‘‘Well, you’re right about that.’’
‘‘I’ll tell you the truth… if we find an international suspect who’s behind all this, you’ll probably never hear about it. You know that, don’t you?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ I grabbed a doughnut.
‘‘But the good news is, if we do, I’m just about certain that whoever did the shooting was not foreign. They wouldn’t do that. They use local talent. They pass so much more easily than, oh, South American nationals, for example. Less attention. So you’ll probably get your perp, even if they’re foreign-paid.’’
‘‘That’s good.’’
‘‘Just didn’t want you to worry.’’
‘‘I worry a lot.’’ I smiled. ‘‘We don’t have a hell of a lot of a case here. Not a lot at all. You read our reports yet?’’
‘‘Not yet. The people from the AG’s office have. They think you don’t have much either. That’s the problem.’’
‘‘Yeah. We should, given what happened.’’
‘‘Yes, we should. That’s what makes us think there’s something else involved here.’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘you sure could be right. Anyway, I appreciate your honesty.’’
‘‘Look, you’re doing as much as you can with this. It just may be something you can’t find because you don’t have the jurisdiction to look in the right place.’’
He was right about that. Generally, the Feds aren’t that much brighter than any other investigative unit. Their advantage was resources; in the case of the FBI, massive resources. But they had a tendency to simply throw resources at the problem, trying to make up for what they lacked. Mostly, what they lacked was knowledge of the local area, and I don’t just mean the geography. And sometimes, what they lacked was expertise in some areas. By the very nature of their jurisdiction there wasn’t a ‘‘beat cop’’ among ’em. Most Feds had virtually no homicide experience. They only had jurisdiction over murders that occurred on federal property. Most agents had never been there, never done that. Only, sometimes, it really would have helped if they had.
Then, again, I’d never refused their help. I might be a little offended, but I’m not stupid. Those of us who have virtually no resources have virtually no scruples about using theirs. It works, and all of us know it. The Feds count on our greed. Resource envy.
‘‘I understand you know George Pollard from our Cedar Rapids office?’’
I certainly did. One of the resident FBI agents. We not only knew him; we liked him enough to refer to him as ‘‘George of the Bureau.’’
‘‘Oh, I know George. Good man.’’
‘‘He’s on vacation now, but he’ll be assigned as soon as he returns. Just wanted you to know that.’’
Well, that was good news. I was sure he’d arranged to have George assigned so we would be more comfortable with the situation.
‘‘Hey, I’m sorry about the raincoat. I just forgot about it in all the fuss.’’
I shouldn’t have brought it up again. I knew that as soon as I said it.
‘‘I’ll arrange to have the state get it back to you.’’
‘‘Thanks.’’ He couldn’t do that. They’d give it back on their own, or not, regardless of what he said. But he had to save a bit of face.
When I got back, Lamar collared me. After I told him about the task force, he told me to take my scheduled days off on Monday and Tuesday.
‘‘That’s not necessary, Lamar.’’
‘‘Yeah, it is. I think this is gonna be a long one, and I want you in shape for the long run. Let the state and the Feds earn their keep for a couple of days.’’
I really didn’t want to go home for two days. Which, come to think about it, is as good an indication that you should as any you could find.
I drove myself nuts on Monday. I’d been building a model of HMS Victory for nearly a year. She had been Nelson’s flagship at Trafalgar in 1805. I was researching the rigging, wanting it to be truly accurate. I had purchased copies of The Anatomy of Nelson’s Ships and The Masting and Rigging of English Ships of War. They usually relaxed me past all reason. After I had read the description of the winding around the forestay and the fore preventer stay, and the method of bringing both stays into their collars, I read it again. And again. And again. Well, that obviously wasn’t going to work out. I covered the ship and came up out of the basement, books under my arm.
‘‘Done already?’’ asked Sue.
‘‘Nope.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
‘‘Sorry, I just can’t concentrate, that’s all.’’
‘‘Oh, you can concentrate all right,’’ she said. ‘‘Just not on that.’’
I grinned. ‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Why don’t you go out in the yard and poison some more ants.’’
Not a bad idea, really. We’d had ants in the house that spring, and I’d sort of made a crusade out of getting rid of them in the yard. Just walk around looking for hills in the grass, and ‘‘bombing’’ them with Diazinon crystals. ‘‘Death from Above,’’ as they say. I was losing the battle, but it was relaxing just the same.
‘‘Good idea.’’
‘‘I’ll call you for lunch.’’
I must have walked around our little yard for thirty minutes, absently bombing an anthill now and then, and thinking about the case.
Nothing. We had nothing. What was really bothering me, though, was that I didn’t know if my lack of progress was due to a simple absence of evidence, or if the narcotics people were withholding on me. It sure wouldn’t be atypical. Since I was working a homicide, I theoretically had access to everything that impinged on that case. The only problem was, how in the hell could I know what I didn’t know? Especially if the ones holding back were federal narcotics people. Or the FBI. Or the IRS, for that matter. I didn’t know anybody who could find out that information, and the only people I could try to ask were the ones who would be holding back. If, indeed, they were holding back at all.
I gained a little on the ants. It was a good cause.
Tuesday, and more of the same. I finally called the office. Nothing new. I called Hester. She was on an enforced day off too. But there was one item of interest. The Feds were having a meeting at our office on Wednesday, the 26th. Tomorrow.
Speculating will drive you crazy. But I was hoping that I was going to have an opportunity to get some information. They had to have something to give on this one.
We had some neighbors in Tuesday night, for a light supper and conversation. Everybody was thinking about the case, naturally. Nobody could talk about it, except to say the routine things like ‘‘It was horrible,’’ and ‘‘I really feel sorry for his family,’’ and stuff like that. Nothing of substance. Other than that, I had a pretty good time, as the conversation turned to gardens, which eventually took us to ants… If not one kind of case, then another, I guess.
As Sue and I were cleaning up afterward, it occurred to me that I had needed this. I felt pretty relaxed, and kind of pleasantly tired.
‘‘Wed., June 26, 96,’’ I wrote at the top of my yellow pad. ‘‘1028 hours. Meeting at S.O. w/Fed Narc Grp.’’ Lamar, Hester, Al, myself, and several assorted Feds including George of the Bureau, were assembled in the jail kitchen. Volont was noticeable by his absence. In his place was a man named Nichols, of the DEA, who was the principal speaker.
‘‘We have,’’ said Nichols, ‘‘an operative theory, and it goes like this…’’ He spoke in a clipped, forceful voice that kept your attention. He didn’t really need vocal technique to do that, but it was nice.
‘‘The majority of the sinsemilla marijuana in this country is grown in California. The northern part, to be more precise. It is very highly prized because of its high THC content. It is also very time-consuming to produce.’’
He looked us over carefully, mainly to reassure himself that a bunch of nonnarcotic cops would be able to comprehend this, I guess. So far, no trouble.
‘‘Sinsemilla means no seeds. And no seeds means that you have to be very, very careful not to let the plants
