The marks in the carpet were originally bloodstains, somewhat smaller than the dark area indicated, and had been cleaned up. Placing the chairs over them had kept them damp longer than they would have been, and made them more noticeable to me. The stain under the throw rug was not blood. It appeared to have been grease, and was old. They could have taken up the entire sections of carpet, and bagged them. Cut them right out of the floor. They didn’t, but had taken small inch-square samples in several places. Easier to replace for the owner. Not that Cletus had been appreciative.
The dried puddle on the top of the water heater had been confirmed as blood, too, and had dripped down through a crack in the floor above, near the top of the basement stair. There was a large bloodstain extending between the edge of the stairs and the wall. As one of them said, just like you’d spilled some liquid, and cleaned it up in a hurry. As you moved the rag, you’d push the liquid toward the wall…
They had found no rags, by the way. Bloody or otherwise.
Traces of bloodstains had been found in a kitchen drawer, and on a box of white trash bags contained therein. All blood samples were going to the lab. Comparisons to the blood of the victims would be made.
There were numerous fingerprints on the sliding doors, but they were old. (You can tell older ones if you use print powder, because they don’t jump out the way really fresh ones do.) They’d fumed several items with cyanoacrylate, and had raised many prints. Most of them appeared female, and if the lab team had to bet, they’d say they belonged to Mrs. Borglan. They’d know when they got a set of prints from her for comparison. (Female prints are often finer, and smaller, than male ones.)
They’d fumed the chairs, and gotten some smudges. Nothing legible. Played hell with the chairs, though.
All trash receptacles had been checked, and nothing of evidentiary value was present. Same with clothes hampers. Attic in the old half was checked, and nothing was there. Crawl space above the ceiling of the new addition was checked. Nothing.
They were preparing scale diagrams of the scene, and would have them for us in a couple of days. They gave us a copy of the measurements taken, so we would be able to do our own rough sketches with accurate distances.
That was it. No murder weapon. No spent shell casings. No foot tracks, except the one on the back door that seemed to match the shoe on one of the bodies.
Oh. The marks that I had followed to the chair from the archway? The ones I thought were drag marks? They were fresh vacuum cleaner tracks.
“We’re taking the vacuum cleaner and bag back to the lab with us.” They did that, because sometimes the critical part of some evidence wouldn’t make it all the way into the bag. They disassembled the cleaners completely, down to slitting and opening the hoses.
Well. You just never know.
Art spoke up. “It looks pretty much like that’s all the physical evidence, then. Except the bag, and the bodies.”
We agreed.
“Anything anybody needs before we let these people go back to Des Moines?”
Lámar spoke up. “When can we expect your photos?”
Four days, max, as it turned out.
But that reminded me. I excused myself, and hurried out to my car, and got the film I’d used yesterday, and hustled it back to our new secretary, Judy. “Could you get these developed, today or tomorrow, rush job?”
“Sure, I think, I’ll check …”
“If you could take ’em down? I’m not going to have a chance for a while, and I don’t want ’em to be delayed.”
“What do you want, like, double prints?”
“Sure,” I said. “One for us, one for the DCI people. Maybe a third for the official file, so we have something to work with. Just keep it cheap, or Lamar will have a fit.” I hurried back into the kitchen, to catch the lab team.
I met the county attorney as I passed the dispatch center.
“I’m here to see what we can make of this.” He sounded burdened, as usual. Being county attorney in our county, as in most of the state, was a part-time job. A large case could really hurt his private practice, which is where most of his income came from.
“Oh, it’s a murder, all right,” I said.
“Damn,” he muttered, as we entered the kitchen.
“Our photos will be back in a couple of days, too,” I announced. The lab people said, “Fine,” but Art had a better idea.
“Why don’t you give your film to the lab, they can develop it for you?”
I’d experienced that before. The state then kept the negatives. We always wanted to keep our own negatives. “That’s okay,” I said. “They’ve already gone.”
“Where do you take them?” asked Art. “Dubuque?”
“No, right downtown here, to the local drugstore. They’ll be back in a couple of days.”
After the lab team left, Lamar, the county attorney, Art, and I conferred. Actually, we argued perspectives, as they say. Art, who had a reputation for preferring the quick and dirty approach, insisted that Fred had done the deed.
“No doubt,” he said. “Opportunity? You bet. I’m sure we can find a motive.”
I disagreed. “Nope. Look at the scene. This is about the tidiest crime scene I’ve ever seen. Fred’s not that careful. Not that patient.”
“I’m not ruling out his having help, here,” said Art. “An accomplice.”
“Who,” I asked, “Martha Stewart? Whoever cleaned up had lots of ‘Helpful Household Hints’ for the carpet.”
“But, Carl,” interjected the county’s finest, “didn’t you say that Fred had asked you if you’d charge him with murder if they were dead?”
“Yeah.” Hard to argue that one.
“Speaking as an attorney,” he said, grinning, “it certainly sounds to me like he had prior knowledge.”
“I really don’t think so,” I said, leaning forward. “I think Fred was really worried that they might be dead, but I got the impression he thought they might have frozen to death. Not been shot. Don’t forget, he was also worried that they were going to crap on him for missing his pickup assignment.” I leaned back in my chair. “He just didn’t want to be held responsible, that’s all.”
“Look,” said Art. “Give me another suspect … anybody else. Then I might be able to cut Fred some slack. But, Carl,” he said, leaning forward, “he was the only one who knew they’d fucking be at the Bergerman residence!”
“That’s Borglan,” I said. “The Borglan residence.” He just blinked. I shook my head. He’d just had to use “fucking,” to show he was one of the guys.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I hate the ‘gut feeling’ bullshit as much as you do, but I just don’t think that Fred did ’em. It doesn’t make any sense to do all the covering up, and then sit outside the farm and honk your horn. Whoever killed them cleaned up the evidence really well, and did it so that the hired man, or anybody else watching the place, wouldn’t pick up on the crime. Right?”
“Possibly,” said Art.
“Possibly” my ass. “So, why then sit on the road and draw attention to yourself, on the off chance that a cop might come along? I just don’t think so.”
“Well, with the bodies salted away in the shed, the only person who might stumble on them was the hired man, right?” Lamar was off on his own track.
We all agreed.
“Let’s not rule him out,” said Lamar. “He might have been at the place when the two guys showed up. He might have done it.”
“That could be,” said Art, “but what motive would he have, really? He could just watch them, and call the cops when they left.”
“Maybe he knows Fred?” said Lamar. “Let’s get this checked out, too.”
“Sure,” I said. “Will do.”
“Murder makes the mind do strange things,” interjected our prosecutor. He just does that sometimes. Tosses in whatever is in his head. He does it in court, too. Leaving an occasional flabbergasted judge in his wake.
“So, what’s with the bodie
s in the machine shed?” asked Art. “Why there? Just for argument’s sake.”
“Not enough room in the refrigerator?” I just stuck that in. Well, I was tired, and I thought it was funny Apparently, I was a little more tired than everybody else.
“The ground is frozen solid,” said Lamar, quickly. “Can’t dig anywhere, so you store the bodies. Just like they do at all the cemeteries this time of year. Either that or heat the ground. Mostly, though, just come back later, haul ’em away, and dig a hole someplace.” Lamar looked around the table. “Nothin’ in the machine shed the hired man would need.”
That, of course, implied that the Borglans’ itinerary was pretty well known to the suspect. I said as much. This led to a brief discussion as to how many people knew where the Borglans were. Many, as it turned out. But it brought the hired man right back into the limelight.
What I couldn’t understand was why Fred would salt the bodies away, clean the house, and otherwise erase any sign of his presence, and then come to the cops. It just didn’t make any sense. I said as much.
“It would have if he’d changed his mind,” said Art. “Guilt working on him, especially after he contacts his aunt, to make his alibi, and sees how worried she really is.”
“Hell,” I said, “if he was feeling guilty, he’d just confess and get it over with.”
“Look,” said Lamar. “So far, I think Carl’s on the right track, here. We have no evidence linking Fred to the scene, and no motive for him to kill them.” He looked at Art. “I know we don’t need to prove motive, but it sure as shit would help to have one.” He looked at me. “For anybody.”
“Do we have any idea yet,” asked Art, “where they were selling the stolen guns? That might get us somebody who knows more about the three of ’em. More background.”
Actually, no, we didn’t. This was shaping up into a long investigation, any way you cut it.
Then the county’s finest prosecutor came up with the most telling point against Fred, and one that I had been missing. “I get the impression that we’re all assuming that Fred planned this out in advance. Maybe not. Maybe he was there, and they just got into an argument. Maybe it was spur of the moment. Or, just maybe, Carl, it went down like the Whiting case.”
About ten years ago, a man named Whiting got into an argument with a drinking buddy at a remote river cabin. Killed him. In the presence of another drinking buddy. He’d convinced the survivor to help him dispose of the body and the evidence. The guy had done so, apparently frightened and glad to be alive. He also had no place to run. Or to call for help. Then Whiting killed the second man.
“Could be,” I said, “but don’t forget that Whiting was a really dominant sort of guy. Fred isn’t. And Whiting was really a cold man. Fred isn’t that, either.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Art. “Standing there with a gun …”
“And,” said Lamar, “we only have Fred’s word that he dropped them off. He could have gone in with them just as easily.”
“Well, anyway, you people hash this out,” said the prosecutor, standing up. “I’m afraid I’m asking the Attorney General for an assist on this one, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to remove myself from the case, anyway.”
“You’re what?” asked Lamar.
“I do Borglan’s taxes, there’s a possible conflict here.” He raised both hands to shoulder level, palm up. “I’m sorry. But I do think you should interview Fred.”
“His attorney will never permit it,” I said. “Even if he’s innocent.”
“Christ. It’s not Priller, is it?”
“It’s Priller,” said Lamar.
Priller was a well-known obstructionist. A pompous, irritating, aggravating little twerp. But somehow he managed to be likable at the same time, because he never took it to a personal level.
Mike grinned and shook his head. “Well, gentlemen, I wish you all the best of luck.”
This was a bit of a blow, as the county attorney would normally be available for the quick questions during an investigation, while the assigned prosecutor from the Attorney General’s office would do the long-term prosecutor’s stuff.
“Are you going to appoint a special prosecutor at the county level?” I asked.
He stopped for a second, on his way to the door. “Boy, Carl,” he said. “I don’t know that the county board of supervisors is going to approve that… it could be pretty expensive, and with a state prosecutor assigned … But, I’ll ask.”
Expenses. It always came down to that.
It was only a few seconds after he left that our secretary stuck her head in the door and motioned to me.
“Manchester PD called, and said to say that Dr. Peters was on the way here, and that everybody should stay put.”
“Really?” I relayed the information back to the table. It was just a bit unusual. I hadn’t expected Dr. Peters to come back up today.
At 0945 we, as they say, reconvened. Being an opportunist, I grabbed another doughnut.
Dr. Peters had brought a portable light-board device, to backlight X rays. We didn’t have one. Who does, except hospitals?
We watched, paying very close attention, as Dr. Peters described the film.
“Subject number one,” he said. “This is … Royce Colson … the fellow we looked at first at the scene. The one who was on his back. Bullet wound in his right temple …”
The X ray showed the hole, cracks in the skull, a little trail of debris through the brain toward the left side, and a fragmenting of bone on the left side.
“Through and through,” said Dr. Peters. “Entered just behind the eye, into the sphenoid, right above the zygomatic arch. Transverses the brain, and exits via the lower edge, just about precisely at the squamous suture. Caused a stellate, circumferential fracture of the skull, as it did.” He traced the points with his hand as he talked. Good thing.
The bullet had gone in right behind the eye, kept pretty level, and come out the other side a little farther aft, cracking the skull completely around its circumference. The stellate or star-shaped portion was a crack running up the side of the skull from the entrance, and stopping near the top of the head.
“This victim may have been upright, and I suspect standing erect, at the time the shot was fired.” He looked at us. “I strongly suspect that the bullet which exited this man’s head is the one discovered that made the hole in the wall of the Borglan residence.” He paused. “The entrance wound is about two-tenths of an inch in diameter, so I think we’re dealing with a .22 caliber bullet. Close examination of the wound, after washing the clotted blood away, reveals very intense tattooing around the entrance.” He stepped back from the X ray. “Photos will be available soon, I’m sure, but it was a nearly perfect circle, and I suspect we have a contact gunshot wound, here. I would also think it was made with the muzzle in contact because the projectile actually exited the skull … Lots of energy available here,” said Dr. Peters.
The muzzle was in contact with the skull when the gun went off. This was usually an indication of a suicide, but hardly likely in this case.
“Self-inflicted?” asked Art. Thinking aloud again.
“I don’t believe so,” said Dr. Peters. “Let’s have a look at the next one … this would be a Dirk Colson,” he said, checking his notes. “Notice that both entrance wounds are from the top of the head, in the right rear portion of the skull.” He pointed. “The second round entered just ahead of the first, also traveling downward. It caused these fractures here,” he said, “that stop at the sagittal?? suture, and also stop at the hole made by the first wound.”
“This second one travels in a path to here,” he said. “Again in the basilar part, but on the left and more forward.”
We could see that one, too. It appeared to be on its side.
“This is the one that caused the extrusion of the brain tissue out the first entrance hole.”
I remembered that. Like frosting out of a cake decorator.
“Close examination of
both these wounds indicated a contact or near contact gunshot, as well.” He removed the last X ray, and put one of each victim up on the board.
“Likely a double murder, then,” said Art.
Dr. Peters said, “Oh, yes. And a bit more flavor, I think.” He paused, pointing at the X ray of Dirk Colson. “From the nature and path, I would strongly suspect that this second victim was in a lowered position, possibly seated or kneeling, possibly squatting, when the two wounds were inflicted.” He cleared his throat. “With the shooter behind the victim.
“So,” said Dr. Peters, “based on the angles of the bullet tracks, the second victim was shot by a gun almost directly above and behind him. Even with a .22 pistol, that would require that the victim be either on his knees or seated.” He paused. “Well, absent a ladder.” He shrugged. “However, given the fact that both victims would very likely fall just about right where they were shot, it would explain the bloodstains on the floor. With the lack of bloodstains on the chairs that were moved to cover the stained area of the carpet, I will say this: The major carpet stains likely were from each of the victims, that the stains occurred when they were lying on the floor, and that the blood came from their heads. With the stained areas nearly in the center of the room, there doesn’t appear to be any item of furniture close enough to permit the second victim to have been shot while seated, or for the shooter to have stood upon while shooting.”
“An execution, sort of?” I asked.
“I can narrow your parameters, Carl. I can tell you they weren’t shot at a distance. I can tell you what the evidence tells me happened. An execution … is a possibility. A strong one. But a possibility. Not a proven fact.”
“Execution,” said Art, disdainfully, “in my book requires restraints, bindings, things like that. Could this, Doctor, have been done in the heat of anger, not in a cold-blooded style?”
“Yes.”
Art shrugged. “Well, that still leaves us with Fred. He goes in with them, gets mad, and shoots both of ’em.” He looked around the room. “Like they say, go for the simplest solution.”
The Big Thaw Page 7