The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [75]
He was right. Absolutely. No doubt in my mind. Again.
“Totality of the circumstance,” said George. “Now, all we need is evidence …”
“I been thinking about that, too,” said Lamar. “I think there’s a chance that whoever called Cletus in Florida was calling from the murder scene. Cletus’s house.” He shifted in his chair, and winced. He’d put weight on that ankle. “So I was thinking that if somebody was to go to a judge, and just lay the whole thing out, and make a couple of really good points, maybe we could get a court order for Cletus’s telephone records. Like, maybe a longdistance call made to him, from his place in Iowa to his place in Florida.” He shifted back, more carefully. “So what do you two think?”
“Explain to the judge that this is a critical case …” murmured George, to himself as much as us.
What it boiled down to was this: A judge would take into consideration the bare evidence, but would listen to more persuasive arguments. First, we would get a bit of leeway, because it was such a serious crime. Then, it would be apparent that this evidence would go a long way to either get us on the track, or to eliminate Cletus completely. Most persuasively, though, I thought, was the fact that the order to permit examination of the phone bill was not particularly intrusive. We wouldn’t have to go on the Borglan property to get it, and we wouldn’t disrupt the Borglan household in any way. As a plus, we could be pretty restrictive with dates, as well. We weren’t going fishing, here. We could stipulate a three-day span, from Friday through Sunday. No more.
I thought we had a good chance. So did George. Lamar just sat there looking very pleased with himself.
As we were typing out the application, I thought about Cletus. He’d really had a busy day. He’d gone from innocent irritant, to suspected murderer, back to innocent, to accessory after the fact. By rights, he should have been breathing hard.
“So, what did you have to tell me?” asked Lamar
“Uh … nothing,” I said.
Fifteen
Thursday, January 15, 1998, 1520
The Febbies were still a no-show, so after we broke for lunch—a couple of fat-free hotdogs for me—we moved on with the Cletus lead. Judge Oberfeld was polite, and you could tell he was obviously pleased about George of the Bureau being with us, but suggested we simply approach the county attorney and have a subpoena issued. We explained about the conflict of interest, and that there had yet to be a special prosecutor appointed, and that Davies was in court in Pottawattamie County and not available.
Mike, who was just coming on duty, took the resulting order, and headed to the phone company records office in Manchester.
George and I went back to my office. I got busy filling out my account of John’s and my flying trip into the snowbank, in hot pursuit of a snowmobile. It ran to four pages, in which I took responsibility for authorizing the chase sans headlights. Not nearly as noble as it sounds, really, because department policy requires that the driver, regardless of authorization, operate the vehicle in a safe manner. Best I could do was share responsibility.
I had just finished the report, and signed it, when George said, “They’re here.”
I went to the window, and looked out over the parking lot. A dark blue Ford sedan was parked beside George’s dark blue Ford sedan. Twins. I opened my mouth to make some sarcastic remark to him, when I recognized who was getting out of the second car.
“Oh, shit” was all I said. “Goddamn it, George. You could have told us in advance …”
Special Agent in Charge Volont, Federal Bureau of Investigation, stuck out his hand. “Deputy Houseman, how’ve you been?”
“Fine.” We shook hands. “Yourself?”
“Except for the fact that some of the people assigned to me are idiots,” he said,