‘‘I was hoping you had some.’’
All Harry could tell was that it was probably done to ‘‘set an example for others.’’
Hmmm. The time of death had him being done in on the same day as Rumsford. Significance? Unknown.
I spent the rest of the day eating antacid tablets, drinking coffee, and worrying.
Monday, July 29th, was the date of Rumsford’s funeral in Canada. Fittingly, it was also the day we discovered the whereabouts of Julius Constantine Wittman.
Hester called me at 0921. She’d gotten hold of a friend in the DCI records section and a friend in DCI intelligence. They had found that Wittman had, indeed, been involved in a scam or two in Iowa, including the one that eventually resulted in federal charges. She was going to Des Moines to get the case file.
‘‘You know,’’ she said, ‘‘Noyagama seemed impressed.’’
Howard Noyagama was the best intelligence analyst at DCI, and I thought one of the top people in the country. There were highly placed people across the country who would agree with me.
‘‘Really?’’ That in itself impressed me.
‘‘Yeah.’’ She hesitated. ‘‘I think we’re getting into a group of connections we’d rather not open up.’’
‘‘You’re probably right.’’
‘‘I mean,’’ she said, ‘‘I’ll go for it. But we might really need Volont and company on this one.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ I admitted. ‘‘I agree. I was thinking about that a lot.’’
‘‘You wanna make the call?’’
I chuckled. ‘‘You mean the decision, or the telephone call to Volont?’’
She was very serious. ‘‘I don’t think there’s any real decision to make here, Carl. The phone call.’’
‘‘I’ll do it.’’
‘‘But not just yet,’’ she added quickly. ‘‘Let me get to Des Moines and back out before you call. I don’t want access shut down before we get the file.’’ She chuckled herself. ‘‘Just in case.’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘So I’ll contact you as soon as I get on the Interstate with the file in my hot little hands.’’
‘‘I’ll be waiting,’’ I said.
I hate to wait. It would take Hester about three hours to get to Des Moines, and I didn’t know how long after that to get to the DCI files, copy or write down what was necessary, and get back on I-80. You can imagine all sorts of things, waiting like that, so I decided to keep my mind busy.
I went through a list of LEIN officers, and called one in Homer County, where Wittman lived. Turned out he was new to the program. That meant that, when he found out how long I’d been in, he was very reluctant to ask me any questions, but would tell me just about anything. Nervous, but oh, so eager. Just what I wanted.
He thought Wittman was ‘‘still on the old farm’’ but wasn’t totally sure. He could check. I asked him if he knew anybody whom Wittman could, maybe, hang around with.
‘‘I haven’t been here that long, let me check the file…’’
I sat there, drumming my fingers on the desk and wishing I still smoked, for about three minutes, before he came back on the line.
‘‘I’m really sorry,’’ he said, ‘‘but the only thing I can find in the files is from years ago, when he got busted for counterfeit stuff.’’
Oh, yeah. Only that…
‘‘Too bad,’’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘‘There might be something in that, though… Look, go ahead and fax us the basic stuff, will you?’’
‘‘Sure…’’
‘‘And I’ll buy you a beer at the convention…’’
I don’t get butterflies in my stomach very often, but I did waiting for that FAX. Like so many cops, including myself, he really needed his secretary, I was sure, to run the damned machine. Since it was ‘‘important,’’ he’d probably try to do it himself. This could take a while yet. I notified Dispatch to let me know immediately, because we might be having some secure stuff coming over from Homer County via fax, and I would have to get it right out of the machine myself.
They called right back.
I got to the center and watched the first sheet come out of the machine. Blank. Followed by the second, third, fourth…
We placed a call to the deputy, who was obviously doing the faxing himself. He was embarrassed. Told him that was okay, anybody could put the sheets in wrong side up.
I waited in the Dispatch Center. Pretty soon, here they came. Faint, hard to read, but they were coming in. He was obviously sending copies of the ‘‘pinks,’’ the third sheet on a standard form, the ones that the officers keep in the file along with the white original copies. Oh, well.
Fifty-six pages. He probably used up his fax budget for the month. The last sheet was from him, asking if I wanted him to fax the DCI and FBI documents. I telephoned, told him to hold up on those. Hester should have them, and he had done a lot already.
I was just about finished with the report when Dispatch buzzed me and said I had a call from Hester.
‘‘Houseman…’’
‘‘I have the stuff. It’s GREAT!’’
‘‘All right!’’
‘‘Noyagama says ‘Hi’ and for you not to eat too many cookies.’’
‘‘Cool. Should I call Volont now?’’ I asked.
‘‘Wait till I get there,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m just going past the first rest area… Should be there in, oh, three and a half hours or so.’’
That put her about thirty miles out of Des Moines, if memory served.
‘‘I got some stuff from the county where our man was busted,’’ I said. ‘‘They faxed it up.’’
‘‘Good. See you in a while.’’
Hester drove into the lot at 1630, by which time the faxing deputy of Homer County had confirmed that Wittman was, indeed, at the ‘‘old farm.’’ Did we want him?
Well, yes, we did.
Hester and I got our ducks in a row, went to a magistrate, and got an arrest warrant for Wittman for murder (a co-conspirator), and I placed the call to Volont at 1658. Two minutes before closing time, as it were. He wasn’t in. Did we want him paged? Yes.
We’d decided not to let Volont know we had the old case files.. . at least not yet. It wasn’t really applicable, not to the immediate situation anyway.
Volont’s call was put through to my office.
‘‘Houseman,’’ I said, motioning Hester to pick up the other line.
‘‘Volont here. You called?’’
‘‘Sure did,’’ I said. ‘‘You on a secure line?’’
‘‘Very.’’
‘‘Okay, then. Hester and I are on this line. We found out who the subject was who was in the house with Herman. Actually, who both of them were, the ones who took off through the corn?’’
‘‘Yes…’’
‘‘One of ’em is a man named Julius Constantine Wittman, goes by Connie.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Volont, as noncommittal as always.
I told him where Wittman was, how his name had come, in effect, from Nola Stritch during our interview, and how we’d found out who he was. Told him that there was an old FBI case involved too. He didn’t seem too surprised.
‘‘Are you going to pick him up?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yeah, but not without you,’’ I said. ‘‘This guy’s at least as much of a conspirator as Billy Stritch, and that’s another federal charge. Plus,’’ I hastened to add, ‘‘with federal priors, he might be a little more willing to talk.’’
‘‘Might,’’ said Volont. He thought for a second. ‘‘How about we meet you over at the sheriff’s office in, what, uh, Homer County, in about two hours?’’
‘‘Yep. Homer County. See you then,’’ I said.
We called Homer County, and I spoke with the faxing deputy again. I told him what was up, and he just about
