“Yeah,” said Gwen. “They are. Uh-oh…”
They had just announced that there would be a special report on CNN in thirty minutes.
Sally looked at Gwen. “Bad news?”
“It means they have enough to do a long version,” Gwen said grimly. “That means they have more information, and probably interviews.”
“Time for a good statement,” declared Hawse. “We better get a press conference organized.” He turned to me. “Is there some sort of auditorium available around here?”s
“Well,” I said, “there’s the Opera House. Seats about four hundred. Stage. Balcony. Even has footlights, if you want ‘em.”
We assigned Lamar to get the Opera House opened and available for the media. I say “we” in the broadest sense. I suggested his name, and Hawse did the actual assigning. Sometimes, you just have to get even.
CHAPTER 17
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, 2001 12:21
The Federal Search Warrant for Jose Gonzales’s apartment arrived in our office at 11:55. We were divided into two teams, search and security. As the original case officer, I was listed on the search team. Hester got security. Everybody else was a federal agent. We were just on our way out the back door of the sheriff’s department, when I got called on my walkie-talkie.
“Coram, Three?”
I fished it out of my coat pocket. “Comm?”
“Three, return to the office immediately, authority officer One.”
That meant that Lamar had ordered it. There was no questioning. I caught up to Volont and George, who were with Hester. “I gotta get back to the office. Lamar needs something. I’ll catch up.”
As soon as I got inside, Lamar was waiting for me.
“What’s up? “I was as polite as possible under the circumstances, but I really wanted to go on that search.
“Quick,” he said, turning and leading me down the hall to his office. “I wanted you to get this first, before anybody else finds out.”
That was unlike him. “What?”
“Just pick up the phone,” he said as he shut his office door very firmly behind us. He sounded happy as hell.
I lifted the phone off the desk. It was obviously an active line, and Lamar hadn’t even put whoever it was on hold.
“This is Houseman.”
“Hey! Boy, have I got some good shit for you. You owe me dinner at Mabel’s for this one!”
It was Harry, from Conception County, Wisconsin.
“Harry, my man. What’s up?”
“You want one each Linda Moynihan and one each Yevgenny Skripkin?”
Hot damn. “We sure as hell want her, but who the hell is this, this Yevgenny whatshisname?”
“Ho ho, my boy. Da plot thickens. Your girl Linda is sitting in our jail, bawling her eyes out and screamin’ about some attorney she needs. You know anything about that?”
“Sure. She’s got some attorney in Madison who’s trying to arrange an immunity and protection deal for her.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “That’s about what she said to us. Shit, she’s about as safe as possible, she’s the only sad broad in the whole women’s cell block. I don’t know nothing about no immunity,” he added, laughing. “I can assume you still want her?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“She was shacked up with this Skripkin dude over in Blue Mound, where we found ‘em. The Whispering Pines Motel.”
“Maybe they’re just friends,” I said.
“They were in the sack together, naked,” said Harry, with some relish. “We used to call that shacked up, when I was a kid.”
“Yeah, we did, too. Okay, but who the hell is he? I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“You shittin’ me?” asked Harry. “You really don’t know who he is? Hell, Houseman, I thought you were one shit-hot investigator!”
“Get to the fuckin’ point, Harry,” I said. He found that uproarious.
“Okay, Carl. Okay. This Skripkin, a white male Ukrainian, twenty-six years of age, was with the guy who blew away this Rudy Cueva boyfriend of Moynihan’s the other day.”
“What?” Glib in the face of surprise, as always.
“You betcha, Norske. This Skripkin was right there when one Juan Miguel Alvarez, also known to his friends as Hassan Ahmed Hassan, stuck the shotgun in the back of your boy’s head and pulled the fuckin’ trigger. Makes no bones about it. Seems to think he’s part of the immunity deal or something. That’s why I thought you knew him.”
The white boy. Harry’d found the white boy.
“You still there, Carl?”
“Yeah, yeah, Harry. Just thinkin’. I don’t know this Skripkin. Whatever else, though, we got enough for an accessory to murder charge. I’ll get the paperwork started on that right away. I don’t suppose they’re gonna waive extradition?”
“I didn’t ask,” he said, “but I’d be willing to bet your ass that they won’t.”
“Me, too. How soon can I talk to ‘em?”
“You got a free pass to this facility anytime you want,” he said. “Should I put the coffee on?”
“You better put on about sixty cups,” I told him. “You’re gonna have a crowd. And Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Get a photo of this Skripkin over to me as fast as possible, okay?”
“Your e-mail up and runnin’?”
“You bet.”
“You’ll have it in less than a minute.”
I did, too. Printing it took about four, and then grabbing a half dozen photos of other white males out of our Jail files took another five. Sally did the picking, while I called Hester on her cell phone and told her what we had.
“Oh my God. You’re kidding!” She was as delighted as I’d ever heard her.
I left, and made a flying trip to the Heinman brothers’ farm, where I showed the photos to Jacob. He picked Skripkin out immediately.
“This one. This is the white boy. No doubt in my mind. Is he from around here?”
“Well, Jacob, kind of. In a way. I can’t tell you more right now.”
“That’s fine. Good job.”
Well, it would have taken too long to explain about Harry, and Linda, and…
“Thanks, Jacob. We appreciate it.”
The trip to the Heinman farm and back, plus the identification process with the photo lineup, took twenty- eight minutes.
We got the ball rolling with the county attorney, who we told to file a complaint and affidavit with the district court and get an arrest warrant out for Skripkin. Carson needed some help, so we told him to come on up. We then called a judicial magistrate, who was just wrapping up his morning traffic court tour, and he came up to the sheriff’s department with his sack lunch and dined at a desk while watching us with a look of bemused detachment. With me dictating, Sally typing, and Carson Hilgenberg signing it, it only took about thirty minutes.
I grabbed a second with Volont. “Do you know Harry over in Conception County?”
