Known Dead Read online

  Five

  WE WENT BACK INSIDE. Beth was a lot calmer, which was unfortunate, at least for us. Nan looked madder at us than ever, and brushed by in a huff, back to the porch and the kids.

  ‘‘How you doin’?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Fine, now. Sorry about that.’’

  ‘‘That’s all right. Believe me. Say, Beth, just for the record, how old are you?’’

  ‘‘Seventeen. Almost eighteen.’’

  ‘‘Gettin’ up there.’’ I grinned at her. ‘‘Damned near old.’’

  Hester looked surprised.

  ‘‘Does Howie have any cammo clothes around here?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘None?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘None.’’

  ‘‘Thanks,’’ I said. ‘‘Well, so we think that this Johnny Marks was up there today, maybe with a friend?’’

  ‘‘Yeah . . .’’ said Beth, hesitantly. ‘‘I don’t know . . . I don’t think Johnny Marks would ever go there himself. I really don’t.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘He can’t. He can’t be associated with dope at all, or he goes back to the joint for a long time.’’

  ‘‘I thought he worked on the gambling boat?’’ I said. ‘‘You need a clean record to do that.’’

  ‘‘Not exactly,’’ said Hester. ‘‘The legislature worded it a little differently. You can’t work the boats for five years after a felony conviction. They thought it meant you had to be clean for five years, but it turns out that it also means that if you get five years in prison, you can be hired the day you walk out the door.’’

  ‘‘No shit?’’

  She nodded.

  ‘‘Like I said,’’ said Beth, ‘‘he can’t have anything to do with it. So I don’t think he’d be there.’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  She sighed. ‘‘Do I need a lawyer?’’

  Magic phrase. ‘‘Do you want one? You’re not in custody or anything,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘I’m scared of Johnny Marks finding out I talked to you. He’d kill me too.’’

  ‘‘We can get you to a safe house.’’

  ‘‘No fuckin’ way! I go there, he knows for sure.’’

  ‘‘Well, you’re probably right there.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. She was becoming genuinely afraid.

  ‘‘Look,’’ said Hester, ‘‘talk to us just a bit longer. This can still be considered routine, in a death case. No suspicion.’’

  ‘‘And you leave here, and go right up and talk to Johnny Marks, right? Straight to the man, right from me. No, thanks. No, thank you very much!’’

  ‘‘Now, slow down,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Don’t get all upset over something that hasn’t happened.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, right.’’

  ‘‘Tell you what,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ll use your phone, and get some of our people to talk to Johnny Marks right now. While we’re still here. So it looks like you both got heat at the same time.’’

  She thought about that. Finally: ‘‘That’s good. That’s okay.’’

  I picked up her phone and called the office. It had a long cord, and I went around the corner while she and Hester continued to talk.

  Sometimes the simplest things can get so complex. Let me just say that I was on the phone for better than five minutes, making the arrangements to get somebody to go talk to Marks without using police radio.

  I went back to Beth and Hester. They were really getting along.

  ‘‘Beth tells me,’’ said Hester, ‘‘that she doesn’t think Marks would go along, but that a man named Howler Moeher might.’’

  ‘‘Reasonable.’’ I kind of knew Howler. She was right, he probably would.

  ‘‘Howler’s got a machine gun,’’ said Beth.

  There was a pause at that. Most people wouldn’t know a machine gun from a semiauto rifle, unless it was one of the big ones on a tripod. But you always had to ask.

  ‘‘What do you mean by machine gun, Beth?’’

  ‘‘Well, you know, it’s black, and it fires real fast, and Howler says it is.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘How big is it?’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ said Beth, extending her hands about three feet apart, ‘‘like this or so, with a thing hanging down from the bottom, like.’’

  ‘‘Where is old Howler these days?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘On a farm between here and Maitland, on the highway, you know, by the old train station . . .’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I think so,’’ I said.

  We had to talk to Howler.

  We stayed with Beth for a few more minutes, and I checked to make sure we had a unit talking to Marks, before we left. We did. The Freiberg officer. He’d been the only one available. We headed right up to Marks’s place, both because we wanted to talk to him and because the unit already there had damn little idea what they were doing with him.

  On the way, we started sorting things out better. And were faced with a pretty familiar dilemma. Do we talk with Marks on the fly, to get him while he’s still off balance? Or do we wait, and talk to him later, when we have more information, and ammunition enough to impeach his story? We figured that, since we had to protect Beth, we’d better do it now, and then hit him again later if we had to. And we’d probably have to.

  Then, we had Howie with a shotgun, and nobody that we saw had been hit with a shotgun. But, according to Hester, the shotgun had been fired. She had seen no blood trails at any of the other obvious locations. Therefore, Howie had missed? Most likely. But who had he been shooting at? Bill probably. But were we sure? No. And why in the hell did Howie have a shotgun in the first place? It wasn’t like him at all.

  Ah, but we knew that Marks and Howie were working together. Marks was almost guaranteed to know something worth our while, even if he hadn’t been out there today.

  Johnny Marks was about twenty-five, a little over six feet, slender, tanned, black-haired, and very indignant.

  ‘‘I said,’’ he said to me, ‘‘I want to know just what the fuck you people are doing here.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you do,’’ I replied, and continued my introduction. ‘‘As I was trying to say, my name is Houseman, and I’m a deputy sheriff here in Nation County. And this is Special Agent Gorse of the DCI.’’

  ‘‘Big fuckin’ deal.’’

  ‘‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’’

  ‘‘Fuck you. I’m leavin’ town for a vacation.’’

  ‘‘May we come in?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  I reached out and grabbed the front of his Hawaiian shirt. ‘‘Then you get to come out.’’

  ‘‘Get your fuckin’ hands off me!’’

  ‘‘I’m placing you under arrest as a material witness. You will come with us.’’ I pulled, hard. He came out the door, stumbling. ‘‘Now.’’

  Hester shot me that damned eyebrow again.

  ‘‘You heard him say he intended to leave?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she said. ‘‘I did.’’

  ‘‘I want my attorney, and I want him now!’’ Typical. ‘‘You can’t arrest me!’’ Natural progression. ‘‘For what?’’

  The handcuffs went on easily.

  ‘‘I’m going to handcuff him in front, if that’s all right with you?’’

  ‘‘Fine with me,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘You can’t handcuff me!’’

  ‘‘He doesn’t look like much of a threat,’’ she said.

  ‘‘You can’t do this!’’

  ‘‘Take him in our car, Carl?’’

  ‘‘No. Let’s get a marked car.’’

  ‘‘You can’t do this!’’

  I pushed him toward the Freiberg officer. That officer was aware that he’d been the choice of desperation, just to get somebody up there. He’d been very patient with both us and Marks. I’m not sure about us, but he was definitely losing patience with Mark
s.

  ‘‘You hold him for us for a little bit?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’ He grinned.

  ‘‘I said . . . !’’

  I stopped, Marks stopped. ‘‘You have the right to remain silent . . .’’

  He actually listened. Then: ‘‘What am I charged with?’’ Civil, calm, with no sign of the excitement of a few moments before. Typical of an experienced criminal. As soon as you’re truly serious, the show stops and we get down to business.

  ‘‘You weren’t listening,’’ I said, reasonably and with a smile. ‘‘You’re under arrest as a material witness. You aren’t charged with anything.’’

  ‘‘Witness to what?’’

  ‘‘Oh, manufacturing of dope, for instance.’’

  ‘‘Hey, I don’t cook anything!’’

  ‘‘Marijuana. Patch.’’

  ‘‘Oh, well, I don’t know nothin’ about no patch, man.’’

  ‘‘Conspiracy to manufacture.’’

  ‘‘Nope. Not me.’’

  ‘‘Murder.’’

  Stunned silence.

  ‘‘Conspiracy to commit murder.’’

  ‘‘Whaaa?’’

  ‘‘Murder of a police officer in conjunction with manufacturing a controlled substance.’’

  ‘‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’’

  Well, we had his complete attention now.

  ‘‘You’ll be taken to the Nation County Sheriff’s Department,’’ said Hester, ‘‘where we will ask you for a statement. You may call your attorney as soon as you arrive at the station.’’ She smiled sweetly at him, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her smile and not mean it. At least not mean it in a friendly way. ‘‘You really should, you know.’’

  ‘‘Should what?’’

  ‘‘Call your attorney. I sure would if I were you,’’ she said.

  Six

  AS THE FREIBERG police officer closed the back door of his patrol car, thereby preventing Marks from hearing us, Hester turned to me.

  ‘‘That go the way you planned?’’

  I grinned. ‘‘Well, no, now that you ask.’’

  ‘‘Material witness?’’

  ‘‘Hey, he’s leaving . . . or was going to.’’

  She sighed. ‘‘Carl, sometimes . . .’’

  I grinned again. ‘‘What?’’

  She shook her head. It was, after all, a valid arrest. ‘‘Never mind.’’

  ‘‘All right. Now, then, as long as he’s not going to be worth a shit to us until he talks to his attorney . . .’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Well, I was thinking we’d better pay this Howler dude a visit.’’

  Since Howler had a ‘‘machine gun,’’ prudence sort of dictated that we have some assistance. Hester used her cell phone to talk to Al, avoiding all the monitors of police radio frequencies. Given what we suspected was going on with Howler, we pretty well had to assume he’d have a scanner. We had to go back down through Freiberg, and out the other end to get to Howler’s place. We stopped and got a couple of cans of pop, and by the time we got to Howler’s farm, at 1643, there were six or seven patrol cars pulled up around the place. I was impressed. A crowd of cops in our county is normally three officers. In two cars.

  There were troopers and deputies on all four sides of the house. No sign of activity. Hester had called information and gotten Howler’s telephone number. She called the house while we walked toward the porch. He answered after about ten rings.

  ‘‘Yeah . . .’’

  ‘‘This Howler?’’ she asked, in a normal tone of voice.

  ‘‘Yeah, honey, this is the old Howler.’’ His interest increased as soon as he heard a female voice. ‘‘You want some?’’

  ‘‘No, I’d like to talk to you, though.’’

  ‘‘Hey, phone sex is good, sweetie. Not as good as what old Howler’s got here, but if that’s what you want?’’

  ‘‘What I really want, Howler, is for you to step out on the front porch.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Just come on out, where I can see you.’’

  Old Howler was no fool. ‘‘Who the fuck is this?’’

  ‘‘Agent Gorse, Iowa DCI.’’

  He laughed. Maybe he wasn’t a fool, but he wasn’t convinced either. ‘‘Yeah, right.’’

  ‘‘Look out the window, Howler. You’ll see me out by the swing set.’’

  He actually looked. I don’t think he ever did see Hester then, but he sure saw the cop cars.

  ‘‘Holy fuck!’’

  He hung up.

  Hester held the cell phone above her head, and said, in a very loud voice. ‘‘He’s broken contact. Look alive.’’

  Howler, ‘‘old Howler,’’ heard that too. Of course.

  There was a shadow at the front screen door, and then it opened a crack.

  ‘‘Don’t shoot!’’

  ‘‘Just come on out, Howler.’’

  ‘‘What the fuck you want?’’

  ‘‘Gotta talk, Howler,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Gotta talk now.’’

  ‘‘What about?’’

  ‘‘About what will happen if you don’t,’’ said Hester.

  While she and ‘‘old Howler’’ had been chatting, a youngish trooper had crept up onto the porch area and was standing pressed to the wall, about two feet from the screen door. The door opened more, and Howler stuck his head out. I had the impression of gray hair, in a ponytail, no shirt, thin . . .

  The trooper’s hand shot out, grabbed the ponytail, and in one very smooth move Howler was on the porch floor, facedown with one arm behind his back, and the right knee of the trooper firmly against his spine.

  ‘‘Ow, man, that hurts!’’ The call of the wild.

  Hester and I were on the porch in a hurry. We stood looking down at Howler for a second. I looked at the trooper. ‘‘You do good work.’’

  ‘‘Hey, nothing to it.’’

  ‘‘You fuckers,’’ asked Howler, ‘‘gonna stand there and fuckin’ chat while this fucker’s tearing off my fuckin’ arm?’’

  ‘‘Watch your language,’’ I said, ‘‘there’s a lady present.’’

  Howler looked up, saw Hester, and said, ‘‘Oh. My apologies, ma’am.’’

  I had to turn around and face the yard. He was funny enough, but Hester just hated ‘‘ma’am.’’

  ‘‘Let him up,’’ said Hester.

  The trooper, who was probably all of twenty-three or twenty-four, stood Howler up, smartly, and asked Hester, ‘‘Do you want him cuffed, ma’am?’’

  ‘‘No, thank you.’’

  I turned around. ‘‘Do you want to talk to him now, ma’am?’’

  Mistake. ‘‘No,’’ said Hester evenly. ‘‘I was thinking of hauling him in as a material witness.’’

  ‘‘Can’t,’’ I said. ‘‘Been done already today. Only allowed one a day.’’

  ‘‘What’s goin’ on?’’ asked Howler. Reasonably.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Hester, ‘‘we have to talk to you about a couple of things.’’ She eyeballed him pretty well, especially his many tattoos. ‘‘You’re a felon, right?’’

  ‘‘I did my time, ma’am. I got out two years ago. I’m clean.’’

  ‘‘Except for a couple of things,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Like your assault rifle, for instance.’’

  Silence.

  ‘‘If you give it to us now,’’ said Hester, ‘‘I’ll tell the court you were cooperative.’’

  He thought for a minute. ‘‘I don’t want you searchin’ the house.’’

  ‘‘If we get the gun, we won’t have to.’’

  He thought for another few seconds. ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘We’ll come in with you,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘And you just tell us where to look for it,’’ I said. ‘‘Let us get it.’’

  ‘‘Sure, man,’’ said Howler. ‘‘You think I’m nuts?’’ He grinned. ‘‘Just reach around the door, it’s ri
ght there.’’

  I pulled my last two surgical gloves from my pants pocket, donned them, and reached my hand around the doorframe. I put my hand on a piece of cold metal. I pulled out an old Russian Army rifle, semiauto. Tokarev. 1940. Had a box magazine under the stock, for ten rounds. I’d seen one once before, in a museum. World War II vintage. But 7.62 mm, all right. How handy.

  I pulled back the bolt, and a round popped out, striking the edge of the porch and spinning onto the floor. With the bolt still back, I dropped the magazine, which hit the floor with a solid thunk. The bolt stayed open. I tried to smell the chamber, but with my sinuses, it was hopeless. But old Howler didn’t know that.

  ‘‘When did you last fire this?’’

  ‘‘Early this morning.’’

  ‘‘Where.’’

  ‘‘In the woods.’’

  I looked at him. ‘‘At what?’’ I bent over, and retrieved the round and the magazine, which contained several more.

  ‘‘A deer.’’

  ‘‘Howler,’’ I said, straightening up slowly, ‘‘that’s illegal. You can’t hunt deer in Iowa with a rifle. You know that.’’

  He just looked at me.

  ‘‘Howler,’’ said Hester, ‘‘we’re going to have to ask you to come to the Sheriff’s Department with us. We have some questions to ask you.’’ She turned to the trooper. ‘‘Cuff him now, please.’’

  ‘‘Sure thing, ma’am.’’

  ‘‘I’ll give you a receipt for the rifle,’’ I said, smiling, ‘‘as soon as we get to the office. We’ll have to keep it.’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ said Howler. ‘‘It’s these new fuckin’ gun laws.’’ He caught himself instantly. ‘‘Excuse my language, ma’am.’’

  We gave Howler to a deputy from James County, who had come over to assist, and let him take Howler to our jail. We thanked the young trooper again, eliciting another barrage of ‘‘ma’am.’’ Hester wasn’t in the best of moods when we left.

  I notified Lamar that we were en route to the office for an interview. Hester called her boss, Al, and gave him more detail over her cell phone. We just had to get those things for our department.

  When she was done, we talked. Mostly about Howler and the gun. It could be a murder weapon. The caliber was right. But the owner didn’t seem to be a good possibility.

  ‘‘He’s not nervous enough,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Not by a mile.’’