Known Dead ch-2

by Donald Harstad

  I found Eddie Heinz just to the left of the lane, behind about four cords of kindling. Hester and I knelt down with him.

  ‘‘What’s happening?’’

  ‘‘Don’t know. There was a bunch of yelling, then I swear I heard a screen door slam. Right before three rounds were fired. It’s been quiet since.’’

  I peered toward the house. There were no interior lights at all, and our portables weren’t capable of penetrating very far into the gloom of the house. Silence. Millions of frogs and crickets, who had all stopped making their favorite noises when the rounds were fired, started up again. There were enough of them that it made it difficult to pick up the softer noises.

  We were there for about a minute when a trooper came from the tent area, saying that the negotiator had called the house but they wouldn’t tell him anything.

  Great.

  The trooper also said that the negotiator had established that Herman Stritch had somehow made it back to the house.

  Obviously, that didn’t surprise me too much. It would have been fairly easy for him to break down some of the old vertical siding and slip out. It bothered me, though, because he’d managed to traverse the area to the house unseen. And, like I said, it also meant that in court they might be able to say that he wasn’t the one in the shed when the shots were fired at Lamar and Bud. Damn. It also meant that he was there to lead the family and friends in their activities.

  Just then, Eddie said he had movement to our left, in the shadow cast by the barn. I strained to see, but couldn’t make anything out. Then a small, reedy voice said, ‘‘Mommy, I’m all wet.’’

  With that, a thin, bedraggled young woman stood up, with a child in her arms.

  ‘‘Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot!’’

  ‘‘Don’t shoot,’’ yelled Hester.

  ‘‘Keep coming,’’ I said, in a fairly loud voice, but not shouting. ‘‘We won’t shoot. Just keep coming.’’

  She did. I noticed she kept looking over her shoulder toward the house, but that she tended to keep in the shadow as much as possible. In a couple of seconds, she had come to the woven wire fence, and was being helped over by Eddie, Hester, and me. She seemed to be in her early twenties, wearing a sleeveless cotton plaid shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes.

  The first thing she said to me was ‘‘Hello, Mr. Houseman.’’

  Damned if I didn’t recognize her. Melissa Werth, or Melissa Stritch now. She’d done about half her growing up three houses from me, at her grandmother’s, after her parents had been killed in a car wreck. I didn’t really know her, but we were well enough acquainted to exchange some words when we met in the grocery store. Damn. Just hadn’t connected her. Maybe I really was getting too old for this shit.

  ‘‘What happened, Melissa? Are you all right?’’

  ‘‘We’re fine. Do you know that that old son of a bitch shot at us? ’’

  We were bundling both of them off toward the tent, and out of sight of the main buildings. ‘‘Who, Melissa? Who shot at you?’’

  ‘‘That crazy goddamned Herman!’’

  ‘‘Herman?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Damned right he did!’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Because I wanted to leave. Because him and his whole goddamned family want to die instead of surrender, and that was supposed to include me and Susie!’’ We were near the tent now, and I could see her very clearly. She was a pretty girl, with long brown hair. She looked up at me, outraged and breathless. ‘‘Can you believe that shit?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I’m afraid I can,’’ I said. We started in the tent.

  ‘‘Mark,’’ said Hester to a trooper, ‘‘get me a couple of women EMTs in here, will you?’’

  Hester thinks of everything.

  With Melissa and her child certified by the EMTs, we had a nice chat. It turned out that Herman, his wife, Nola, and his son William (the one I’d spoken with, and Melissa’s husband) were in the house. Melissa told us that they were all in agreement that Herman had done nothing wrong and was simply defending his property against intrusion when he had shot both officers. We were the ones, according to them, who were acting illegally, and were the ones who would have to back off. Melissa had been the one to bring up the possibility that we might not agree.

  ‘‘All I said, Mr. Houseman, was that maybe we’d better just think about this a little.’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘And I said, ‘What if they start shooting?’ And they said, ‘Then we shoot back.’ And I said, ‘But what if we get shot?’ That’s when they said that we could all die for our cause.’’

  ‘‘That must have been pretty scary,’’ said Hester.

  Melissa nodded. ‘‘Oh, yeah. Really.’’

  ‘‘So what did you do?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Melissa, getting huffy again, ‘‘I just said bullshit, and nobody’s gonna kill my baby or me over this. Even if it is murder you’re wanted for.’’

  ‘‘They admit it’s murder?’’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘‘Well, sure they do, Mr. Houseman.’’

  ‘‘That kind of surprises me, Melissa. I thought they said they were acting in defense of their property.’’

  ‘‘Well, on that one, I think so. But not the other one.’’

  ‘‘Other one?’’

  ‘‘You know, the ones up in the park in June.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘The ones in the park, Mr. Houseman. The officer and the dope dealer. The ones you came to arrest them for today.’’ Melissa looked at me as if I were senile.

  ‘‘They did those?’’ I leaned forward and put my hand on her forearm. ‘‘Herman killed those men in the park?’’

  ‘‘Not Herman, but he knew about it. But, but…’’ Her lip started to quiver. ‘‘But Bill was there, and he saw it, and he never shot but once, and he never hit anybody,’’ and the flood began. I think she began to realize right about then that we hadn’t known about that at all.

  While Melissa cried, I went outside and thought about a cigarette.

  Al Hummel approached the tent. ‘‘What’s up, Carl?’’

  ‘‘You’re not gonna believe this one, Al.’’

  After a long interview with Melissa, what we had was this:

  On June 18th, the day of the shooting in the park, Melissa Stritch’s husband, Bill, was taking part in a militia exercise in the park area with several other individuals. Herman, while part of the leadership of this particular militia, wasn’t with them. Herman had, however, assisted in the planning for the exercise. The group had been in the park for at least a day prior to the shootings. Bill had called Melissa that morning, saying that they’d had to call off the maneuvers, but didn’t say why. He was calling from Herman’s place, and had spent the afternoon there. He had cautioned her to say nothing to the police. When he arrived home that evening, he seemed very subdued and worried. And, she’d noticed immediately, he’d had none of his militia gear with him. She’d asked, and he said not to worry about it.

  Melissa had learned long before that day that when politics and/or militia business was involved, she was wise not to pry. It had taken Bill three days to tell her that the men he was with had killed the little dope dealer and the cop. Bill denied killing anybody, and refused to name anyone else who was with him that day.

  The DCI agents had showed up the day after the shootings to do the interview with Herman, but had talked only with his wife, Nola. Herman and Bill had apparently been in the barn with assault rifles trained on the DCI men the whole time. It appeared that the DCI had talked to Melissa the same day, but without the snipers.

  When Lamar and Bud showed up on July 23rd, Herman had automatically assumed they had solved the murder and were coming to arrest both himself and Bill. Bill seemed to have a calming effect on Herman, but Bill wasn’t there when our officers arrived. Melissa knew virtually nothing about the actual shooting of Lamar and Bud, but she had heard the argume
nt between Herman and Bill in the house shortly before she left, the gist of which was that Herman believed the Original Notice was a ruse. Bill had said that Herman was nuts, and that if they were coming to arrest Herman, there would have been more than two. She also said that it was just ‘‘known’’ within the family at the house that Herman had done the shooting.

  I looked at my notes again, then at Hester and Al. ‘‘We need to know anything else?’’

  ‘‘Just the family in there?’’ asked Al.

  ‘‘Two other men,’’ said Melissa. ‘‘Friends of Herman.’’

  ‘‘Know ’em?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Not really.’’

  ‘‘Do they have guns too?’’ asked Hester.

  ‘‘Oh, sure. Everybody in that place has at least one.’’ She yawned and shuddered at the same time.

  ‘‘It’s late, and I’m sure Melissa’s tired, aren’t you?’’ said Hester.

  Melissa nodded.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Hester, ‘‘I’m sure we can have a second interview tomorrow, with a stenographer present. After Melissa’s rested and fed, and we can see how little Susie is coming along.’’

  I looked at Melissa. ‘‘Thanks, kid. We appreciate this.’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ she said with a faint smile. ‘‘Just one thing… I’m not a snitch, Mr. Houseman. I’m really not. I’m just so tired of the bullshit.’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m getting a little tired of it myself.’’

  Melissa left with Diane Blakeslee, good old 884. Blakeslee would stay with her all night at a motel in Maitland, and deliver her to the Sheriff’s Department the next morning. Best we could do for protective custody. It was 0521. I went to a camper one of our reserve officers had brought to the scene, and thought for about five seconds before I fell asleep.

  They didn’t wake me until 1120 on the 24th.

  After a trip to a Porta Potti, two cups of coffee, and a moment spent thinking about a cigarette, I was ready to go. There were no new developments, so we scheduled my interview by the DCI agents assigned to yesterday’s murder and shooting. I was, at least, a witness. I figured it would be a good opportunity to bring Hester up to speed on exactly what had happened, and asked if she could sit in. As it appeared now that the murders in the park were related to the current situation, everybody agreed. My interview lasted just over two hours. Once we established that I hadn’t been intoxicated, using mind-altering drugs, or intentionally irritating Stritch, things went rapidly. We had to count the rounds in my rifle magazines to verify how many rounds I’d fired. I always carried twenty-eight in the thirty-round magazines, to save tension on the magazine springs. I had to explain that twice, as one of the agents didn’t understand how long those magazines stayed in my trunk. They also checked my handgun, and ruled that it hadn’t been fired for some time. I think the spider living in the barrel may have had some influence. They were really lawsuit-conscious. I don’t blame them a bit. It was sort of hard not to rush to the precise points I really wanted to cover, but I forced myself to stick with the pace. But when we got to Bill Stritch’s actions, the interest was heightened all around.

  After the interview, I assembled both investigative teams, including my friend George of the Bureau, who pretty well knew everybody there, and had come up that morning to help us with his expertise. Well, that’s what he said. We all knew he was scoping things out for his superiors, but we let it pass. We didn’t know if we might need the FBI in a hurry, and it never hurt to have them up to speed. George Pollard had a new partner, Mike Twill. He went to look over the situation while we talked. There was also the incidental matter of a federal warrant being issued for Herman Stritch, for resisting the serving of a federal process… our guys’ Original Notice had been from the Federal Land Bank. Herman was engaged in some fraudulent practices, it appeared, with the Land Bank the victim. Fine by me. The federal charge was peanuts compared to what we had against Herman, but it was nice to have one in your pocket if you needed it. A federal charge, not a peanut.

  We discussed the two investigations, and came to one very obvious conclusion: if we were to ever find out the names of the people involved in the park killings, we were going to have to accomplish two things. One, take both Herman and Bill alive and relatively intact. Two, do so in a way that would gain their cooperation.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘‘I’m not saying this is going to be easy,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said George, ‘‘that’s good, Hester.’’

  After a pause, I said, ‘‘It shouldn’t be too hard to get at least one of them alive and well. Probably both. Right?’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ said Hester.

  ‘‘But cooperative doesn’t exactly leap out at me.’’

  Al cleared his throat. ‘‘To do that, you gotta give ’em just a bit of what they want.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, but what Herman seems to want,’’ said George, ‘‘is being held blameless for shooting officers, for not paying contracted debts, and to be placed in charge of an independent state.’’

  ‘‘Like I said,’’ said Hester.

  It’s hard to argue with the truth.

  ‘‘Look,’’ she said, ‘‘we just have to talk to him some more. We’ll get a hint of something that’ll work.’’

  ‘‘She’s right,’’ said Al.

  ‘‘How long do we wait?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘For what?’’ asked Al. ‘‘The hint?’’

  ‘‘No. How long do we wait before we go on in and yank ’em out.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure that we’d want to do that,’’ said Al.

  ‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘I think that’s gotta be a county decision.. . and I’m in charge, at least until Lamar gets back. It’s going to be my decision. And there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that we go in and get ’em after a reasonable wait.’’

  ‘‘That might be,’’ said Al. ‘‘But we own the TAC team, and if you want to go on in against their advice, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.’’

  I’d been afraid that it was going to come down to that. Liability first.

  ‘‘Look, Al. It’s a decision that has to be agreed on in advance, because it’s probably going to have to be made in a hurry. You know that.’’ I stood up. ‘‘That’s why I brought it up now.’’

  Al didn’t say a word.

  ‘‘For now,’’ I said, ‘‘I’ll count on using your team. I’ll put something together, you and the team commander approve it, and when the time comes, I’ll use it.’’ Bluff.

  Al smiled. ‘‘Have you ever attended a crisis school?’’

  Well, he had me there, if you didn’t count the last couple of days. He had, and he also controlled the resources. All I had was three officers, four reserves, and the office staff. And me. And I felt that my luck had been stretched awfully far yesterday.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said George in a cheerful voice, ‘‘let’s give it a little time, all right?’’

  I nodded, noticing how quiet Hester had gotten. Great. With A1 and me disagreeing, she wasn’t going to be available to work freely either. Shit.

  I wasn’t going to jump in like an idiot. I think everybody knew that. I hoped they did. What I wanted was a plan for direct intervention, carefully thought out, that I could order up on short notice. What A1 and company wanted was for somebody else to make the call on using force. Specifically, themselves. Legally it was mine. Practically it was theirs. The only thing I was certain of was that they’d be late, no matter what. Because I really felt that we’d have to go in, and maybe in a big hurry. I really did. Anyway, I now had myself lined up to come up with a plan.

  Press liaison was our next item. How to do it professionally. So far, either A1 or I had just given them a brief rundown on events, without any real information. What was needed wasn’t my direct approach, it was somebody who could manufacture satisfactory sound bites, present them to the press, and escape without telling them too much. Not me,
that was certain. As we discussed it, a little lightbulb came on in my head.

  ‘‘A1,’’ I said, ‘‘would you do it?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’

  ‘‘It’s not my show, it’s yours.’’

  ‘‘Hell, A1,’’ I said, ‘‘you’re just so much better-lookin’.’’

  There was a slight pause, and then we all started to laugh. Even A1.

  ‘‘All right, all right,’’ he said. ‘‘You got me on that one. How about we do the press together?’’

  About fifteen minutes later, I found myself alone, outside the tent feeling the hot sun very well through my thinning hair, and wanting a cigarette so bad I was ready to kill for it. Then I noticed that the wives of our reserve officers had brought sandwiches. Thick slices of ham, thick slices of cheese, on really big hamburger buns. With thick smears of butter and mustard. Well, what the hell. Oh, have I mentioned I’m also restricted to thirty grams of fat per day, by my cardiologist? Well, I am. As I approached the folding table heaped with food, I decided to take two sandwiches, potato chips, and a can of Pepsi. I smiled at Gloria Nydegger, wife of a reserve officer.

  ‘‘This’ll be our little secret, Gloria.’’

  She smiled back. She knew about my diet. I’d complained about it to everybody I knew. ‘‘Okay. Two?’’

  ‘‘Shit, Gloria, make it three.’’