'Well,' I said, 'I don't think…'
'We aren't allowed to discuss a current investigation,' interrupted Art, quickly. 'Everything must be held confidential while the investigation is active.'
I had been about to say that they hadn't had a chance to take anything, but Art was right. Technically, anyway. It's just that the official confidentiality thing sounds so much like an attempt to conceal something. Besides, there was always some slack you could let out, but apparently, Art didn't want any going toward Borglan. I wasn't about to be so unprofessional as to argue the point in front of Cletus. Although, come to think of it, I wouldn't have been so unprofessional as to interrupt me, either.
''Investigation'?' asked Cletus, just as two men I recognized as being area farmers came to the door behind him. 'Isn't that just another word for cover-up?'
'Cletus,' I said, grinning, 'I just wish I knew enough about what happened to know what should be covered up.' I shook my head, and glanced at Art. 'Anyway, just wanted to make sure you got that copy of the search warrant, and answer any questions you might have.'
'Nothin' personal,' said Cletus, 'but I'd just as soon ask my attorney.'
'I would, too,' I said, turning to go. 'That's what you pay 'em for.' As I was turning, I could see through the sliding glass doors, and became aware that there were at least two other occupants of the house. As I walked away, I heard Cletus say, 'That one's a deputy, and one is a damned game warden.' I began to suspect that one of the unknowns might be his attorney. I didn't look back, because when there is a bit of tension in the air, looking back after you've done what you've come to do can get you into an argument. But I was certainly glad I'd dropped the search warrant copy off before we went for our walk.
The consensus among us was that we had achieved very little. This was expressed by Sam Younger as we walked back to the cars.
'Well, shit…'
We parted company with Sam, who had to go on a deer-poaching call. I was sorry there hadn't been anything more for him to get his teeth into.
Back in my car, Art and I did some serious thinking. I could remember very clearly that there had been no other car tracks when I drove into the Borglan yard the day before. With what I'd say was a high probability that there were two sets of tracks going from the roadway, over the hill, and to the farm, I just couldn't see how it was possible for Fred to have gotten there to do the deed.
'Simple,' said Art. 'One of the brothers was already there.'
Well, I have to admit, I hadn't thought of that possibility. 'Why?'
'Don't know, yet,' he said. 'But I'll figure it out.'
'Well, one thing's for sure,' I said.
So. Two sets of tracks going in. Two dead bodies, both shot in the head. They hadn't killed each other, nor had they killed themselves. No obvious involved weapon at the scene. (There wasn't a.22 in the gun cabinet. All shotguns and larger caliber handguns.) No spent shell casings, which indicated to me a revolver. The mess pretty much cleaned up. The bodies put in the shed, covered with a tarp, as if awaiting disposal at a later date.
'Who do you think was going to go back and dispose of the bodies?' I asked of no one in particular.
'Fred,' said Art. Instantly. 'Probably as soon as he got a buddy to help.' He paused for a second. 'Or, maybe, if he wasn't able to get a friend to help him out, that's why he just gave up and went to the cops?'
'Yeah?' I said. I just didn't think Fred had done it. I did have to admit, though, that I still didn't have another suspect.
'You still skeptical?' asked Art. 'Well, that's good. Keeps us honest.' Condescending. Immediately separating me from 'them,' the true professionals. I resent things like that, but there are simply times where you can't let it show.
I cleared my throat. 'Which still leaves us with the snowmobile tracks,' I said. 'Time to talk with the hired man.'
'I'd like to see 'em from the air first,' said Art. 'To see where they all go.'
Well, sure. Who wouldn't? It was just that some of us weren't used to working with choppers available. We checked through dispatch for the status of his flying machine.
'They're supposed to be at the Maitland Airport in about ten,' she said. 'They report a 'window' of about an hour, and then they want to head back. There's a front moving in.'
Reasonable, as they had probably come from Des Moines to Dubuque, refueled at the Dubuque Airport, and then headed up to Maitland International, as we called it. Reverse that to go home, and you're talking about three or more hours. Maitland International, also known as MAX, was a grass strip and one tin shed with a wind sock on the curved roof, and a large machine shed that was called a hangar. But it was ours.
We had just enough time to get to MAX, to meet them. I really hoped we'd get a Huey.
We hit the airport about fifteen minutes later, and there was an Army-drab Huey sitting there. Yahoo! My lucky day.
We met the pilots and the crew chief, they opened the large sliding doors on the sides for us, and closed them as soon as we were secured in the canvas bench seats. We were held in by thin seat belts, and faced outward. Infantry assault helicopter, you know. Wanted to be able to jump out as soon as they hit the ground.
We were also each given a headset and mike, which we keyed by pressing a button that was clipped to our coats. I was on the right side and Art was on the left, with the crew chief in the middle. With a roar, we were airborne, and sliding over Maitland.
I gave directions to the pilot, and in about two minutes, we were able to make out the Borglan place. A minute later, we were over the Borglan house at 750 feet, and started following the snowmobile tracks to the southwest. They went over a small board bridge that crossed the stream, and then through a wooded area, along fencerows, and eventually came out at the hired man's residence. All of them.
We asked the pilot to go back, and tried to see if any tracks diverged. I made the mistake of asking them to orbit the little bridge area so we could get a photo. The crew chief slid the door open, so we could have 'unobstructed vision, sir.' Right. Cold, oh Lord was it cold, and my feet were hanging out over the edge of the fuselage, and we went into a bank with us on the down side, and there was nothing to hang on to, and I was so sorry I'd asked…
We got our shots, though. Art didn't seem to be bothered a bit by hanging on the edge of oblivion. I, of course, didn't let on. Having discovered the steel post toward the center of the cabin, I'd casually slipped my arm over the back of the seat, and grabbed on for dear life with my left hand. The crew chief blew my act when he said, 'Don't worry, we haven't lost one yet.'
He slid the door closed, again, and went back and forth between the two farms three times. We thought once that we had something, but it turned out to be a cow path.
They all went to and from the farms. No splitting off. Direct route. Then, once they got to the hired man's residence, they went all over hell. Whoever ran the snowmobiles apparently really enjoyed traveling about the countryside. There must have been fifty tracks radiating out from that other farm, some going through fields, some staying close to established paths. One particular set simply made circles in a forty-acre field. Somebody just playing around. Another several sets to and from a machine shed on what must originally have been a third farm. Big shed, with the empty foundations of a house and barn behind it. Storage for planting and harvesting equipment.
'Look,' I said, brightly, on the intercom. 'Crop circles.'
There were also lots of black Angus cattle in the fields near the farm. Beef cattle. The hired man was likely using the snowmobiles to herd the beef cattle.
I suggested we fly the foot tracks that went from the farm, over the hill, and to the road; the ones we had just walked. We did, at about 1,000 feet. As we passed over the Borglan farm, I saw there were several people standing outside, looking up. I waved, but I don't think they saw me.
As we headed for the hill, our own tracks were glaringly obvious, but the track we had followed was pretty faint. We then flew the ridgeline, and there were no other tracks that we could see. We paralleled the roadway, and were unable to make out any points where somebody had crossed the fence line. We did a wide circle of the farm, and there were no tracks we could see coming in from anywhere. We did have one set of depressions that looked fresh. The pilot, at the request of Art, went into a low hover to give us a better look. Obligingly, the crew chief slid
