Known Dead (17 page)

‘‘No. How long do we wait before we go on in and yank ’em out.’’

‘‘I’m not sure that we’d want to do that,’’ said Al.

‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘I think that’s gotta be a county decision . . . and I’m in charge, at least until Lamar gets back. It’s going to be my decision. And there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that we go in and get ’em after a reasonable wait.’’

‘‘That might be,’’ said Al. ‘‘But we own the TAC team, and if you want to go on in against their advice, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.’’

I’d been afraid that it was going to come down to that. Liability first.

‘‘Look, Al. It’s a decision that has to be agreed on in advance, because it’s probably going to have to be made in a hurry. You know that.’’ I stood up. ‘‘That’s why I brought it up now.’’

Al didn’t say a word.

‘‘For now,’’ I said, ‘‘I’ll count on using your team. I’ll put something together, you and the team commander approve it, and when the time comes, I’ll use it.’’ Bluff.

Al smiled. ‘‘Have you ever attended a crisis school?’’

Well, he had me there, if you didn’t count the last couple of days. He had, and he also controlled the resources. All I had was three officers, four reserves, and the office staff. And me. And I felt that my luck had been stretched awfully far yesterday.

‘‘Well,’’ said George in a cheerful voice, ‘‘let’s give it a little time, all right?’’

I nodded, noticing how quiet Hester had gotten. Great. With A1 and me disagreeing, she wasn’t going to be available to work freely either. Shit.

I wasn’t going to jump in like an idiot. I think everybody knew that. I hoped they did. What I wanted was a plan for direct intervention, carefully thought out, that I could order up on short notice. What A1 and company wanted was for somebody else to make the call on using force. Specifically, themselves. Legally it was mine. Practically it was theirs. The only thing I was certain of was that they’d be late, no matter what. Because I really felt that we’d have to go in, and maybe in a big hurry. I really did. Anyway, I now had myself lined up to come up with a plan.

Press liaison was our next item. How to do it professionally. So far, either A1 or I had just given them a brief rundown on events, without any real information. What was needed wasn’t my direct approach, it was somebody who could manufacture satisfactory sound bites, present them to the press, and escape without telling them too much. Not me, that was certain. As we discussed it, a little lightbulb came on in my head.

‘‘A1,’’ I said, ‘‘would you do it?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘It’s not my show, it’s yours.’’

‘‘Hell, A1,’’ I said, ‘‘you’re just so much better-lookin’.’’

There was a slight pause, and then we all started to laugh. Even A1.

‘‘All right, all right,’’ he said. ‘‘You got me on that one. How about we do the press together?’’

About fifteen minutes later, I found myself alone, outside the tent feeling the hot sun very well through my thinning hair, and wanting a cigarette so bad I was ready to kill for it. Then I noticed that the wives of our reserve officers had brought sandwiches. Thick slices of ham, thick slices of cheese, on really big hamburger buns. With thick smears of butter and mustard. Well, what the hell. Oh, have I mentioned I’m also restricted to thirty grams of fat per day, by my cardiologist? Well, I am. As I approached the folding table heaped with food, I decided to take two sandwiches, potato chips, and a can of Pepsi. I smiled at Gloria Nydegger, wife of a reserve officer.

‘‘This’ll be our little secret, Gloria.’’

She smiled back. She knew about my diet. I’d complained about it to everybody I knew. ‘‘Okay. Two?’’

‘‘Shit, Gloria, make it three.’’

‘‘Sounds good. Extra mustard?’’

Oh, why couldn’t state work that way?

I just started the first sandwich when George of the Bureau came over.

‘‘Just had a strange sort of call, Carl.’’

‘‘Mmmmpf?’’ Hard to sound sharp with a mouthful of sandwich.

‘‘A SAC is on his way up. Be here real quick.’’

I swallowed. ‘‘So?’’

‘‘So this is a heavy hitter among heavy hitters, Carl. Fellow named Volont.’’

‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘Met him at the meeting in Oelwein.’’

‘‘Well, I’ve never met the man myself,’’ said George. ‘‘Just heard of him.’’

‘‘Yep,’’ I said. ‘‘Well, he seems to have a handle on the dope trade, although I think he believes I’m not too sharp.’’ I grinned, remembering my raincoat.

George gave me a funny look. Just then, his cell phone rang. He answered it, got sort of a quizzical look, and handed it to me.

‘‘It’s for you . . .’’

‘‘Me?’’ I’d only talked on a cell phone a few times in my life, and sure wasn’t expecting to receive a call.

‘‘Hello?’’ I was expecting an FBI supervisor.

‘‘Carl?’’ asked a muffled voice, slowly and thickly.

‘‘Yes, this is Carl.’’

‘‘Houmph dses goone?’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘House thinks goanen?’’ Very slow, very deliberate, and just about impossible to understand.

‘‘Who is this?’’

‘‘Mumph Lamar, fumf dumm shiddd.’’

‘‘Lamar? Lamar, is that you?’’

‘‘Yefffs.’’

‘‘Jesus Christ!’’

‘‘Mum, mum, mum,’’ he laughed.

‘‘It’s Lamar,’’ I said to George. Back into the phone, I said, ‘‘Why the hell aren’t you resting?’’

It wasn’t a long conversation, but just basic Lamar, and his wanting to know how things were. His wife came on the line a few seconds later.

‘‘Hello, Carl.’’

‘‘Hi, June.’’

‘‘I couldn’t stop him, and the office said they could get hold of you up there with this number.’’

‘‘How is he, June?’’

‘‘Well,’’ she said, disgusted and a little proud at the same time. ‘‘You know my old man here. Had to know just as soon as the anesthetic wore off.’’

He was calling from his room, had just come from a surgery on his leg, the second one, and was doing just fine. Except he wasn’t really conscious yet.

‘‘June, hey, could you ask him something for me?’’

‘‘Well, I’ll try. I’m not promising anything . . .’’

‘‘Ask him who shot him, will you?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ she said into the phone. I could hear her talking to Lamar, asking him twice who had shot him, more loudly the second time. Then she seemed to be arguing with Lamar for a second. Then I heard his voice on the phone.

‘‘Zhad fummggem hurrmen.’’

‘‘What, Lamar? I can’t quite understand you,’’ I said apologetically.

‘‘THAT FUCKIN’ HERMAN!’’

‘‘Oh, okay, boss, got it. Thanks, thanks a lot . . .’’

Roger Collier, the trained negotiator, came hurrying over. He had a problem, which he had taken to Al, who referred him to me. Hmmm.

‘‘Anyway,’’ said Roger, ‘‘Herman wants to talk to the media.’’

‘‘He does? What about?’’

‘‘He wants to give them his side. He says we’re gonna sneak in and murder him for defending his property, and he wants the outside world to know what’s happening before we do that.’’

‘‘How nice.’’ I shook my head. ‘‘I dunno . . .’’

‘‘Well, he’s progressing, so to speak. Lots of guilt building in him by now. I’d definitely say we were at the ‘dismay and disappointment’ stage.’’ Roger looked really hopeful. ‘‘Throw in that hopeless feeling he’s going to get after he talks to the media, and there’s nothing left . . .’’

I looked around. ‘‘Where does he want to do the interview? We don’t really have a place, but if we can get him past the fence . . .’’

‘‘Oh, no,’’ said Roger. ‘‘He wants to do it in the house.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Don’t say that, not yet. Just give it a second. This could be a break for all of us.’’

‘‘I don’t want a hostage.’’

‘‘That’d be the dumbest thing he could do,’’ said Roger.

‘‘He ain’t been overly bright so far,’’ I answered. ‘‘What makes you think he’s gonna start now?’’

‘‘So you want me to tell him we won’t allow it?’’

Damn. I had no idea what to do. I hate that. Well, when all else fails, be an administrator.

‘‘You’re recommending this . . . as our negotiator?’’

He looked a little surprised. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Yeah, all right.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘I just don’t want to have a news team in there. Cameraman and reporter. Lights. That’s a little too much, don’t you think?’’

‘‘Oh, he doesn’t want TV,’’ said Roger. ‘‘He wants newspaper.’’

‘‘Newspaper?’’ I couldn’t believe it.

‘‘He doesn’t trust TV. Says the Feds alter the signal, put in subliminal messages.’’ Roger shrugged. ‘‘Some people are like that.’’

I shook my head. ‘‘Okay.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘This isn’t a manifesto sort of thing is it? I meant, not just a bunch of bullshit from a crazy?’’

Roger grinned. ‘‘No guarantees.’’

‘‘We can explain to him that it’s the decision of the press as to what they print?’’

‘‘Yeah. We might not want to do that, it might scare him off. But they could do it, and give him a lot better reasons than we could.’’ Roger shrugged. ‘‘You make the call.’’

‘‘What do you think, Roger? Will this soften him up?’’

‘‘Let me just say this . . . he’s scared. He’s really screwed the pooch on this, and he knows it. All we have to do is just wait for it all to sink in, and for him to realize that he’s just digging a deeper hole for himself.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘We just don’t want to let him dig too long, we want to have him reach that little conclusion as soon as possible. We don’t want to be here forever, or it gets to be a real game.’’

‘‘But, I mean, it’s harmless, isn’t it? But something he wants to do?’’ I asked.

‘‘Well, he sure wants to do it.’’

‘‘Cool,’’ I said. ‘‘Then let’s let him.’’

‘‘Any conditions? I mean, at some point, he’s going to be very, very ripe. If we get him to that point, and then prolong it, we lose the moment. So how about a time limit?’’

‘‘For the interview?’’

‘‘Yeah. That would be good.’’

‘‘Sure,’’ I said. ‘‘An hour good for you?’’

‘‘Fine. You have any questions I can help with?’’

‘‘What’s to ask? As far as I can tell, the only thing we have to do is to get an intrepid soul to go in and talk with him.’’ I thought again. ‘‘Does he want pictures?’’

‘‘He didn’t really say,’’ said Roger.

‘‘Well, shit, Roger. Go ask him.’’

About fifteen minutes later, Al, Roger, Hester, George, and I were all talking with Nancy Mitchell and Philip Rumsford of the
Des Moines Register.
They had been, as usual, rather surprised that we actually wanted to talk to them.

‘‘Now wait a minute,’’ said Mitchell. ‘‘We don’t take anything in we don’t normally take. Like bugs.’’

‘‘No, no,’’ I said. ‘‘We aren’t asking that you do anything like that.’’

‘‘He just wants to talk with print media, and you’re just sending us in?’’

‘‘That’s right. We just want to give him a bit of what he wants, and see if it’ll put him in a better mood to come out. Peacefully.’’ I saw her writing that down, and hoped she got it right. ‘‘Underline ‘peacefully,’ would you?’’

Nancy Mitchell was not susceptible to charm. At least, not the charm of a cop at a crime scene who she suspected was trying to use her.

‘‘We’re going to need ground rules here,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to understand this thing just a bit better before I go in there.’’

‘‘Sure.’’ I reached back to the table and got two cans of ice-cold pop. ‘‘Here, drink these and I’ll tell you exactly what I want.’’

My charm she could hold off. On a terribly hot, humid day, however, cold pop had an irresistible charm of its own. We all sat under a tree, and took notes of what each other said. Slowly becoming more relaxed. Sipping cold pop, and munching on our sandwiches. Yeah, sandwiches. I’d grabbed a fourth.

‘‘What I want is this,’’ I said. ‘‘You go in, and you do your story any way you want. Print whatever you decide to. But,’’ I said, taking a bite of sandwich, ‘‘tewo uss fisrnd.’’ I swallowed. ‘‘I mean, tell us first. What he’s said.’’

‘‘Well . . .’’

‘‘How can that be a problem?’’

‘‘It isn’t really,’’ said Nancy. She took a long drink of her pop. ‘‘Just in general, or do you want a blow-by-blow?’’

‘‘If he’s in a manifesto mood,’’ I said, ‘‘just say that. But any details of what he thinks about this situation, who he blames, that sort of thing . . .’’

‘‘I can handle that,’’ she said.

‘‘Okay. And if you get into the house, and I think you will, I want a description of who and what’s inside.’’

‘‘Oh?’’ She took another swig of pop. ‘‘Like, what kind of stuff?’’

‘‘Oh, like if there are any booby traps, how many people, if they’re all armed. That sort of thing.’’

‘‘Hey,’’ she said, ‘‘we’re not ‘Force Recon’ here.’’

‘‘Force Recon? What are you, an ex-marine?’’

She actually laughed at that. ‘‘No. I had a boyfriend who was.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ I thought for a second. ‘‘Well, that’s not what we’re asking.’’ I grinned at her. ‘‘Just so you don’t think you have to paint your face green. Just information that’ll keep anybody from getting killed. Is that out of the question?’’

She hesitated.

‘‘We really want him to realize that we’re not going to get bored and go away. He’s really messed up here, and he’s going to have to answer for it. No question about that.’’ I looked her straight in the eye. ‘‘I just don’t want to have to start shooting again.’’