The Big Thaw

by Donald Harstad

  Volont grinned. “Out of ammunition. Not even proficient enough to save one for himself.”

  “So,” said Art, “now we just have to find out why he was so pissed off.”

  Henry pronounced Blitek fit a few minutes later. “Just some bruises on his forearms, and on his butt. Otherwise, he’s just a picture of physical health.”

  “Thanks, Henry. We just needed to be sure.”

  “You might want to have a psychiatrist check him out, though. He’s really upset. Told me that he’s let Gabriel down, and that Gabriel is going to ‘get’ him.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “You do get some strange ones for us, Houseman. But a personal feud with an archangel …”

  “Yeah …”

  Volont and I conferred. Based on what Henry had just said, we really needed to talk with Blitek. Even in his possibly mentally disturbed state.

  “We won’t be able to use anything we get against him …”

  Volont shrugged. “Then we don’t use it against him… but we use it to get Gabriel.”

  We took Blitek to the office, and began making the arrangements for an emergency committal to a mental health institute, for evaluation. He had, after all, attempted suicide. But we’d have at least two hours before the arrival of the mental health referee, who would examine him.

  While we had been at the hospital with Blitek, two state troopers, and Art and George, had been to the top of the elevator. Lots of shell casings. 7.62 mm. The rifle. Some brown cardboard ammo boxes. Nothing else, though. Courtesy Maitland PD, chains and padlocks had been installed on the caged, exterior access ladder, in three layers, where a cop in a car could see them. A potential sniper could still climb to the top, but it was hoped that he’d at least be more obvious. The area was pronounced secure.

  Pronouncement be damned, I noticed that almost everybody was suddenly using the back door to the office.

  Twenty

  Friday, January 16, 1998, 1717

  We sat Blitek in a chair in the reception area, while we tried to find a room without bystanders where we could interview him. “Cletus and his attorney are in the interview room,” said Lamar. He indicated Blitek, sitting bedraggled in the corner. “Shit,” he said, “he looks like somethin’ the cat dragged in.”

  He did. At the hospital, they had pretty well undressed him, looking at what turned out to be minor injuries, and prodding and probing to make certain there was no internal damage. Typically for those under emotional duress, and on the downside of a suicide high to boot, he had then replaced his clothing in a rather haphazard manner, not tucking in his long John top, or buttoning his plaid shirt. His fly was unzipped. His boots were untied, with the laces dragging on the floor. He was sitting in a small wooden chair, with his head in his hands, and his elbows on his knees; his disheveled gray and brown hair sticking straight out between his fingers. The only bright element in the picture was the touch of silver provided by the handcuffs.

  We decided the best place for him was the kitchen. Available coffee, rest room, and no phones. We kicked everybody else out, including the troopers and Maitland officers who were regaling a small crowd of late arrivers with lurid descriptions of the monster sniper. They looked a bit silly as we brought Blitek in and shooed them out.

  We sat him down, and I went out a different door on my way to get note tablets and pens for the interview. As I did, I had to excuse my passage though the interview room containing Cletus Borglan and Attorney Gunston.

  Cletus looked kind of bad, and Gunston was being all protective. “Did you manage to get whoever it was? Is this area secure now?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. Just passing through. I was on my way back with the tablets before it occurred to me. I excused my way through the interview room again, and hit the kitchen with a plan.

  “I think,” I said, “we’d be better off doing this interview in your office, Lamar.” Way back on the other side of the building.

  As he started to protest, I motioned him over by the sink. “I just came through the interview room,” I said, in a low voice. “Cletus and his attorney are in there, and they don’t know who the shooter was.”

  I could almost see the cartoon lightbulb come on over Lamar’s head. To arrive at his office, we would have to transit the interview room occupied by Cletus and company.

  “Let’s take him back to my office,” said Lamar, in a loud, clear voice.

  We paraded past Cletus and Gunston. Lamar, Volont, Blitek, and me. Slowly, of course, so that Blitek wouldn’t trip on his shoelaces. Blitek’s head was down, and in his state, I don’t think he even noticed who we were passing by. None of us said a word. Except for Lamar, who simply said, “Excuse us, please,” as he led the way through.

  I glanced at Cletus, who had the now familiar pre-heave glaze in his eyes.

  It was much more crowded in Lamar’s office, but it had been worth the trip.

  Blitek, in a mumbling sort of way, told us some interesting things. Gabriel had, in fact, told him to “take out” Cletus. Blitek had been assigned what he called a “co-sniper,” a fellow named Rollings. He never showed. Blitek was just sufficiently frightened of Gabriel that he undertook the “mission” alone. He thought that might have been a mistake. In retrospect, sort of.

  “Well,” said Lamar, kindly, “you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  Blitek had told Gabriel, as it turned out, everything that had been said by Cletus at the interviews. Including the fact that we knew about the phone call from the Cletus Borglan residence to the Cletus Borglan residence, so to speak.

  Shit.

  He also told us that Gabriel was still planning some sort of major operation for Sunday. Something to do with cash, and banks, but probably not what Cletus had described.

  “You mean, ‘had been planning,’ don’t you?” I was fairly certain by then that we had just lost Gabriel again.

  It was the only time that a spark of life showed in Blitek’s eyes that day. He had almost a religious fervor about him. “Gabriel says that there’s no way you Zionist puppets can interfere. You can’t stop him. It’s a military operation, and you don’t have a chance.” He kind of giggled, like a kid. “There’s going to be no betrayal this time!”

  We decided the best way to find out was to talk to Cletus. By now, both Davies and Attorney Gunston were at the jail. Gunston said we could talk to Cletus, but that he was making arrangements for a doctor to attend his client and perhaps give him a sedative.

  “No sedative,” said Davies. “We wouldn’t want you to say that we’d talked to him under the influence of drugs, would we.”

  I stood on the front porch of the jail with Volont, Davies, Art, and George. It was the best place for a fast private meeting. Nobody else seemed to want to hang around in view of the grain elevator.

  “So, how do we proceed?” George kept glancing at the elevator in the distance. “Well, he’s seen Blitek. He’s got to be aware that everything he’s said has already been given to Gabriel.” Volont looked around. “I’d say he’s just about ripe, if we can protect him.”

  “We can’t,” said Art. He’d been a deputy in Nation County long enough to know what our resources were. Now that he was a state officer, he knew what they had available. He was right.

  “We can,” said Volont.

  He was right. They probably could. For me, it was just a question of whether or not we could convince Cletus of that. I had absolutely no problem with giving him up, in exchange for getting Gabriel. We’d intended that all along.

  “I’m not authorized to make deals,” said Art.

  “I am,” said Davies.

  “Not without the permission of the local prosecutor,” said Art. Knowing full well that, as yet, there really wasn’t one.

  “We’ll talk about that one again, after you’ve passed the Bar.” Davies kept his voice light, but there was no mistaking the fact that Art was being shut down. He turned, and looked at me. “I think you and I should do the interview, since you’ve established somethin
g of a rapport with Mr. Borglan.”

  “Yeah,” I chuckled. “I make him puke.”

  “And that a representative of the FBI should also be present, to make the ‘protection’ offer.” He smiled, brightly. “A gesture of good faith …”

  Volont, Davies, and I were in the “interrogation kitchen,” as Davies referred to it, and Lamar was bringing Cletus out of his cell. Attorney Gunston was waiting to talk to Cletus before we did, in the secure room.

  “Now, let me see,” said Davies. “Paper … pencil … briefcase … vomit bag …”

  “Give me a break,” I said. “It was probably something he ate.”

  Volont said, “We don’t ask directly about Sunday?”

  Davies and I agreed. “How about the banks? How direct for details?” I wanted to have the interview parameters really clear on this one.

  “Whatever you need on that,” Volont said. “Don’t forget that Attorney Gunston was at the Borglan farm before he knew Cletus was being charged. I don’t like the possible connection here to the rest of that group.”

  “Right,” said Davies. “We should have Cletus pretty nervous right now. Let’s try to keep the edge on him as long as we can.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “What about Florida, and the call? More detail?”

  “I do that one,” said Davies. “Remember,” he cautioned, “we have him on a solid aiding and abetting of a double murder. We don’t want to forget that.”

  “By the way,” said Volont, “you do know his real name is Jacob Henry Nieuhauser?”

  “Nieuhauser?” asked Davies.

  “Gabriel … his full name is Jacob Henry Nieuhauser.”

  Davies wrote it down.

  Cletus and Gunston entered the kitchen, guided by Lamar, who backed out, locking the door behind him. Our defendant and his attorney sat down at the long, old table. As far from the three of us as they could get.

  We got off to a really good start, what with Blitek having been Exhibit A and all. Until Gunston said, “You have no direct evidence that Mr. Blitek was shooting at my client, here. He could well have been attempting to facilitate my client’s escape, instead.”

  Weak. Stupid, really. Last try.

  “He just told us his assignment was to kill Cletus, here.” Davies grinned across the kitchen table. “That would be your client. Make no mistake.” He looked at his yellow tablet. “If your client can tell us some things about Jacob Henry Nieuhauser,” he said, slowly, “we may have an offer we can put on the table.”

  “We’ll entertain an offer,” said Gunston. “Even though my client has done nothing wrong. But, if as you say, he was the target this morning, then you must guarantee him protection.”

  “We may make an offer, depending on what your client is willing to share with us,” said Volont. “As for protection, we think he’s safe in this building for now. If we move him at some date, you must understand that you will only be informed after the fact.”

  Gunston, still aggressively defending, looked at Volont. “And just who might you be?”

  I love it when this happens. Especially with somebody like Volont, who can place a 600 lb. badge on the table.

  “Special Agent in Charge Volont, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Counterintelligence Unit.” I don’t know, it just sounded so good. Gunston looked startled. Cletus looked like somebody had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart.

  Gunston, who deserved much credit, managed to say, “I didn’t know the FBI had jurisdiction in this kind of case.”

  “It’s not the murder that particularly concerns him,” said Davies, also obviously pleased to have Volont at the table. “It’s what you might call collateral matters. Very large collateral matters.”

  Cletus didn’t vomit. I was relieved. His face began to redden, though, as he looked at each of us in turn. His gaze kept moving back to Volont, and he finally said, “What do you want from me?”

  “We should confer …” was about all Gunston got out.

  “No!” Cletus was scared silly, and getting pissed off that his attorney seemed to be dragging his feet at his salvation. “Just promise me protection. That son of a bitch is a professional killer!”

  We quickly completed what Davies later said was the “fastest, strangest” deal and information exchange he’d ever done.

  Mercifully, it was also vomit-free.

  Cletus was given federal protection, and his charge of two counts of Conspiracy to Commit Murder was reduced to Obstruction of Justice, to which he would enter a plea of guilty. Quite a deal, indeed. Until you consider that, if tried in Nation County, he probably would have gotten at least as good a result.

  In exchange, he gave us Gabriel on a platter. Well, as far as I was concerned.

  Jacob Henry Nieuhauser, whom he had known for several years, had come to him for a place to stay while he scouted “five handy little banks” that he intended to take off. These banks apparently had been part of his original plan back in June of 1996, when events in our county had conspired to thwart him.

  What banks? Cletus didn’t know. But the number five had been mentioned.

  He’d let Nieuhauser, a.k.a. Gabriel, use his home, while Cletus and his wife were wintering in Florida. Low-profile, no problem. He’d received the phone call, all right. From Gabriel, who had told him that he’d become aware that he was under surveillance by some cops for about a week or so, and had been preparing to “take measures to throw them off the trail” when the cops had broken into the house. He was certain they were cops, because they’d told him they were.

  I thought that was pretty sad.

  Cletus said that Gabriel had killed one, then tried to question the other. The second brother tried denying that they were cops, even though they’d originally said that they were. Since the young man was adamant about it, after a few minutes of questioning, he’d killed him, too. It had been “necessary.” His cover was being blown.

  Of course there had been no information. Neither of the poor damned Colson brothers could possibly know shit about what Gabriel wanted. Talk about terror. Especially for the second one to go. I tried to make that very clear to Cletus, but he was so worried about himself I don’t think it took.

  The computers were engaged in what was called “distributed computing,” a network of over 100 machines, each working on a small portion of a project. But he didn’t know of what kind. Where was Gabriel now? He didn’t know, but he was sure that he was around. The banks were scheduled to go down soon, and he knew that Gabriel wasn’t going to be put off this time around. The cause needed money.

  We made Cletus disappear this way: We called for an ambulance to come to the Sheriff’s Department. When they arrived, we told them that we needed a special favor. Volont and I accompanied Cletus and his attorney in the ambulance to the hospital. Volont had called for a chopper. It arrived, and we made all the right fuss to have Cletus look as if he were on his way to a major trauma center. Put him onboard in a stretcher and everything. Four FBI agents were in the chopper. Volont insisted that Gunston accompany him. Insisted by way of placing him in protective custody. No kidding. I never thought they could really do that.

  As Volont said, it kept both of them out of the way for a good seventy-two hours.

  He told me that the Huey took them to Waterloo, where they would be held at a National Guard facility.

  We spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out how to prevent the bank robberies.

  I enjoyed eating dinner in Lamar’s office. Cheeseburgers delivered by Maitland PD and Judy. Being the only person in the room on a low-fat diet, to me they tasted fantastic. Somehow, I’d become convinced that, if I ate that stuff under these circumstances, it just didn’t count. You know. Like when the waiter delivers the wrong thing to your table, and you get stuck with lots of gravy … I think I burned off most of the fat calories with frustration, anyway. We had real problems.

  Let me just say that the bank jobs fall into two possible categories. First, there are
robberies, which by definition would have to occur while there were people in the bank. Second, burglaries, which would occur when the banks were not occupied. The second was the least dangerous for all concerned, but the first was a hell of a lot more likely to get you into the safe. It would very likely be open during business hours. Open meant daylight. Closed meant night.

  My point, and the one that stuck the whole operation together from our end, was just what Volont had always preached. Gabriel wasn’t a “criminal” type, he was a soldier. There was a very big difference in approach.

  I said as much.

  “What?” asked Art, in rare humor. “Are we talking air strikes here, or what?” He was happier than hell to have the double murder solved. Knowing him, I figured he was only giving us half his attention, with the other half trying to figure out how he could claim credit for the entire case.

  I think the most difficult thing to do as a cop is to predict what robbery or burglary target will be hit, how the suspect will do it, and when. I’ve worked on Task Forces where some of the best cops around were trying, and just couldn’t get it to add up.

  I shared one with the group. I told about the time that eleven counties and the state were trying to bust a group that was breaking into implement dealers at night, stealing tools, chain saws, snow blowers, lawn mowers … anything that could fit in the back of a pickup or a van. By the time the Task Force got involved, these boys had done almost thirty jobs.

  We had drawn in the locations of each hit on an area map. Tried to find a center of gravity for the dots. One of the cops had an MBA, and did an analysis of the center of distribution that would have earned a promotion in the real world. We tried to determine which direction they would go by date of occurrence. We tried to determine how they would possibly scout a potential target. We did sort of a market analysis on items that were best stolen in particular seasons. We tried to find where they lived by correlating locations of burglaries. We skewed the maps by driving time instead of distance from possible origins. Then …

  We got information from a snitch as to who they were. We followed them, and on the third night, busted them in a dealership. So much for pure “intelligence.” Oh, yes. The kicker.