Praise for
Code 61
“STUNNING.”
—Deadly Pleasures, Best U.S. Crime Novel of 2002
“YOU HAVE TO LOVE CARL.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“The endearingly wry first-person narration is
splendidly handled; and the characterization—
especially Gorse—is very good.”
—Colin Dexter
“Harstad knows how to sustain a readable story
while showing a remarkable talent
for depicting lifelike characters and
believable dialogue.”
—Star Tribune, Minneapolis
THE BIG THAW
“Compelling … [with a] spectacular finale … Harstad
writes ‘cop talk’ that's not only believable but
often (intentionally) funny.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Escape the urban thriller to the heartland with
Harstad, a real rising star.”
—Booknews from The Poisoned Pen
“Plenty of laughs, skewed violence, and marvelous
takes on how weird Iowa winters can be—in
the third, and best, procedural featuring easygoing
Nation County Deputy Sheriff Carl Houseman,
from a former Iowa deputy sheriff who
knows the territory inside out.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A truly great storyteller … He sets up the story
beautifully, with intense suspense, an intriguing
investigation that has all the authentic trappings, and a
believable cast of police personnel. He gets better and
better with each book.”
—Library Journal
“It's fascinating to follow Harstad's hero-narrator,
Deputy Sheriff Carl Houseman of Nation
County, Iowa, through a crime scene. Houseman
proceeds with absolute confidence, making
the slightest depression in the carpeting intriguing,
treating the reader to insights gleaned from
physical evidence that only a firsthand authority can
render…. Harstad is one of the most reliable and
riveting police-procedural writers in the business.”
—Booklist
KNOWN DEAD
“Instantly propels him into the top ranks of
mystery writers.”
—Booklist
“A complicated little conundrum of a plot that keeps
Houseman, the Feds, and the reader guessing all the
way through … An author who knows his territory.”
—The New York Times
“A series to watch.”
—The Plain Dealer
“Crackles with the electricity of an adrenaline-laced
shoot-out.”
—The Denver Post
“Hard-core procedural fans will find Carl's second
case authentically … realistic.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Harstad … advances the scary (and perversely
entertaining) notion that people are just as cuckoo
in the heartland as they are in the wicked city.”
—The New York Times Book Review
ELEVEN DAYS
“A hell of a first novel.”
—Michael Connelly
“[Harstad's] dry, even droll account of these macabre
crimes makes them all the more terrible.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“With one startling twist after another, this grisly
but cunningly sophisticated story is truly
frightening…. A debut spellbinder.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“A major achievement and thriller debut by an
ex-cop; a novel that smells and feels right.”
—TimeOut
“Downright explosive! The descriptions
of the police work rival Wambaugh's best.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The very best procedural novels are those that follow
police personnel through the solving of a
crime from its discovery to evidence-gathering to
the apprehension of the guilty…. As a former
deputy sheriff from Iowa, Harstad has the procedure
down…. Deputy Carl Houseman is the epitome
of a police officer, and his humanity, intelligence,
and ability place him at personal risk as the
case races to a heart-stopping climax.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
Also by Donald Harstad
Eleven Days
Known Dead
The Big Thaw
And coming soon in hardcover from Doubleday
The Heartland Experiment
To Erica Harstad, our daughter,
whose excellent mind, quick wit,
and honest appraisals make her
the most reliable of critics.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express my thanks to those who so generously shared their time and thoughts with me as I worked on this book.
First, to Larry and Maria Brummel of McGregor, Iowa: Their gracious permission to tour their marvelous house set the scene for much of what follows.
To my friends in London: Rachel Coldbreath, who shared many thoughts on the legends and history of vampires in literature, and gave encouragement; Julian Richards, for his friendship and knowledge of the legends and the people who believe them; Grebbsy McLaren, for a fine sense of humor and permission to use a bit of verse; and to Zu, who added insights and a point of view that is uniquely hers. Their warm welcome during an excellent evening in a London pub was much appreciated.
I'd also like to thank a remarkable set of individuals who populate alt.v on the Web. Singling out individuals is very difficult, but B. J., Llewellyn, Catherine B. Krusberg, Julian, Grebbsy, Klattau, Emrys, Jet Girl, Chiller, Tiernan, William R. Thompson, and Elizabeth Miller are but a few. They have been the source of much fascinating discussion regarding vampires in legend and literature. All, of course, are exempted from responsibility for any of the misconceptions on my part.
To a remarkable group of young women from Elkader, Iowa, who were interviewed in order for me to obtain a solid base regarding their possible reactions to a set of circumstances in this book, I especially want to express my thanks. They—Courtney Zaph Bently, Rachel Kuehl Jaster, Carrie Persoon, Barbie Gnagy, Nicole Reimer, Hillary Klingman, and Courtney Burns—pro-vided the background for events in the lives of characters Hester Gorse and Darcy Becker. They were invaluable.
I would like to express my most sincere appreciation to the Valerie Williams Co'Motion Dance Theater, and dancers Valerie Williams and Annie Church, for allowing me to observe a class and hours of rehearsal. Their ability to express and project attitudes through body language was a revelation, and added dimension to the characters of Jessica and Tatiana.
I would like to thank Shannon Bryant for answering my questions regarding potential sources for advice. She started the whole ball rolling for the characters who inhabit the Mansion. I would also like to thank Kate Bryant for her timely advice regarding flute playing and a certain piece of music. Your Uncle Don appreciates you both.
For a fascinating discussion of vampires and related subjects, I would like to thank Julieann Thilmany Theis, who also allowed me to read her master's thesis.
I wish to express my thanks to all those law enforcement personnel who serve in the Midwest. Their professionalism and devotion to duty, and their continuing willingness to share accounts of their work, make these stories possible.
PROLOGUE
&nb
sp; My name is Carl Houseman, and I'm a deputy sheriff in Nation County, Iowa. I've been doing this for over twenty years now; long enough to graduate from the night shift to become the department's investigator, and senior officer, as well. Long enough to feel senior in every sense of the term. Somehow, when you finally pass fifty and realize a fellow officer was born about the same time you took the oath, you start to wonder if you might not begin to feel old pretty soon. I mean, maybe in another ten years or so.
It's been my experience that cases fall into categories that are a bit different from the examples they cite at the academy. Most of the time, you have more than enough evidence to show how the offense was committed, but really have to work to identify who did it. The rest of the time, you pretty much know who did the dirty deed, but showing how is the problem. In rare instances, a case will develop both ways at the same time. That was what this one did.
ONE
Thursday, October 5, 2000
23:33
I guess I could say it started for us on Thursday, October 5, 2000. I can say that now. I sure couldn't at the time.
It was exactly 23:33 hours, and I was just leaving the scene of a minor fender bender, and was en route home when the communications center called.
“Comm, Three?” came crackling over the radio, from the familiar voice of my favorite dispatcher, Sally Wells.
I picked up my mike, suspicious already. “This is Three. Go ahead.”
“Three, we have a 911 intruder call, 606 Main, Freiberg. Female subject needs immediate assistance. Freiberg officer has been dispatched and is requesting backup.”
I sighed audibly. “Ten-four, Comm.” I took stock of my current location. “I'll be ten-seventy-six to the scene from about seven miles out on County Four Victor Six.”
“Three, ten-seventy-six. Three, not sure if this is completely ten-thirty-three, but you might be aware that the female subject indicated that there was a man trying to come in her window.”
I reached down and turned on my red and blue top lights. “Three is en route. Can she ID the suspect?”
“Contact was broken by the caller, Three. Auto callback rings through, no answer. Female subject was very excited, but described the intruder as a white male with … ” She paused, and I thought I had detected barely suppressed humor in her voice. “Ah, continuing, Three. Suspect described as white male with teeth.”
“Teeth, Comm?”
“Ten-four, Three. Teeth.”
“Ah, okay, ten-four. Still en route. Advise when the Freiberg car goes ten-twenty-three at the scene.” Teeth?
“Ten-four, Three. Will advise.”
Teeth? I distinctly remember thinking that I wasn'tgoing to hear the end of that one for a while. At least it wasn't a gun or a knife. I really hate knives.
Our usual shortage of deputies available for duty had been aggravated by an early appearance of the flu in the last two weeks, so from a total of nine, we were down to five or four effectives, depending on who called in sick next, and when the next officer came back. As senior officer, I still had to pull twelve-hour shifts, but my exalted status meant that I got first choice of which shift I would work. I'd chosen noon to midnight. It was a combination of the shift that was the most fun, and the one where you could get the most actual work done.
About two minutes later, I heard Byng, the Freiberg officer, go 10-23 at the scene.
“I was ten-four direct, Comm,” I said, letting Sally know that I had heard him and to keep her from having to tell me. That was because her transmissions from the base station were so much more powerful than ours, she could obliterate a transmission from the Freiberg officer, especially when he was on his walkie-talkie.
She simply clicked her mike button twice in close succession, in acknowledgment.
I passed the last farm before the Freiberg city limits, took the big, downhill curve at about eighty-five, and began braking as I entered the forty-five zone. I was down to forty as I made the next turn, and was on Marquette Street, the two-story frame houses of the residential area changing into the three-story brick storefronts of the nearly deserted four-block business district. I cut my top lights, the red and blue reflections in the store windows being a distraction as I looked for anybody out on the sidewalks. Still slowing, I headed down the gently sloping street that was cut short by the black line that was the Mississippi River.
I heard the static distorted voice of Byng. “Where ya at, Three?”
“Downtown.” As I keyed the mike, I saw his car parked off to my right. “Have your car in sight.” By telling him that, he could give me better directions.
“Okay … I'm on the second floor above Curls & Cuts. Up the stairs on the right, the blue door.”
“Ten-four.” I swung my car to the right, pulling up near the curb about thirty feet ahead of his car. “Comm, Three's ten-twenty-three,” I said into my mike as I unsnapped my seat belt, grabbed my rechargeable flashlight, turned on my own walkie-talkie, and opened my car door. Simultaneously, I heard the voices of both Byng and Sally back at Comm. She, being over twenty-five miles away and using a powerful transmitter, and he, very close but behind a brick wall and using a very weak transmitter, canceled each other out almost perfectly.
Knowing that she was merely acknowledging me, and not being at all sure of what Byng had said, I picked up my car radio mike and said, “Stand by a sec, Comm.” The feedback into my now active walkie-talkie let out a screech, and I turned its volume down without thinking. Still with the car radio, I said, “Byng?”
“Yeah, Three. Hey, why don't you come around the back way? I don't know what we got here. Neighbor says the victim has gone and thinks she heard her leave and that she went up onto the roof.”
I swung my feet back into my car, started the engine, shut the door, and said, “I'm on my way.”
“Uh, Three … You might want to check ground level … Can't figure why she'd go to the roof.”
“Ten-four.” I couldn't, either, but people do strange things when they're scared. I sure as hell wouldn't go up, but then I have a thing about heights.
I had to go almost another block before I reached a side street. Freiberg is located between two big bluffs, and is only four streets wide at its widest point. Spaces being at a premium, cross streets are few and far between. The fact that the cross streets all required a bridge to span the open drainage “conduit” contributed to their scarcity. The so-called conduit was about thirty feet wide, ten to twelve feet deep, with limestone banks and a concrete floor. It was dug in the 1890s to accommodate the vast drainage that came down off the bluffs during heavy rains. It ran the length of the town, and emptied into the Mississippi. It was not, as they say, kid-proof, and offered a nearly invisible path for burglars as well. I bumped over the bridge deck, and took a sharp right, doubling back on the other side of the stores and apartments above them. I stopped as close to the bridge as I could, and opened my car door for the second time. “Comm, Three's out'a the car,” I said, mostly to let Byng know I was now behind the buildings.
“Ten-four, Three,” said Sally. She was monitoring the conversation between Byng and me, and was starting to sound a little concerned.
The conduit was, unfortunately, between the buildings and me. The fire department had fits over that all the time, but there was just no way to put a road in behind the stores on the other side of the big ditch. Not without tearing all the buildings down and moving them into the street on the other side.
Without a road or alley directly behind the buildings, most of them had constructed their own little footbridges across to their loading areas. Easy access, as they say, but easy for burglars as well. For that reason, I had gotten very, very familiar with the area over the years.
The lighting sucked. One yellowish orange light at the road bridge, and one about a block away. Not much room for them, either, because of the hundred-fifty-foot limestone bluff looming up on my left. It was sheer, naked rock for about fifty feet, and then brush and trees began sprou
ting all the way to the top. The builders had to squeeze the road in, and the whole area was a sandwich of necessity. Bluff, road, conduit, buildings. No room for anything else.
I squeezed the rubberized transmit button of my walkie-talkie. “Which one you in, Byng?” It was really hard to differentiate the various stores from the rear. Looking up, most of them had some light visible in the second floor. Most third floors in this block were empty, mainly because the heating in the winter was so expensive. Even as I spoke, I saw him at one of the windows on the second floor.
“Up here, Three,” he said. Very faint. I'd forgotten to turn my walkie-talkie volume back up.
I looked closely at the back of his building. A poorly maintained external wooden stair led up the back, to a very narrow platform at the second floor. From there an iron ladder that was bolted to the brick wall rose up to the roof. Great. If the victim had fled upward, this particular cop was going to have to meet her when she came down. I really do hate heights.
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