Mrs. Nola Stritch, loyal wife and mother, was kept in our third block of cells, nearly forty feet from either her husband or her son. She could probably communicate too, but since she couldn’t see either of them from her location, it was pretty difficult.
They had their act together, though. It was very typical of the extreme right… deny any recognition of the U.S. government, but claim constitutional rights under that government if they got in trouble. Slick. They thought of it as a win-win situation. We thought a little differently.
Nola Stritch was sort of unique, at least in that group. In the first place, after she had showered and put on a fresh orange jail uniform, it turned out that she was very, very attractive. I don’t know, maybe orange was just ‘‘her color.’’ With the salt-and-pepper hair in a ponytail, and the two-piece jail uniform turned into shorts and a top by the simple expedient of rolling up the legs and tying the top in a knot above the navel, she was as close to a knockout as we’d ever had in our jail.
Questions she asked the staff very quickly revealed a sharp, intelligent woman who was remarkably self- possessed. She’d asked for a couple of books from her home, and we’d provided them. One of poems by Walt Whitman and one textbook entitled The Calculus of One Variable. Turned out she was currently enrolled in a mathematics course and was studying. Whitman was for relaxing. The dispatchers, who watched her on the surveillance cameras in her cell, said that she kept busy and seemed very calm. She also did an exercise routine that involved abdominal crunches and pull-ups on the edge of the shower stall.
Herman, on the other hand, was now simply staring at the wall or the TV. When asked if he wanted something to read, he merely said something about not reading much. He ate quite a bit, and didn’t seem to show the expected signs of depression; he slept well, seemed energetic enough when he was taken out for exercise and fresh air, and was pretty good with the staff. His son was a regular chip off the old block.
The upshot of this was that it was almost immediately apparent that, if Herman was to be considered the ‘‘brains’’ of the group, you’d have to completely ignore his wife. Yet, from all accounts, she did not lead them. Interesting.
Hester and I, as the team investigating the shooting of Rumsford, had one very large problem. We knew the shots had come from the house. We just didn’t know who’d fired them. Autopsy results wouldn’t be available for a couple of days, but preliminary examination of his body showed that he’d been shot twice in the chest, both times with what was apparently a 7.62 mm projectile. Easy so far. Now, just check the ballistics on any weapon of similar caliber at the scene. Yeah. The subsequent search of the Herman Stritch residence had turned up the following rifles, according to the Seized Property Receipt:
[212-217] Six (6) Chinese-made SKS rifles, caliber 7.62 mm
[233-235] Three (3) Chinese-made AK-47 rifles, caliber 7.62 mm
[249] One (1) Soviet-made Dragunov SVD rifle, caliber 7.62 mm
[255] One (1) German Heckler amp; Koch G3 full-auto rifle, caliber 7.62 mm
[258] One (1) U.S. M-14 rifle, caliber 7.62 mm
[261] One (1) U.S. M-1 Garand, caliber. 30 (virtually 7.62 mm)
[270-272] Three (3) U.S. Colt AR-15 rifles, caliber 5.56 mm
[388] One (1) U.S. Remington bolt-action single-shot,. 22 caliber
Hester and I looked at the list. Thirteen weapons of the right caliber, and at least one weapon had left the scene with the unknown suspects in the cornfield.
‘‘Think they had enough weapons?’’ I asked, as much to myself as her.
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘You know,’’ I said, ‘‘if I were living on the extreme right, I’d be considered a patriot by my associates, right?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘Yet I buy mostly foreign weapons? Mostly Communist-manufactured military rifles?’’
‘‘Cheap.’’
‘‘Sure. Well, except for that Dragunov. But wouldn’t you wonder why the Communist countries were dumping assault rifles on the U.S. market, at one-tenth the price of U.S. rifles?’’
‘‘Well, yeah. I would.’’
‘‘So,’’ I asked, ‘‘why don’t they?’’
She thought a second. ‘‘Dumb?’’
Maybe, maybe not. Dumb would be a comfort. But I thought I had a kernel of an approach to William Stritch. If I could only talk to him. In the meantime, we had other things to do. Or, at least, wonder about.
The first thing was why they’d shot poor Rumsford in the first place. We sure as hell didn’t know, so we decided we’d better talk to Nancy Mitchell again. We got her that afternoon at 1325. She came to the office. I was kind of glad to see her, because I’d been feeling very bad about Rumsford. Irrational, I know, but it was almost like I’d sent him to his death.
We started out by explaining to her that, if we could figure out why he’d been shot, we might be able to get a handle on who had done it. She was very helpful, considering.
‘‘I don’t have any idea why,’’ she said. ‘‘I’d love to help, but I just don’t know. God knows I’ve thought about it.’’ She glanced out the window, toward the media people who were gathered in the lot, and who were resenting her having access to us at this juncture. ‘‘How’s the rest of it coming?’’
Now, with a media type, you just don’t know how to answer that. After all, she did represent a newspaper. But then, she’d had her partner killed in front of her eyes, and with our encouragement, more or less.
‘‘You’re gonna hate this,’’ I said. ‘‘But it’s really too early to tell. Honest.’’
‘‘Okay.’’ She absently rubbed the knees of her beige slacks. ‘‘I’ve done the story about Phil, you know.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ said Hester. ‘‘That was part of the deal, I guess.’’
‘‘I was careful not to give up anything I felt that you’d need.’’ Nancy looked around the office. ‘‘But I did say that they ‘appear to be right-wing extremists.’ I hope that was all right.’’
‘‘Hard to escape,’’ I said.
‘‘You know,’’ she said, ‘‘I’ve always wanted to do a bit on them. Just never got around to it.’’
Hester sat back in her chair, clasping her hands behind her head. ‘‘All I want to know,’’ she said, very slowly, ‘‘is why in hell somebody would shoot the person they requested. The very one who was to be their public voice.’’ She looked at both of us. ‘‘Why would somebody do that?’’
‘‘They probably wouldn’t,’’ said Nancy.
‘‘Either of you see anything that would have indicated to anybody in the house that he was a cop?’’ I asked.
They both shook their heads.
‘‘If I remember correctly,’’ said Hester, ‘‘Mrs. Stritch was having some sort of a conversation with somebody in the house…’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Nancy. ‘‘She was talking to them just as Phil was talking to her.’’
‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘Not really a conversation. At least not to me. More like they told her something.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. She put her foot back down and leaned forward. ‘‘And then she disappeared inside the house.’’
‘‘And then they shot Phil,’’ said Nancy.
‘‘So,’’ I asked nobody in particular, ‘‘is it safe to assume that they said either ‘Get out of the way’ or ‘We got him now’?’’
‘‘Something like that,’’ said Hester.
‘‘So the question is,’’ I said, ‘‘whether it was an announcement to her of something she hadn’t been aware of, or whether it was a confirmation of intentions known to her prior to the shooting.’’
Hester gave me that sort of squinty look. ‘‘You like to simplify that?’’
‘‘Yeah. Did she know in advance?’’
‘‘I don’t think so,’’ said Nancy.
‘‘Why,’’ said Hester.
‘‘I don’t know. Wait till I get my pictures back. I was focusing on her while Phil was talking.’’
My eyebrows went up about the same time Hester’s did.
‘‘Telephoto?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Five hundred millimeter Cas is what Phil called it,’’ answered Nancy. ‘‘Really gets you right in there, I’ll say
