The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [71]
“It means that our federal brothers-in-law have been watching the Borglan place, or at least that general area. Night and day. I’d guess for a while, at least. I’d suspect,” I added, “that they know more about the murder of the Colsons than we do …” I paused. “But we’re getting closer.”
I told about my phone conversation with Phil. About the Colsons posing as undercover cops.
“That’s nice,” interjected Art, “but it’s just a theory.
That’s all, and not a strong one. No evidence at the scene.”
“No,” I said. “The people who killed the Colsons suspected they were being watched. Long before those two poor bastards wandered in. They caught the Colsons red-handed, and the boys did what had worked before. They lied about being undercover cops.” Nobody said anything.
“The problem was, they lied to some people who believed them. And who killed them because of it.”
Art looked at George. “Well?”
George nodded. “Pretty close,” he said.
Art and I both waited. George, who had taken a sip of coffee, looked up. “What?”
“You can’t just say that and stop,” said Art. “Are you confirming, or just guessing, or what?”
George put his cup down. “Confirmation will come shortly. There’s another agent en route who will provide more information. I was just, well, letting you know that you were on the right track.”
“Do you know who the people in the house were?” I asked. “That much …”
George thought for a few moments. “No, I can’t say. I can’t give you that.” He looked at each of us. “I’m really sorry, guys. I can’t.”
Fourteen
Thursday, January 15, 1998, 0923
We’d just have to wait.
Our secretary, Judy, came in and handed me a package. Developed crime scene photos, those I’d had her take to be developed. As cheaply as possible, I remembered.
“Got a really great deal on these,” she said, “three sets for the price of one.”
“Hey, great! Thanks … they’re quick for a change, too!”
I put the pack on my desk, and started to open the photos.
“My shots of the crime scene at the Borglan place,” I said. “Let’s see what we can find here …”
Art held out his hand for a set, and George scooted his chair closer to the desk.
I looked in the envelope, and just cracked up. Packed neatly inside were three sets of crime scene photos, all right. One set was a normal 4 × 6 inch series of color prints. Nice. The other two sets were about 2 × 3 inches … wallet size.
“You want … a … big set, or … a set you … can … carry with you?” I just roared.
“What?” asked Art. “What?”
“Here,” I gasped out, handing him a set of the wallet-sized prints. “We got a hell of a deal, though …”
George looked over, and started to chuckle. “Oh, my God …”
There was absolutely no harm done, all we had to do was resubmit the negatives. But I kept seeing myself in court, holding up a photo wallet, and letting a hundred prints dangle in their linked transparent holders …
We went over the photos, one at a time. It was almost easier, in a way. I used the one set of larger prints, and each of the other two had a set of wallet size. They just picked out the ones they wanted to see …
Privately, I spent a lot of time on the group of photos I’d taken as I turned around and shot into the distance when I thought I was being watched. To see if there was anything there. Nothing I could pick up on. Outside the area that was fairly well lit, it had been so dark that the shutter had stayed open too long and there was virtually nothing but shake lines in shades of dark gray to black. Except one. South of the farm, there was a bumpy white streak.
I looked at it more closely.
“I see you ruined some shots, there,” said Art. “Flash not go off?”
“Maybe …” I do some amateur astronomy, and one of the first things you do with your camera is just point it straight up, open the shutter, and let the stars make curved streaks in the time exposure. Like those “cars on the freeway” shots taken at night. That’s what this was. Only it wasn’t a straight, or even a curved, line. It looked more like the path of a small firefly. One that was drunk.
“What’s this look like to you?” I asked, pushing