A Long December. Donald Harstad
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not there. Repeating, the caller says the suspects have fled the immediate scene. He thinks they went southbound from near his residence, but he didn’t get a vehicle description, just heard it leave, as it apparently was around the curve from his place, and out of his line of sight.”
Great. “Give what you got to Battenberg PD.” The small town of Battenberg was about five miles south of the Heinman boys’ farm, and their officer could at least say who came into town from the north. Assuming that the suspects continued that way.
“He’s already on the phone.” She sounded a bit irritated. I wisely decided to stop interfering and let her do her job.
It had taken us about three minutes to cover the four miles to the cluster of three blue silos, and I braked hard to slow enough to make the right turn onto the gravel. I had anticipated the turn because I knew the road. Hester, who didn’t, just about ended up in my trunk.
“Could we use our turn signals? “came crackling over the radio.
“Ten-four, I 388,” I said to her. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
We were having a pretty mild winter so far, and there was no snow at all on the roadway. Just loose gravel. Almost as bad as ice and snow, if you oversped it. Without snow cover, though, there was much better traction. There was also a lot of dust from 216. Another reason I was unhappy he was ahead of me. Hester, behind both of us, had to back off quite a distance just to be able to see.
At that point, I heard “Two sixteen is ten-twenty-three” come calmly over the radio as the sergeant told Comm that he had arrived at the scene. After a beat, he said, “The scene is secure.”
That meant that there was no suspect at the scene who was not in custody. Good to know, and it tended to affect how you got out of your car. Hester and I both shut down the sirens as soon as he said that.
I almost missed the next right due to the dust. It was just over the crest of a hill, and judging from the deep parallel furrows in the gravel, 216 had almost missed it, too. I was in an increasingly thick dust cloud for almost a minute, and when it tapered off I knew I was at the point where 216 had slowed. In a few seconds, I rounded a downhill curve and saw his car about fifty yards ahead, parked in the center of the roadway, top lights flashing. Excellent choice, as he was completely protecting the scene. Nobody could get by him on an eighteen-foot road with a bluff on one side and a deep ditch on the other. I stopped near the ditch and waited until I saw Hester in my rearview mirror.
“You go on up,” I said on the radio. “I’ll make sure nobody hits us.” I carefully backed up around the curve until I was sure somebody cresting the hill could see the flashing lights in my rear window before they got into the curve. This was no time to get run over by an ambulance. Or the sheriff.
“Comm, Three, and I 388 are ten-twenty-three.” I hung up the mike, grabbed my walkie-talkie, and opened my car door.
Sally’s acknowledging “Ten-four, Three” just about blew me out of the car. I’d forgotten about cranking up the volume in order to hear over the sirens. I took a second to turn it way down, and then got out of the car, locked it up, and headed toward the scene. You always leave the engine running in the winter, so radio traffic doesn’t run down your battery. It’s also a good idea to have at least three sets of keys.
The Heinman farm sat well below road level, about fifty yards to my left. On my right, a steeply sloped, heavily wooded hill rose maybe a hundred feet above the roadbed. The farm lane came uphill toward the mailbox at a slant, with bare-limbed maple trees between it and the road. As an added measure, between the road and those trees was an old woven-wire fence covered with a thick tangle of brush and weeds. Put up, I was sure, to keep the larger debris from the roadway out of the Heinman property. There was an old, rusty Ford tractor from the fifties, quietly decomposing within ten feet of the galvanized mailbox that was perched on top of a wooden fencepost. That old tractor had been there the very first time I’d seen the farm, nearly twenty-five years ago. By now it and its rotting tires had become part of the landscape.
I saw 216 talking to the two elderly Heinman brothers. They were near the mailbox, looking toward the area ahead of the patrol car. As I approached, a body came slowly into my view in front of 216’s car. It was lying kind of on its left side, parallel with the direction of the road, with its feet pointing away and downhill from me. I started making mental notes as I walked. Faded blue plaid flannel shirt, blue jeans, one black tennis shoe…and hands bound behind its back with yellow plastic binders. Damn. We call them Flex Cuffs, and use them when we run out of handcuffs. They’re like the bindings for electrical wiring: once they’re on, they have to be cut off. What we had here was an execution.
Two more steps, and I saw the head. More accurately, I saw the remains of the head. You often hear the phrase “blow their head off,” but it’s rare to actually see it.
Hester and 216 stepped over and joined me at the body.
“Hi Carl,” said Trooper 216.
“Gary. Glad you could come.”
“Notice the hands?”
“Right away. And the one shoe. And the head… or what used to be the head.” From what I could see, from about the ears on up was gone. Although nearly all the cranium seemed gone, lots of skin was left and had sort of flapped around back into the cavity. One ear, perfectly recognizable and still attached to the neck by a flap of flesh, seemed to be pretty well intact. Seeing things like that always has a sense of unreality to it. Guess that’s what keeps you sane.
“Uh, yeah,” said Gary. ‘“Used to be’ is right. I think I’m parked over top of some, uh, debris, from the head and stuff. I didn’t even see it until I was just about stopped.”
“Okay.” His car was about fifteen feet from the top of the body’s head, and still running. That was fine. We could have him move his car back when the crime lab got there.
Hester spoke to him. “Doesn’t leak oil, does it?”
He looked offended. “No.”
“Just checking.” She smiled. “Wouldn’t want oil all over the… debris. Just make sure your defroster or air conditioner’s off. It’s a lot easier if we don’t get condensed moisture on the stuff.”
“Right. Uh, you two better talk to the two old boys over there. Very interesting stuff.”
“Just a few seconds more,” I said. “Tell ‘em we’ll be right there.”
Hester and I just stood and looked at the scene for a short time. You only get one chance to see a scene in a relatively undisturbed state, and I’ve learned to take in as much as I can when I have the chance. An ambience sort of thing, you might say. You just try to see, smell, and hear as much as you can. It helps when you try to return to it in your imagination, later in the case.
A sound was the first thing that distinguished this scene from the hundreds of others I’d been at before. The Heinman brothers had some galvanized steel hog feeders near the roadway. Looking like huge metal mushrooms, they had spring-loaded covers on them, and every time a hog wanted to eat, all it had to do was press its snout into the mechanism and open it. When it was done, out came the snout, and that spring-loaded lid slammed down with a loud clank. Usually two or three clanks, in fact. One, a beat, and then two very close together. All the time we were at the crime scene, those hog feeders made a constant racket in the background.
Now, bodies look smaller dead than they do when they’re alive. I’m not sure why; they just do. This one was no exception, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was a half a head shorter, so to speak. Even with the legs straightened out, he’d probably only be about five-three or five-four. It was sobering to see this wreck of a corpse, and think that he’d been alive and well only half an hour before. I just stood there looking for almost a minute, sort of taking it all in. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. But if you don’t do it, you always seem to regret it later in the case. I looked around for his other shoe, but didn’t see it.
“Sure