Chapter 5
“That’s just about the dumbest idea I ever heard!” Longarm yelped, on his feet and listening to the words come out of his mouth before he had time to think about it.
Not that he likely would have said anything different if he had taken time for thought. What he’d said was the truth plain and simple: This plan was the dumbest damn thing he’d ever in his life heard.
The man at the front of the room, a lower-level legal assistant from the U.S. attorney’s office named Carl Rakestrom, looked like he wanted to crawl underneath the desk. Hell, Longarm would’ve approved if he did.
“Look, I … I’m just following orders. You know?”
“What I know, dammit, is that this idea is stupid. Dumb. Idiotic. How many ways can I say it?” Longarm snapped at him.
“We all just have to-“
“Like hell we all have to follow orders,” Longarm said, cutting Rakestrom off. “Not stupid orders like this. My God, man. You want to put all us old, experienced people on bullshit routine assignments when there’s important work to be done? That’s crazy, that’s what it is.”
Longarm could hear a chorus of agreement coming in mumbled undertones from some of the others in the room, notably from Dutch and Henry and Smiley.
“Perhaps I didn’t explain it fully,” Rakestrom said. The fellow looked quite thoroughly miserable. And so he damn well ought to, Longarm thought, with this sort of moronic message to deliver.
“The thing is,” Rakestrom said, trying to back up and start over, “there is no one here to appoint an interim successor to Marshal Vail. Normally that would be the prerogative of the U.S. attorney. But with him gone too, well, there simply isn’t anyone capable of making that appointment. Not until Washington comes up with proper instructions. So in the meantime, the marshal’s office and all you people will have to work under the direction of Acting U.S. Attorney Cotton.
“And it is his judgment, acting with the advice of others in the office and with certain suggestions from the Secret Service people, that we use you experienced deputies to maintain the normal, everyday functions of the U.S. marshal’s office. You know. The serving of writs and warrants, transportation of prisoners, like that. The overall investigation into the slayings of Commissioner Troutman and the others will be under the direct supervisory control of the Secret Service anyway—at the direct order of the president, or so I understand—and they are willing to accept the services of your less-experienced people to assist them in the field.” Rakestrom spread his hands and gave Longarm a look of apology, as if perhaps he too thought the decision stupid—but out of his control nonetheless.
“You don’t understand,” Longarm said, trying to keep his voice calm and low and reasonable, even though he would much rather have raved and snarled and railed at the dumb little son of a bitch. What was he? Twenty years old or thereabouts? All he knew to say was what his ignorant bosses had told him. “This bombing is being blamed on the Utes. Fine. I was there that day. I saw the bomber. It looked like it coulda been a Indian, true. An’ maybe some bunch of them was dumb enough to throw that bomb. But that only means the investigation needs to be done by somebody that the Ute people will open up an’ talk to. Right? I mean, don’t that make sense? An’ if I do say so, mister, that means I oughta be the one going out into the field to look into it from that end. The Utes know me. They trust me already. Do you have any idea how difficult it can be to convince an Indian that he oughta trust some stranger? Ask Smiley there. He knows.”
Longarm looked at the tall, saturnine deputy for support. The dour Smiley grimaced once and nodded. “I hate to say it, but Long is right. He already has a foot in the door with those people. Now if it was the Arapaho, that would be different. I know them better. But Long, he knows the Utes. And they know him. The sensible thing would be for Long to pick those of us he wants along to help and then ride south.”
“West,” Rakestrom corrected. “The Ute reservation, as you apparently do not know, is well to the west from here.”
“South,” the unsmiling Smiley shot right back at him. “What you an’ those fancy-britches popinjays from Washington don’t seem to know is that you won’t find the Utes on their reservation at this time of year. Not the young, wild ones anyway, and those are the ones Long and us need to talk to about the bombing.”
Rakestrom scowled. “We seem to be getting off the subject,” he said. “Let me say this one last time. And I’ll not hear any further argument. Certain decisions have been reached. It is now up to us, to all of us, to implement those decisions and carry this investigation to a successful conclusion at the earliest possible moment. I have here a list of assignments.” He held a sheet of paper up for all to see, as if by way of proving something. Longarm had no idea what. “I will announce your assignments, and I expect each of you to carry them out whether you agree with them or not. Is that understood?”
Longarm folded his arms. He wasn’t about to give an answer to anything as asinine as this deal seemed to be. And most of the other fellows in the room seemed equally unhappy.
“Long.” Rakestrom was looking—glaring was more like it—at Longarm. “You are Long, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Longarm admitted.
“Albert Morris, charged with tampering with the mails. Are you familiar with the case?”
“I’ve seen the flyers on him, if that’s what you mean.”
“Morris has been detained in Salt Lake City. He is being held there waiting formal arrest and transport back here for arraignment and trial. You are detailed to go and get him. See Marshal Vail’s clerk for copies of the warrant—one copy for service on the accused and another for the Salt Lake City police, don’t forget. You can draw expense vouchers too, of course.”
Jesus, Longarm moaned under his breath. Billy Vail was dead. The U.S. attorney was dead. Two important visitors from Washington were dead. And Longarm was supposed to go to Utah to fetch back some petty little asshole who’d clipped somebody else’s mail? He could not believe it. Longarm could not fucking believe it. Whose idea was this anyway?
“Deputy Nathan Krause,” Rakestrom’s voice droned on, the tone flat and dull and boring. Kind of like his personality, Longarm thought. Without initiative or common sense.
This was, this really and truly had to be, the dumbest damn idea he’d ever heard of. Jesus!
