'Check your temp gauges, make sure the engine isn't overheating…' Snow up under the hood could block the radiator, loosen belts, throw belts, you name it. 'If it's okay, keep it running.' In this area of the county, the hilltops were a good hundred feet above the roadway, and pretty close, to boot. Radio communications with our 10 watt walkie-talkies would be chancy, at best. I wanted the 100 watt radio in the car available, if I could.
'Yes, Father…' came from the car. Oops. Let up, Carl. He's able to do all of that.
I got busy thinking. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that the subject in custody was related to or involved with the two murders. None. I was as certain of that as I was of the fact that there was absolutely no real evidence to back me up.
Over my walkie-talkie, I could hear John's side of the conversation with the office. He mentioned that we needed assistance. That it wasn't an emergency, but that we had a suspect in custody. He promised to keep in touch until help arrived.
He joined me in watching our prisoner. Time to get some information.
'Who are you?'
Silence.
'You got a name?'
Nothing.
'Well, let me put it this way,' I said. 'Any ID you got is going to be mine as soon as we get that suit off you.' In the ensuing silence, I recited his Miranda rights. No reaction. Nothing. 'Right.' The radio was blaring in the background. 'I'll get the radio,' I said. I trudged up to the front, and reached in for the mike.
'This is Three, go ahead.'
'Three, One is ten-seventy-six. So is Seven. 388 is coming from Wheaton, ETA ten.'
'Ten-four, Comm.'
'Ten-fifty-one is also ten-seventy-six.' That meant that a wrecker was also coming. Well, we needed one, no doubt about that. Unfortunately, that also meant a civilian at the scene, as well.
'Which fifty-one, Comm?'
'Eddie's Body Shop.'
If it had to be anybody, I was glad it was Eddie. He was pretty good at keeping his mouth shut.
What we needed was a cover story. Something that most people could be told, something that would explain a chase of a snowmobile, and a subject in custody. We were going to need it in a hurry, too. I could see the faint flashing red lights way back down the valley. Probably Seven. Deputy Gary Oberbrech. Fairly new, and a good officer. He'd need to know some details, but I didn't think I wanted the whole world to know that I had my real suspect. Not just yet.
Two deer broke cover, about ten yards from me, and just about finished me off right then and there. 'Holy shit,' I said to myself, when I got my breath back. 'That woulda been cute, Carl. Scared to death by a couple of nervous deer…' Ah, but yes. That was going to be it. Our cover story. 'John!'
'Yeah…'
I walked back up on the road. 'Listen up. Except for Lamar, everybody is told this is a poacher. Got that? We caught a poacher. Use 'poacher' every chance you get. Poacher.'
''Poacher'? Okay, yeah, poacher… sure.'
'Stick to that even if they torture you.' I grinned. 'Coffee, doughnuts, chocolate bars… the works. Don't give in. Except Lamar,' I added. 'Never lie to Lamar.'
'Got it.' He grinned back. 'You know how close we came? I almost ran over the fucker, I swear. Another hundred yards of straight road…'
'Yeah. Close.' I clapped him on the shoulder. 'I'll bet you scared the crap out of him when you touched off that round, too.' Bravado has its uses. Oh, yeah.
According to my watch, it was 2310 when we got our suspect to the jail, and field-stripped him down to his dark blue union suit. Three of us, Gary, John, and me. No chances. You gotta take the cuffs off to get ' em undressed. We did find a knife, a Gerber, underneath his bulletproof Kevlar vest, which was also dark blue. He hadn't said a word to that point.
'Pretty well equipped for a poacher,' said Gary, dryly.
'Got a wallet here,' said John, who was going through the snowmobile suit. He handed it to me. Junior officers will do that, I suspect because they think us older folk would like the privilege of opening the prize, or something. This time, I was glad that he had.
I opened the wallet, and found myself staring at a complete FBI identification set. Photo, document, everything.
I just looked at him for a long moment. He just looked back. Well.
I cleared my throat. 'It says here you're Norman John Brandenburg,' I said. 'That right?'
'That's right.'
'And that you're a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation…'
Both Gary and John stopped their inventory of his gear.
'That's right.'
'How do you want us to go about proving that?' I asked. I'd seen FBI identification many times, and this was about as authentic as you can get. Including subtleties like slight wear and scuffing.
'Just make a phone call,' he said. 'The office will confirm.'
I thought for a second. 'Field office?'
'Yes, but not a local one. I'll provide the number.'
I'd asked, because I'd never known a local field office to be open for phone calls after 1700. Not that I was going to be satisfied with a phone call, anyway.
'How about I call an FBI agent I know, and we have him do it?' It wasn't really a question.
Special Agent Norman John Brandenburg didn't seem happy with that. 'You shouldn't do that.'
My first thought had been that it was a phony ID, and that we were getting a phony number. Now I was just about certain I was right.
'I think we'll do it my way,' I said. 'John, why don't you put the cuffs back on him, and sit him over by the booking desk. This won't take too long…'
I went out to dispatch, where Sally was monitoring the taping of our activities with our suspect. She'd arrived about 2245 for the start of the eleven-to-seven shift, and had made sure that the recording system was working well. Audio and visual.
'Well, holy shit,' she said, in a conversational tone. 'You think he really is?'
'Dunno,' I said. 'Got George's home number?'
She found it in a second, wrote it on a slip of paper, and handed it to me, all the time monitoring the activities in the booking room.
'Can they execute you for arresting a Fed?'
'No,' I said. 'But I'm not sure about embarrassing one…'
I dialed George from the 'officer's' phone, at the end of the dispatch console, near the coffeepot and supplies. The pot was empty. We'd have to do something about that.
'Hello…' came the familiar voice of Special Agent George Pollard, known to us as George of the Bureau.
'George?'
'Yes… Houseman?' He sounded very surprised. He should have. I think this might have been the second time in five years that we'd called him at home.
'Yep. Got a second for a strange one?'
'Oh, no. Now what?' He knew the Nation County Sheriff's Department pretty well.
'Well, it appears that we may have arrested a federal agent…'
'What?!'
I chuckled. 'Well, somebody who's claiming to be one, anyway.'
'My God. For what?'
'That,' I said, 'is pretty much going to depend on whether or not he's a real FBI agent.'
There was a small groan on the other end. 'An FBI agent…' George cleared his throat. 'I was assuming it was some other agency…'
'Nope. Fucking Big Indian, as they used to say.'
