Eleven Days Read online

  “Well,” said Sally, “I can go back through the telephone logs, to see when it was reported …”

  “No,” said Mike, “that won’t be any help. I drove up on it just after it happened. There was no report.” He paused. “You might try the radio logs, though. I had to call it in.”

  Sally sighed. “Okay, you have a time?”

  “Probably between 23:00 and 01:00.”

  “One of you want to watch the radio while I go to the basement—all last year’s logs are down there.”

  Being gentlemen, Mike and I went to the basement. The old radio logs were kept in cardboard boxes, most of which were labeled. It took about thirty minutes. The one we wanted was labeled, but the label was facing the wall. Figures.

  Sally finally found the correct entry, at 00:19 hours on November 20. Mike called in that he was going to be out of the car at a motorist assist, called back a few minutes later, said it was a car vs. deer, and that he would be 10–6 for a while at the scene. Gave a plate of MKQ339.

  The state computer was still down, but we did a manual lookup of Q339 in our own files, and found that it was on a yellow ’82 Dodge, registered to Phyllis Herkaman.

  “Well, we got it.”

  “Now all we need is the damned report …”

  Armed with a date, we went through the reports again. Zero.

  “Goddammit! It’s got to be here somewhere.”

  It wasn’t.

  We sat there in the dispatch center, defeated.

  “Well,” I said, “somebody’s got to have it.”

  The unstated implication was that Mike might have forgotten to make out a report.

  “Was she hurt bad enough to go to the hospital?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, and besides, I remember Phyllis saying that she would take care of it. They won’t have a record.”

  “How about her insurance agent?”

  “Possible, Dan. I suppose that could be checked out in the morning.” I was getting more disappointed. We wanted to present the day shift with her name, not with more work.

  “Just a minute,” said Sally. “Wasn’t that the one where the farmer reported the mailbox vandalism the next morning, because he didn’t realize it was an accident?”

  Bingo.

  Back to the basement, to find the complaint report of the vandalism. Easy. Then to the case files, and there it was. Theo had apparently taken the accident report from the accident file and included it in the mailbox vandalism case file. Too lazy to make a copy.

  Her name was Peggy Keller, and her age was given as thirty-one.

  Sally announced that the state computer was back up. We ran Peggy Keller and got a driver’s license. The DL indicated that she was five feet four inches tall and weighed 117 pounds. With blue eyes. I wasn’t sure about the eyes, but she was blond, so that was a fair guess. We had our victim, we were sure. And her address was listed as Iowa City.

  I looked at my watch: 01:58. Just about seventy-two hours after the first homicide was reported, we had identified the fourth victim. Not exactly breaking any records. It was tentative, to be sure, but I felt that we were right.

  There was an air of mild euphoria in the dispatch center.

  “Shit,” said Dan. “Let’s not tell anybody, and see how long it takes the rest of them to ID her.”

  We all laughed.

  “Sally, be sure to have the next dispatcher call Lamar and tell him we have a tentative ID on the fourth victim.”

  “Come on, Carl, shouldn’t I call Theo first?” She was grinning.

  “Send Theo a letter.”

  7

  Wednesday, April 24

  02:20 hours

  After identifying Peggy Keller, tentatively, of course, we all went back out on the road. I went directly to the McGuire residence and drove into the yard. Spooky. It was one of those Mary Shelley kind of nights … a light mist, patchy fog, with the trees still bare and stark. The kind of night that seems to eat your headlights, with everything just a little darker than normal, but with an uninterrupted sight distance—like it was all receding from your plane of reality a little bit.

  McGuire’s house was dark, of course, but the yard light was still on.

  “Comm, three.”

  “Three?”

  “I’ll be out of the car at the McGuire residence for a minute or two. I’ll have the walkie.”

  “10–4, three’s out of the car, 02:23.”

  It’s been my experience that, while it’s the criminal who’s always supposed to return to the scene of the crime, it is a lot more likely that you’ll find an officer going back. There’s a feel to the scene, somehow, that sometimes helps to focus your thoughts. Not always consciously, of course. Frequently you’re just sort of drawn back to it.

  I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just sort of wandering around the yard and then up to the porch. It was very quiet, only the muffled sound of my car running in the background. An occasional faint rasping sound from the police radio in the car, which was picking up traffic my walkie-talkie wasn’t.

  I shined my flashlight into the machine shed. Mostly rusty farm equipment, with a fairly new tractor. Lots of steel and iron pieces lying around, most of them in pretty sad shape. I went in, knowing that I wouldn’t find anything of substance, as the lab team had already been through it very well. Especially Hester. But I wanted to get a feeling for the type of person McGuire was, and since this was where he worked, it was worth just being there for a few minutes.

  I left the machine shed with the impression that McGuire, while a farmer, wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it.

  I went toward the house, walking around the corner toward the door we had entered two nights ago. I saw something reflecting in the beam of my flashlight, something affixed to the door. I stepped closer. An expensive-looking crucifix, wooden with what appeared to be a silver Christ. It had been nailed to the door.

  I went back to the car, for my camera, and to call Mike as a witness.

  “Comm, have Mike work his way out here, would you? Not urgent, but within the next few minutes, if he can.”

  “10–4.”

  “And I’ll be out of the car again.”

  I rummaged around in my backseat, got out my camera, attached the flash, and went back to the door to photograph the crucifix. I was holding the camera to my eye, with my flashlight tucked under my arm and pointing at the door, to let me see well enough to focus the camera, when I heard somebody running on the back side of the house. Sounded like they were running on wet carpet.

  Well, when the clarion call sounds, you always think you’ll be ready. Here I was with my wife’s camera, fumbling for a good grip on my flashlight, thundering around the corner of the house, not able to draw my gun without dropping the light or letting go of the camera, and totally unprepared to tackle a suspect. But I was there. Just in time to see a figure disappear into the pine trees that formed a windbreak on the west side of the house. Running at an angle, which would bring him or her out either on the road or at the next farm. And running fast.

  I ran back to my car.

  “Comm, I have, I see, a subject, on foot, running west, get five, up here, I’ll be in pursuit …” I was breathing pretty hard.

  “Three, 10–9?”

  Repeat. Breathing harder than I thought. I put the camera in the car, got behind the wheel, and picked up the mike again.

  “Comm, I have a suspect on foot, running northwest from the residence. Get five here quick.”

  “10–4, three.”

  I drove back down the lane, almost losing control on the little hill. The lane was greasy. Got out to the gravel, turned left, and went down the road about three hundred yards, to a high point where I would be able to see fairly far. I turned on my spotlight, pointing it back toward the McGuire lane and lighting along the roadside fence line. I pointed the car about forty-five degrees right, shining the headlights into the area the suspect was heading. I got out of the car, locked it up
, and went across the barbed-wire fence and into the field. I ran down into the field, out of the light from my car, and then squatted down to listen.

  The field was very rough, with the remains of last year’s cornstalks sticking up about a foot or so. Hard to travel through, and I should be able to hear someone running pretty easily. I was hoping I had got to my vantage point well ahead of the suspect, and he would think I was in my car. I waited.

  “Three, five?”

  I always keep the mike-speaker of my walkie-talkie clipped on my left shoulder. You can keep the volume down that way and still hear. Unfortunately, in situations like this one, it always startles you.

  “Go ahead, five.”

  “Three, five?”

  Great. With a walkie-talkie, in open terrain, it is not unusual for you to be able to receive far better than you transmit. The case now. He couldn’t hear me, and I couldn’t get to the car to use the main radio.

  “Comm, three?” Softly, because I didn’t want my voice to carry into the field.

  “Three? Your signal is breaking, try again.”

  “Tell five to come west of the house, and he’ll see my car. I’m out in a field to the left.”

  “Three, try again?”

  Shit. I stood up, unclipped the walkie-talkie from my belt, and held it up over my head, increasing the antenna height.

  “Comm, you copy?”

  “10–4, three.”

  “Okay, comm, tell—” Something hit my left shoulder, very hard, from the rear. Pushed me forward, I lost my footing, and went down on my right side.

  Again, this time in the middle of my back and on my left arm. I tried to roll to my left, away from the blows, but was up against a frozen furrow ridge and couldn’t get over it. I tried to get to my feet. Again, on the back, and down again, this time on my hands and knees. Again, on the right side of my head, and I was out of it altogether. Aware, but unable to get arms and legs coordinated enough to get back up. Or to scratch my nose, for that matter. I was dimly aware of heavy breathing and then the sound of somebody running away to the left.

  I shook my head. No pain. Numb in the head and shoulder. It must have taken three or four seconds to stand, and that was a mistake. Dizzy, nausea. I knelt down, steadying myself with my right hand. Slowly blossoming lights, in pretty shades of red and blue. Okay, Carl, deep breaths. Slowly.

  A few seconds later, I stood up again. Slowly. Not so bad this time. I looked for my car, and it didn’t seem to be where I had left it. Disoriented, Carl. I reached for my mike, on my shoulder, and couldn’t find it. Okay, dummy, it fell off. Follow the cord. No cord. Right, I had been holding it up in the air. My flashlight was still in my pocket, so I shined it around for a second and saw the walkie-talkie lying a few feet from me. I picked it up, saw the pretty lights again, and reached for the mike. Almost cut my hand, as the plastic casing had been shattered. I had to fumble with the attachment, disconnect the mike, and use the side switch to talk. Finally got that done.

  “Five, three?”

  “Three, go ahead!” Loud, and with some anxiety. Good, I appreciate anxiety about me.

  “Yeah, five. Whoever it was got me with a club or something. He went west, on foot.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so. You see my car yet?”

  “10–4, I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay.” Dizzy again, not as good as I thought.

  Apparently five still thought I was in my car. I could see his car parked behind mine, and his voice was anxious again.

  “Three, where are you?”

  I pointed my flashlight at him. “Over here.”

  I started moving toward the road. “Five, he went west.”

  “10–4.”

  I became aware that my car had the road blocked. Five had come in from the east. My car was locked. Good move.

  I got to the fence, and Mike helped me over.

  “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?”

  “Got blindsided. With something.”

  “Let’s stop the bleeding.”

  Bleeding? My head. “Yeah, let’s get it stopped.”

  We went to his car, and he popped the trunk, removing his first-aid kit.

  “Five, comm?” Sally’s voice, and she sounded very worried. My first thought was that something else had happened.

  Mike answered. “I found him, comm. He’s hurt, but I think he’ll be okay.”

  “10–4, and twenty-five is almost there now.”

  Twenty-five? He couldn’t be, it was eight miles.

  “How could he get here so fast?”

  Mike put a compress on the side of my head and lifted my hand up to keep it in place. “Fast? Shit, you’ve been out of contact for five minutes, at least.”

  Five minutes. Hummmm. “Head must be softer than I thought.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Twenty-five is coming from the east, too, isn’t he?”

  “Yep.” Mike began winding some gauze around my head, freeing my right hand.

  “We better get my car moved.”

  “Too late now. Whoever hit you’s been gone for a good five minutes.”

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, but I think it was the suspect.”

  “If it was, you’re lucky you’re not dead.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “We better get you to the hospital. Want an ambulance?”

  “No. Give me a minute, and a cigarette, and I’ll drive in.”

  Dan got there about that time. I had just lit a smoke, and he came over and looked pretty wide-eyed.

  “God, you’re a mess.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Shit, he got you a good one in the head.”

  “Thanks, doc. I thought it was my foot.”

  “No shit, really. Don’t you just hate the way those head wounds bleed?” Directed at Mike.

  “You’re a lot of help.”

  “Who did it?”

  I just looked at him. “My assailant, dumb-ass.”

  8

  Wednesday, April 24

  03:32 hours

  The drive into the hospital was uneventful, except that Dan, behind me, had headlights that were slightly out of adjustment. They made my head ache.

  At the hospital, I was checked over by a nurse in the emergency room. She decided I should see a doctor. Earned her keep, I guess. My good friend Dr. Henry Zimmer was on call. At 3:30 A.M. I wondered just how long the friendship would last.

  Doc Z arrived in good time and decided I needed stitches in my head. Also X rays of head and upper torso. I had to take off my uniform jacket and saw how much blood was on it for the first time. Trashed one shirt, too. Blood had soaked through. The jacket was also torn on the left shoulder, where he had hit the mike. Damn.

  My bulletproof vest was okay, and Doc Z was of the opinion that it might have saved me from a back injury. I was, too.

  My right shoulder was really sore by now, but the X rays showed no breaks. Same on the left. I hadn’t been aware of it, but my shoulder must have caught a part of the blow to the head. Henry was also of the opinion that, had that not been the case, I might have sustained a severe head injury. Again, I had to agree.

  Lamar, who had been called by Sally when it had become apparent that I was dead, arrived at the hospital just as I was being stitched up.

  He barged into the ER, looking worried and pissed off at the same time.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  I told him.

  “And you stood up, and he hit you?”

  “Yeah, I must have been almost on top of him when I knelt down in the field. Just didn’t see him. He must have thought it was time to go when I stood up, and he heard me talking to another car. Figured we’d get him, I guess.”

  “Yeah. You able to get a good look at him?”

  “No. Nothing at all, except I think he’s
about my height or so, but I’m not even sure about that. Runs like a deer … Not very patriotic, either.” I couldn’t resist.

  “What?”

  “The way I was standing when he hit me the first time—looked just like the Statue of Liberty.”

  Lamar grinned. So did Henry.

  “Well,” said Lamar, “from now on, at least for a while, we’ll send two of you out to check those places.”

  “Okay by me.”

  Henry dropped the bomb. “Carl, it won’t be you for a while. You get three or four days off.”

  I gave him a look.

  “You have a mild concussion. With your history of two skull fractures and three concussions, we aren’t going to take any chances. Are we?”

  Silence from both me and Lamar.

  “Good, I’m going to let you go home, unless you want to stay here. But no bright lights, and no exertion for a while. And if you become nauseated again, get right back up here. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Lamar and I left and went to the office. I told him about possibly identifying the unknown body, and he seemed pleased. I had to do my report on the incident before I went home. Took about an hour. I was very surprised to note, from the radio logs, that I had been out of it for six minutes. Even longer than Mike had guessed.

  Sally looked very concerned. It’s hard on a dispatcher to have something happen to a cop and not to be able to do anything about it. She really thought I had been killed. Good dispatchers always assume the worst. At least I think that would have been the worst.

  Before I left the office, Mike called in. He and the boss had just been to the Herkaman house. Crucifix there, too. He had gone out with Lamar, implementing our new two-man policy. Hester, who was staying at the only motel in town, was to be notified at 07:00.

  I got home and had a little trouble backing the patrol car into the garage. Shoulder hurt, and my eyes kept changing focus when I looked back over my shoulder, focusing on the wire squares of the restraining cage. Weird, as the garage looked like it would jump toward me four or five feet each time.

  I put my jacket into the tub, to soak, and trashed the shirt. I made a sandwich and drank a Pepsi. Then snuck upstairs, trying to be quiet and to get to bed without waking Sue. Didn’t work, as I stumbled against the chest of drawers.