Known Dead (34 page)

Volont put in a cautionary word. ‘‘Remember,’’ he said, ‘‘this man is not like your usual criminal. He’s not psychotic. He’s certainly not some sort of mad serial killer.’’ He looked out the window at the jail. ‘‘He’s a soldier. Maladjusted, perhaps, but a soldier. He does not kill for the pleasure of it, but only when necessary to further the mission.’’ He looked back at me. ‘‘So there is no familiar criminal motive that will set him off. Mission, and perhaps some ideology. But mission, always mission. Don’t forget that.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ I said. ‘‘So we have to predict his mission. But the soldier business. He’s not obeying orders, is he? I mean, not from some sort of political leader or anything?’’

Volont thought a second. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘So he sort of determines his own mission, his own assessment of what’s necessary?’’

‘‘True,’’ said Volont. ‘‘But very much in keeping with the doctrine he picked up in military service.’’

I thought that one over. ‘‘This is going to be even more interesting.’’

‘‘Why’s that?’’ asked Volont idly.

‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘his troops will be following orders. Are they the same quality as Gabriel?’’

‘‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’’ he said. ‘‘I can tell you this . . . the one time I know of where Gabriel was heavily involved, his soldiers weren’t quite as good as he could have wished.’’

At any rate, I was absolutely certain that the assets we had available in the Nation County Sheriff’s Department wouldn’t be able to come close to containing Gabriel and his little army. We needed resources, and we all knew where they’re kept.

The judge issued an order, saying that he had scheduled the habeas corpus hearing for Nola Stritch at 11:30 A.M. on Friday, August 2nd. Because of that, and because her attorney would ‘‘require time to discuss the subject of the hearing with his client prior to the hearing being held,’’ Nola was to be at the Nation County jail by 0800 on Friday. That meant that she would have to leave Cedar Rapids at about 0630. That also meant that the security people would have to be transporting her part of the way in the dark. The judge had also directed the Nation County Sheriff’s Department to do the transporting. We had to call his chambers and remind him that she was a federal prisoner and the U.S. Marshal’s office would be handling that part of it. He agreed, of course, but sounded a little put off. We weren’t supposed to know he ever made a mistake, I guess. Well, he was one of the older judges . . . I get the same way myself.

All in all, I was feeling pretty good about things. Not so good as to let Sue come home, though. Not until this was done. Just to be sure. She wasn’t too happy about it, but was convinced it had to be done. Staying with her mother meant that she’d likely be playing bridge with the ladies. Sue hates bridge.

‘‘You be careful,’’ she said. ‘‘Very, very careful.’’

She had no idea what was happening, none at all. But if you’re married to a Norwegian like me, you just tell him that every once in a while, to make sure he remembers. Can’t hurt.

I went home about 1930, just in time to have missed the first thirty minutes of a good movie on HBO. TV dinner. Pills. To bed at 2300. Dull, dull, dull. I couldn’t even go up to my mother-in-law’s for supper, because if I was being watched, I didn’t want to lead anybody there.

You have to do it that way.

For Wednesday and Thursday, I really didn’t have much to do. So I took Wednesday off, and spent most of it in the basement, working on my model of HMS
Victory.
Put horses and vangs on the driver boom and gaff. ‘‘Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum.’’ It rained most of the day, hard enough to make me wonder if I should be building a slightly larger boat. Ship.

As I sat there, threading lines through little pulleys, I wondered about the nature of the mission rehearsal that had set this all in motion. We knew that there had been a team in the woods and that they were training for a mission. But, as far as I knew, nobody had ever determined what that mission was. Or why they’d be training for it here, of all places.

Another thing was bothering me. What Volont had said about Gabriel being a soldier and not a criminal. I believed that. Being neither a soldier nor a criminal, I couldn’t speak from either position. But I had talked to a whole hell of a lot more criminals than I had professional soldiers. I did know that there were differences in approach there. I’d read some military history. But how these differences would be applied had me stumped. I was uncomfortable on unfamiliar territory, and that was exactly where I was headed.

Thursday was August 1st. Hotter than hell, and humid again, because of the rain. I spent most of the day in the office, working on our case files. And in air-conditioned comfort. Neither George, Hester, nor Volont were anywhere around, being at their respective offices making arrangements for the next few days. It was nice to have time to gather my thoughts. I did put in a call to Volont, wanting to bring up the question of mission.

About noon, Nichols showed up. He had his people placed where he wanted them, and didn’t think too many locals were the wiser. Two agents in a room at both the motels. Two camping in the park. One had just got a job at Will’s restaurant. One had been placed in the busiest gas station, on the edge of town, as a ‘‘favor.’’ I didn’t ask. One guy on the city street crew, just driving around and looking kind of busy. He also told me that Volont had placed three agents in the bank, posing as auditors. Not even the banker had been told any different.

He also told me that agents from a ‘‘special team’’ were being strategically placed near the jail.

‘‘Where?’’ I asked.

‘‘Not sure,’’ he said, grinning. ‘‘Just don’t piss in any bushes . . .’’

He also said that he had three agents in town just to hang out at the bars in the evenings. Not so much to learn anything as to just be around and about.

I was beginning to feel even better. I knew two of the DEA undercover people. If they were all as nuts as those two, Maitland would never be the same.

The rest of Thursday, I managed to talk with Hester for a few seconds, as she was assisting another DCI agent on a major burglary investigation. She was filling in for an agent on days off, so she’d be able to be back in our area on Friday. Tomorrow.

I was out covering a little fender bender, filling in where Bud normally would have been working, when Volont returned my call. Message said he’d be in touch tomorrow.

Other than myself, only Hester, George, Volont, and to some extent Art were aware of the special preparations and of the impending threat from Gabriel. To everyone else, the visible precautions were just routine measures taken to secure Nola Stritch. Anything that seemed a bit out of the ordinary was to be explained as being required by federal procedures. None of the undercover people, or the ‘‘special team,’’ were known to anyone but our select little group. That could be a problem, as we were well aware. Since it had to be that way, preparations were made to inform everybody as soon as they had a need to know. The last thing we wanted was a couple of men in camouflage BDUs going after Nola and our people spotting one of the members of the special team and getting them mixed up.

We began by giving a specific order that all our people were to have their walkie-talkies with them, turned on, with the shoulder mike/receiver in place where applicable. That meant all the uniformed personnel in the area, including State Patrol. And me. I was to be in uniform so I wouldn’t attract attention, if you can believe that. True, though. Nothing stands out less in a bunch of cops than a man in a cop suit. We figured I could issue orders better that way, without having to identify myself to a bunch of troopers I’d never met. We justified it all with what George referred to as the ‘‘Phantom Phederal Phacts.’’

‘‘Yeah, I know, but federal regulations require it . . .’’

Worked like a charm.

Anyway, the procedure was for a message to be immediately broadcast from the main transmitter at Dispatch the moment contact was made. We had a heavily sealed envelope placed on the console. Instructions said that it was to be opened only if there were people who were armed trying to get Nola Stritch.

We were ready. As ready as we were ever going to be.

Twenty-six

FRIDAY, the 2nd of August, started for me at 0700, when I put on my best uniform, my only pair of polished lace boots, and got in my unmarked and headed for the office in the pouring rain. Brilliant flashes of lightning were coming about ten seconds apart, and the noise of thunder was virtually constant. I felt sorry for the special team. It was also very, very dark. Normally, when it got that way the streetlights automatically came on. But the lightning flashes were overriding the sensors, making the lights think it was brighter than it really was. Everybody had their headlights on, but it didn’t help a lot.

When I got to the office, I had to sit in the car for almost two minutes before running for the entrance, waiting for the rain to let up just a little.

I headed right for Dispatch. Sandy Grueber was on duty.

‘‘Sandy, any tornado warnings out?’’

‘‘Just a watch until eleven hundred hours,’’ she said, grinning as the water dripped down from my balding head onto my glasses. ‘‘Erosion gonna be a problem there?’’

I laughed in false appreciation, and then asked if all was well with the transfer of Nola to our facility.

‘‘What?’’

So, already a glitch. Nobody had informed Sandy that Nola was even coming. I had her check with the Linn County jail. They confirmed that Nola had been signed out to the U.S. Marshal’s Service at 0632. That’s all they knew, or were permitted to say. It was enough.

I went to the main office and asked our two secretaries if they’d been notified that Nola was heading up. Oh, sure. And just why hadn’t they notified Dispatch? Well, they weren’t in that particular loop, that’s why.

I’d forgotten. On the early day shift, Bud would have handled that. We didn’t even have a woman jailer on premises, let alone a matron. Great.

I had them call Sally, for matron, and got the ball rolling to get women jailers lined up at least through the weekend.

I sighed. I hate administrative crap.

At 0750, the U.S. Marshals called, asking for directions to the jail. Maitland is a town of about 2,000. Shows you how often the USMS came to call.

The rain, which had let up, started in again in earnest. The first unanticipated event of the day. The marshals and Nola sat outside the jail for seven minutes, waiting for the rain to let up. The perfect opportunity for a hit. I stood out on the covered porch, sweating blood, until the rain subsided. Damn. I hate tension. I wanted a cigarette, and it was just the start of a long day.

I was at the door to greet Nola. She was wearing jail orange, with a U.S. Marshal’s jacket thrown over her shoulders. She was handcuffed and had shackles on her ankles. They were hard to see, as she was wearing a pair of GI jungle boots without laces. Brought by her family. She had a little gym bag with her court clothes folded up inside. Her hair was pulled back tightly, revealing a streak of nearly white hair about an inch wide, beginning at her right temple. She was not in a good mood.

The first thing she said to me was ‘‘I don’t know why I have to come back here. I didn’t ask to come back here . . .’’

‘‘You have a hearing, Nola,’’ I said, logging her in to the facility.

‘‘Not in a court that has jurisdiction over me.’’

‘‘And,’’ I continued, ‘‘you have an appointment with your attorney in a few minutes.’’

‘‘Not an attorney I chose,’’ she said. ‘‘I wish to make my appearance in the People’s Court.’’

I put down my pen. I smiled pleasantly at her. ‘‘Tell you what, Nola, I’ll make a note.’’ I got out a pad. ‘‘When you’re released in fifty or so years, I’ll have ’em call the People’s Court for you, and make an appointment . . .’’

‘‘We can put a lien on your property,’’ she said. ‘‘We’ll see how you feel then.’’

‘‘Not on what I don’t have,’’ I said. ‘‘You gotta give me a raise, first. Now, let’s get you squared away here . . .’’

I was placing Nola in the interview area, which had two thick windows, when the sunlight suddenly came streaming through the window. We both looked up, just in time to see her attorney, brightly lit, walking across the reflecting wet surface of the asphalt parking lot.

‘‘It’s true, Nola,’’ I said. ‘‘They can walk on water.’’

She laughed for the first time since I’d known her. Pleasant-sounding.

I locked her and her attorney in the interview room, and went to Dispatch, where I could watch them on closed-circuit TV. No sound, and the camera far enough away to prevent lip reading. We knew the rules. But a good enough picture to enable me to see if she tore his head off.

I signed the release forms for the marshals, and they left. ‘‘Take good care of her,’’ said the taller of the two. ‘‘She’ll have you in People’s Court if you don’t.’’

Much to my surprise, twenty minutes had gone by and Nola and her mouthpiece were still talking. No blows or anything. My stomach was churning, as neither Volont nor Nichols had showed, and they were the ones in communication with the ‘‘hidden assets.’’ Every noise, I looked. Every creak in the old building. I hate that too.

At about 1045, Nola and her attorney finished up, and I placed her in a holding cell. She seemed pretty content.

Sally arrived, and I told her that Nola would be going to court at 1130 or so and that she’d be going along as matron. I hated to say that.

At 1105, Volont arrived. Just after he pulled up, Nichols came into the lot. Volont was in the suit of the day, whereas Nichols was in blue jeans and a light blue golf shirt. They ignored each other, passing through the door about a minute apart, Volont in the lead.

As soon as they got inside, they headed for my office. I joined them.

Nichols wasn’t so much excited as simply running in high gear.

‘‘We’ve got two suspects in the City Campground,’’ he said. ‘‘Silver aluminum trailer, came in last night. Put up a dish antenna they said was a new type of TV satellite dish, but my guys in the park say it’s a military radio of some kind.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ I said. I wanted to ask just how they knew that, but I didn’t.

‘‘The media are already set up at the courthouse,’’ he continued, ‘‘and we think they’ve already been scouting there. One male, one female, thirties—we’ll have photos shortly—were asking questions in the media group. A little weird, like if there was a back door.’’

‘‘Hell,’’ I said, ‘‘you can see the back door through the front door. They’re both glass and they’re at opposite ends of the hall . . .’’

‘‘They were asking about upstairs,’’ he said. ‘‘Where the courtroom is.’’

I knew where the courtroom was, thank you very much. But he was wound up, and it was okay.

‘‘Security’s pretty impressive down there,’’ he said. ‘‘Lots of it and obvious as hell. Troopers and deputies everywhere you look.’’

‘‘Are we overdoing it?’’ I asked.

‘‘No,’’ said Volont, speaking for the first time. ‘‘I’ve just come from there. It’s a deterrent, just like we want it to be. The contrast between there and here is marked, and that’s what we want.’’

‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘we think they’ll do it today?’’

‘‘A high probability,’’ said Volont.

The transfer of Nola to the courthouse went without a hitch. She was safely in the building at 1121.

The hearing began at 1130. I wasn’t there, but those who were said that Nola kept referring to jurisdictions. In fact, at one point she refused to participate because the U.S. flag by the bench had fringe on it. She claimed that it was an Admiralty flag, and that she was not under the jurisdiction of an Admiralty Court. Right.

I was up at the jail, waiting for Nola’s return. That’s when I expected the shit to hit the fan. I was out on the front steps, avoiding Volont, who had taken over my office for his phone calls, and was sort of looking out of the corner of my eye, to see if I could locate somebody from the special team. I was armed with a cold can of pop in my hand. Now that the sun was out, the little valley where Maitland nestled was developing little patches of fog, especially along the Sparrow River, which runs through the center of the town. It was beautiful. Hot, uncomfortable, but beautiful. I looked at my watch. 1157. The hearing would have been recessed by now, I thought, unless the judge thought he could get it over with in the next thirty minutes. Personally, I’d feel a lot better if we could get Nola back in the jail, no matter what Gabriel had planned. The place was like a fort. I understood that the military sort of made a living of taking forts, but I’d still feel better.

As in so many midwestern towns, the fire sirens went off precisely at noon. You live in tornado country, you like to know they work.

The siren was just winding down then I heard a metallic clang and a booming sound at the same time. Quite some distance away, but with the buildings and the valley, you couldn’t tell where the sound had come from. I listened carefully on my portable but there was no traffic at all. I took another drink of my pop, and the fire sirens started up again. Kept on cycling, up and down, about ten seconds per cycle. Fire.

I turned and started into the building.

‘‘Twenty-five, Maitland!’’ came over the radio. Dispatch calling the local officer.

‘‘Go ahead!’’ He was excited. Always was when there was a fire.

‘‘Small explosion at Farm and Field, possible anhydrous ammonia leaks from damaged tanks!’’

Damn. They were at the lower end of town, almost on the edge, but the light breeze would carry the caustic gas. It tended to sink, but there were probably ten to fifteen homes within a couple of hundred yards of the place. Evacuation . . . that meant traffic control. It wasn’t like we didn’t have a bunch of cops about, but which ones to release . . . ?

The second explosion was closer, and as I turned in the doorway I could see a fountain of red brick dust rising in the air. The school, or a brick house damned near it.

The third explosion was only a second or two behind, from the opposite end of town, by the highway . . . an enormous gout of orange flame, surrounded by a thick, oily cloud of smoke. Fuel storage tanks. There were three of them out there, one gasoline, one diesel fuel oil, and one propane gas. It looked like the gasoline had gone.

The fourth explosion was more of a prolonged crackling sound, very loud. I looked toward the courthouse. All the trees along the street, the side opposite the courthouse, were coming down. Most looked like they were falling into the street, completely blocking access to or from the jail. I had seen det cord used before, to fell trees. That’s what this was.

I turned back into the parking lot, got my AR-15 out of the trunk, put it on my front seat, and drove as fast as I could toward the courthouse. Ineffective little red dash light and ineffective little siren under the hood going for all they were worth.

I didn’t say a word on the radio, but there was sure a whole lot of traffic. In my car I was picking up eight channels, and they were all clamoring for attention. I could imagine the 911 board lighting up.

It occurred to me that Gabriel hadn’t had to risk taking out the command center. All he had to do was make it so busy it was ineffective. Worked.

I got about half a block from the courthouse, in time to see about six trooper cars leaving, lights and sirens going, heading toward explosion scenes. They would be able to get to most of them without having to fight the trees in the road on Hill Street, which led to the jail.

There were stunned people coming out of their houses, gazing in wonder at the vegetation in their yards and the street. The press was pouring out of the courthouse, feasting, and dying for more.

I grabbed my rifle, and headed into the courthouse at as good a speed as I could, considering the traffic coming the other way, some of it in uniform. I stopped two troopers, and told them to stay put. It turned out that their sergeant had told them to get toward the school. I brushed by, saw the elevator was packed, and ran up the stairs. That just about did me. I wasn’t used to the boots, the utility belt, the ballistic vest under my shirt, or the exercise.

I got to the top of the long, steep stone stairway and saw one of our reserve officers staring out the window at the other end of the building.

‘‘Mark,’’ I yelled at him, ‘‘look sharp.’’ A deep breath. ‘‘Watch your step.’’ Another deep breath. ‘‘We may have company.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ he hollered back. He had no real idea what I was talking about, but he moved to one side, out of the window, and looked alert.

Only one person, the Clerk of Court herself, remained in the Clerk’s office. Her staff was out looking at all the excitement. Just as I was about to ask her where Nola Stritch was, I saw the county attorney, Nola’s attorney, and the court reporter come out of the courtroom.

‘‘Where’s Nola at?’’ I asked.

They all looked at the rifle in my hand and obviously thought I was nuts. The county attorney just pointed toward the courtroom. I brushed by them and saw that the world had left Nola guarded only by Sally, who had nothing but a can of Mace to defend herself with. They both turned as I came in the room and headed toward them between the gallery.

‘‘Get her to the jury room,’’ I said. ‘‘We’ll sit on her there.’’

‘‘What the shit is going on?’’ asked Sally.

‘‘I think somebody is coming to get her,’’ I said.

Nola just smiled.

‘‘All this for her?’’ asked Sally. ‘‘The explosions, the trees . . . ?’’

‘‘I’m ’fraid so,’’ I said, herding them toward the back of the courtroom.

‘‘Well,’’ said Sally, talking to Nola, ‘‘you must be a better lay than you look, honey.’’

‘‘You little bitch,’’ hissed Nola, moving toward Sally.

‘‘Don’t do it Nola,’’ I said. ‘‘We can’t afford to bury you.’’

I kept moving the fighting pair to the jury room door.

Suddenly there was a noise that sounded for all the world like somebody with a set of drumsticks had just played a tattoo on the wall that separated the courtroom from the hallway. Followed by what sounded like a pistol shot. Muffled, but enough for me.

‘‘Get behind the judge’s bench up there!’’ I hollered, pushing both women ahead of me. ‘‘Move, move!’’

Ever since a dude had tried to pull a gun on the judge while court was in session, the clerk had taken to stacking old lawbooks on the other side of the judge’s desk and partition. The bench. Although only thirty-four inches high, it made a pretty effective barricade.