"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.
"Huh. That really sucks."
"Well, it surprises me all to hell," she said, "since he was the president of the Maitland Valley Snowmobile Club three or four years ago."
"He was?" I'm usually a bit snappier than that, but I was really beginning to feel tired.
"Same time my sister and her husband were in it," she said. "Why don't you check with the treasurer's office? They maintain their registration records for five years."
I explained to her that I didn't want to make a big deal of it by doing it myself. But that I, Nation County, and the State of Iowa would really appreciate it if she would just make one little phone call.
"I suppose the three of you are gonna give me a raise, too?"
"Sally, you've become so cynical the last few years. What would your mother think?"
She sighed. "I'll call you when your work's done," she said, picking up the phone.
I did the polite thing, and hung around. It only took her a few seconds. She wrote furiously, then said, "Beats me. They could." She hung the phone up, and smiled.
"Three sleds in Clete's name, one in his wife's. Last registered two years ago. Then stopped."
"He sold them?"
"No records of sale or transfer. He just stopped registering."
Well, that'd be in keeping with some of the books in his library. Several people protesting taxes and the like would stop registering their cars, getting driver's licenses, and things like that.
Sally was typing letters and numbers into her teletype.
"What are you running?"
"If I get the numbers, I can pull 'em out for several years back.
"Mildred," Sally referred to our county treasurer, "wanted to know if you guys thought the killers escaped on snowmobiles." She sat back smiling, as the printer began to whisper several sheets out.
You can't get away with a damned thing.
"Just a hunch," I said, ignoring the question, "but would you run all vehicles registered to Clete?"
"Shouldn't we include his wife, Inez, in this, too?"
I thought for a second. "Of course." You really shouldn't let dispatchers get ahead of you that way. Two or three hundred times, they begin to get ideas.
"Good," she said, radiating perky. She handed me the papers. "That's what you got there, along with the snowmobile stuff." She grinned. "Now run along and eat your doughnut."
Sally has always been efficient like that. Sometimes it's a game we play, and sometimes she really catches me about a step behind her. She's usually magnanimous enough to make it seem like a game.
On the way back to my office, I ran over the lists in my hands. Interesting. Four snowmobiles. Two four-wheelers. All six of them had once been registered, which meant that Cletus had, at one time, run them on public right of way. Two Chevy pickups, a Bronco, an Oldsmobile. The off-road stuff had ceased registration two years ago. The trucks and car, though, were current. The snowmobiles and the four-wheelers were registered to Freeman Liberty Enterprises, Inc. Only the oldest pickup was in Clete's name. The new pickup and the Bronco were also registered to Freeman Liberty Enterprises, Inc. The Olds belonged to his wife.
I shared that data with Art and Davies.
"How did you find out about this Freeman Liberty Enterprises, or whatever?"
"Same SSN on the corporate registration as is on Mrs. Borglan's driver's license," I said. "When Sally ran the DL numbers, everything with that SSN came back."
"Probably has his wife as treasurer of the corporation," said Davies, absently. "I'm not sure I like the name of this corporation, though. More right-wing shit?"
"Could be. There was some indication in the house, but not as strong as some we've seen." I was just being honest.
Davies thought for a second. "So, what does this tell us?"
"Well, he has right-wing leanings, maybe," I said. "And it tells me that it's possible that he gave his snowmobiles to his hired man." I just hate the "right-wing" label, because it's come to mean irrational in some circles. Sometimes it's right. Sometimes not. But to jump at that tends to skew your thinking.
Art looked at me, one eyebrow raised.
"There were snowmobiles in Grossman's machine shed. They didn't have registration stickers." I grinned. "Didn't have those little orange flags, either, in fact."
"Point for my man Houseman," said Davies.
"Since we have the VINs for the equipment, why not just go out to the hired man's place and check the numbers?"
A VIN is the vehicle identification number put on all motor vehicles by their manufacturers. In more than one place. They do that so a thief has a hard time selling them. Well, has a hard time selling them to somebody who cares, at any rate.
"Fine with me," I said.
"Good!" Davies stood up, and reached behind him for his coat. "Take me along. I'd like to meet him, and then we can swing by to meet Mr. Borglan and let me see the scene." He put an arm over his head, pulling on a coat sleeve. "If we're really lucky, maybe we can get to meet Mr. Borglan's attorney."
Art was reaching for his coat.
"Why don't you stay here?" said Davies. "Carl and I can just run out there. We wouldn't want old Clete to think he's too important. After all, he didn't die, two other guys did."