wasn’t what I’d asked. But there was no rescue possible if they went to the wrong building.
“We’re in the barn, One. The basement.”
“Ten-four.”
“Except George—he’s in the loft. He’s lookout.”
“Ten-four,” said Lamar, and as he spoke, I heard a siren over his mike. The troopers were beginning to arrive.
“We think most of the suspects are in the shed. The one on the other side of the barn from you.”
“The one with the metal roof?”
“That’s it. As far as I can tell. We haven’t seen any movement in the last few minutes.”
“Okay, Carl. I’ll be back up on the radio in about five minutes.”
“Ten-four, One. Glad to have you here.”
Sally called George. He was fine, and hadn’t seen any movement for several minutes. He thought he might be able to see fairly well to our front, as soon as he could finish up moving moldy hay bales away from the walls. He’d been unable to get even close to the front wall because they’d been stacked almost to the ceiling.
Sally and I both gave our full attention to peering out through the gaps in the boards and trying to see if there was anybody moving around the tin shed. Nothing.
“You ‘spose they left?” she asked.
“Might have,” I said. I didn’t think so, though. “I think there’s a better chance they’re just gettin’ reorganized.”
We waited. About ten minutes after he’d said he’d be back in five, Lamar called.
“Go ahead,” said Sally. She started to move closer to me, to hand over the mike again.
“You relay,” I said. “I think I see something moving.”
She just paused for a moment, and then said, “Go ahead for Three. He can hear you.”
“We got people on the road on the other side of the valley, and in the bottom, and up on the hill past the farm,” said Lamar. “More comin’ all the time.”
“Good,” I said. That meant that the area was being surrounded, to cut off the escape of just whoever was shooting at us. But as I looked, I was certain something was moving, to our left, behind a screen formed by an old woven wire fence and a bunch of scrub that had grown up entangled through it.
“Three advises ‘good,’ One,” said Sally.
“Tell him to stand by,” I said, and brought my rifle up to my shoulder.
“Stand by,” said Sally. I heard her move away to my right.
“Left,” I said. “Behind the old wire fence. Really down low…”
As I spoke, a figure rose up, threw something, and disappeared back into the scrub.
There was a loud thump, as though a heavy rock had struck the barn above our heads.
“He throw a rock? “asked Sally.
Then the “rock” exploded.
CHAPTER 03 TUESDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2001 18:11
JUST AS SOON AS LAMAR WAS ABLE TO round up enough deputies and reserves to secure the crime scene, Hester and I headed for Battenberg. We took the scenic route, because we had to go back the way we’d come to avoid driving through the area where the lab crew was working. Or, as Lamar put it succinctly, “Don’t go traipsin’ through the scene.”
The six miles to Battenberg, therefore, turned into fourteen. It gave me time to think, and I needed it. Our primary objective was an interview with our rural mail carrier, one Hank Granger. The tire track, which was being cast in plaster even as we drove, might allow us to ID the getaway car. The emphasis was on “might.” Regardless, it was one thing to identify a car, and another thing altogether to identify the people in it. I was counting on Granger for at least a number of occupants. Assuming that the car had caught his eye, of course.
Great.
Then we were going to have to talk with Norm, the Battenberg chief. He had my sympathy, but it would have been really nice if he’d gotten out soon enough to give us at least an idea of some of the cars that might have come into town from the north.
He might, though, have some ideas regarding suspects.
Battenberg, in the late 1980s, had been a town of about fifteen hundred people—pretty much minding its own business, and trying to go gracefully through the decline that was hitting most of the rural areas. Then they got lucky. A meatpacking plant in town had changed hands and really started taking off. The plant was bought by a Jewish family, who started producing kosher meat products and shipping them to the East Coast. It was an excellent move on their part. Not having to build a plant from the ground up, they were able to produce for less, transport for less since they did their own shipping, and maintain complete quality control over the entire operation. Smart. And when asked why they’d chosen Iowa, one of the corporate officers had replied, “There wasn’t a plant available over in Jersey.”
After the plant got refurbished and up and running full tilt, things began to change in Battenberg, and mostly for the best. And due to the no-union, low-wage situation at the plant, it had suddenly become one of the most culturally diverse communities in the United States. Originally, Hispanics came in as inexpensive labor. That was a first in our area, and suddenly Spanish could be heard in stores all over town. With the large number of rabbis required for the kosher end of things, Yiddish could also be heard just about everywhere. In fact, it was rumored that, per capita, Battenberg had a higher ratio of rabbis than any other U.S. city.
Within fifteen years, the population had more than doubled. With the fall of the Soviet Union, Russian Jews began to arrive, along with Georgians, Ukrainians, and several other Eastern European ethnic groups. As the word got out, Guatemalans, Colombians, and several other South and Central American countries were also represented. There were a few Israelis, to boot. At last count, in fact, there were eighteen languages spoken within the Battenberg city limits.
Adjustments were not easy, and for a while things got sort of strained. They’d begun shaking themselves out, but they still had a way to go. The first drive-by shooting had caused quite a stir, for instance. That was when we were first truly aware that many of the Hispanics were illegal aliens. When we’d gone around trying to interview witnesses, there was nobody there. They’d fled or gone into hiding because they were afraid they’d be deported. Even the plant had to shut down for a couple of days, until it became evident that the Immigration and Naturalization Services wasn’t going to be directly involved. Interviews went better as time passed, and the shooting turned out to be gang-related, involving some dope dispute. The perpetrator had been identified, arrested, tried, and sent to prison. All without ever saying why he’d done it.
We’d had a crash course in Spanish, but found that the Mexican Spanish we’d been exposed to (taught would be giving us too much credit) was unintelligible to the
