Back in the car, the consensus was that Carrie had, single-handedly, eliminated her father as a suspect. She was absolutely believable. You can tell, especially with kids. Well, within their knowledge, of course. But there was no doubt that both her parents had been present when that snowmobile came blasting through the yard. And, if that was our killer, and it sure looked like it could be, she'd eliminated her whole family as suspects.
As we stopped at the end of the lane, before entering the roadway, Art said, "Looks like what we got left is Fred."
Sure did. Great news, except that I didn't think he'd done it.
We discussed things.
What we had was a fairly good circumstantial case against Fred. Sure. At this point, however, we had absolutely no physical evidence placing him in close proximity to the two victims when they were shot. None.
We had no evidence of animosity between Fred and his cousins. Fine. Interviews were required there, and we'd get on them. They'd be lengthy, though, and we decided to use whatever other officers we could.
We had to find out if Fred had access to a.22 caliber weapon. True, several.22s had been stolen in the course of the residential burglaries, but we didn't know where the weapons were. That had to be checked.
We had to try to see if it was a.22 rifle or handgun. That would be a good start, and we'd have to rely on the expert opinion of Dr. Peters for that. As soon as he could open the heads, he might be able to give us some idea.
.22 caliber ammunition comes in three flavors: short, long, and long rifle. Short being the least powerful, long rifle the most. Problem: the longer the barrel of the weapon, the higher the velocity of the bullet. So, a short fired from a rifle could hit with the same force as a long or long rifle from a handgun.
It gets worse. Pistols come in two basic types: revolvers and semiautos. Because of the fit of the pieces, a lot more gas escapes from the gap between the cylinder and barrel of the revolver than escapes from the sealed chamber of the semiauto. Yep. That means that a long rifle fired from a revolver might hit with the same force as a long from an auto. Even worse, with the small bullet and small forces we were dealing with here, the differences might not even be pronounced.
Then there would be the spent shell casings. Revolvers don't throw their empty shells out the way auto pistols do. Rifles have to eject the preceding cartridge case in some way, regardless. Art was assuming a revolver. I was waiting to see what the lab team found in the bag of the Borglans' vacuum cleaner. It would all be moot, however, if we didn't find the murder weapon. Only then would we be able to try to test to see if the bullets or shell casings came from that particular weapon.
I hated the.22 for another reason. The size of things made it very difficult to do comparisons, and they were all what they call "rim fire" cartridges. No pin striking the center of the cartridge, here. That would be too easy, because center-firing are all a bit off center, and that can be an ID point. No, with a.22, you have a small rectangular notch struck in the edge of the shell rim. Hence "rim fire." They aren't nearly as individually distinctive.
That's why it was always so very nice to find the murder weapon at the scene.
"I sure wish we had something puttin' our man there," I said.
"We're doing all right," said Art.
"I'd feel a lot better if we could place him at the scene. You know," I said, "even if Fred confesses, we can't convict unless we have some evidence puttin' him at the house when they were shot."
"You," said Art, "are just depressing the shit out of me."
I laughed. I couldn't help it.
It was pretty close to 1500 by the time we got back to the office. Waiting for us there were the press. About four separate units, three of them television. With them I recognized Nancy Mitchell, formerly of the Des Moines Register, and now with the Cedar Rapids Gazette. She was close to forty, fit, and a good sort. She had the unusual virtue in the media of being accurate. I had first met her when she'd helped us out with a right-wing case a couple of years back. The same one where Lamar got shot, and Bud got killed. She lost her partner, as well, shot through the chest while standing in the yard of the barricaded suspects' residence. He'd been about to go in to do an interview they'd requested. She and he had drawn straws for the interview. He'd won.
Nancy half waved when she saw me. I waved back. Unfortunately, the reporter for KRNQ thought we were waving at her, and hustled over to us along with her camera person.
"Can you tell us what's going on with the triple murder?" she asked, in her best "on" voice, pushing her epiglottis as hard as she could. "How many were officers?"
I don't function at my best with a light in my eyes, a mike in my face, and no sleep. The best I was able to manage was "Huh?"
Art, on the other hand, excelled. While I started to duck inside, he began to speak blather about "investigative confidentiality," "reasonable progress," and things like that. He was good. As I moved away, he was beginning a statement for another camera unit.
"Three?" I said, mostly to myself. "Where in the hell did they get three?"
I headed for my office in the rear of the building. I opened my door, and was startled to find Iowa Assistant Attorney General Mark Davies seated at my desk. He'd been recognized, and was avoiding the fourth estate by hiding in my office.
"Hi, numbnuts," he said, standing as we entered. "What took you so long?"
Every cop that ever worked with him liked Davies. He was intelligent, aggressive, energetic, and had a great conviction record. What more could you ask?
"I didn't see an ambulance," I said. "You must be chasing the media today, for a change."
"No, they're chasing me," he said. "Art with you somewhere?"
"He's out there."
"Figures. I really think he wants to wear makeup someday. So," he said, " Nation County has another murder."
"Looks like," I said. "Double."
"Well, naturally. You guys don't do anything simple up here. I'm surprised there weren't little slimy space alien tracks around the scene."
"Obviously," I said, "you haven't seen the latest report…"
He chuckled, reaching past a little plate of pastry to a steaming cup of coffee. I made a mental note that our secretary was overimpressed by attorneys. "So, what we got here?"
"Depends on who you ask."
"Why don't we start with leads? You do have lots of leads?"
"Well," I said, thinking fast, "we have a possibility. Not much more right now."
He took a sip of coffee. "You mean to say that you've been out flying all over the county at state expense, and you only have a possibility?" He chuckled. "The director ain't gonna like that."
"What we have," I said, "is a fairly good circumstantial case. Unfortunately, it's against somebody I don't believe did it."
Davies sat back, and put his penny-loafered feet on my desk. "Hey, I do circumstantial. When I have to. Tell me more."
I did. Art came in about halfway through the briefing, and between the two of us, we gave Davies an accurate picture of the case to date. Just as we were through, Davies put his finger right on the thing that had been making me uneasy most of the day. I knew it as soon as he said it.
"You ever think," he said, chewing part of a doughnut, "that there might have been a snowmobile at the Borglan place the killer could have used to make his getaway? Borglan's got bucks. He could own a snowmobile or two."
Well, hell. Wouldn't have to drive in, just drive out. Placing Fred right back on the front burner.
"That way," he continued, "all you have to do is make a stolen snowmobile case, and leave the rest to me." He grinned. "Piece of cake."
If Cletus Borglan had been a bit friendlier, I would have called him right away, and simply asked. As it was, I went hustling out to dispatch, and asked Sally to run all snowmobiles registered to Clete. Zip. Nothing.