and all settled for supper. Good.
In looking for an address for Colonel Gabe, it had become immediately apparent that he was using other people’s e-mail addresses, and seldom the same one for more than an hour. Fascinating. We also noticed that Herman Stritch nearly always contacted Colonel Gabe via our man Borcherding. Mr. Free Press himself.
We decided to be cagey. At George’s suggestion.
‘‘I’m not comfortable with being Herman right at first. This has got to be something that Nola is going to do on the sly.’’
Hard to argue with that. The scenario we came up with was this: Nola would be meeting with her newly appointed attorney for Federal Court. He or she would have a laptop. Nola would place a message on the laptop, hoping the attorney would just send his accumulated messages when he got to his office. Nola is alone with the laptop for a few minutes and sends a hurried message. Most of the scenario came from Hester.
‘‘Wow,’’ said George, ‘‘I can’t believe that. You came up with that in about two minutes.’’
‘‘It’s from some movie I saw,’’ said Hester. ‘‘It worked for them …’’
‘‘We need a sender’s address,’’ I said. ‘‘Just for the first message…’’
We sent a message to George’s brother-in-law in Marion, IA. Right next to Cedar Rapids. He sent the message for us.
Our first message went like this:
FROM: KLINEB@LAWNET. COM
TO: BRAVO6@xii. COMONCOMON. COM
SUBJECT:
DATE: FRIDAY, JULY 26, 1996 6:11 PM
WE’RE IN JAIL IN CEDAR RAPIDS. I HAVE AN ATTORNEY WHO HAS A LAPTOP. I HOPE HE SENDS THIS TODAY. HE DOES NOT KNOW I AM DOING THIS. HAVE GABE CONTACT ME AT THE SAME OLD ADDRESS. THEY MISSED SOMETHING IN THE SEARCH. NOLA
The only thing I wasn’t sure of was whether or not the attorney would have an automatic spelling corrector. George said that he most assuredly would. Even better, since then we didn’t have to fake a hurried message.
The ‘‘they missed something’’ was mine. What we intended to do was have Nola get access to a computer and call her own back at the farm. You see, when you do a warranted search at a residence, like the FBI lab people had participated in at the Stritch farm, you always have to give the owner a receipt for everything seized. So Nola would have a receipt for the computers that were taken. There had been one older one. Great. That’s the one they’d ‘‘left,’’ as nonfunctional. We could probably sneak the one we were using up to the farm yet that night, as there were still forensic people at the scene.
After that, all we had to do was wait.
‘‘We’re going to have to go up there after dark, to put this in place,’’ I said. ‘‘But all we gotta remember is to change the phone number to Herman’s, and we’re set.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘You think we have time for supper?’’
I looked at my watch: 1826. ‘‘Sure,’’ I said. ‘‘Let me just check our mail…’’
We had a response.
It worked. The server thought we were Herman.
The message from Bravo 6, our man Borcherding, was:
WILL LET HIM KNOW. ARE YOU ALL OK? WHAT DID THEY MISS? WHY ARE YOU IN CEDAR RAPIDS? HAS ANYBODY TALKED? DINGER
‘‘Dinger?’’ Hester grinned. ‘‘Dinger…’’
‘‘Short for Borcherding,’’ I said.
‘‘Don’t ruin the moment, Houseman,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to enjoy the romance.’’
‘‘He bit,’’ I said a few seconds later. ‘‘He did, didn’t he? He bit, and so did the server, by God.’’
‘‘You got it,’’ said George.
‘‘You want to come along when we plant this thing?’’ I asked.
‘‘Hadn’t better,’’ he said. ‘‘Can’t tell what you don’t know.’’
The scene was still secured by two of our reserve deputies when we got there at 2130. It was just dark.
I told our guys that we were returning some stuff the FBI had seized and it turned out didn’t work. It was no problem for them. Hester and I lugged the big cardboard box in, containing the computer and monitor. I made a second trip for the printer. It only took a second to hook things up and get the system up and running. I changed the telephone number back to the one the Stritches used for their modem, enabled the call forwarding device, and we were in business. Now all we had to do was have it call us and forward any message. Slick. So far. We had a call in to X1, asking him if we could borrow his laptop. We needed a computer and modem at the office, and we both knew X1 had one. Prying it loose might be a little problem…
On the way back, Hester asked the big question. ‘‘How long you think it’ll take him to figure out that he’s not talking to Nola?’’
‘‘Three messages,’’ I said. ‘‘Four, if we’re lucky.’’
‘‘It’d be just our luck,’’ said Hester, ‘‘if Nola already really figured out how to make contact with him.’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘then George is out one inexpensive, internal modem.’’
When I got back to the office, they told me that Lamar was coming to Bud’s funeral tomorrow. It was true. By ambulance, but they thought he could be helped into the church. We were to watch closely. Any bleeding, or any signs of fainting, and he was to be hustled back out immediately. Lamar was tough. But I was surprised the docs would let him go that soon. It was good news, though, too. I mean, they were letting him go. Things had to be looking up.
Twenty
I’ve told you already how much I hate funerals. Especially cop funerals. Bud’s was no exception, so I’ll just hit a couple of highlights, so to speak.
The first came when Lamar showed up, being wheeled into the church by Art and me. We were all three in uniform again, which is de rigueur for cop funerals. We caused a minor sensation, even though we tried to avoid one by going down the side aisle. It was hard to be inconspicuous, with the nurse in trail and all.
The second point of interest was that every cop involved in the investigation was there, including Volont and Nichols, for God’s sake. In the same pew, but not together. I hate to admit it, but having them there did sort of soften my attitude toward them. I hate to admit it, but it did.
The third point of note was that good old Borcherding of the fourth estate was also there, way back on the sidelines outside the gym, but there nonetheless. Nancy was there too. At Hester’s suggestion, we had a DCI tech taking photos of Borcherding all day, and the people around him.
The fourth point of interest, and the best news as far as I was concerned, was that ‘‘The Lord Is My Shepherd, He Rides in My Patrol Car’’ wasn’t on the show bill.
We’d not been bothering Lamar about office business, on doctor’s orders. All through the service, the poor son of a bitch kept trying to get Art or me to answer questions about the state of the office, and the murder of Bud. We’d just put our finger to our lips, pretty much telling him to be quiet and respectful in church. He’d nod furiously, then lean over and whisper a question ten seconds later. He finally got us on the way to the ambulance that was to take him back to the hospital.
‘‘You guys better tell me what the fuck’s happening, or you’re both gonna have your asses on the street lookin’ for work…’’ Or something like that. It was kind of hard to hear, with the ambulance engine running and Lamar trying not to make a scene. Art and I both got in the ambulance with him for a minute. We both started with a ‘‘don’t sweat the details’’ attitude, but Lamar knew us better than that. By the time five minutes had elapsed, he knew just about everything, in a general sense. You ever see anybody who was unhappy but content at the same time?
Art and I waved at the ambulance as it pulled away.
‘‘Well,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s over.’’
‘‘For today,’’ I said.
