Known Dead ch-2

by Donald Harstad

  So, by the time the trooper captain arrived, along with a trained negotiator, we knew we were dealing with a full-blown family. The captain was real nice, and since we had lost about half our department in the last couple of months, got a lot more troops up to help with cordoning off the farm. But, as acting sheriff, I was supposed to call the shots. The only problem was, if the state didn’t like what I decided to do, they could simply refuse to participate. They owned most of the resources. Would you court them? I would, and did. We met under the convenient tree, which had been so well used that the ground under it was all churned into mud.

  The negotiator was a man named Roger Collier. Young fellow, thin. He asked me if I wanted to talk to them at all. It was perfunctory, and I knew that. But it was nice of him to ask.

  ‘‘I think my welcome’s wearing a bit thin right now. You go right ahead.’’ I shook my head. ‘‘But I’ll want to listen.’’

  ‘‘No problem.’’ He went off to set up a secure telephone contact with the telephone company, locking the Stritch line open and only open to us; and getting established in a large, beige motor home. That would be our command post for as long as we needed it. They’d parked it just outside the line of sight from the Stritch farm, on a concrete bridge deck about a hundred yards up the road. I continued to talk with the captain. His name was Ron Yearous, and I had only met him twice. Good man. Nonetheless, an administrator. Well, what the hell, so was I now.

  ‘‘Bad business here. Sorry to hear about your boss and deputy.’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ I shivered a little, and shifted my feet, trying to get some of the water out of my tennis shoes. ‘‘I really want Herman. Really bad.’’

  ‘‘He’ll be brought in.’’

  ‘‘Brought in,’’ I thought. ‘‘Brought in!’’ I hadn’t heard that term for years. Although the captain and I were about the same age, that told me one thing. He hadn’t been in the field for a long, long time. A pencil pusher wasn’t going to be a lot of help out here. But. ..

  ‘‘Ron, could you do me a favor?’’

  ‘‘I’ll try.’’

  ‘‘I’m not real good at organizing something like this. I know you are. While I try to get a better feel for what’s happening here, could you handle the heavy job for me?’’

  ‘‘I’ll give it to my people. Don’t worry about anything. We’ll get everything set.’’

  ‘‘Damn. Thanks, Ron.’’

  He clapped me on the shoulder, and started getting things done. Seriously, he did a fine job, and we never did have to worry about anything concerning support, rotation, supply, or anything else. He just had it done before anybody realized we needed it. And, what was even better, he never had an opportunity to interfere with what I wanted to do.

  Five minutes later, I was on a cell phone in the captain’s car, talking to George Pollard, resident FBI agent from Cedar Rapids. ‘‘George of the Bureau.’’ I was glad it was George. He was good, and he was bright.

  ‘‘Carl, is Lamar all right?’’ He knew us all.

  ‘‘He’s pretty bad, George. He’ll make it, but Bud’s dead.’’

  ‘‘Shit.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, tell me.’’

  ‘‘So what have you got up there?’’

  Basically, he wanted to know about the right-wing involvement. I told him what I knew, which was that Herman was pretty much your generic tax protester, and it appeared that he had at least the support of his family. George wasn’t pleased. Ever since the Waco business, the Feds were understandably leery about dealing with the extreme right.

  ‘‘Tell me,’’ said George, ‘‘that he isn’t a member of some sort of militia group.’’

  ‘‘Not that I know of, George.’’

  ‘‘But his property is posted?’’

  ‘‘It’s posted, but as far as I know, he’s just a typical tax protester. Nothing special about him.’’

  ‘‘Has he broken any federal laws?’’

  ‘‘Not today, as far as I know.’’ I sighed. ‘‘I’m sure he has, but it probably has to do with taxes.’’ I knew George. He wanted to help, but he needed a legal reason to do so. Most people don’t realize it, but the FBI has very little to do with murder cases. They only handle them on federal government property and on Native American reservations. They didn’t have much reason to actually work the case, but they could certainly ‘‘assist’’ in every way possible.

  ‘‘Right. And you say that it was an Original Notice he was resisting?’’

  ‘‘George, as far as I know that’s what was happening. I didn’t really pay too much attention. Why don’t you get hold of our office, and talk to Margaret. She can tell you all about the civil action.’’

  ‘‘I’ll get back to you.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, George.’’

  It was 0200 hours. The rain had dropped off to a light mist, the temperature still hovered around eighty, and the humidity was fierce. So were the damned mosquitoes. I had thoroughly sprayed myself and my clothing, but since I was soaking wet in the first place, the repellent didn’t seem to be working well. I was talking with Hester, who had been sent up because there was a murder and she knew our county so well. We were in a large tent pitched by the good captain. Al Hummel, the agent in charge, was there too. We were going over what we had. Not much more than I had known eight hours ago, except that we now had a pretty accurate head count inside the farm perimeter, and they were demanding that we all just turn around and leave. Well, that was about as realistic as that bunch ever got. We had a negotiation in progress, as they say. And getting nowhere. They were a stubborn group, and were in denial. Just go away. Right.

  ‘‘But the shooter is Herman Stritch, right?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘No doubt in my mind. As far as I can tell, there’s only one way into that little shed, and I had that in view. Herman was in there, and he’s the one who threatened to shoot me.’’

  ‘‘That’s good.’’

  ‘‘That,’’ I said, ‘‘depends entirely on your point of view.’’

  ‘‘Good’’ was right, though. We’d gotten a warrant for Herman Stritch’s arrest earlier that evening. We were still waiting on the rest of the family, but I had the feeling that the young man I’d talked to was going to get it for obstruction. Nobody else yet. But they could all take a hit for accessory before it was finished.

  ‘‘I’m going to the Winnebago,’’ I said, ‘‘and check with the negotiator.’’ I hadn’t been in the HQ unit yet, and from the sound of its auxiliary generator, I had the strong impression that it was air-conditioned. Hester and Al said they’d be along in a minute. Micro DCI administrative conference. Fine with me.

  As I squished over the soggy ground to the Winnebago, I played things over in my head again. It did bother me a bit that there was no longer any activity around the shed where I’d talked to Herman. If he had gotten out, and I believed that he had, it was also possible for someone to get in. Ergo, some ‘‘unknown’’ individual could be postulated as the shooter. By Herman’s attorney, during the trial, sworn to by Herman and his family. I’d always wondered about that aspect of the extreme right. I mean, they’d scream bloody murder about the ‘‘truth,’’ the Constitution, and swearing on the Bible, and then lie like a rug on the witness stand.

  One of our biggest problems, from an evidentiary standpoint, was that we couldn’t get the lab team onto the property until the threat had been removed. And that could take days. Meanwhile, any biological evidence was fast disappearing because of the rain.

  There was a young trooper I didn’t know guarding the Winnebago’s door. He stopped me.

  ‘‘Excuse me, but this is a restricted area.’’

  I smiled. ‘‘That’s okay, I’m in charge.’’

  ‘‘I doubt that very much,’’ he said evenly. ‘‘Why don’t you just move along.’’

  I reached in my back pocket and pulled out my badge and ID. ‘‘Carl Houseman, senior officer present for the Nation County Sherif
f’s Department. Like I said, I’m in charge.’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t told that,’’ he said, not budging.

  ‘‘Well,’’ I sighed, ‘‘things have been pretty busy around here today. I suspect nobody thought to tell you. Until now. I just did.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Deputy. I have no instructions to let you inside.’’

  I looked over my shoulder for Hester and Al. Nobody.

  ‘‘Look, son. I’m really tired, and I want to talk to Roger in there about something very, very important. I know you’re doing your job as well as you can. I’m not pissed off at you, but I’m gettin’ a little testy at whoever put you here. Understand?’’

  No answer, just a determined look.

  ‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘before I wander off and kill the first thing I see with stripes on its sleeve, maybe you could just ask Roger if it’s okay with him if I come in?’’

  He paused just a second, and then opened the door, stuck his head in, and asked. Two seconds after that, I was climbing into the air-conditioned comfort of the Winnebago Command Center. In my soaked condition, it was freezing cold. It felt wonderful, and I had visions of ice-coated mosquitoes falling off my raincoat. Uttering little gaspy screams.

  Roger was toward the rear, with a phone board, three TV monitors, and a large cup of coffee. He smiled when he saw me.

  ‘‘Sorry you had a problem there,’’ he said.

  ‘‘This is heaven,’’ I replied, ‘‘and I can see why you don’t want a crowd.’’ I looked the place over. ‘‘So what’s up with Herman?’’

  ‘‘Well, not a lot right now. Most of them are asleep, I believe.’’

  ‘‘Good idea.’’ I reached over to the pot, and poured some coffee into a cup. I heard the door open, and felt as much as saw Hester and Al climbing into the camper.

  ‘‘So,’’ I said, more to get my mind working than anything else, ‘‘just where are we at here?’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Roger, ‘‘these things come in stages. Right now, it’s in the ‘after the fact’ stage, and we have Herman experiencing dullness and disappointment. Things just aren’t happening the way he wants, and he’s exhausted, in other words.’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ I said.

  ‘‘We have to be careful right now, so that he doesn’t progress to despair and dismay. That’s dangerous.’’ He sipped his coffee. ‘‘Or it can be.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ I took a drink too. ‘‘So what’s the plan?’’

  ‘‘We have to try to maneuver him into defeat and debilitation. The stage where he feels like he has to just give up.’’

  ‘‘Of course. Is that going to be hard to do?’’

  ‘‘Not with enough time. Or if something else happens that affects his outlook.’’

  ‘‘Like?’’ I asked, sipping more coffee.

  ‘‘It’s hard to tell,’’ he said. ‘‘Could be anything. I read about a case once where a barricaded suspect’s mother’s picture just fell off the wall. He gave up immediately.’’

  ‘‘No shit?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. I read about another one where the suspect felt that he was getting all bound up, you know, with his bowels. Thought it would kill him, so he gave up.’’

  ‘‘Just so he could take a crap?’’

  ‘‘Yep,’’ he said, grinning. ‘‘Neat, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘Sure is.’’

  ‘‘But you have to be very careful,’’ he said, his voice getting serious. ‘‘They can go right into denial and distress. If that happens, they get really violent sometimes.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  ‘‘Then, sometimes, they go into a phase where they’re just doubtful and distant, and they sort of…’’

  ‘‘Dither?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Sort of. But they’re vulnerable then, if you can get to them.’’

  ‘‘Fascinating business, isn’t it?’’ I asked. I was waking up. Probably just the coffee.

  ‘‘Oh, yes, it is,’’ he said, all enthused.

  I noticed a little sign above his TV monitors. ‘‘Display Dominance.’’ Cute.

  ‘‘So,’’ asked Hester, ‘‘where are you going with this?’’

  ‘‘I intend to try to convince him to surrender tomorrow,’’ said Roger. ‘‘I think we have a chance here. This Herman isn’t really… well, quick, you know? Not dumb, but not too sharp. Certainly not a career violent criminal, that’s obvious.’’

  ‘‘You’ve got him to a T,’’ I said. ‘‘Although you do have to start somewhere with any career…’’

  ‘‘If he stays sober, we should have him pretty soon.’’ Roger tapped a six-inch ring binder that was filled to overflowing. ‘‘Everything we need.’’

  ‘‘Good,’’ I said. ‘‘Good.’’

  Hester, Al, and I left the Winnebago a few seconds later. We’d gotten about ten steps when I said, ‘‘Roger’s new at this, isn’t he?’’

  Well, yes, Roger was. It seemed that the state of Iowa had three trained negotiators. One was in Florida at school, one had been rather severely injured in a car wreck about two weeks ago, and Roger had just gotten out of negotiator’s school last week.

  ‘‘Well,’’ I said, knowing it was a foolish question, ‘‘how about the FBI? I’m sure they’ve got somebody they’d be more than happy to lend us…’’

  They probably had. The Iowa Attorney General’s office, however, had decided that Iowa would handle it. All of it. Period. They’d mentioned something to the Feds about screwing up a couple of cases. No names. But they seemed to have burned my bridge before I ever knew I’d crossed it.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Al. ‘‘We said we’d have a statement for the press before they went to bed, and here it is almost 0215.’’

  The three of us squished through the mud to the press area, which consisted of an impromptu site made from storm fencing and patrol cars, where the members of the local fourth estate had gathered. Most of them were waiting, hoping somebody else would get killed. Another cop or two would be all right, but what they really wanted was to see a TAC team go in. What bothered me the most, I guess, was that another Waco would be just fine with most of this group. I picked out Nancy Mitchell and Phil Rumsford right away, sitting in their little gray car. Maybe knowing them made a difference. But I was sort of glad they were there.

  All we could tell any of them was pretty much what we had told them before.

  ‘‘Are you going in to get them tonight?’’ That was from WUNR-TV’s roving correspondent from Des Moines. Known to one and all as ‘‘Wunner Boy.’’

  ‘‘Negotiations,’’ I said, ‘‘are being conducted. We have no intention of ‘going in’ and ‘getting’ anybody. We’re simply going to take our time, and convince the suspect to surrender.’’ Yeah, right.

  ‘‘Any evidence of a possible suicide pact?’’ asked a woman reporter with some other TV outfit.

  ‘‘A what?’’

  ‘‘A suicide pact. You know, when they…’’

  ‘‘I know what one is,’’ I said loudly, cutting her off. ‘‘What on earth makes you think there might be a suicide pact?’’

  She didn’t answer, but a reporter for a newspaper shouted in my face, ‘‘Is this a headquarters for a militia group?’’

  ‘‘Beats me. I don’t think so, though.’’ I held up my hand. ‘‘You’ll be getting a written handout in about ten minutes.’’ I lie pretty well under pressure.

  ‘‘Are there any more than just one known dead?’’

  There was that term again.

  ‘‘One officer, whom I knew for better than twenty years, is dead. That seems like enough to me. You want more?’’

  With that, I turned around and headed back to the tent. Babble behind me, and Hester caught up. ‘‘Hey?’’

  ‘‘Yeah?’’

  ‘‘You need a little sleep.’’

  I slowed down. ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘Actually, you need a lot of sleep. Why don’t you go home, or ca
tch a nap in the tent.’’

  ‘‘Or just sleep in my car…’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ she said. ‘‘But just get some sleep before you talk to the press again.’’

  I stopped completely, and began to let myself run down. ‘‘It was that term, the known dead bit. It always strikes me that they really mean, do they know them, like are they important or meaningful, you know? And it reminds me of the body count shit from years ago. Keeping score. You know? I mean, I know I’m misunderstanding it. It’s just a thing, that’s all.’’ I yawned. ‘‘Just pisses me off. They just yip, yip, yip about known dead, and that’s…’’ I just trailed off.

  ‘‘That’s show biz,’’ she said. ‘‘You better hurry, I don’t want to have to carry you to your car.’’

  I grinned in the near-darkness. We were just about at my car when we heard the sound of yelling, faint but unmistakable, from the direction of the Stritch farm. It sounded like both male and female voices.

  ‘‘What the hell,’’ said Hester.

  We both turned and started toward the voices when we heard three loud cracks of rifle fire, then more yelling, louder. We started to run toward the perimeter line.

  Fifteen

  We’d killed the electricity to the Stritch house and outbuildings, so there was no yard light. When there were interior lights in the Stritch house, they were courtesy of an emergency generator Herman, like many farmers, had installed. I couldn’t see any lights in the house now, though, as Hester and I jogged to the forward perimeter. Herman must have been saving gas. The front of the house was fairly well lit by the portable lights we had running off a Fire Department generator. The problem was, the light was all from one direction, and the shadows were consequently very pronounced. It was black as pitch directly behind it, but there was no way we could get light back there. Just to make things worse, the humidity was so intense there seemed to be a fog hanging in the lighted area near the house. It was hard to make out details, which could become very important if you were trying to make out the subtle color and shape differences between, say, a bunch of scrap and a sniper. Nothing was moving. All the cops were behind cover, and with all the light from our side, we were all in deep shadow. It was very quiet, except for the muted sound from the generator back with the fire apparatus.