The Big Thaw Part 6

"Possibly," said Art.

"Possibly" my a.s.s. "So, why then sit on the road and draw attention to yourself, on the off chance that a cop might come along? I just don't think so."

"Well, with the bodies salted away in the shed, the only person who might stumble on them was the hired man, right?" Lamar was off on his own track.

We all agreed.

"Let's not rule him out," said Lamar. "He might have been at the place when the two guys showed up. He might have done it."

"That could be," said Art, "but what motive would he have, really? He could just watch them, and call the cops when they left."

"Maybe he knows Fred?" said Lamar. "Let's get this checked out, too."

"Sure," I said. "Will do."

"Murder makes the mind do strange things," interjected our prosecutor. He just does that sometimes. Tosses in whatever is in his head. He does it in court, too. Leaving an occasional flabbergasted judge in his wake.

"So, what's with the bodies in the machine shed?" asked Art. "Why there? Just for argument's sake."

"Not enough room in the refrigerator?" I just stuck that in. Well, I was tired, and I thought it was funny Apparently, I was a little more tired than everybody else.

"The ground is frozen solid," said Lamar, quickly. "Can't dig anywhere, so you store the bodies. Just like they do at all the cemeteries this time of year. Either that or heat the ground. Mostly, though, just come back later, haul 'em away, and dig a hole someplace." Lamar looked around the table. "Nothin' in the machine shed the hired man would need."

That, of course, implied that the Borglans' itinerary was pretty well known to the suspect. I said as much. This led to a brief discussion as to how many people knew where the Borglans were. Many, as it turned out. But it brought the hired man right back into the limelight.

What I couldn't understand was why Fred would salt the bodies away, clean the house, and otherwise erase any sign of his presence, and then come to the cops. It just didn't make any sense. I said as much.

"It would have if he'd changed his mind," said Art. "Guilt working on him, especially after he contacts his aunt, to make his alibi, and sees how worried she really is."

"h.e.l.l," I said, "if he was feeling guilty, he'd just confess and get it over with."

"Look," said Lamar. "So far, I think Carl's on the right track, here. We have no evidence linking Fred to the scene, and no motive for him to kill them." He looked at Art. "I know we don't need to prove motive, but it sure as s.h.i.t would help to have one." He looked at me. "For anybody."

"Do we have any idea yet," asked Art, "where they were selling the stolen guns? That might get us somebody who knows more about the three of 'em. More background."

Actually, no, we didn't. This was shaping up into a long investigation, any way you cut it.

Then the county's finest prosecutor came up with the most telling point against Fred, and one that I had been missing. "I get the impression that we're all a.s.suming that Fred planned this out in advance. Maybe not. Maybe he was there, and they just got into an argument. Maybe it was spur of the moment. Or, just maybe, Carl, it went down like the Whiting case."

About ten years ago, a man named Whiting got into an argument with a drinking buddy at a remote river cabin. Killed him. In the presence of another drinking buddy. He'd convinced the survivor to help him dispose of the body and the evidence. The guy had done so, apparently frightened and glad to be alive. He also had no place to run. Or to call for help. Then Whiting killed the second man.

"Could be," I said, "but don't forget that Whiting was a really dominant sort of guy. Fred isn't. And Whiting was really a cold man. Fred isn't that, either."

"Oh, I don't know," said Art. "Standing there with a gun ..."

"And," said Lamar, "we only have Fred's word that he dropped them off. He could have gone in with them just as easily."

"Well, anyway, you people hash this out," said the prosecutor, standing up. "I'm afraid I'm asking the Attorney General for an a.s.sist on this one, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to remove myself from the case, anyway."

"You're what?" asked Lamar.

"I do Borglan's taxes, there's a possible conflict here." He raised both hands to shoulder level, palm up. "I'm sorry. But I do think you should interview Fred."

"His attorney will never permit it," I said. "Even if he's innocent."

"Christ. It's not Priller, is it?"

"It's Priller," said Lamar.

Priller was a well-known obstructionist. A pompous, irritating, aggravating little twerp. But somehow he managed to be likable at the same time, because he never took it to a personal level.

Mike grinned and shook his head. "Well, gentlemen, I wish you all the best of luck."

This was a bit of a blow, as the county attorney would normally be available for the quick questions during an investigation, while the a.s.signed prosecutor from the Attorney General's office would do the long-term prosecutor's stuff.

"Are you going to appoint a special prosecutor at the county level?" I asked.

He stopped for a second, on his way to the door. "Boy, Carl," he said. "I don't know that the county board of supervisors is going to approve that... it could be pretty expensive, and with a state prosecutor a.s.signed ... But, I'll ask."

Expenses. It always came down to that.

It was only a few seconds after he left that our secretary stuck her head in the door and motioned to me.

"Manchester PD called, and said to say that Dr. Peters was on the way here, and that everybody should stay put."

"Really?" I relayed the information back to the table. It was just a bit unusual. I hadn't expected Dr. Peters to come back up today.

At 0945 we, as they say, reconvened. Being an opportunist, I grabbed another doughnut.

Dr. Peters had brought a portable light-board device, to backlight X rays. We didn't have one. Who does, except hospitals?

We watched, paying very close attention, as Dr. Peters described the film.

"Subject number one," he said. "This is ... Royce Colson ... the fellow we looked at first at the scene. The one who was on his back. Bullet wound in his right temple ..."

The X ray showed the hole, cracks in the skull, a little trail of debris through the brain toward the left side, and a fragmenting of bone on the left side.

"Through and through," said Dr. Peters. "Entered just behind the eye, into the sphenoid, right above the zygomatic arch. Transverses the brain, and exits via the lower edge, just about precisely at the squamous suture. Caused a stellate, circ.u.mferential fracture of the skull, as it did." He traced the points with his hand as he talked. Good thing.

The bullet had gone in right behind the eye, kept pretty level, and come out the other side a little farther aft, cracking the skull completely around its circ.u.mference. The stellate or star-shaped portion was a crack running up the side of the skull from the entrance, and stopping near the top of the head.

"This victim may have been upright, and I suspect standing erect, at the time the shot was fired." He looked at us. "I strongly suspect that the bullet which exited this man's head is the one discovered that made the hole in the wall of the Borglan residence." He paused. "The entrance wound is about two-tenths of an inch in diameter, so I think we're dealing with a .22 caliber bullet. Close examination of the wound, after washing the clotted blood away, reveals very intense tattooing around the entrance." He stepped back from the X ray. "Photos will be available soon, I'm sure, but it was a nearly perfect circle, and I suspect we have a contact gunshot wound, here. I would also think it was made with the muzzle in contact because the projectile actually exited the skull ... Lots of energy available here," said Dr. Peters.

The muzzle was in contact with the skull when the gun went off. This was usually an indication of a suicide, but hardly likely in this case.

"Self-inflicted?" asked Art. Thinking aloud again.

"I don't believe so," said Dr. Peters. "Let's have a look at the next one ... this would be a Dirk Colson," he said, checking his notes. "Notice that both entrance wounds are from the top of the head, in the right rear portion of the skull." He pointed. "The second round entered just ahead of the first, also traveling downward. It caused these fractures here," he said, "that stop at the sagittal?? suture, and also stop at the hole made by the first wound."

"This second one travels in a path to here," he said. "Again in the basilar part, but on the left and more forward."

We could see that one, too. It appeared to be on its side.

"This is the one that caused the extrusion of the brain tissue out the first entrance hole."

I remembered that. Like frosting out of a cake decorator.

"Close examination of both these wounds indicated a contact or near contact gunshot, as well." He removed the last X ray, and put one of each victim up on the board.

"Likely a double murder, then," said Art.

Dr. Peters said, "Oh, yes. And a bit more flavor, I think." He paused, pointing at the X ray of Dirk Colson. "From the nature and path, I would strongly suspect that this second victim was in a lowered position, possibly seated or kneeling, possibly squatting, when the two wounds were inflicted." He cleared his throat. "With the shooter behind the victim.

"So," said Dr. Peters, "based on the angles of the bullet tracks, the second victim was shot by a gun almost directly above and behind him. Even with a .22 pistol, that would require that the victim be either on his knees or seated." He paused. "Well, absent a ladder." He shrugged. "However, given the fact that both victims would very likely fall just about right where they were shot, it would explain the bloodstains on the floor. With the lack of bloodstains on the chairs that were moved to cover the stained area of the carpet, I will say this: The major carpet stains likely were from each of the victims, that the stains occurred when they were lying on the floor, and that the blood came from their heads. With the stained areas nearly in the center of the room, there doesn't appear to be any item of furniture close enough to permit the second victim to have been shot while seated, or for the shooter to have stood upon while shooting."

"An execution, sort of?" I asked.

"I can narrow your parameters, Carl. I can tell you they weren't shot at a distance. I can tell you what the evidence tells me happened. An execution ... is a possibility. A strong one. But a possibility possibility. Not a proven fact."

"Execution," said Art, disdainfully, "in my book requires restraints, bindings, things like that. Could this, Doctor, have been done in the heat of anger, not in a cold-blooded style?"

"Yes."

Art shrugged. "Well, that still leaves us with Fred. He goes in with them, gets mad, and shoots both of 'em." He looked around the room. "Like they say, go for the simplest solution."

Keep it simple. Naturally. But I hate oversimplifications like that. In the first place, people are complex. In the second place, you can get too simple, and jump before all the facts are in. I said as much.

"Oh, sure, Carl," said Art. "I can keep an open mind. But I'll tell you the truth ... it's gonna take a lot of evidence to convince me that it wasn't either Fred or the hired man." He shrugged. "I sure don't think it looks like it's anybody else."

Like I said, Art always liked the quick and dirty approach. I suspected he was right more often than not, but I was getting just a little weary of this approach. Simple is one thing, easy is another. If we went with Fred, the easy touch, we were going to cut off the rest of the possibilities. If I was right, and Fred hadn't done it, that would be a catastrophe.

"This still doesn't go down quite right with me," I said.

"It's probably just because you know Fred," said Art.

"Could be," I replied, "but I'll still reserve judgment."

What bothered me about all this was that I felt Fred would be more than willing to talk with us, and probably would be a great help, but Priller the lawyer would not give us any slack on the questioning. He'd want immunity or some such for the burglary charges and as Fred was still the primary suspect for the murders, giving away the burglary charges now would set him free. Then Priller would advise him not to tell us anything about the murders anyway.

That left us with the scene as our only source of evidence. The lab crew had all the materials from there. But we could still go out and look at the place again, especially the tracks left by the dead men on their way to the house. It does help, and you will sometimes get an insight if you look the entire scene over again, after you have developed a scenario. Well, that's what they tell you in the Academy.

Right.

We called Cletus Borglan, and he told us two things. One, it was going to have to be soon, as he was going to be leaving for Florida the day after tomorrow. Two, he wouldn't let us on his property without four hours' prior notice, and he and his attorney would have to be present.

We checked the forecast. A big upward b.u.mp in the jet stream was moving inexorably eastward. But ever so slowly. It was supposed to be warming steadily for the next five days. Good. We wanted to see the tracks over the hill in the daylight. They were faint, we knew that. But we wanted to see if there was a way to tell how many people had gone over the fence and to the house. We'd better be sure about that before the snow started to melt again.

It took three hours to type the search warrant application, but Judge Winterman issued a warrant to search the property for the exterior tracks and patterns of tracks, from the roadway to wherever they would lead us. It was the first time I'd ever included a National Weather Service forecast in a search warrant application. I was kind of proud of that.

Art was in his slacks and sport coat. With wingtips. No overshoes that I'd seen, and just a dress coat. "You got anything warmer?"

"Don't worry about me."

"Well, I wasn't really worried. I just didn't want to have to examine another frozen body."

We contacted the Iowa Department of Natural Resources, and got a Fish and Game enforcement officer named Sam Younger to meet us at the office. Sam could track just about anything, and was sure a lot better at it than the rest of us.

As soon as we got the search warrant in our hands, we called Borglan, and got no answer. Tough. Out we went. Not so tough that we didn't leave orders for the dispatcher to call the Borglan residence every five minutes until she got an answer, though. Lamar, having once been shot by a farmer who didn't honor a court process, didn't want us taking any chances, either. Wisely, as he still needed a cane most of the time, Lamar also opted to stay at the office.

I drove us directly to Borglan's house. No vehicles. I called dispatch, and they said there had been no answer yet. I got out, and went to the door and knocked several times, calling out Cletus's name as well. Satisfied there was no one home, I slipped a copy of the search warrant into the sliding door. The legal requirements had been satisfied.

I thought it best if we started where the two brothers had, so we linked up with DNR officer Sam Younger near the Borglan place, and I took everybody to where the tracks began. I explained to Sam that we wanted to try to discover how many people had made the track. It was a good thing that I'd seen them the day before, because the snowplows had been by again, "dressing" the edges of the gravel road, and the deep ditch was now completely filled with road snow. Although we were just able to make out the disturbed area on the other side of the barbed-wire fence, where the tracks led over the hill, it didn't look too promising. Well, as they say, you gotta try. We waited for Art to pull a pair of black five-buckle overshoes over his wingtips. They had N C JAIL hand painted on the sides. Ah, yes. Don't worry about Art. He'd also apparently borrowed one of the quilted, knee-length coats the prisoners wear when they go out for exercise in the winter. Mustard-colored. He cut a fine figure.

"You look like a North Korean soldier," I said. He glared, but didn't say anything.

Crossing the ditch was especially difficult for those of us who were a bit heavier than the others. I was treated to the spectacle of Art virtually walking straight to the fence line, while I was knee-deep in snow.

"Hey, Houseman," he said, "how's the low-fat diet coming?"

I would have done something cute, like answer him, but I was too out of breath.

Sam, the Department of Natural Resources officer, responded for me. "It's all the d.a.m.ned rice those North Koreans eat," he said.

We grouped at the fence, and Sam Younger scrutinized what he gamely referred to as the track. "You know," he said, "there really isn't a h.e.l.l of a lot left, is there?"

"It might help," I said, "if you see it in an angled light, like early evening."

"I'm sure," he said. He looked over at Art. "Is there any magic sort of thing you people do to lift tracks from under snow like this?"

"Nope."

"Well, then," said Sam, "all we can do is see if the tracks diverge into three separate sets as they go ... How far is the farmhouse?"

"About three-quarters of a mile, just over the hill, here," I said.

Art propped his arm on the fence post, and took three or four photos of the very faint track leading up the hill. It was hard to see among the trees and large limestone outcroppings on the slope of the hill. He wanted photos before we crossed the fence and tracked the area up.

We crossed the barbed-wire fence, and followed the track. My over the hill comment had made it sound so simple. Actually, the hilltop was divided, and we had to go down a long reverse slope, and back up again before we reached the crest that allowed us to see the house. The track split into two distinct portions three times in that distance. Never into three, though.

Worse, on the way down to the house, it split into two discernible depressions, and they stayed that way for about a hundred yards, until we lost them in the mult.i.tude of tracks made yesterday and since. Just the way two men, walking together, would approach their target. Walking parallel, with about a fifteen-foot separation.

We stopped in Borglan's yard. There were now two cars there, and a pickup truck. Cletus Borglan opened the door just before I got there.

"What do you want?"

"We just wanted to let you know that we were done with the tracks," I said. I watched him eye Sam. Cletus was one of those who had no time for the DNR, especially their Fish and Game officers.

"Did you think they took a deer on the way?"