The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [67]
“I don’t know if you have ever felt this way,” I said to George, changing tack, “but I occasionally get the feeling I’m being watched. Ever have that?”
“Sure. You’re supposed to pay attention to it.”
“Yep.” I paused. “When I was at the murder scene, I could have sworn I was being watched. Several times.”
Nothing.
“When Special Agent Brandenburg of your Snowmobile Division ended up in the ditch,” I said, “he was coming from the direction of the Borglan place, where the bodies were found. He was on a machine so silent it could hardly be heard. He was equipped with night vision equipment. He was running blacked out …”
Still nothing.
“So it was pretty obvious he was doing surveillance,” I said. “Proximity would indicate the Borglan farm as at least a likely object. Why? Why would your people be watching our murder scene? Any ideas?”
“None,” said George. “I don’t know what their assignment is. Honest. I think that your assumption that they were watching your crime scene is reaching a bit, though … but to even think they may be implicated …”
“Then,” I continued, “very shortly after we bring him here, his partner shows up. Not at the door. Not that openly, by a long shot.” I studied George. He was embarrassed, but I believed him when he told me he didn’t know their assignment. “No, we catch Agent Hernandez out behind the jail, like a common burglar.”
“I can’t explain …” said George.
“Somebody better, and it better be damned good,” rumbled Lamar. “We’d all hate to have to bother one of our senators to find out for us …”
George blanched, and I think I did, too. That was a first-class threat.
“All I can do,” he said, “is try to get the information for you. Let me try that…”
“Twenty-four hours,” said Lamar. “Try hard, George.”
“Oh, yes,” said George. “Count on it. But, in the meantime, can I have my two agents in there?”
Lamar grinned. “Sure. We’ll call a magistrate and recommend release on their own recognizance. But first, we do photos and prints. Standard procedure before release.”
It was unsaid, but nonetheless a major threat. No deniability with photos and prints. Just on the off chance it might have occurred to somebody to try to deny this.
Thirteen
Thursday, January 15, 1998, 0200
Lamar and I sat in his office. We could hear the Maitland town clock strike twice. The bell was exceptionally clear in the still, icy air. It was a very lonely sound.
“You got any confirmation at all that those dead kids claimed they were cops?”
“Workin’ on it, boss.”
“You really think the FBI people did the Colsons?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me, neither. Too bad, though, in a way.” He grinned. “I mean, we caught ’em. Just too bad they didn’t do it.”
I drew a deep breath, and let it out very slowly. “Yeah. Ain’t gonna hurt to let ’em think we suspect ’em, though. We might find out what they were actually doing around there.”
“They were pullin’ surveillance on my buddy Cletus,” said Lamar. “That’s what they were doin’.”
I held up my right hand, measuring less than an inch between my thumb and forefinger. “Cletus is this important …” I spread my hands at arm’s length. More than six feet apart. “You gotta be at least this big before you get FBI surveillance. At least.”
We were silent again for a few moments.
“So,” said Lamar, slowly, “what the fuck were they doin’ there?”
I shrugged. “Not a clue.”
“But you do think they were there?”
“Oh, yeah. If not actually on the property, they were close enough to see … I’d stake my life on the fact that they were the ones watching me when I felt so spooked.” I crumpled my decaf pop can. “The real question is whether or not they were lookin’ in the place the night the brothers were killed.”
“Witnesses…” muttered Lamar.
“Professional witnesses,” I said. “If we’re lucky, they got photos.”
“Of what?”
“Won’t know until they think they have to tell us what they had going. Your bit about the senator should get that machinery going real fast.” I stood. “Gotta hand it to ya, boss. That senator bit was perfect.”
“Thanks,” he said,