‘‘We saw the black helicopters,’’ he said. ‘‘We saw ’em.’’
‘‘Black helicopters?’’ said Hester.
Damn. I was sure he was referring to the National Guard Huey we used for marijuana surveillance. Not black, but olive green. But we’d flown this area less than a month ago, when we’d picked up on the big patch in the park.
‘‘How long ago was that?’’ I asked.
‘‘Month or two.’’
‘‘Uh, Herman, I think that was us.’’ I explained to him that just about any helicopter, but especially an Army one, would look black at anything over two hundred yards, against the background of the sky.
Ah, but he was positive it was black. No further discussion. Not even when Hester said, ‘‘But, Herman, if it was me, I wouldn’t paint it black to hide it. I’d paint it blue and white, and put lettering like News Copter on the side. Wouldn’t you?’’
He didn’t buy it. But it was apparent that his sighting of the chopper had started the anxiety escalation that led to the shooting. The things you never think of.
‘‘They’re takin’ over,’’ he said. ‘‘The Jews and the UN. They’re takin’ the whole country.’’
Turns out that Herman had been shown a map. A map of the United States, with the so-called Occupation Zones carefully designated.
‘‘Herman, you can’t believe that.’’ I was really stunned.
‘‘Oh, yes. And we’re in Zone Five, us and Minnesota and Illinois and Wisconsin. The Belgian Army is going to occupy Zone Five after the takeover.’’
‘‘The Belgian Army, Herman? All ten of ’em?’’
‘‘You’ll see. The Jews slinking around here have it all arranged. You’ll see.’’
‘‘Herman,’’ I said, ‘‘what Jews?’’
‘‘They’re around,’’ he said, almost slyly. ‘‘I see ’em all the time.’’
‘‘Herman,’’ I said, ‘‘you wouldn’t recognize a Jew or a Belgian if one bit you in the ass.’’
He looked at me very coldly. ‘‘We can get you too.’’
About an hour after the two men went into the corn, Art arrived. Our chief deputy. He’d been gone on vacation since the day before Herman decided to shoot people. Fishing in Wisconsin. But he was back now, and was wasting no time. I made a mental note to find out who’d decided call him back early.
His car pulled up, and I could hear his reedy voice before I saw him.
‘‘Where’s Houseman? Find Houseman!’’
‘‘Over here, Art,’’ I hollered. ‘‘By the fence.’’ I glanced at Hester. ‘‘This oughta be good.’’
‘‘Houseman,’’ said Art as he bustled over to us. ‘‘I’m in charge now. You’re relieved here. I’ll take over.’’
‘‘Okay, Art.’’
‘‘I’m serious. I’m taking over. There’s going to be no more killing now.’’
‘‘Okay, Art,’’ I said. ‘‘You do that. I’m going with DCI to the jail, to start interrogating the prisoners.’’
‘‘The prisoners?’’ He looked around him for the first time. ‘‘What about the two suspects in the cornfield?’’
‘‘Well, I guess that’s pretty much up to you now. Everything else is pretty much over.’’
‘‘Over?’’
‘‘Yeah. Look, you go ahead and wrap it up here. They apparently aren’t in the cornfield. As investigator, I have to go do the interrogations.’’
He didn’t say a thing.
‘‘And, Art, DCI lab’s comin’ up, to do the scene. We have to protect it until they get here. And…’’
‘‘What’d you do, fuck up?’’ he interrupted.
Art always was good with people. I just looked at him, suddenly tired. ‘‘Yeah, I suppose I did. Why don’t you look into that while you’re at it.’’
‘‘Believe me,’’ said Art, ‘‘I will.’’
I headed toward my car, with Hester alongside.
‘‘He’s still a real asshole,’’ she said. Just a flat statement.
‘‘Yep. But I’d really worry if he changed.’’ I grinned. ‘‘Just being himself. No real problem unless you start to take him too seriously.’’
Suddenly the press was coming at us. Just as soon as Herman and family had been hustled out, apparently somebody thought there was no reason to keep the press corralled anymore. They still couldn’t get past the fence, but all our cars and facilities were now in press territory. Hester saw them first. A disorganized group, spreading out from the press corral. And four or five of ’em had seen us and were on the way.
‘‘Shit.’’ The last thing I wanted was the press.
‘‘I’ll handle them,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Just stay back.’’
That was easy.
‘‘He,’’ said Hester to the first two reporters, pointing toward Art, ‘‘is in charge of everything here. You’ll have to talk to him.’’
They were gone like magic, swarming poor Art. And I heard one of them say, ‘‘That’s two known dead now, right?’’ My stomach started to burn.
‘‘Thanks, Hester.’’
‘‘Sure thing.’’ We continued toward the cars. ‘‘Just one more thing, Houseman.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I sighed. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘You got your raincoat this time?’’
Sixteen
Let me tell you… By Thursday, the 25th of July, it seemed like everybody wanted a piece of Herman. The DNE, as soon as they found out that he was involved somehow in the killing of their officer in the woods, wanted exclusive rights to interrogate him. They thought it was a narcotics-based conspiracy and just closed their minds to the possibility that it wasn’t. It didn’t help that they weren’t the state’s homicide investigators. The DCI did that, and they seemed to think that the DNE officer was more important than any Nation County deputy that had just happened to get in the way and get himself killed. Or any Nation County sheriff who happened to get himself shot, for that matter. Their reasoning was pretty good, though; the DNE officer was the central figure because he was first, and established the chain of events leading to subsequent shootings. It really wasn’t their logic, I guess. It was just the way they stated it.
The Attorney General’s office sent two of their best, along with two gofers, just to oversee the interrogations. Our county attorney was at his best, underpaid and overwhelmed. And, to top it all off, now that the hostage aspect of the business was over, the FBI was taking official notice of the whole situation. Melissa and her daughter, you see, were now being considered ‘‘hostages’’ and ‘‘possible kidnap victims.’’ The upshot was, if the individual officers hadn’t been used to cooperating and working together, the whole case would have fallen apart right there. As it was, we at least understood that we were all in this together.
The first thing we did was have an informal meeting, just the working officers, as we like to call ourselves. It happened in the kitchen of the jail, as usual, and involved Hester, George, Agent Bob Dahl, Hester’s boss Al Hummel, and our dispatcher Sally Wells, who was to coordinate communications for the investigative team. No attorneys. We didn’t need the complications. I’d invited Art, but he was ‘‘too busy.’’ Doing what, I didn’t know.
Since the crimes happened in our county, I chaired the meeting. I do that well. I stopped at the bakery, picked up a large box of pastries, made the coffee myself, and called the meeting to order.
‘‘Well?’’ I asked. ‘‘What do we want to do?’’ Like I said, I do that well.
As it turned out, what we wanted to do was this: Hester and I were to do the Rumsford murder, with our first priority being to discover just who in hell had shot him. Bob Dahl was to continue working the narcotics connections, but from a slightly different perspective, in light of what we now knew. He was to go back on the street and find out who had known about the dope patch and might have been connected to Herman et al. Al Hummel and the DCI would do the murder of Bud and the shooting of Lamar, which they would normally have done
