Known Dead

Nine

We sort of regrouped on Friday, the 21st. We were notified that the autopsies were complete. That meant that all tissues had been received at the laboratory, all photos taken, all nonmicroscopic evidence had been obtained, and the remains embalmed. Now all we had to do was wait for the results. That could take a week, or better.

My regrouping meant typing a very thorough report of my own. That took the rest of a long day, and resulted in twenty-six pages, if you counted evidence lists and the like. My eyes were fried, but at least that part was done. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a real drag to do that, but it can really help focus your mind, and forces you to review everything that’s happened to date. And, as is so often the case, if you go into court two years down the road, that report will save your ass.

Kellerman’s funeral was Saturday, the 22nd of June. So was Howie Phelps’s. We had a surveillance team go to Howie’s, just to see who showed up. The two-man team turned out to be about a quarter of the attendees. They helped load the casket into the hearse, as five of the other people were older women.

I went to Kellerman’s, held in Worley, in his home county. We had surveillance there too, but they were really outnumbered. There were about two hundred cop cars, from all over Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and as far away as Chicago. Nearly four hundred cops, all told, and probably as many civilians. With what seemed to be nearly that many media people around.

I went with the department, of course. We officers were all in uniform, as were our dispatchers, and got the rows just behind DNE and DCI, on the cop side, as we were working a joint case when he was killed. Eight officers and nine dispatchers from Nation County. I hoped nothing happened back home while we were here, as we had left one dispatcher and two officers to run the place. I was particularly worried about Johansen, as was Lamar. The two of us kept a pretty close eye on him. The funeral was in the local high school gym, because there simply wasn’t a church around that could come close to holding all those mourners. We, the important official folk, sat on folding chairs on the gym floor, while the lesser mortals sat in the bleachers. There was a choir, of course, and a small orchestra. After ‘‘Amazing Grace’’ had done its work, the minister got up and did his thing. I can’t blame him, I suppose, because not only was he new but cop funerals are pretty difficult to do right. I just wish he hadn’t thought it necessary to recite ‘‘The Lord Is My Shepherd, He Rides in My Patrol Car.’’ I hate that little prayer.

They had Kellerman’s photograph and badge on top of the casket, along with a U.S. flag. The photo of him was with his family, obviously taken when he had just started in law enforcement, because he had his Iowa State Patrol uniform on and everybody looked really proud of him.

After I finished moving my lips to ‘‘He Walks with Me, He Talks with Me,’’ the color guard gave Mrs. Kellerman her late husband’s badge. She looked not sad, but very unhappy. Most cop wives would feel the same. She broke down as the casket left the gym, and most of the cops around me just looked embarrassed. You can’t cry in uniform, and there really isn’t much else to do. Our dispatchers were sniffling, though. That was permitted.

When we finally got the entire procession to the cemetery, we found we had to block the highway in both directions. Not too difficult, with two hundred cop cars with their red lights flashing. Most of us accompanied the family to the grave site, and were drawn up in a rough formation. It did look impressive. Johansen was with the family, at their request. Mrs. Kellerman was doing her level best to make him feel that it wasn’t his fault. I thought that was really nice of her, especially at that time.

The sheriff of Harriman County called us to attention, and at the right moment, gave the order to ‘‘present arms.’’ As we saluted, taps was played. That just about got me. That just about got everybody. When ‘‘order arms’’ rang out, I got a glance at Hester, who was with the DCI contingent, none of whom were in uniform. She was crying. So were all our dispatchers, standing there in their uniforms with handkerchiefs over their faces, heads bowed.

They gave Mrs. Kellerman the flag. That was it.

I hate cop funerals.

While we were in the cemetery, I noticed that several cars drove by more than once. One, in particular, got my eye. The car was a nondescript maroon Chevy, but the driver had a gray beard, and wore granny glasses, and looked very intent on observing us. I checked in with the surveillance people as soon as I could. They had already made him… press, from a small paper up north. Well, you can’t hit ’em all.