Known Dead (27 page)

Then, it was a simple matter of doing his network protocols: the TCP/IP settings, which were server-assigned with an IP address: Primary DNS 699.555.123.6, with no secondary, no primary or secondary WINS, using IP header compression and the default gateway on remote.

We engaged the ‘‘call forwarding’’ mode, and were done.

As far as the e-mail service knew, we were now, for all intents and purposes, Herman Stritch. We had his default number, which was the modem line into his residence. I wanted to use one for Cedar Rapids, because that’s where they were gonna be, and that’s where Colonel Gabe would know they were.

We hesitated for about ten seconds. Then I called an officer I knew with the Linn County Sheriff’s Department, and asked for a number that would be used by a modem there. By a prisoner. He hesitated, so I let him talk to Hester and George.

That taken care of, we were simply going to call the Linn County jail number, have our call forwarded to the appropriate line, and call Colonel Gabe. Just as soon as Melissa confirmed what we needed to know about who the brains was behind the Stritches’ computer system.

Melissa called within half an hour. Damn me for a sexist. The whole thing was set up by Nola Stritch. In a computer sense, neither Herman nor Billy could find their ass with both hands.

Two minutes later, and George’s partner called. The order had been granted.

‘‘Okay,’’ I sighed. ‘‘Way to go George.’’

‘‘Just what did you say in that application?’’ asked Hester.

‘‘Well, nothing that wasn’t true,’’ said George.

‘‘Great piece of jurisprudence,’’ said Hester.

Thus armed, we sallied forth.

By now it was 1750, and the Stritch family should have been in Cedar Rapids for about an hour. Booked in, and all settled for supper. Good.

In looking for an address for Colonel Gabe, it had become immediately apparent that he was using other people’s e-mail addresses, and seldom the same one for more than an hour. Fascinating. We also noticed that Herman Stritch nearly always contacted Colonel Gabe via our man Borcherding. Mr. Free Press himself.

We decided to be cagey. At George’s suggestion.

‘‘I’m not comfortable with being Herman right at first. This has got to be something that Nola is going to do on the sly.’’

Hard to argue with that. The scenario we came up with was this: Nola would be meeting with her newly appointed attorney for Federal Court. He or she would have a laptop. Nola would place a message on the laptop, hoping the attorney would just send his accumulated messages when he got to his office. Nola is alone with the laptop for a few minutes and sends a hurried message. Most of the scenario came from Hester.

‘‘Wow,’’ said George, ‘‘I can’t believe that. You came up with that in about two minutes.’’

‘‘It’s from some movie I saw,’’ said Hester. ‘‘It worked for them . . .’’

‘‘We need a sender’s address,’’ I said. ‘‘Just for the first message . . .’’

We sent a message to George’s brother-in-law in Marion, IA. Right next to Cedar Rapids. He sent the message for us.

Our first message went like this:

FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT:
DATE: FRIDAY, JULY 26, 1996 6:11 PM

WE’RE IN JAIL IN CEDAR RAPIDS. I HAVE AN ATTORNEY WHO HAS A LAPTOP. I HOPE HE SENDS THIS TODAY. HE DOES NOT KNOW I AM DOING THIS.

HAVE GABE CONTACT ME AT THE SAME OLD ADDRESS. THEY MISSED SOMETHING IN THE SEARCH. NOLA

The only thing I wasn’t sure of was whether or not the attorney would have an automatic spelling corrector. George said that he most assuredly would. Even better, since then we didn’t have to fake a hurried message.

The ‘‘they missed something’’ was mine. What we intended to do was have Nola get access to a computer and call her own back at the farm. You see, when you do a warranted search at a residence, like the FBI lab people had participated in at the Stritch farm, you always have to give the owner a receipt for everything seized. So Nola would have a receipt for the computers that were taken. There had been one older one. Great. That’s the one they’d ‘‘left,’’ as nonfunctional. We could probably sneak the one we were using up to the farm yet that night, as there were still forensic people at the scene.

After that, all we had to do was wait.

‘‘We’re going to have to go up there after dark, to put this in place,’’ I said. ‘‘But all we gotta remember is to change the phone number to Herman’s, and we’re set.’’

‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘You think we have time for supper?’’

I looked at my watch: 1826. ‘‘Sure,’’ I said. ‘‘Let me just check our mail . . .’’

We had a response.

It worked. The server thought we were Herman.

The message from Bravo 6, our man Borcherding, was:

WILL LET HIM KNOW. ARE YOU ALL OK? WHAT DID THEY MISS? WHY ARE YOU IN CEDAR RAPIDS? HAS ANYBODY TALKED? DINGER

‘‘Dinger?’’ Hester grinned. ‘‘Dinger . . .’’

‘‘Short for Borcherding,’’ I said.

‘‘Don’t ruin the moment, Houseman,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to enjoy the romance.’’

‘‘He bit,’’ I said a few seconds later. ‘‘He did, didn’t he? He bit, and so did the server, by God.’’

‘‘You got it,’’ said George.

‘‘You want to come along when we plant this thing?’’ I asked.

‘‘Hadn’t better,’’ he said. ‘‘Can’t tell what you don’t know.’’

The scene was still secured by two of our reserve deputies when we got there at 2130. It was just dark.

I told our guys that we were returning some stuff the FBI had seized and it turned out didn’t work. It was no problem for them. Hester and I lugged the big cardboard box in, containing the computer and monitor. I made a second trip for the printer. It only took a second to hook things up and get the system up and running. I changed the telephone number back to the one the Stritches used for their modem, enabled the call forwarding device, and we were in business. Now all we had to do was have it call us and forward any message. Slick. So far. We had a call in to X1, asking him if we could borrow his laptop. We needed a computer and modem at the office, and we both knew X1 had one. Prying it loose might be a little problem . . .

On the way back, Hester asked the big question. ‘‘How long you think it’ll take him to figure out that he’s not talking to Nola?’’

‘‘Three messages,’’ I said. ‘‘Four, if we’re lucky.’’

‘‘It’d be just our luck,’’ said Hester, ‘‘if Nola already really figured out how to make contact with him.’’

‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘then George is out one inexpensive, internal modem.’’

When I got back to the office, they told me that Lamar was coming to Bud’s funeral tomorrow. It was true. By ambulance, but they thought he could be helped into the church. We were to watch closely. Any bleeding, or any signs of fainting, and he was to be hustled back out immediately. Lamar was tough. But I was surprised the docs would let him go that soon. It was good news, though, too. I mean, they
were
letting him go. Things had to be looking up.

Twenty

I’VE TOLD YOU already how much I hate funerals. Especially cop funerals. Bud’s was no exception, so I’ll just hit a couple of highlights, so to speak.

The first came when Lamar showed up, being wheeled into the church by Art and me. We were all three in uniform again, which is de rigueur for cop funerals. We caused a minor sensation, even though we tried to avoid one by going down the side aisle. It was hard to be inconspicuous, with the nurse in trail and all.

The second point of interest was that every cop involved in the investigation was there, including Volont and Nichols, for God’s sake. In the same pew, but not together. I hate to admit it, but having them there did sort of soften my attitude toward them. I hate to admit it, but it did.

The third point of note was that good old Borcherding of the fourth estate was also there, way back on the sidelines outside the gym, but there nonetheless. Nancy was there too. At Hester’s suggestion, we had a DCI tech taking photos of Borcherding all day, and the people around him.

The fourth point of interest, and the best news as far as I was concerned, was that ‘‘The Lord Is My Shepherd, He Rides in My Patrol Car’’ wasn’t on the show bill.

We’d not been bothering Lamar about office business, on doctor’s orders. All through the service, the poor son of a bitch kept trying to get Art or me to answer questions about the state of the office, and the murder of Bud. We’d just put our finger to our lips, pretty much telling him to be quiet and respectful in church. He’d nod furiously, then lean over and whisper a question ten seconds later. He finally got us on the way to the ambulance that was to take him back to the hospital.

‘‘You guys better tell me what the fuck’s happening, or you’re both gonna have your asses on the street lookin’ for work . . .’’ Or something like that. It was kind of hard to hear, with the ambulance engine running and Lamar trying not to make a scene. Art and I both got in the ambulance with him for a minute. We both started with a ‘‘don’t sweat the details’’ attitude, but Lamar knew us better than that. By the time five minutes had elapsed, he knew just about everything, in a general sense. You ever see anybody who was unhappy but content at the same time?

Art and I waved at the ambulance as it pulled away.

‘‘Well,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s over.’’

‘‘For today,’’ I said.

He grinned. ‘‘Yeah. I think we got off easy, don’t you?’’

‘‘Absolutely. Until he finds out what we
didn’t
tell him.’’

Art and I didn’t always get along, but we’d been together for nineteen years. We coped well.

‘‘Oh,’’ I said, ‘‘I’m gonna have to go to Rumsford’s funeral on Monday.’’

‘‘Why so late?’’

‘‘I’m not sure, but I think it took ’em that long to find somebody other than his partner who gave a shit.’’

‘‘Too bad.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ I said, with feeling. ‘‘It sure is.’’ I figured he’d find out where the funeral was going to be shortly. Spice his life up.

The funeral lunch was excellent. I hobnobbed with Volont and Nichols, as well as Al and the other bigwigs. Everybody on their best behavior, polite, smiling. Volont even said I looked good in uniform. I got the impression he would be happier if it were something in, say, Foreign Legion blue . . . but I could have been wrong.

As soon as I got to the office, I found X1 there, with his laptop. I told him we really, really needed it to monitor something over the weekend, and maybe into Monday, and that I would clear it with Nichols and anybody else who needed to know. Cool with him.

I carted it to the back office, and set it up. Hester came in a few seconds afterward, and saw the laptop.

‘‘X1?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ I turned it on. ‘‘That should do it.’’

‘‘Be careful, both Volont and Nichols are out front. Paying respects, so to speak.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ and I noticed that we had a message. ‘‘I think,’’ I said, ‘‘we’ve got a contact already.’’

We did, but it wasn’t really impressive.

FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RESPONSE
DATE: SATURDAY, JULY 27, 1996 10:21 AM
YES?
GABRIEL

That was it. Oh, but it was a start. And we were widening the net, so to speak. This one wasn’t from ‘‘Bravo6,’’ but ‘‘afreeman.’’

Volont knocked on the open door and stuck his head around the corner. ‘‘May I come in?’’

Asking was more than he had done yesterday.

‘‘Sure,’’ I said, folding down the laptop screen. ‘‘Have a seat.’’

George followed him in, looking uncomfortable. ‘‘You too, George,’’ I said.

‘‘I’d better check in . . .’’ said Hester, starting to excuse herself.

‘‘Oh, please stay,’’ said Volont. ‘‘I insist.’’ He looked at me. ‘‘May we shut the door?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ I said.

Volont gestured to George, who shut the door and then sat on the corner of the desk behind his superior.

‘‘I understand,’’ said Volont, ‘‘that you have some idea about some sort of mission being conducted when they killed the two officers in the woods?’’

George looked guilty as all hell. Well, Volont had probably started to pry. We had known all along that George would have to answer up. The only problem was, neither Hester nor I had any idea how much George had been made to reveal.

‘‘Something like that,’’ I said.

‘‘I’m part of our antiterrorist intelligence unit,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Why don’t you run it by me?’’

‘‘Well,’’ I said, trying to buy a little thinking time, ‘‘Hester and I put this together from the physical evidence, mostly . . .’’

‘‘Let me save you some time,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Just tell me what you think happened, and we can get to the evidence later, if we need to.’’ He sounded like he was talking to errant children. On purpose, of course. Trying to get us to reveal more than we wanted. He was pretty good.

George looked up and down several times, very quickly. Nodding his eyeballs. It took me a second to realize that this was an affirmative sign.

‘‘Okay. What we believe is this: There was a right-wing group having a training session in the woods; they misidentified the narcotics officers for somebody from, say, your office who they thought were looking at them; they deliberately set out to ambush those officers the next day; a little doper named Turd inadvertently triggered the ambush prematurely, and they had to take him out; and tried for the cops too, because they were too close, to boot. They were going for a classic L ambush, but hadn’t quite got it set.’’ I stopped. George ‘‘nodded’’ his eyeballs again.

‘‘Have you identified this group who was having the training session?’’ asked Volont.

George’s eyeballs began frantically looking from left to right and back again. Shaking his eyeballs ‘‘no.’’

‘‘Not for sure,’’ I said.

‘‘Any leads?’’

George’s eyes went left and right so hard I thought Volont would hear them.

‘‘Not hard leads,’’ I said. I had to stop looking at George, or I was going to burst out laughing.

‘‘You’re being evasive,’’ said Volont in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘‘Yep,’’ I said, just as calm. I smiled.

‘‘I can’t force you to do anything, nor would I wish to do so,’’ said Volont, ‘‘but you might reconsider withholding information. I could be of some help.’’

‘‘I can tell you this,’’ I said. ‘‘Herman Stritch shot Bud and Lamar because he thought they were coming to arrest him for the killing of the two officers in the woods.’’

I glanced at George, and he was near apoplexy.

‘‘Really? Why would he think that?’’ Volont leaned slightly forward, expressing sincere interest for the first time in the conversation.

‘‘Because William Stritch was in the woods, and with the ambush team, most likely as an observer.’’

George put a thumb and forefinger astraddle the bridge of his nose, and began rubbing his eyes in the subtlest way possible, and slowly shaking his head.

‘‘An observer?’’

‘‘Yep.’’ I paused, and said, deliberately, ‘‘Courtesy of his leader.’’

‘‘A leader?’’ said Volont. ‘‘That would be . . . ?’’

I just couldn’t resist, of course. George had turned his back, so I didn’t get the guilt vibes from him anymore.

‘‘They call him Gabriel, but I don’t think that’s his real name.’’

Silence. George coughed after a few seconds.

‘‘Where,’’ said Volont evenly, ‘‘did you come up with that name?’’

I looked him right in the eye. ‘‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that right now. It’s a highly confidential source.’’ And then chickened out, at least partway. ‘‘Should be able to tell you in a couple of days, though.’’

‘‘Hmmm,’’ said Volont. ‘‘So, exactly what do you want from this?’’

Exasperating.

‘‘What I want,’’ I said slowly, ‘‘is this: The person who shot Lamar, Bud, and Rumsford; and I realize there may be at least two shooters here. Then I want the persons who shot Turd and Kellerman in the woods.’’ I leaned back away from the table, tilting my chair onto its back legs. ‘‘That’s what I want. That’s what I’ve always wanted.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Volont. He stood. ‘‘We’ll do everything we can to see you get that,’’ he said. ‘‘And now, I have to be getting along . . .’’ He turned to George. ‘‘May I see you for a moment?’’

As soon as they’d left the room, I looked at Hester. ‘‘He’s gonna be a lotta help.’’

‘‘Right.’’

‘‘Now,’’ I said, ‘‘how we approach Gabriel could be very, very important.’’ I said that I thought Hester should compose the messages from that point on, as she would bring what I hoped would be a convincing female touch to the correspondence.

‘‘What do you want, smiley faces, for Christ’s sake?’’ She glared at me. ‘‘You’re doin’ really good. Just get in touch with your feminine side, Buster, and you’ll be just fine.’’

Like they say, if you tend to rest your elbows on a keyboard, you’re bound to hit the wrong button some of the time.

‘‘Gee,’’ I said contritely, ‘‘I’m sorry, ma’am . . .’’

‘‘Houseman,’’ she said slowly, ‘‘you shouldn’t do this when we’re both armed.’’

Point well taken.

The reply to Gabriel, although critical, wasn’t too much of a pressure deal, since we had plenty of time to compose it. After all, it would take Nola some time to get back to her attorney’s laptop. Or some other computer.

‘‘We might think about coming up with another computer for her,’’ I said. ‘‘If we need fast communications.’’

‘‘I don’t expect more than three or four,’’ said Hester. ‘‘But while you’re at it, think about this . . . Nola is our target, not Billy or Herman.’’

I considered that. ‘‘You’re right. She’s smart, and, like Sally said, may have a little resentment over her position.’’

‘‘Think we can see her?’’ asked Hester. ‘‘Or you think Volont will stop that?’’

‘‘If we go fast,’’ I said, ‘‘before he realizes she’s probably the key, I think we can talk with her. If she’ll talk with us . . .’’

‘‘I wonder,’’ said Hester, ‘‘what’s become of George?’’

She and I drafted our response, after carefully considering what it would be that Nola would want, and how she could think that Gabriel could possibly help her. At the same time, we wanted to flush Gabriel out, if we could.

TELL HERMAN TO KEEP QUIET.
MY LIAR TALKS ABOUT DEALS.
I DON’T HAVE MY ADDRESS BOOK.
N

Personally, I thought the ‘‘N’’ was a nice touch. As I said to Hester, I was sure it had come from my feminine side. The ‘‘liar,’’ of course, was extreme-right talk for attorneys. They have a tendency to latch on to an old, and not particularly witty, joke and evolve it into jargon. The lack of an address book was Hester’s idea. That way, we just might be able to ask for an address in the future.

Anyway, we figured that implying that Herman wanted to talk would get Gabriel to make some sort of contact, both to reassure him and to tell him to shut up.

After that, I made a phone call to Melissa Stritch. I told her we really needed to talk with her, about Herman and the dope, and if he was involved with it in any way.

She said he didn’t have anything to do with dope, nor did the rest of the Stritch family. Never. Not at any time. But she would be very happy to come in and chat about it. I told her to plan on tomorrow afternoon.

I talked to Art for permission, changed out of my uniform into blue jeans and a pullover shirt and tennis shoes, and I was on my way to the Linn County jail in Cedar Rapids. The nearest federal holding facility.

Hester was going to spend the rest of the weekend at home, after we talked to Nola. I, naturally, was coming back to Nation County. We had to take two cars. The only bad thing, if you overlook cost to the ubiquitous taxpayer, was that we weren’t able to discuss things on the way down to see Nola. I’m always afraid that I’m going to have a solid thought and forget it before I get someplace . . . Slim odds, but it could happen.

As soon as we got to the interview room in the Linn County jail, we were met by a man named Victor Miller, attorney-at-law. He wasn’t happy about being there, but there he was. Nola’s ‘‘liar.’’ I noticed that, if he really did own a laptop, it wasn’t with him.