"That's Borglan," I said. "The Borglan residence." He just blinked. I shook my head. He'd just had to use "fucking," to show he was one of the guys.
"Yeah, I know," I said. "I hate the 'gut feeling' bullshit as much as you do, but I just don't think that Fred did 'em. It doesn't make any sense to do all the covering up, and then sit outside the farm and honk your horn. Whoever killed them cleaned up the evidence really well, and did it so that the hired man, or anybody else watching the place, wouldn't pickup on the crime. Right?"
"Possibly," said Art.
"Possibly" my ass. "So, why then sit on the road and draw attention to yourself, on the off chance that a cop might come along? I just don't think so."
"Well, with the bodies salted away in the shed, the only person who might stumble on them was the hired man, right?" Lamar was off on his own track.
We all agreed.
"Let's not rule him out," said Lamar. "He might have been at the place when the two guys showed up. He might have done it."
"That could be," said Art, "but what motive would he have, really? He could just watch them, and call the cops when they left."
"Maybe he knows Fred?" said Lamar. "Let's get this checked out, too."
"Sure," I said. "Will do."
"Murder makes the mind do strange things," interjected our prosecutor. He just does that sometimes. Tosses in whatever is in his head. He does it in court, too. Leaving an occasional flabbergasted judge in his wake.
"So, what's with the bodies in the machine shed?" asked Art. "Why there? Just for argument's sake."
"Not enough room in the refrigerator?" I just stuck that in. Well, I was tired, and I thought it was funny. Apparently, I was a little more tired than everybody else.
"The ground is frozen solid," said Lamar, quickly. "Can't dig anywhere, so you store the bodies. Just like they do at all the cemeteries this time of year. Either that or heat the ground. Mostly, though, just come back later, haul 'em away, and dig a hole someplace." Lamar looked around the table. "Nothin' in the machine shed the hired man would need."
That, of course, implied that the Borglans' itinerary was pretty well known to the suspect. I said as much. This led to a brief discussion as to how many people knew where the Borglans were. Many, as it turned out. But it brought the hired man right back into the limelight.
What I couldn't understand was why Fred would salt the bodies away, clean the house, and otherwise erase any sign of his presence, and then come to the cops. It just didn't make any sense. I said as much.
"It would have if he'd changed his mind," said Art. "Guilt working on him, especially after he contacts his aunt, to make his alibi, and sees how worried she really is."
"Hell," I said, "if he was feeling guilty, he'd just confess and get it over with."
"Look," said Lamar. "So far, I think Carl's on the right track, here. We have no evidence linking Fred to the scene, and no motive for him to kill them." He looked at Art. "I know we don't need to prove motive, but it sure as shit would help to have one." He looked at me. "For anybody."
"Do we have any idea yet," asked Art, "where they were selling the stolen guns? That might get us somebody who knows more about the three of 'em. More background."
Actually, no, we didn't. This was shaping up into a long investigation, any way you cut it.
Then the county's finest prosecutor came up with the most telling point against Fred, and one that I had been missing. "I get the impression that we're all assuming that Fred planned this out in advance. Maybe not. Maybe he was there, and they just got into an argument. Maybe it was spur of the moment. Or, just maybe, Carl, it went down like the Whiting case."
About ten years ago, a man named Whiting got into an argument with a drinking buddy at a remote river cabin. Killed him. In the presence of another drinking buddy. He'd convinced the survivor to help him dispose of the body and the evidence. The guy had done so, apparently frightened and glad to be alive. He also had no place to run. Or to call for help. Then Whiting killed the second man.
"Could be," I said, "but don't forget that Whiting was a really dominant sort of guy. Fred isn't. And Whiting was really a cold man. Fred isn't that, either."
"Oh, I don't know," said Art. "Standing there with a gun…"
"And," said Lamar, "we only have Fred's word that he dropped them off. He could have gone in with them just as easily."
"Well, anyway, you people hash this out," said the prosecutor, standing up. "I'm afraid I'm asking the Attorney General for an assist on this one, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to remove myself from the case, anyway."
"You're what?" asked Lamar.
"I do Borglan's taxes, there's a possible conflict here." He raised both hands to shoulder level, palm up. "I'm sorry. But I do think you should interview Fred."
"His attorney will never permit it," I said. "Even if he's innocent."
"Christ. It's not Priller, is it?"
"It's Priller," said Lamar.
Priller was a well-known obstructionist. A pompous, irritating, aggravating little twerp. But somehow he managed to be likable at the same time, because he never took it to a personal level.
Mike grinned and shook his head. "Well, gentlemen, I wish you all the best of luck."
This was a bit of a blow, as the county attorney would normally be available for the quick questions during an investigation, while the assigned prosecutor from the Attorney General's office would do the long-term prosecutor's stuff.
"Are you going to appoint a special prosecutor at the county level?" I asked.
He stopped for a second, on his way to the door. "Boy, Carl," he said. "I don't know that the county board of supervisors is going to approve that… it could be pretty expensive, and with a state prosecutor assigned… But, I'll ask."
Expenses. It always came down to that.
It was only a few seconds after he left that our secretary stuck her head in the door and motioned to me.
"Manchester PD called, and said to say that Dr. Peters was on the way here, and that everybody should stay put."
"Really?" I relayed the information back to the table. It was just a bit unusual. I hadn't expected Dr. Peters to come back up today.
At 0945 we, as they say, reconvened. Being an opportunist, I grabbed another doughnut.
Dr. Peters had brought a portable light-board device, to backlight X rays. We didn't have one. Who does, except hospitals?
We watched, paying very close attention, as Dr. Peters described the film.
"Subject number one," he said. "This is… Royce Colson… the fellow we looked at first at the scene. The one who was on his back. Bullet wound in his right temple…"
The X ray showed the hole, cracks in the skull, a little trail of debris through the brain toward the left side, and a fragmenting of bone on the left side.
"Through and through," said Dr. Peters. "Entered just behind the eye, into the sphenoid, right above the zygomatic arch. Transverses the brain, and exits via the lower edge, just about precisely at the squamous suture. Caused a stellate, circumferential fracture of the skull, as it did." He traced the points with his hand as he talked. Good thing.
The bullet had gone in right behind the eye, kept pretty level, and come out the other side a little farther aft, cracking the skull completely around its circumference. The stellate or star-shaped portion was a crack running up the side of the skull from the entrance, and stopping near the top of the head.