“What about the farmhouse? Did you check ownership?”
“Abandoned, for some time. It was supposed to be auctioned off soon in a tax sale.”
“We probably don’t need to go to the farmhouse, then. Keep a lid on the site though.”
“Sure.”
By now the caravan had reached the sleepy Minnesota town of Mankato. It didn’t take very long for the three Suburbans to reach Tuchman Brothers Funeral Home located on Main Street, down from the courthouse and municipal center. At the funeral parlor, Adams and Smith got out of the lead Suburban and went to the locked front door of the building.
Ringing the bell, Adams commented that he wished it would cool down. Southern Minnesota was undergoing one of its sweltering hot, two-week bouts of summer. The humidity and heat persisted long after dusk. It was the kind of weather that often spawned thunderstorms and their deadly progeny, tornadoes. The two-plus hour ride from Minneapolis had been mercifully spent in the relative air conditioned comfort of the Suburbans.
It was shortly after nine in the evening when the caravan pulled up in front of the funeral parlor. Waiting for what seemed an eternity, especially with increasingly annoying mosquitoes buzzing loudly around the front door light, Adams and Smith became pretty irritated. After all, Adams had called the Mankato coroner to specially set up this visit. Just then, the door handle turned and the front door was cracked open. Peering out at the two men from inside was a stooped over, white-haired old man.
“Hello, I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI. Is Phillip Tuchman here?”
“I’m Tuchman. Here, let me let you in, Mr. Adams.”
Phillip Tuchman, sole surviving brother of the Tuchman Brothers, was a seventy-year-old, slightly built man. The years had been difficult and he had a stooped over gait. He walked with the help of an oak cane. For years, Tuchman doubled as the Mankato coroner, which fit well with his family’s funeral business.
As Adams and Smith entered the funeral home, several of the other passengers in the caravan got out of their vehicles. They quietly faded into the shadows of the deepening night. Two of the men strolled behind the funeral house and positioned themselves in the shadows of the backyard facing the house, cradling their weapons. Each of the men carried either a Colt AR-15 or a Striker 12, equipped with a laser sight. The driver and one passenger remained in each Suburban, the engines running.
Mankato County Sheriff Joe Johnson reached for the ringing telephone. Putting the telephone to his ear he growled, “Sheriff’s Office.”
“Sheriff, this is Annie Lewis. I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are a bunch of strange-looking men in front of Tuchman’s Funeral Home. They’re acting mighty weird.”
“Thanks, Annie. I’ll take a look,” said Johnson as he got up from his chair and placed the telephone back on its hook.
Forty-eight and paunchy, his jowly face reddened by a spidery network of surface blood capillaries nurtured by a combination of sun and alcohol, Johnson looked more like a sugar beet farmer than the sheriff of Mankato County. Johnson strapped on his brown leather gun belt with the holstered .38 caliber Police Special and speed loaders, carefully tucked another plug of Red Man behind his lower lip, straightened his collar, hitched up his trousers, and reached for his Smokey Bear hat.
Walking out the door, he shouted to his night clerk that he was headed down to Tuchman’s. He got into the tan Chevrolet Caprice with special suspension and a 5.7 liter V8 engine and started toward the funeral parlor. As Johnson approached Tuchman’s, he noticed the three Suburbans parked in front of the funeral home without lights but definitely running.
He pulled in front of the first Suburban, radioed his night clerk that he was at Tuchman’s and was going to question the driver of a gray late model Suburban with no markings. Walking up to the lead Suburban, Johnson knocked on the driver’s window. The driver slowly turned his face in the direction of the knock and using his hands indicated that the window did not roll down.
Suddenly, Johnson felt the cold steel barrel of a Colt AR-15 pushing against the back of his neck and heard the distinctive metallic sound of a bolt seating itself.
A soft-spoken man said, “Don’t move; we don’t want to be provoked. Please do as I say.”
“You can’t do this to me,” said Johnson. “I’m the sheriff in this here county. Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
At this point, Twoomey approached. “Put that weapon down, trooper. Sorry, Sheriff, my boys tend to take their jobs very seriously. I’m Albert Twoomey, Office of Security, Department of State.”
“What in the blue blazes do you boys think you are doing? What the hell are all these vehicles parked here in front of Tuchman’s?”
“The State Department got a message that one of its important staff members may have been murdered here and we were sent to investigate.”
“You mean that boy that was killed in the farmhouse fire?”
“Precisely. Two of my colleagues are inside speaking to Mr. Tuchman right now.”
As the trio walked down the stairs toward the refrigerated basement that served as Tuchman’s cold storage room prior to embalming and preparation for burial, Tuchman said, “Hope you two aren’t too squeamish, the remains ain’t very pretty.” Neither Smith nor Adams responded as they continued their descent.
In Room 2, Tuchman had already placed the black, charred remains of Winslow on a stainless steel gurney. There was little semblance of the human state in the mass of burned tissue and white bone that lay on that gurney.
The stench arising from the gurney, a combination of wet wood ashes, burnt tissue, and death, was overpowering, but was abated in the chill of the room. What remained of the head and skull graphically displayed the power of a .357 Magnum bullet. Most of the right frontal and temporal portions of the skull and face were gone. Eyeless sockets stared into space in anguish.
“Have you performed an autopsy or other examination?” said Smith.
“Don’t have to. Just looking at him you can tell that he died of a gunshot wound.”
“Mr. Tuchman, did you find anything in or around the body that looked out of the ordinary?”
“No, like I said, there weren’t no need to go poking around with such an obvious cause of death.”
“Mr. Tuchman, we need to transport this body to Washington as soon as possible. I have some men outside who can help you prepare the body. We also have a special casket designed for travel.”
Tuchman looked up at Smith and then at Adams at that request.
“I’m not sure I can release him tonight. We haven’t had a proper coroner’s inquest.”
“But you said the cause of death was obvious.”
“Don’t replace the inquest. We’ve got to have an inquest.”
“How long will that take?”
“Probably two or three days.”
“I’m afraid that we can’t wait, this body must be in Washington this evening without delay.”
“Sorry, this body will be kept here until the formal inquest, government or no government.” Tuchman folded his arms over his chest.
Just about this time, Johnson joined the three men in the cold room. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Tuchman?”
“Sheriff, these men seem to feel that they can take this corpse without a formal inquest. I just cannot allow such a thing.”
Smith identified himself as a State Department official to Johnson. “National security demands that we take immediate possession of the remains of Mr. Winslow. I’ve been instructed to transport these remains to Washington, D.C., without delay. I’m sure you can understand that, gentlemen.”