Known Dead (18 page)

She still hesitated. ‘‘I understand that. But I’m not a negotiator.’’

‘‘Sure. I know that. Look, do you just want me to send someone else?’’ I asked. My trump card.

‘‘Like, who did you have in mind?’’ she asked. ‘‘Him, for instance?’’ She pointed back toward the press area, or ‘‘corral’’ as the cops called it. There were several press types, dressed for the occasion mostly in blue jeans, talking on cell phones, typing into laptops, or writing notes. Busy-looking. The print media people had a more relaxed air, while the TV folks were tense. A matter of deadlines, I’d discovered.

‘‘Which one?’’ I asked. Just out of curiosity.

‘‘The tall one with the beard and the laptop, sitting on the tailgate of the pickup.’’

I saw the one she meant. He was the one I’d noticed at Kellerman’s funeral. ‘‘What about him?’’

‘‘He’s the reporter for
The Freeman Speaks.
Extra-conservative rag out of some small town near Decorah. Prints it in his garage.’’

‘‘What’s his name?’’

She laughed again. ‘‘Get it yourself. And his social security number. You’re the cops.’’

‘‘Okay, good point. Anyway, no, not him, I guess.’’

‘‘You know, I’m surprised he didn’t ask for him,’’ she said.

‘‘Might not know he’s here,’’ I said. ‘‘Don’t tell him.’’

Her eyes sparkled. She knew she had me. ‘‘I get to go, then?’’

I grinned. ‘‘And I thought this was my idea.’’

We offered both her and Phil ballistic vests, but they both declined. As much, I think, from a little distrust that we might have bugged them, somehow. Oh, well. They would have been ungodly hot anyway. I asked Al about that, just in case, and he said that he thought as long as they had refused, we had no liability. Right. The tension was building just a little bit, in them as well as us. Phil Rumsford was constantly squeezing the bulb of a small brush he’d used to clean his lens for the tenth time. ‘‘Whisssh, whisssh . . .’’

It was getting hotter, as we waited for Roger to confirm permission for the news team to enter. The midafternoon sun was very intense. Everybody was sweating. Roger came over from the communications tent.

‘‘Uh, we have a little problem . . .’’

Both Nancy and Phil seemed to deflate a bit.

‘‘What?’’ I asked.

‘‘He only wants one person in. Doesn’t feel safe watching two.’’

‘‘What? That’s bullshit!’’ said Al. I agreed.

‘‘That’s what he says.’’ Roger shrugged. He looked pretty harried, and I knew how hot it was in the communications tent. He had to be pretty good not to just hang up on Herman.

I looked at Phil and Nancy. ‘‘If that’s what he wants, you still game?’’

They looked at each other. ‘‘Can we talk it over for a minute?’’ asked Nancy.

‘‘Sure.’’

While they walked about ten paces to our left, I looked at Hester and George. ‘‘What’s this tell us?’’

‘‘Either not too many in there or they’re really paranoid,’’ said George.

‘‘Both,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Or,’’ she added, ‘‘maybe they don’t have enough restraints for more than one hostage?’’

I think that had occurred to more than one of us.

‘‘Should we let one go in?’’ I asked no one in particular.

‘‘You think there was safety in numbers?’’ asked George.

‘‘Well, no, not that. But, I mean, do you think he’s got a sinister motive for this little request, or do you think he’s just playing mind games, trying to show control?’’

‘‘I’d vote for control,’’ said Hester.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Al. ‘‘But he sure can’t intend harm to them. They’re his voice to the outside world.’’

‘‘So?’’ I asked. ‘‘We let ’em go in?’’

‘‘I say we do,’’ said Hester, and got a withering glance from Al.

I thought it over. We’d already decided to send two. We needed Herman in a cooperative mood. We needed to get the son of a bitch talking, is what we needed. First to them, then to us.

‘‘I’ll let the press decide,’’ I said. ‘‘If they want to, they go. Otherwise, we try something else.’’

Nancy and Phil came back to the group.

‘‘We’ll still do it,’’ said Nancy.

‘‘With just one of you?’’ I asked.

‘‘Yes.’’ Phil smiled weakly. ‘‘Me. We need pics, and she’s not much good with a camera.’’ He looked at me. ‘‘My idea, but I’m no hero.’’

‘‘You’ll do until we can find one,’’ I said. ‘‘You still sure about not wearing a vest?’’

‘‘No vest. If he wanted to shoot somebody, it sure wouldn’t be a member of the press.’’

That was true. The dumbest thing he could do was irritate the press. Especially after inviting them in. And killing a reporter would have to be just about as irritating as you could get. Phil would be safe. Uncomfortable, sure. But safe. I was sure of that, but I could see that he was still nervous. I grinned at him. ‘‘Want us to tie a rope on you, so we can haul you out if he wants to keep you?’’

‘‘No, that’s okay.’’ He was busily adjusting his camera bag, checking his equipment for the tenth time.

‘‘Okay. Look, nobody knows this, but we have a TAC team in the outbuildings.’’

Rumsford’s head jerked upright.

‘‘That’s just what I don’t want you to do when you walk in,’’ I said. ‘‘Remember, anybody you see in the barn, or the shed, or around there,’’ I said, gesturing in an arc around the side of the farm, ‘‘is a TAC team guy. Don’t even look at them.’’

‘‘Right,’’ he said.

‘‘And, look, if he doesn’t want you in the house, don’t suggest it, all right?’’ I was serious. ‘‘Let him do the asking.’’

‘‘Yep,’’ said Phil. He adjusted his fisherman’s hat. ‘‘Ready or not . . .’’

We started walking toward the perimeter fence and the lane. We immediately attracted the press people, who came hurrying up, especially when they saw who was with us. They were stopped some fifty feet short of the fence by two troopers. We continued.

‘‘What’s going on?’’ yelled one of the TV people.

‘‘He wants to talk to us,’’ Nancy yelled back, unable to keep a smug tone out of her voice.

‘‘Scoop city,’’ said Hester.

‘‘Yeah,’’ said Phil weakly. ‘‘Scoop city.’’

The prearranged protocol was for Phil to stand in the lane at the fence line at 1430, exactly, and Mrs. Herman Stritch was to open the door of the house, and if everything looked okay to her, she would motion Phil on toward the house. I escorted him to the right place, and then stepped back a couple of paces. I looked pointedly at my watch. 1429. In a second, Mrs. Stritch was in the doorway, dressed in blue jeans and a faded green blouse, with binoculars in her hand. She raised them to her eyes and scrutinized Phil for a long moment. Then she gave me the once-over. It was hard not to make a gesture, but I restrained myself. Using binoculars at that range let her check for possible weapons before she allowed Phil inside the perceived threat zone. Sound practice. I wondered where she’d learned that. Her graying hair looked matted down with sweat. It must have been pretty warm in the house. Good. The less comfortable, the better. Finally, she motioned him forward.

It was almost two hundred feet to the house, and it must have seemed like two thousand to Phil. I noticed he looked just a bit more apprehensive when he passed the shed where Herman had been concealed when he shot the officers. I guess I was, too.

Mrs. Stritch held up her hand. ‘‘Stop right there.’’ Loud, but calm.

Phil did.

Now what?

I heard her say something, and then Phil turned to me. ‘‘She wants you back at the lines,’’ he hollered.

‘‘Right,’’ I hollered back, and turned around and started to walk back up the lane. I heard Mrs. Stritch say ‘‘What?’’ in a loud voice. I looked back over my shoulder, and she had disappeared, I assumed into the house. Phil had stopped short of the porch by about thirty feet and was just standing there. Now what? I thought. I kept moving, but slowed a little, looking back over my shoulder.

I felt the shock wave of the first shot as much as I heard it. I hit the ground as fast as I could, at the same time trying to turn and see what was going on behind me. So I landed on my right shoulder, and just about knocked the breath from myself. My point of view wasn’t too good, but I could see Phil standing there, and I thought that they were playing with him. I sat up just as I saw him start to waver, like he was trying to turn around. Then his head got lower, and the second shot went off. This time, he dropped like a rock, disappearing from my view onto the ground just short of the porch. Just as he disappeared, a fusillade of shots came from the TAC people in the outbuildings, a few at first, then a rapid series, just like very loud popcorn. As I tried to make myself smaller, I saw, from my vantage point on the ground, pieces of the house near a window on the second floor, to the left of the doorway, begin to fly off and large gouges of raw wood appear all over the upper half of the house. The troops were trying to get somebody through the wall. The firing tapered off pretty quickly, as there was no return fire, and nobody in the house was about to show themselves as a target at that point. A weird silence settled over the farm. My ears were ringing again, but I clearly heard a dragonfly humming a few feet away. It was hot. I became aware of a woman yelling. Two of them, in fact. One was Hester.

‘‘Houseman!’’ she yelled. ‘‘You hit?’’

I sat up and shook my head. The other was Nancy. I looked back toward the lines, and saw her standing there, with Hester trying to get her to turn away. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, except for ‘‘Phil.’’

Well, shit.

I got up into a crouch, and felt faint. Very hard to get your breath back after you’ve knocked yourself just about silly. I couldn’t really move just yet, at least not in a crouch. I didn’t want to sit back down, naturally. I really wanted to get out of the sight of the people in the house more than anything. So I just stood up and half walked and half ran back to our lines. It only took a few seconds, but it seemed a little longer. I could see Al just staring at me from behind a squad car. He probably thought I was nuts.

As I got to the fence, I walked over to where they had Nancy pressed down between two cop cars.

‘‘Nancy,’’ I said, still breathless, ‘‘I never thought they’d do that . . .’’

About ten minutes later, while Nancy was being treated by the EMTs at the scene, Hester, Roger, George, Al, and I were having a conference under the awning attached to the rear of the camper I’d slept in. It was subdued.

‘‘I just can’t fucking figure it out,’’ said Al very quietly. ‘‘Nothing to gain at all. Nothing.’’

‘‘You’re right,’’ I said.

‘‘It was the stupidest thing he could have done,’’ said George.

‘‘Yeah, idiotic,’’ said Hester.

Silence. For what seemed like an hour.

‘‘So,’’ I said. ‘‘Now what do we do?’’

More silence.

‘‘Anybody think it might be time to go in and drag their asses out?’’ I was getting really frustrated. ‘‘Or do we wait for another casualty?’’

‘‘We should at least contact them,’’ said Roger, ‘‘and see if we can get Phil’s body back.’’

‘‘What?’’ I almost yelled at him. ‘‘You want to call them up and ask permission to retrieve a body? Permission?’’

‘‘Hey,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t take it out on me!’’

I took a deep breath. ‘‘Sorry.’’

Silence, again.

‘‘It’s time they came out,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s all there is to it.’’

‘‘I agree,’’ said George.

‘‘What, just go in and take ’em out?’’ asked Al. ‘‘What, do you think FBI means, Superman?’’

George stood up at that one. ‘‘Not called for,’’ he said evenly. ‘‘But if you make it happen, I’ll be glad to take jurisdiction, and get our own team in here.’’

Al really didn’t want that. If that happened, the state would completely lose any influence or control, and would be reduced to providing crowd control services for the Feds.

‘‘Al,’’ I said, ‘‘what’s happening here is this . . . if some politicians over your head are worried about losing some of their constituents over this, just say so. I’ll be glad to talk to them and get some things straight. I know it isn’t you, because I’ve worked with you enough to know that you want to go in as bad as I do.’’

‘‘Nothing personal, George,’’ I said, standing up and reaching for some pop, ‘‘but the fewer Feds we have in this, the better. Otherwise, these idiots are gonna go nuts on us, and we’ll have even more problems.’’

‘‘That’s true,’’ said George. ‘‘I know that.’’

‘‘But,’’ I said, ‘‘if we have to go that way, then we do. I’d prefer state, but if I have to, I’ll go fed.’’ Like, I’d have a choice in the matter.

‘‘Let me make one more call,’’ said Al.

‘‘Sure.’’

He had a real problem, and I had some idea what it was. In my thinking about it, it was obvious that he had two bosses . . . the Attorney General and the Director of Public Safety. The AG was elected, the DPS was appointed by the governor. One, or both, had told him to hold off the violence. Period. Why? Well, traditionally, the governor’s office had felt that cops had no business interfering with political activities. Hard to disagree with that. Where they ran into trouble was with extremists. Mostly extremists on the right. The majority of them, after all, were farmers. Many of them were experiencing financial difficulties. I knew that no human being could ever get elected governor in Iowa on a ‘‘get tough on poor farmers’’ platform, and probably not on a ‘‘get tough on rich farmers’’ either. Hence the problem. Similarly, nobody could be elected Attorney General with that platform either.

Well, just a second, I thought. Let me qualify that. No human without courage could get elected. A leader, in the traditional vein, could. If he’d made the right decision and if he could defend it. But if he liked his job, and wanted to get reelected, he’d usually steer away from highly visible decisions that could come back to haunt him. So what were the chances of any of them hanging it all out in a situation like this? Right.

I looked at George, after Al was out of earshot. ‘‘Thanks,’’ I said.

‘‘No problem,’’ said George, ‘‘unless he calls my bluff. That could get interesting.’’

It was Hester’s turn. ‘‘You two’ll look great in fatigues and black ski masks.’’

‘‘Mine,’’ said George, ‘‘will say FBI. His,’’ he said pointing at me, ‘‘will say IDIOT.’’