‘‘That’s right… how did you know about that?’’
‘‘Been lots of fraud cases like that, Melissa. Lots.’’
‘‘Fraud? You mean it isn’t true?’’
‘‘Nope. The ‘investors’ never see a cent. It just disappears, mainly because there isn’t any gold in the first place.’’
I noticed the beginning of the stricken look just a little too late to soften the blow.
‘‘Melissa, you and Bill didn’t…’’
Her face was blotchy red, and she was very near tears. ‘‘Yeah, we did. Just about everything we made on the farm.’’ She took a deep breath and gestured at her clothes. ‘‘That’s why I dress like this.. . why we have a piece of shit pickup…’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Melissa. I didn’t know.’’
‘‘That fuckin’ Herman!’’
I had to agree with that. Not only had he shot at her, he’d managed to get all her money flushed down a toilet, along with his own. If she’d been sticking it out thinking of a possible inheritance from both farms…
We had to give her a long break with her mother before we could get the interview back on track. While she was outside, I called Sally, checking where our favorite FBI agent was. On his way to Maitland, as a matter of fact. With a bunch of ‘‘material.’’ Excellent. I wanted him to talk with Melissa, especially about the financial stuff. He was much more familiar with that sort of thing than either Hester or I were, and I felt that she might be able to put him on the track of another major fraud case.
I went back out to get Melissa, and her mother didn’t look one bit happier than her daughter, but a bit more aggressive about it. I had the impression that there’d just been a discussion about how Mom had never approved of Bill in the first place. Glad I missed that one.
Melissa, as it happened, had a lot of her and Bill’s investment information at home. Company names, addresses, etc. She also had a little bomb to drop.
‘‘I was just thinkin’, Mr. Houseman. At those meetings. Some people said that we should raise marijuana, and sell it to the dopeheads, and make lots of money. Said, ‘Why let them spend their cash on foreign dope. We need the money.’ ’’
‘‘Do you think they were serious?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Well, I thought they were kidding, until the officer got shot.’’
We sent her home to get any documents she might have, with the suggestion that she leave Mom there with her daughter when she came back. Sounded good to her.
Well. Not too shabby for an afternoon. And we weren’t done yet.
When Melissa returned, George was there. We were just a little concerned about her reaction to another FBI agent, after the hassle about the kidnapping, and as we knew how her in-laws felt about the Feds. We needn’t have worried.
She smiled at George. ‘‘I wasn’t kidnapped, but I’m getting screwed over, and I want something done about it.’’
She had a stack of papers in a brown grocery sack. A thick stack.
‘‘I kind of brought stuff you might be interested in.’’
I picked up the phone. ‘‘Sally, could you come back here when you get a chance… we have a whole bunch of copying to be done…’’ I looked at Melissa. ‘‘If that’s okay with you?’’
‘‘Fine,’’ she said.
‘‘Then let her do it,’’ came a faint voice over the phone.
‘‘We’ll see you back here in a couple of minutes?’’
‘‘Yes…’’ said Sally, just a little disgusted.
‘‘You know,’’ said Melissa a few minutes later, ‘‘I’m just sorry the law won’t let me testify against Bill.’’
‘‘That’s no problem,’’ said Hester.
‘‘But I thought…’’
‘‘You can’t be compelled to testify against him. But you sure can, if it’s of your own free will. That’s how abused women can testify against their husbands.’’
‘‘No shit?’’ You could almost see the lightbulb come on.
‘‘Hey, there’s lots to learn here,’’ I said.
‘‘I guess so,’’ said Melissa.
‘‘For us too.’’ I leaned forward, pen in hand. ‘‘Let’s get back to that mission, or whatever they called it.’’ I adjusted my reading glasses and looked at her over the top. ‘‘Any idea whatever what they were talking about doing? Or when?’’
‘‘Honest, Mr. Houseman, I don’t think I do.’’
‘‘Mmmmm…’’
‘‘Really, I don’t. Only that it struck me that it would be sometime not too far off.’’
‘‘Any idea why?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Why it was soon?’’
‘‘Why you think it is.’’
‘‘Well, Herman was saying things like ‘We have to be ready,’ and ‘any day and they could come,’ and stuff like that.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ Hester looked at me questioningly. Do I keep up this line, or what?
When you interview, it’s always best to avoid having the interviewee speculate regarding areas where they have no knowledge or experience. The danger is that you stop doing questions and answers, and cross the line into conversation. We were really close to that line with Melissa.
‘‘Did Herman make any specific preparations for the mission?’’ I asked. My last shot.
‘‘Oh, yeah, he did that all right. That’s when he bought the ski masks and the cammo clothes for him and Bill. They were the ‘blockers,’ or the ‘linemen,’ or something like that. Reminded me of football.’’
‘‘Blocking force?’’ asked George, looking up from the documents Melissa had brought.
‘‘That sounds right.’’
Melissa looked back at me, proud of herself. George looked at me and made a time-out sign.
‘‘Well, Melissa, thanks a lot. You’ve been a really big help.. .’’ And after about two or three minutes Melissa was leaving, with a promise to return with more documents, as soon as she could round them up.
George, Hester, and I had a discussion. Much about what George had discovered in the documents, and a little about the mission. The possible link to Herman and company raising the marijuana for cash. That came first, in fact, and just about thirty seconds after Melissa had left the building.
‘‘I’m worried about that mission business,’’ I said. ‘‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like harvesting marijuana.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Hester.
We both looked at George, half expecting a ‘‘pish tosh’’ official FBI disclaimer.
‘‘Yeah, it scares me half to death,’’ he said. Earnestly.
‘‘Oh, swell,’’ said Hester. ‘‘You were supposed to say that there was nothing to fear, or something like that.’’
‘‘Yeah, I know,’’ said George, sitting back down and picking up the stack of Melissa’s papers. ‘‘However… A ‘blocking force,’ of course, is a military term for force that blocks.’’ He looked up, pleased.
‘‘Boy,’’ I said, ‘‘am I glad you’re here.’’
‘‘No, no, no,’’ he said. ‘‘Let me finish. That dude you and Hester saw making his getaway from the farm, I think I’ve found him in here. Or his tracks anyway.’’ He pushed a single-page document toward us.
It was a letter, obviously mimeographed, with the recipient’s name newer and darker than the rest. ‘‘Armed Forces of the Reoccupation Government’’ was in a curved letterhead, with a little guy in a tricornered hat, with a musket and a flag. Very similar to the National Guard symbol, except the man was standing in front of a capitol- shaped building with a cracked dome. There was one of those little wavy banners below that, which said ‘‘White Freedom.’’ The body seemed to be a notification of a meeting of some sort, and exhorted everyone from the ‘‘unit’’ to be there. The date was about three months ago, April 14th, and the location was a town in Minnesota I never heard of. The signature was Edward Killgore, Col., AFRG. But it was actually signed with a scrawl that looked kind of like a G with a couple of circles after it.
