The Big Thaw by Donald Harstad

“Ain’t it something. The way that cold air makes your bladder act up?”
     
     
    Lamar passed the time sweeping the area with his electronically controlled, state-of-the-art spotlight, mounted well forward on the right fender of the “Awesome Machine.” The whole farmstead was in a wide valley, with a small stream running along the far side. I had to really look, but then I saw the track. Or, more precisely, tracks. There must have been a dozen separate tracks, some leading clear down the valley, some rising up a hill and disappearing.
    “They look like old snowmobile tracks,” I said. “I didn’t see ’em before. Must have been the lighting.”
    “Must have,” said Lamar, sarcastically, sipping his coffee. “We know how you never miss a thing.” He grinned.
    He was referring to an incident where I had left my raincoat at a crime scene, and it had later been found and taken in as evidence by the FBI. Art snickered.
    My first thought was that the suspect or suspects had gotten away on snowmobiles. Fred had brought his cousins to the farm in a car. Couldn’t have been Fred. Unless, of course, Fred had lied about their coming in a car. But the snowmobile track from the rear of the house sure looked like a possibility for a fleeing suspect.
    “That could be our suspect,” I said. I’d assumed everybody had been thinking along those lines.
    “Then,” asked Art, “how do we explain the others?”
    “Hired man,” said Lamar. “He checks the place once in a while, while they’re gone. He lives next place down the valley. I know he has a snowmobile.”
    “I see,” said Art, lowering the binoculars. “We may want to talk with him.”
    “Already had ’em contact his wife,” said Lamar. “Before I left the office. She said he’s gone, picking the owner, Cletus Borglan, up at the Cedar Rapids Airport. Left about three hours ago. He’ll call the office as soon as he gets back.” He took another sip of his coffee. “I told the office to let us know when he calls. Didn’t know if we wanted him here, or if you would want to talk to him at his place.”
    Lamar has been around the block.
    The M.E. came driving up. Very nice black four-wheel-drive Bronco. Driven by Dr. Steven Peters, my favorite pathologist, and the one I’d hoped we were going to get. He had a forensic ticket, one of very few in the state, and he had a tremendous knowledge of his subject. He was also delightful to work with, and tended to bring his own supply of snack food. I can’t begin to tell you how comforting it is to know that your autopsies have been done by a solid M.E., and that regardless what else happens, you always have the firm foundation of the M.E. report to fall back on.
    We all got out of Lamar’s pickup, as Dr. Peters pulled up. As he got out, he said, “I hope this is in the house! My God, it’s cold!”
    He knew us all from past cases. Lamar broke the bad news about the bodies being in the machine shed. After a brief consultation, we decided to drive Lamar’s pickup and Dr. Peters’s Bronco down the slope, and park them right at the edge of the shed. We could use them to warm up in, and to avoid having to walk back and forth for various items of equipment. And, as Dr. Peters said, to keep the doughnuts soft.
    We chose a course that would avoid all the visible tracks, and down we went.
    Just as we stopped, Lamar picked up his mike and said, “Comm, log the time. 0207.”
    “Ten-four, One.”
    “Nine, One?” as Lamar called Deputy Willis.
    “One, go…”
    “Nine, you want to stay put. Nobody gets in without a badge.”
     
     
    Once we got to the shed, all the lightness left us, and the somber business of investigating two dead bodies began. Everybody had their heaviest coats on by then, and mufflers or scarves wrapped over their mouth and nose. I couldn’t help noticing that Art was rather underdressed for the occasion, with a topcoat instead of a parka.
    Lamar and I were able to open the door another