The Big Thaw

by Donald Harstad

  If this guy really was using night vision equipment, my plan should work. Get in close, then hit him with all the light we had on the car. It should cause the night vision goggles to “bloom” on him, and he’d be unable to see for a few seconds. His first reaction should be to stop.

  “In about a second,” I said, “we hit every damned light we got. Top lights, high-beam headlights, spotlight, everything. Just get ready for a hard stop. When I say …”

  “Okay …”

  “Stay with the son of a bitch for another five seconds, we got a chance here …” We were approaching a fairly sharp curve to the left. “Just before he gets to the curve …”

  “Right …”

  “NOW!”

  We both worked switches, John taking the headlights and the spotlight, and me getting the top red and white strobes, and hitting the siren on “yelp” for good measure.

  The lights had a dazzling effect on us, as well.

  “SLOW DOWN, JOHN!”

  Too late. I watched the snowmobile careen off the right side of the road toward the trees, with us right behind him. We hit small stuff, not much bigger than brush, and came to a stop in a large snowbank. I lost the snowmobile completely, as it went over the snowbank we stopped in. We didn’t stop fast enough to deploy the airbags, but I was sure as hell grateful for the seat belts.

  I reached over and cut the siren. The snow we’d kicked into the air came thundering back down onto the hood. Then silence. The black night air was filled with tiny red and white flashing snow particles, slowly settling on the windshield.

  “Well, fuck.” I looked over at John. He was opening his door.

  I tried to open mine, but couldn’t manage more than a few inches in the deep snow that had been thrown alongside by our sliding impact. My outside view was considerably diminished by flashing strobes. “Want to kill the lights?” I pushed a little harder, and got about four more inches of opening.

  “Sir …”

  “What?” My door seemed to have hit an obstacle.

  “Sir …” said John. I looked up, and in the flashing red lights I could see the outline of a figure in a dark snowmobile suit, helmet with NVGs tilted up, sprawled in the snow at the top of the snowbank. It wasn’t moving.

  “Great,” I said, “we’ve fuckin’ killed him …”

  I pushed real hard, and the door opened another three or four inches. I squeezed out, into the knee-deep snow, and approached the supine figure as cautiously as I could. I could hear John crunching through the snow just above and to my left. He’d obviously gotten up on the bank.

  “Careful, sir,” he said.

  “Yep.” I could see both hands of the figure, gloved, with the left one out to the side, and the right one almost folded behind. I heard the peculiar steel on nylon sound as John drew his gun. That meant that I was going to have to check the body. I really hoped he wasn’t dead.

  I took off my right glove, reached down, and worked the zipper at his throat, until I could get my first two fingers inside and feel for a carotid pulse. Strong. Good. I pulled my hand back, and pushed the night vision goggles up onto the top of his shiny black helmet, and carefully tested his visor. It slid up easily, and as it did so, I saw his eyes fly wide.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “You’ve been in an accident …”

  I took both his feet squarely in my chest. He lifted me a good foot off the ground, and propelled me backward about three. If it hadn’t been for the bulletproof vest, he would have broken a couple of my ribs, at least. He’d moved so fast I hadn’t even had time to react.

  John, on the other hand, cracked off a round right past the guy’s ear as he started to stand. He stopped so fast his momentum carried him forward on the bank, and he rolled head over heels down toward me. I rolled to one side, and got to my knees, drawing my own gun as John yelled, “Freeze, asshole!”

  A great command, although not designed for “post-shot,” and still better late than never. The man in the snowmobile suit froze, all right. He had both knees under him, one hand in contact with the ground, and he was grabbing at his zippered neck. Obviously trying to reach something inside the snowmobile suit.

  His hand stopped when he saw my gun in front, and heard John ask a question behind him …

  “Should I shoot now, sir? I got him …”

  “Only if he moves,” I said. I continued kneeling in front of the man, pointing my gun at his chest. “Both hands in the air. Slow, but do it.”

  He did. The visor of his helmet was still up, and I could just make out his eyes in the moonlight. As both hands cleared the top of his head, I rocked back, got my feet under me, and stood.

  “Now lay down on your face, like you were going to make an angel in the snow. Hands way over your head … And turn your face away from me … That’s right…”

  He did as I told him, and I saw John put his gun away, and get out his handcuffs.

  “Careful, John. Stay toward his hips, ’cause I’m gonna shoot him in the head if he moves. I don’t want to get helmet fragments in you.”

  That was said for the benefit of the suspect, naturally. With his head turned away, he wouldn’t have any idea where I was, and could only feel John put the handcuffs on. For a smart suspect, it would be a case of no data, no plan, no action.

  The man never moved a muscle.

  When John stood up, I told him to open the rear door of the car. He did, and then came back to us. I was taking no chances with this fellow, none at all. He was just too damned quick.

  “Roll over, and get to your knees,” I said. Not the easiest thing to do when you’re handcuffed behind your back, but he accomplished it in one motion. I stepped behind him, removed my gloves, and patted him down. Large lump under the left arm. I knelt directly on the back of his lower legs and ankles, and reached around him and unzipped his suit. He was kind of squirmy, but never made a sound. With me on his legs like that, he had no chance for any leverage.

  I reached in, and pulled out a .40 caliber Glock semiautomatic handgun. I dropped the magazine, jacked the chambered round out into the snow, and put the gun in my gun belt.

  “Found a Glock,” I said to John.

  “Cool…”

  “Got any more?” I asked, patting his sides. No answer, but no weapons, either. Not as far as I could tell.

  “He’s probably got a knife,” I said to John, “but I can’t find it with him kneeling down.” Just a hunch.

  I reached under his chin, and unstrapped his helmet, and pulled it off his head. Keeping it securely in my right hand, I leaned on his shoulders and pushed myself back to my feet.

  “Walk on your knees to the car.”

  He spoke for the first time. “What?” He sounded exasperated and angry.

  “It’s either that or be dragged,” I said, evenly. “We have rope in the trunk. It’s not that far, and the snow’s soft. You can do it.”

  He did, too. I stood on his right, and John stood about twenty-five feet away, at the open rear door of the squad car. He covered him every inch of the way.

  When he got to the car, I said, “Just kneel right against the open door there, don’t get in. You’ll get enough warm air from the door.”

  No leverage in the snow. Besides, he was likely a lot warmer than we were. I sat his helmet on the roof of the car, and handed the Glock to John. “For the trunk, I think. And you’d better get us some backup,” I said. “Good thing we called in the pursuit.”

  “I’m just glad you were along. God, I’d hate to explain this all by myself.”

  The flashing red strobe lights that were left were disorienting, to say the least. In the white environment, things seemed to leap toward and away from you with each pulse.

  “Check your temp gauges, make sure the engine isn’t overheating…” Snow up under the hood could block the radiator, loosen belts, throw belts, you name it. “If it’s okay, keep it running.” In this area of the county, the hilltops were a good hundred feet above the roadway, and pretty close,
to boot. Radio communications with our 10 watt walkie-talkies would be chancy, at best. I wanted the 100 watt radio in the car available, if I could.

  “Yes, Father …” came from the car. Oops. Let up, Carl. He’s able to do all of that.

  I got busy thinking. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that the subject in custody was related to or involved with the two murders. None. I was as certain of that as I was of the fact that there was absolutely no real evidence to back me up.

  Over my walkie-talkie, I could hear John’s side of the conversation with the office. He mentioned that we needed assistance. That it wasn’t an emergency, but that we had a suspect in custody. He promised to keep in touch until help arrived.

  He joined me in watching our prisoner. Time to get some information.

  “Who are you?”

  Silence.

  “You got a name?”

  Nothing.

  “Well, let me put it this way,” I said. “Any ID you got is going to be mine as soon as we get that suit off you.” In the ensuing silence, I recited his Miranda rights. No reaction. Nothing. “Right.” The radio was blaring in the background. “I’ll get the radio,” I said. I trudged up to the front, and reached in for the mike.

  “This is Three, go ahead.”

  “Three, One is ten-seventy-six. So is Seven. 388 is coming from Wheaton, ETA ten.”

  “Ten-four, Comm.”

  “Ten-fifty-one is also ten-seventy-six.” That meant that a wrecker was also coming. Well, we needed one, no doubt about that. Unfortunately, that also meant a civilian at the scene, as well.

  “Which fifty-one, Comm?”

  “Eddie’s Body Shop.”

  If it had to be anybody, I was glad it was Eddie. He was pretty good at keeping his mouth shut.

  What we needed was a cover story. Something that most people could be told, something that would explain a chase of a snowmobile, and a subject in custody. We were going to need it in a hurry, too. I could see the faint flashing red lights way back down the valley. Probably Seven. Deputy Gary Oberbrech. Fairly new, and a good officer. He’d need to know some details, but I didn’t think I wanted the whole world to know that I had my real suspect. Not just yet.

  Two deer broke cover, about ten yards from me, and just about finished me off right then and there. “Holy shit,” I said to myself, when I got my breath back. “That woulda been cute, Carl. Scared to death by a couple of nervous deer …”Ah, but yes. That was going to be it. Our cover story. “John!”

  “Yeah …”

  I walked back up on the road. “Listen up. Except for Lamar, everybody is told this is a poacher. Got that? We caught a poacher. Use ‘poacher’ every chance you get. Poacher.”

  “‘Poacher’? Okay, yeah, poacher … sure.”

  “Stick to that even if they torture you.” I grinned. “Coffee, doughnuts, chocolate bars … the works. Don’t give in. Except Lamar,” I added. “Never lie to Lamar.”

  “Got it.” He grinned back. “You know how close we came? I almost ran over the fucker, I swear. Another hundred yards of straight road …”

  “Yeah. Close.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll bet you scared the crap out of him when you touched off that round, too.” Bravado has its uses. Oh, yeah.

  According to my watch, it was 2310 when we got our suspect to the jail, and field-stripped him down to his dark blue union suit. Three of us, Gary, John, and me. No chances. You gotta take the cuffs off to get ’em undressed. We did find a knife, a Gerber, underneath his bulletproof Kevlar vest, which was also dark blue. He hadn’t said a word to that point.

  “Pretty well equipped for a poacher,” said Gary, dryly.

  “Got a wallet here,” said John, who was going through the snowmobile suit. He handed it to me. Junior officers will do that, I suspect because they think us older folk would like the privilege of opening the prize, or something. This time, I was glad that he had.

  I opened the wallet, and found myself staring at a complete FBI identification set. Photo, document, everything.

  I just looked at him for a long moment. He just looked back. Well.

  I cleared my throat. “It says here you’re Norman John Brandenburg,” I said. “That right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that you’re a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation …”

  Both Gary and John stopped their inventory of his gear.

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you want us to go about proving that?” I asked. I’d seen FBI identification many times, and this was about as authentic as you can get. Including subtleties like slight wear and scuffing.

  “Just make a phone call,” he said. “The office will confirm.”

  I thought for a second. “Field office?”

  “Yes, but not a local one. I’ll provide the number.”

  I’d asked, because I’d never known a local field office to be open for phone calls after 1700. Not that I was going to be satisfied with a phone call, anyway.

  “How about I call an FBI agent I know, and we have him do it?” It wasn’t really a question.

  Special Agent Norman John Brandenburg didn’t seem happy with that. “You shouldn’t do that.”

  My first thought had been that it was a phony ID, and that we were getting a phony number. Now I was just about certain I was right.

  “I think we’ll do it my way,” I said. “John, why don’t you put the cuffs back on him, and sit him over by the booking desk. This won’t take too long …”

  I went out to dispatch, where Sally was monitoring the taping of our activities with our suspect. She’d arrived about 2245 for the start of the eleven-to-seven shift, and had made sure that the recording system was working well. Audio and visual.

  “Well, holy shit,” she said, in a conversational tone. “You think he really is?”

  “Dunno,” I said. “Got George’s home number?”

  She found it in a second, wrote it on a slip of paper, and handed it to me, all the time monitoring the activities in the booking room.

  “Can they execute you for arresting a Fed?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’m not sure about embarrassing one …”

  I dialed George from the “officer’s” phone, at the end of the dispatch console, near the coffeepot and supplies. The pot was empty. We’d have to do something about that.

  “Hello …” came the familiar voice of Special Agent George Pollard, known to us as George of the Bureau.

  “George?”

  “Yes … Houseman?” He sounded very surprised. He should have. I think this might have been the second time in five years that we’d called him at home.

  “Yep. Got a second for a strange one?”

  “Oh, no. Now what?” He knew the Nation County Sheriff’s Department pretty well.

  “Well, it appears that we may have arrested a federal agent …”

  “What?!”

  I chuckled. “Well, somebody who’s claiming to be one, anyway.”

  “My God. For what?”

  “That,” I said, “is pretty much going to depend on whether or not he’s a real FBI agent.”

  There was a small groan on the other end. “An FBI agent…” George cleared his throat. “I was assuming it was some other agency …”

  “Nope. Fucking Big Indian, as they used to say.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “Well, if he isn’t one, then we start with impersonation, and go down the list to concealed weapons, eluding pursuit, and reckless driving. If he is, we just got reckless and eluding pursuit.”

  “My God,” whispered George. “Do you have his car?”

  “No,” I said, unable to suppress a grin, “but I got his snowmobile.”

  Twelve

  Wednesday, January 14, 1998, 2337

  Who is it?” asked George, with an air of fatality. “I probably know him …”

  “A Norman John Brandenburg,” I said. “According to his ID.”


  “You have his ID?”

  “Sure do,” I said. “Retrieved it when we stripped him. You recognize the name?”

  There was a profound silence. Then, “No. No, I don’t. Look, let me get right back to you, all right?”

  “Yep. But make sure it’s you. Tell whoever you talk to that we deal with you only, because we’re having a tough time trusting this dude.”

  I caught a waving motion out of the corner of my eye. Sally, waving me over to the bank of camera monitors.

  “I will,” said George.

  I hung up the phone, and went over to the monitors. “What?”

  “Look at this,” she said, her voice up an octave. Very unusual for Sally. She pointed to screen three, which showed the rear of the office and jail; and then to screen eight, which showed the corner of the jail and the edge of the parking lot.

  I looked, and didn’t see anything. “What?”

  “Right here!” she said, tapping the screen. “There, see, he moved!”

  By God. There appeared to be a figure moving around the back of the building, in the shadows thrown by the yard lights. It paused, then moved into contact with the building.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s looking in the window,” I said. “Call Twenty-five to the office, fast but quiet. Gary and I will try to get this dude.”

  I went flying back into the booking room. “Gary! Intruder out back, we can get to him through the kitchen door, come on!”

  John started to move, and realized that somebody had to stay with the prisoner. He looked so frustrated it was almost funny.

  Gary and I thundered back to the kitchen, through it, and onto the little service porch where we kept the washer and dryer. I picked up my walkie-talkie mike.

  “Okay, where’s he at now?”

  “He just moved,” said Sally, in a near whisper, “and he’s just around the corner from the kitchen door. He might be trying to look in that back window by the old pantry…”

  Our jail is over 100 years old, and has too damned many nooks and crannies.

  Gary and I carefully opened the outside door, and slipped through. So quiet. The air was unbelievably cold, and I almost instantly started to shiver. I think it was the cold.