"Don't puke on me, buddy," said Gary, consolingly.
Beneath his dark blue parka, we found another.40 cal. Glock. No knife. No bulletproof vest. I felt the Glock was plenty.
When we got him inside, we sat him down at the kitchen table. I didn't want him to be in contact with the other prisoner, who I assumed was an associate of his. He stopped gasping, and was merely breathing hard. He had a desperate air about him, not threatening, but sort of actively unhappy.
"So," I said, in a friendly tone, "who are you?"
No reply.
"Name?"
Silence, except for the heavy breathing.
I was getting a little tired of this approach. "Strip him," I said to Gary. "I'm getting sick of this shit tonight."
"James Hernandez," he said. He shook his head, and shrugged in a resigned way. "Special Agent James Hernandez, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My ID is in my back pocket."
"No shit? The real FBI?" said Gary.
I glanced at Gary. He'd missed the wallet. He shrugged.
We let Hernandez very slowly reach back, and produce his ID wallet. He opened it, and showed it to me. I reached out and took it, although he resisted for an instant. It looked real enough, just like the last one I'd seen a few minutes ago. I laid it on the table, while I wrote down the information. "It won't leave your sight," I said.
Sally stuck her head in the room. "Carl, George for you…" She had a huge grin.
"Right." I followed her back to dispatch.
"This is just so cool," she said, bubbling over. "I got the whole thing on tape, him falling, you guys pointing your guns at him, the whole thing…"
Dispatchers hardly ever get to see what happens as a result of their efforts. This was quite a treat. Not only for her.
"I'd like to see that sometime." Cops don't get to watch, very often, either. "We'll have to bootleg a couple of copies…"
I picked up the phone. "George?"
"Carl, I'm afraid that Norman John Brandenburg is a real agent." He sounded very worried.
"No kidding?"
"No kidding. I hate to complicate your life like this, but he really is one of us."
"George," I said, "you ain't heard the half of it. We just bagged a fellow named…" I looked at my note. "James Marteen Hernandez. Out trespassing behind the jail."
"Oh, no…"
"Yep. You guessed it. His ID says he's one of your special agents, too.
"Oh, no," he said, again. "You're right, that's who he is. He's assigned along with Brandenburg… I was supposed to contact him as soon as I could find him…"
"I know where you can reach him," I said, smiling.
"Look, Carl, I'll get back to you, but expect me there within an hour or so. I'll be coming up on this one. But keep it as quiet as you can."
"I'll try," I said, "but you really ought to talk with your agents about that."
"Yes. I'm sure somebody will do just that."
"Oh, George…"
"Yes?"
"Is there, like, a limit on agents? Or can we bag as many as we want?" I just couldn't help it.
As soon as the connection was broken, I turned to Sally.
"Where's Lamar?"
"Over with the wrecker, getting the snowmobile."
"Better tell him to get here just as soon as he can…" I grinned. "Nothing about FBI agents over the radio. George wants it kept quiet." I laughed.
"Can we do this?" she asked. "I mean, they're really FBI…"
"We can even savor it," I said. "They're going to be the butt of every Bureau joke for the next six months."
We moved Brandenburg to the kitchen with Hernandez, and got them some coffee. I explained where we were coming from.
"So, like, we have valid charges on both of you. I expect the charges to be dropped. So do you. But I can't release you without a bond being posted, until I hear further. Regulations, you know?"
They didn't say anything.
"Now, I don't know what the hell you were doing out there," I said, evenly, "but I don't like people screwing around in my county, no matter who they are. Care to explain this?"
They didn't answer. That was all right, I didn't expect them to.
"I don't know if you're aware of it, but we had a double murder in that area…" I stopped. Right there. The level of tension in the room went up an order of magnitude. "I don't believe it," I said, to nobody in particular.
"What?" asked Gary.
"Never mind just yet." I went to the door between dispatch and the kitchen. "Sally! How soon can Lamar get in here?"
Lamar got to the office about ten minutes later. I ran the whole thing by him, kind of fast.
"You think I should call Art?" Art was going home every night, some seventy-five miles or better. Saved the state a few dollars in motel accommodations. He was like that.
"No," said Lamar. "Not until we talk with George."
We drank coffee in near total silence, thinking, until George arrived. When Sally buzzed the electric lock on the door to let him in, neither Lamar nor I got up. George came through the door, looking frazzled, harried, and very worried.
He should have.
"Ho, boy," he said. "This is a fine mess, isn't it?"
"It just might be," said Lamar.
"What have you got on them?" George got out his little notebook. I explained the possible charges, and he wrote them down. "Right… right." He snapped the book shut. "I'll talk to them, and then to you, if that's all right?"
"Sure," said Lamar. "In private?"
"If possible," said George.
"You can use the booking room…" said Lamar. I grinned. Everything in the booking room was taped.
Not three minutes after we heard the muted, angry voice of George talking to his two fellow agents, George came back to our room. He looked thoroughly angry.
"They were told," he said, "that their supervisor is not happy."
"And who," I asked, "would that be?"
He sighed. "Carl, I'm not allowed to say." He looked at us beseechingly. "You understand?"
"Maybe," said Lamar. "We just have to know what they were doing when we found them."
"I'm not allowed to tell you that…"
"Well," said Lamar, "since they might be implicated in a murder or two, you might want to get permission to reconsider that."
George stood there, open-mouthed.
"Let me tell you…" I said.
I did. All about the Colson brothers. The circumstances of their death. The fact that they'd been killed in the commission of a burglary, and that it was very possible that they had stumbled upon somebody in the house. Somebody who was very efficient. Somebody who might have killed them in order to cover their presence. I went a step further. I told him the secondhand information I had about their impersonating cops once, when they were caught.
"We're trying to confirm that," I said. "But if they did tend to do that, they could have identified themselves as cops to somebody who thought that was a great reason to do 'em." I waited a second. "So, it was either your guys, or somebody who thought they had been caught by your guys."
George looked stunned. I think mostly because I was even suggesting such a thing.
"I don't know if you have ever felt this way," I said to George, changing tack, "but I occasionally get the feeling I'm being watched. Ever have that?"
"Sure. You're supposed to pay attention to it."
"Yep." I paused. "When I was at the murder scene, I could have sworn I was being watched. Several times."
Nothing.
"When Special Agent Brandenburg of your Snowmobile Division ended up in the ditch," I said, "he was coming from the direction of the Borglan place, where the bodies were found. He was on a machine so silent it could hardly be heard. He was equipped with night vision equipment. He was running blacked out…"