The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [36]
We pulled into the lane, and on the way to the residence, we drove through a nest of outbuildings. The house wasn’t nearly the quality of the home place, but it was nice, and well maintained, nonetheless. It and the outbuildings were white frame, and looked pretty sound. The door to the wooden machine shed was opened, and there were four snowmobiles parked inside. One thing that struck me about them was that none of them had the little orange flags, and none of them appeared to have registration numbers on the cowl. Cops with a patrol officer’s background notice stuff like that. I was willing to bet Art hadn’t picked up on that.
We got out of my car, and walked toward the kitchen door. I knocked. It was a courtesy not to go to the front door. Most farms reserved the front door for important occasions, and the back or kitchen door was used for routine entry. If we had been accepted at the front door, and none of us had removable outer footwear, we would have “tracked in” all sorts of snow and mud. Easier to clean a kitchen floor.
The inside porch door opened, and a man meeting Grossman’s description came out.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m Carl Houseman, deputy here in Nation County. The office called, and told you to expect us?”
“Somebody did. You got any identification?”
I fished out my badge, as did Art. Grossman reached for my badge case, and I pulled my hand back a couple of inches. I grinned at him. “You just get to look, Mr. Grossman. You can’t have it until you’re hired.” He didn’t seem particularly amused.
“So,” he said, having scrutinized three badges he probably had no way of telling were authentic or not, “what can I do for you?”
He wasn’t even inviting us onto the porch. Not a good sign.
“We’re here because you’re the hired man at the Borglan farm, and they had a burglary.” I moved closer to the door. “We’d like to know when the last time was that you checked the place, and things like that.”
“‘Burglary’” he said. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
“Well, it started out that way.”
“I understand that a couple of cops got it?” he asked.
Christ, what was it with these people, anyway? Wishful thinking? “No, no. No cops. A couple of burglars got killed, though.”
“By who?”
“Now, that’s a good question. We thought maybe you could help us there.”
Much to my surprise, he invited us in. “You might as well come on in, and we can get it over with.”
Get what over with? I thought. I glanced at Art, and he seemed to be thinking the same thing. Damn. Could I be right?
Seven
Tuesday, January 13, 1998, 1248
Several cups of Linda Grossman’s coffee later (I was really running on caffeine at this point), it certainly didn’t appear that I was even close to being right. After we’d all gotten settled around the kitchen table, Harvey Grossman, wife Linda, and their nine-year-old daughter, Carrie, had pretty well explained things to us.
Carrie struck me as a pretty cool little kid. About four and a half feet tall and very thin, she had brown hair and brown eyes that were pretty intense. Especially when I showed Linda Grossman my badge. I showed it to Carrie next, including her in the business just like everybody else. Carrie examined it very closely, and nodded.
The Grossmans told an interesting story.
First of all, the entire household had been awakened about 2 A.M. on Sunday, by the sound of a snowmobile running through their yard at an apparently very high rate of speed.
“Just tore right through the yard,” as little Carrie put it. “I hollered out, it scared me so much.”
I could imagine it did. At 0200, with the temperatures hovering at minus forty or colder, no wind, over two miles from the nearest gravel road, which wouldn’t have any traffic anyway, it would be just about as dead quiet as it could get. A high-speed snowmobile passing within fifty feet of the house would shatter that silence, and very likely wake the whole family.
Carrie had run to her folks’ room, who had also both been awakened. Nobody could figure out who it was, since the Borglans weren’t home. After settling Carrie