TWENTY-THREE

Necessity can sometimes be the mother of indigestion. It was necessary to change plans. Instead of the culinary delights of the Flying Falcon Food Factory, lunch consisted of a bag of concentrated fat and cholesterol shoved through the car window at Hardee’s. It was consumed without interest or enjoyment back at the office where Knutson and Peterson read the fax from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Within minutes they were on their way to make an arrest in the murder of John Hofstead.

The day seemed too bright and cheery for an arrest, the probable outcome of which would be the eventual sentencing of an individual to spend the rest of his life in the state prison near Stillwater. The sun sparkled off the snow in dazzling whiteness, giving Peterson the opportunity to wear his prized California Highway Patrol sunglasses, which were virtually identical to the LAPD sunglasses that he favored in the summer. The California Highway Patrol, however, rarely used them to ward off snow blindness. The only real color in the landscape came from an occasional red barn; otherwise, squinted eyes were required to distinguish between the light blue of the sky, the light blue of clear ice on the lake, and snow covering the gray branches of the leafless trees. It was only about twelve degrees above zero, but there was no wind. In other words, were it not for the purpose of the visit, it would have been a perfect day to visit the Otter Slide.

Orly was delighted that the BCA report seemed to have removed all doubt as to the murderer. He had possessed a few uneasy suspicions about some people he had grown to like. At least here was a person who wasn’t quite “one of us.” “I told you, didn’t I, that he was the murderer. Only a murderer would not offer someone coffee on a cold winter morning.”

Palmer, although recognizing that Orly was not serious, failed to find either humor or satisfaction in the situation. Instead, he inhaled in a kind of curious gasp and affirmed, “Yes, I guess you did.”

“What’s the matter, aren’t you satisfied? Not only have you solved one murder, but it appears that you have solved two. That ought to appeal to the voters of Otter Tail County. And best of all, the evidence is overwhelming and it’s somebody hardly anybody knows. What more could you want?”

Palmer took off his fur hat and laid it on the dashboard so he could scratch his head. “I suppose you’re right, but the guy just didn’t seem like a killer.”

“You, of all people, can start talking like that? Remember the Gherkin murder?”

“I know, but you just get a feeling sometimes, and it seems almost illogical when it is so totally wrong. Then, too, I suppose the whole thing is a little anti-climatic because it wasn’t really anything we did, it was just a fluke match from a computer.”

“What do you mean, ‘nothing we did’? If it wasn’t for you, Hofstead’s death would have been treated as an accident and a double murderer would be free to kill again. Besides, who got the data to put into the computer?”

Palmer grinned. “Yah! You bet! You’re right. We did do good, didn’t we! Thanks, Orly.” But it was an artificial enthusiasm, and Palmer asked, “So, do you want to make the arrest?”

“Nope, that’s all yours. But I will read him his Miranda rights if you like.”

The sheriff agreed, and in silence they headed out of Vergas, by the quiet and innocent loon, and continued on to the Otter Slide. As they entered the resort, David Hoffman looked up at them as if he had been expecting them. He showed little surprise or emotion as Knutson informed him that he was under arrest on suspicion of first-degree murder. If anything, he looked relieved and barely listened to Peterson’s caution that he had the right to remain silent and to consult an attorney. In fact, as soon as the deputy finished the Miranda, Hoffman said, “Yes, of course. May I tell my wife? And, oh yes, may I gather a few personal items to take with me? I assume bail for such a charge is practically out of the question.”

Nonplused by his calmness, Knutson said, “Of course we will let you say goodbye to your wife. However, we prefer that you ask her to gather any personal items that you may require. And although I do not doubt your intention to cooperate, I’m afraid that I will have to ask my deputy to use prudent restraints. Orly, your cuffs?”

Hoffman meekly held out his hands to accept the cold steel bands. Orly snapped them in place as Knutson went over to the door that communicated with the Hoffman’s private residence, knocked, and called, “Mrs. Hoffman? May we see you for a few minutes?”

Sharon Hoffman entered, looking stern and in control. Her hair was tightly pulled back and she showed no sign of makeup. As she looked from the cuffs on her husband’s hands, up to his face, and over to meet the eyes of the two officers, her expression did not change. At last she said, “Would you care to tell me what this is all about?”

Knutson matched her stony expression and said, “I have just placed your husband under arrest for the murder of John Hofstead.”

“John Hofstead?” David Hoffman cried, and then fell silent. He looked up at his wife with a confused and pathetic expression.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hoffman. If you could just gather a few things for him—toothbrush and other personal items that he may need—we will be on our way.”

Orly had been expecting a scene. Instead, he had to suffer a long and bitter stare, and a curt, “Certainly. I’ll be right back.” Within moments she had placed a small overnight bag in Peterson’s hand, mumbled some reassuring words to her husband about the best possible representation, and gave him a rather fierce kiss on the mouth. David Hoffman looked back in a state of total bewilderment. She abruptly left the room, to return in five seconds with her husband’s parka. Orly took it and held it out to Hoffman, then gazed at the handcuffs in momentary confusion.

“For heaven’s sake!” Palmer snapped. “Take off the cuffs so he can get his coat on.”

On their return to Fergus Falls, Hoffman was confined to the Otter Tail County jail. After the necessary paperwork and legal procedures were followed, Knutson was on his way back to his office when he was accosted by Nils Anderson, of the firm of Anderson, Anderson, and Balik. “I understand you have arrested one of my clients. I’d like to talk to him, if I may?”

“Now, who would that be?”

“David Hoffman.”

“Since when?”

“Since about five minutes after you arrested him, apparently. His wife called and insisted that I represent him. To be perfectly frank, I don’t even remember meeting the man, but his wife says that I did some kind of legal work for them in connection with a deed a few years ago. I told her that I’d never handled a murder case before, but she insisted I get down here and represent her husband. Can I see him for a few minutes?”

“Yah, I guess so. I’ll take you in and, well, I guess I’ll reintroduce you. Follow me.”

Knutson arranged a secure room for the lawyer and his client. After a surprisingly short time, the lawyer emerged and said, “Sheriff, my client says he would like to talk to you. I’ve advised him that he should not speak until I have had a chance to study his case, but he is adamant that he should see you.”

“Very well, although I would also like another officer present, and I would like to tape the conversation. Is that acceptable?”

“In fact, I told him that you would no doubt want to do that. Again, against my recommendations, he wants to go on record at this time.”

Palmer shrugged and said, “It’s fine with me. Give me a few minutes to get the recording equipment ready and let me find my deputy. Meanwhile, why don’t you get back to your client? I suspect that we are about to hear a confession of murder.”

The sheriff found Orly just as he was putting on his coat. “Going somewhere?”

The deputy, who had been thinking about sneaking out a little early so he could drive up to Moorhead and visit his girlfriend Allysha, hesitated. “Er, well, this seems to be sort of wrapped up and I thought maybe, well, I’ve got a couple of things to do yet today and so I thought I’d, you know, get started on them.”

“Yah, sure. Well, never mind. Hoffman’s already got a lawyer and it seems he’s ready to spill it all. I thought you’d want to be there.”

Under most circumstances, Orly would rather have been with Allysha, but this was different. “Yes, I do. Let’s go.”

Orly followed the sheriff to a small, windowless room. In the center of the room was a small, rectangular table with four chairs. Orly and Palmer sat on one side of the table facing Nils Anderson and his client. No one spoke as Knutson methodically plugged in the small tape recorder and tested it. Satisfied, Knutson spoke into the microphone.

“The date is February third, 2006. The place is an interview room in the Otter Tail County Law Enforcement Center, Fergus Falls, Minnesota. The suspect is David Hoffman, known previously as David Hart. He is represented at this interview by his counsel, Nils Anderson. Also present is Orly Peterson, Deputy Sheriff of Otter Tail County, and me, Palmer Knutson, Sheriff of Otter Tail County. The suspect has been apprised of his rights, has given us permission to record this interview, and is cooperating under his own will.”

Orly looked over at David Hart, a.k.a. David Hoffman. Although he had been, at one time, the subject of one of the largest FBI manhunts in American history, he looked even smaller than he had back at the Otter Slide. He had not yet been made to put on his orange prison jumpsuit, and still wore his off-brand denim jeans and a rather new plaid flannel shirt. As Orly looked down, he half expected to see bear slippers on his feet. This was the guy that J. Edgar Hoover had once claimed was more dangerous than Dillinger?

“State your full name, please,” said the sheriff mechanically.

“My real name is David Glen Hart. I was born April 2, 1947, in Galesburg, Illinois. For the last thirty-four years I have been living under the name of David Hoffman.”

“Mr. Hart, will you tell us the circumstances that led you to change your name?”

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear somebody call me by my real name again. In some ways, that has been the hardest thing over this last quarter century—to completely cut myself off from all that I had lived before. I cried when I learned that my father had died, not only because he died not knowing where I was, but also because I was not there to comfort my mother. I don’t know what happened to my sisters. They are probably married with children. If so, those kids have a fugitive uncle they have never seen and I would guess my sisters would be too ashamed to tell them about me. But most of all, it’s the little things—you know, to read about somebody else named Hart in the paper and think, ‘I used to be a Hart.’ There were many times when I would have given myself up had it not been for my wife’s ability to give me courage. She has always been there for me.”

Hart paused, and smiled as he examined a corner of the ceiling, apparently reflecting on the devotion of his wife. Knutson did not hurry him, and after a while, he continued. “You see, I was always kind of a loner, an unpopular kid in high school. I was a good enough student, but I never, well, nobody ever cared about that. When I got to college, it was the same thing. I’d do well in class, but none of my professors ever remembered who I was. Like everybody else, I let my hair grow long and grew a full beard, rather scraggly, I guess. I’ve relived those days often, over the last few years, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I got into radical politics more to belong to something than because I passionately believed in it. I mean, sure, we all believed in civil rights and the protection of the underprivileged. I still do. And incidentally, Sheriff, I’ve read about your wife’s political activities and I admire her greatly. Please tell her that. But looking back, just remember the times! The United States had no business being in Vietnam, it was immoral and wrong. The draft policies were racist and the military-industrial machine cranked out obscene profits on the bones of innocent people on both sides. I still believe that. But like I said, in Iowa City in 1970, everybody believed it, but not everybody blew up buildings and killed a librarian. In fact, I had no intention of doing things like that when I first got involved in our group. We didn’t even have a name, you know, like ‘The Weathermen’ in Wisconsin—and although the press called us a ‘Weathermen faction’ we didn’t communicate with anyone else as far as I know. Anyway, when I got involved I just felt accepted like I had never been before. Accepted for who I was. But most of all, I suppose I kept it up because of Sharon. No girl had ever really paid any attention to me before, and Sharon, she was nice to me from the start.

“Well, I’m not going to bore you with that, but it really is part of the story. You see, everyone said what we needed to do was to create an event—not a simple sign-carrying march or a brick through the window of Iowa Book and Stationery (or Iowa Book and Crook, as we called it), but a real big ‘Take that, Nixon!’ event. Somebody came up with the idea that we could paralyze the university if we took out the library. Now, there were a lot of intellectuals in our movement, and the idea of destroying books was more than many of us could take. So somebody else suggested that we just render it temporarily unusable. This one guy was a graduate student in chemistry, and he said he could make a smoke-and-stink bomb that would spread throughout the building, would not destroy the books, but would leave it unusable for a month. It would be a nice, nonviolent protest. There were a few who thought it was a wimp-out—they still wanted a real bomb—but the rest of us thought it was a great plan.

“At this point in our relationship, I thought Sharon was starting to lose interest in me and when talk got started as to who would place the bomb, I got sort of carried away and volunteered. That night, the group met me near the library and handed me this cheap, locked, plastic briefcase. I walked in, put it where they had told me to, and ran out. I’d never been so scared in my life. I panicked and ran, and as I looked back over my shoulder I suddenly crashed into a man and we both fell down in a heap. Suddenly we both heard this tremendous explosion. I was totally confused. ‘Surely,’ I thought, ‘all that noise cannot have come from a smoke bomb.’ I looked back and saw flames and I heard people scream and I knew that I had been played for a sucker. I had never, ever, ever meant to hurt anybody. That moment is still frozen in time for me, because I looked into this man’s eyes and he looked into mine and I just felt that he had somehow sensed my desperation. I could never forget those eyes, because they seemed accusatory and compassionate at the same time. More than likely they were just the look of a surprised man who has been run into. In any event, I never saw those eyes again until last Friday night, when John Hofstead walked into our resort.

“Well, after I ran away from the library, I went back to my apartment, and Sharon was already there. She helped me throw a few things into my attaché case.” Hart smiled, “I know, you’re thinking, ‘a hippy with an attaché case?’ Yeah, I got it from my folks when I went off to college. It even had a nice set of initials on either side of the handle—‘D. H.’ Sharon, meanwhile, had gone out and got a car. She ‘arranged’ to steal it. That is, a friend gave us the car and told us to go anywhere we wanted to and leave it near a police station and he would report it stolen after three days. We got in and drove and drove and drove until we got to New Mexico. We were so tired we finally checked into a motel. The desk clerk asked us our name, looking down at my fancy attaché case with my initials on it. I suppose no one has ever praised me for my quick wit, and The Graduate had come out not too long before and that was hot stuff. I told them my name was David Hoffman and even grinned and said, ‘No relation to Dustin.’ ”

The confessed murderer took a deep breath and made a winsome smile. “So that started it, our life on the run. The next day we bought a newspaper and there was a big story on the bombing and on the tragic death of that woman. I felt horrible—I wanted to give myself up there and then. But Sharon, well, Sharon said that no one would believe that I didn’t do it on purpose and that I wasn’t really a murderer after all. I believed her because I wanted to believe her, I guess.

“I shaved my beard and cut my hair and got a pair of black plastic glasses to replace my wire rims. We stopped at a used clothing store and got some gabardine slacks and a few shirts and ties. Sharon got a few dresses. Actually, it was sort of a hoot at the time. We played like we were young Republicans and called each other David Eisenhower and Julie Nixon. We stayed down there, avoiding anything like a countercultureal environment, and eventually we got jobs, put money in the bank, and saved enough money to come here and build the Otter Slide. In fact we are both quite proud of what we have done with the place.

“But that was David Hoffman. I know, no matter how many times I have tried to forget it, that David Hart killed a person. If I don’t remember it, my dreams do. When I saw Mr. Hofstead, I knew that he recognized me. I knew it would be only a matter of time before he told somebody about it. I suppose he told his wife before he died.”

At this point, Knutson broke into the long narrative with a simple, “So that’s why you killed him?”

“Killed Hofstead?” Hart squinted and looked confused. “He died in an accident!”

The deputy stood up violently, and leaned over to glare into Hart’s eyes. “I know that’s how you tried to make it look, but give it up! There was no way that the snowmobile could have traveled from the statue to the lake after Hofstead fell off of it without somebody else driving it there. Your fingerprints are all over the sled and all over the helmet that Hofstead was wearing. We assume that you whacked Hofstead on the head, dumped him out by the loon, and left him to freeze to death. We will be searching the Otter Slide for a murder weapon, and I’m sure we’ll find it. You’ve already confessed to causing the death of a poor woman in Iowa City—why don’t you save us all time and confess to killing Hofstead as well? We already have enough evidence for a conviction. By sticking to that ridiculous accident story you are just going to mortgage the Otter Slide in legal costs, and then where will your wife be? Just get it off your chest.”

Hart looked away for a long time. Finally he turned to Nils Anderson, who had no stomach for a murder trial in the first place, especially one that he was certain to lose. Anderson seemed to raise his eyebrows as if to say, “Well? Can we get it over with?” Still Hart did not speak. He ran his fingers over his graying and balding scalp and Orly noticed, with some embarrassment, that he was crying.

At last he said, “I did it. I hit him with a hammer in the shed, put him in his suit, and dumped him at the loon. Then I walked back. Can I go back to my cell now?”