"No point in being sarcastic, Cletus," I said. "We were just trying to learn something from their route."

He looked at me with cold, unblinking eyes, and it was very much apparent that he didn't believe a word I was saying.

"Right," he said. "So, if they were burglars, how come there's nothing missing?"

"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 gla.s.s 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 d.a.m.ned 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, s.h.i.t..."

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. "Somebody was already there. Any way you cut it. It could have been Fred, too, for that matter. Could have been." was already there. Any way you cut it. It could have been Fred, too, for that matter. Could have been."

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 sh.e.l.l 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 gra.s.s 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 a.s.sault 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 b.u.t.ton 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 "un.o.bstructed 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 h.e.l.l. 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 pa.s.sed 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 the door open, and in the freezing draft, we could see they were deer tracks. We came out of hover quickly, as the pilot wasn't supposed to descend lower than 1,000 feet, according to regulations.

Interestingly, I found it scarier to hover just above the tops of the trees than it was to orbit higher up. Better sense of height, I guess.

We flew back to MAX, thanked the crew, and were back in our car. Art and I compared notes. This is what we had, generally: All the tracks out of the Borglan place go through the hired man's yard. This meansA. He did the killing.B. He has knowledge of who did the killing.C. He has at least heard somebody go through his yard in a noisy snowmobile after they killed the brothers.D. The killer is still at the farm.

"I figure," said Art, "we can pretty well eliminate the 'D' above."

I figured we could, too. Although there were no foot tracks from the house going anywhere except to the machine shed. The only other track was the snowmobile track that was near the back door. If our killer didn't take the snowmobile, he would have to have been in the house when I was first there. I didn't believe it for a minute, but it gave me a funny feeling in the back of my neck, anyway.

My feelings must have shown on my face. "Got a case of the spooks, Houseman?"

"Oh, sort of ..." I said. Then, "Nah, we searched that house thoroughly." But I remembered very well the feeling that I was being watched ...

I just drove. Back in the days when I smoked, this would have been the time.

I picked up the mike, and called for dispatch to phone Borglan's hired man, and let him know we were coming.

Art read off the sheet he'd picked up at dispatch earlier that morning. According to his information, the hired man was a fellow named Harvey Grossman. His driver's license had said he was born in '62, five feet nine inches, 180 lbs., blue, and brown. I didn't know him, but Lamar had told me that he'd moved to our county back in '93 or '94.

I was getting a little worried. Art was pretty well established as thinking that Fred had done the dirty deed. I didn't agree, and thought that Fred was telling the truth. All well and good, and an indication of a balanced investigation. The part that worried me was that I thought it was very likely that we were just about to talk with the man who had murdered the two burglars. I mean, if Fred hadn't done it, and all the snowmobile tracks at the Borglan place led to the residence of one Harvey Grossman, who was left?

Just for the sake of arguing with myself, I a.s.sumed that Grossman had been at the residence for some reason, and had caught the burglars in the act. Perhaps there had been some sort of confrontation. Turned violent. Bang. Bang Bang. Bang. And then, bang bang. Put 'em in the shed. Who else would even be looking in there until the Borglans came back? If, as he said, Cletus had been called back unexpectedly for business, then how could Grossman have known he'd be coming? Right. He couldn't. All the time in the world to dispose of the bodies, as far as he could have known. The forecast was for warming for the next week or longer. Just wait a few more days for enough of a thaw to get them into a shallow pit. Move the corpses later, if necessary.

"How certain are you," I asked, "that Grossman here isn't the killer?"

"Just about positive," said Art. "Why?"

"Well," I began, and ran my theory by him. Quickly, but with some feeling.

"It's a point." He waited in silence. "Okay, it's a good point. If Fred didn't do it, this Grossman dude is the most likely suspect. Sure. So ...?"

"Well," I began, again, "if he is a suspect, shouldn't we just come right out and advise him of his rights as soon as we see him? Let him know, and take it from there?"

"Jesus Christ, Houseman," said Art, "don't be so G.o.dd.a.m.ned honest!"

"What?"

"No kidding," said Art, exasperated, and with uncharacteristic length. "Look. Keep the suspect business in the back of your head, but don't go getting carried away on me. Let the conversation flow. If he sends the right signals, then we hit him with Miranda and handcuffs all at once. Otherwise, lighten up."

"I know all that," I said, getting a little exasperated myself. "But, in court, if some attorney asks when I first thought this guy was a suspect, I'm gonna have to tell him it was before we talked with him for the first time."

"What did you do?" asked Art. "Watch the entire entire O.J. trial?" He sighed. "Don't worry about it. Fred's the shooter. Trust me." O.J. trial?" He sighed. "Don't worry about it. Fred's the shooter. Trust me."

Yeah. Right. As I drove, I reached back under my down vest, and unsnapped the restraining strap on my holster. I'd feel a lot better trusting Art if my gun was unsnapped when we walked to Grossman's door.

We pulled into the lane, and on the way to the residence, we drove through a nest of outbuildings. The house wasn't nearly the quality of the home place, but it was nice, and well maintained, nonetheless. It and the outbuildings were white frame, and looked pretty sound. The door to the wooden machine shed was opened, and there were four snowmobiles parked inside. One thing that struck me about them was that none of them had the little orange flags, and none of them appeared to have registration numbers on the cowl. Cops with a patrol officer's background notice stuff like that. I was willing to bet Art hadn't picked up on that.

We got out of my car, and walked toward the kitchen door. I knocked. It was a courtesy not to go to the front door. Most farms reserved the front door for important occasions, and the back or kitchen door was used for routine entry. If we had been accepted at the front door, and none of us had removable outer footwear, we would have "tracked in" all sorts of snow and mud. Easier to clean a kitchen floor.

The inside porch door opened, and a man meeting Grossman's description came out.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm Carl Houseman, deputy here in Nation County. The office called, and told you to expect us?"

"Somebody did. You got any identification?"

I fished out my badge, as did Art. Grossman reached for my badge case, and I pulled my hand back a couple of inches. I grinned at him. "You just get to look, Mr. Grossman. You can't have it until you're hired." He didn't seem particularly amused.

"So," he said, having scrutinized three badges he probably had no way of telling were authentic or not, "what can I do for you?"

He wasn't even inviting us onto the porch. Not a good sign.

"We're here because you're the hired man at the Borglan farm, and they had a burglary." I moved closer to the door. "We'd like to know when the last time was that you checked the place, and things like that."

"'Burglary'" he said. "That's what you're calling it?"

"Well, it started out that way."

"I understand that a couple of cops got it?" he asked.

Christ, what was it with these people, anyway? Wishful thinking? "No, no. No cops. A couple of burglars got killed, though."

"By who?"

"Now, that's a good question. We thought maybe you could help us there."

Much to my surprise, he invited us in. "You might as well come on in, and we can get it over with."

Get what over with? I thought. I glanced at Art, and he seemed to be thinking the same thing. d.a.m.n. Could I be right?

Seven.

Tuesday, January 13, 1998, 1248 Several cups of Linda Grossman's coffee later (I was really running on caffeine at this point), it certainly didn't appear that I was even close to being right. After we'd all gotten settled around the kitchen table, Harvey Grossman, wife Linda, and their nine-year-old daughter, Carrie, had pretty well explained things to us.

Carrie struck me as a pretty cool little kid. About four and a half feet tall and very thin, she had brown hair and brown eyes that were pretty intense. Especially when I showed Linda Grossman my badge. I showed it to Carrie next, including her in the business just like everybody else. Carrie examined it very closely, and nodded.

The Grossmans told an interesting story.

First of all, the entire household had been awakened about 2 A.M. on Sunday, by the sound of a snowmobile running through their yard at an apparently very high rate of speed.

"Just tore right through the yard," as little Carrie put it. "I hollered out, it scared me so much."

I could imagine it did. At 0200, with the temperatures hovering at minus forty or colder, no wind, over two miles from the nearest gravel road, which wouldn't have any traffic anyway, it would be just about as dead quiet as it could get. A high-speed snowmobile pa.s.sing within fifty feet of the house would shatter that silence, and very likely wake the whole family.

Carrie had run to her folks' room, who had also both been awakened. n.o.body could figure out who it was, since the Borglans weren't home. After settling Carrie down, Linda Grossman had come downstairs and had a cup of cocoa, because she wasn't able to get back to sleep. She thought she'd heard another snowmobile, or possibly the same one, off in the distance, but wasn't sure.

All three Grossmans were certain that the snowmobile had departed heading southwest. Carrie had apparently heard it first, and said it sounded like it was coming from the Borglan place.

We asked, and Harvey told us that he'd been at the Borglans' on Thursday, and was scheduled to go there tomorrow. He hadn't been there since he heard the snowmobile. Some farm people are like that. He'd go up and see when it was time to do his job at the Borglans'. Otherwise, he had enough to do without taking an unnecessary excursion. Not what I would have done, but I was a cop and he was a farmer.

We asked the three of them for written statements, and they complied. Carrie was really cute, so very serious and studious, and showing off a bit for the company.

Mrs. Grossman, Linda, struck me as being somehow edgy. It took me a few minutes, but I finally recognized the behavior pattern. She seemed overalert, and kind of watchfully aggressive in a way that reminded me of an abused woman. Most people imagine women who are abused as shy, meek, and downcast all the time. Not so. Very often, they come on a bit too strong, in a way that will seem uncalled for, or out of character. The best defense is a good offense, and they are really trying hard to conceal the fact they're being abused. They become almost too gregarious. An overcompensation that will fool most people. Anyway, that's how she struck me. Abused, but not to the point of real hazard or flight. With my batting average being nearly zero at this point, though, I just filed it away. No point in embarra.s.sing myself completely.

Anyway, she made a mean cup of coffee. I mentioned that.

"Thanks," she said. "I learned that when I worked at a hospital in Kansas City."

"You want me to put down the last time I was up at the other place?" interrupted Harvey.

"Uh, sure, yeah," I said. G.o.d, I was tired. I turned back to Mrs. Grossman to continue, but she was bent over her statement.