art if my gun was unsnapped when we walked