"Don't know," she replied. "Just what he said. Go on, Shamrock."

"He says that the ATF has been hanging around for a long time, ever since that other cop got killed up in the park, and then that undercover cop got killed. He means Nancy's previous photographer, we think. And that the cops have been trying to get even, and that they fly over all the time, and that they send vans all over with listening devices." Her eyes were wide. "Really. 'Helicopters, jets, and reconnaissance satellites' is what he said."

"Oh, boy." It was all I could say. I guess I'd been secretly afraid of this, ever since I'd seen the survivalist and antigovernment books at Borglan's house. The same old problem: How do you prove that something isn't there? Tough. But when people get excited about it, it gets a lot tougher.

"He told me all about taxes, and how you really didn't have to pay them. How it was a conspiracy to take everybody's money and give it to the rich and the Jews, and the Chinese, and things like that." She glanced up at me. "Anyway… he said that the media was being fed lots of lies by the government, and that we should check out our sources better. I think that's about it."

"He took quite a liking to Shamrock," said Nancy, dryly. "Almost like I wasn't there at all." She addressed her photographer. "Tell Mr. Houseman about the little buildings…"

"Oh, yeah. He also said that there was a secret government listening station right near there, with a satellite communications antenna, and that it was where the ATF went to send their reports to Washington. He showed it to us, it's just over the bridge, it's gray and a little building. Only it says 'U.S. Geological Survey' on it. Has an antenna, though."

She was right about the USGS station. They had set several in place over the last few years, and improved flood control considerably. Of course, if you're paranoid enough, you can concoct just about anything.

"Well, I didn't know what to say, because I know he's full of shit on that one, and then he goes, 'I got it right from the mouth of the horse.'"

"That's 'horse's mouth,' dear," said Nancy, with a wicked little grin.

"Right. Anyhow, he goes, 'We know it was cops.' And I go how does he know that, and he goes, 'Because the owner of the house knows. He don't lie.' Just like that, he said it!" Shamrock took a big gulp of coffee, and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, that's what he said."

"That is what he said." Nancy got up, went to the sink, and poured a little cold water in her coffee cup.

"I'm sure." I pushed my chair back. "Well, you've done really well, here."

"Just wait," said Nancy. She sat back down, cup in hand. "Tell him." She glanced at Sally and me. "You're not going to believe this."

Shamrock just sparkled. "I asked him if I could take his picture. He goes, 'Sure, how about over here,' and he stands in front of the mailbox. So I go, 'How about you pointing at something for me?' and I take the first shots. And he goes, 'How about this?' and he walks over to his car, and points at the bumper sticker that says something like 'Remember April 17' or something, so I get some more shots of that."

"April 19," both Nancy and I said, at the same time.

"Oh? Well, okay…" said Shamrock.

"Couple of bad things happened on April 19," I said. "A lot of Branch Davidians died in Waco, Texas, on that date, and a couple of years later, the Murrah Federal Office Building was blown up in Oklahoma City. Lot of people died there, too."

"Oh, sure," said Shamrock. "I know about those. Sure."

"The sticker say anything else?" I asked.

"Not that I remember," said Nancy. "But you'll get a photo of it." She gestured with her hand held out, like a traffic cop telling me to stop. "Just a second. Don't go anywhere. It gets still better."

"Three of his buds came out of the house," said Shamrock. "Two men and a woman. I got them on film, behind him, and I don't think they know I did. Good shots, I think."

"They politely asked us who we were," said Nancy, "and then politely asked us to leave."

"The one with the gun looked scary," announced Shamrock, "but I think I got a shot of it, too."

"What kind of gun?"

"Assault rifle," said Nancy. "You people up around here seem to have lots of them."

Well. "I can't believe you got that," I said. "Good job. More than a fair trade for an autopsy." I looked at Shamrock. "I wish I knew how to get information like that."

"You start," said Nancy, dryly, "with walking around with your coat unzipped, a jersey shirt, no bra, batting your eyes, and saying, 'Oh, golly gee' as often as you can." She reached out and put her hand on Shamrock's shoulder. "Faked him right out of his bib overalls. She's like the daughter I never had."

Shamrock laughed. "Yeah, right." She was blushing.

"Well, maybe the bratty little sister, then." Nancy patted Shamrock. "Whatever, you'll do until some young stud with a camera shows up."

"Shamrock, why don't you come with me to the local newspaper office? They can develop prints there. You can use their facilities."

"How do you know that?"

"Trust me," I said.

I had the damp prints in my hand by 1040. There they were, big as life. I recognized Linda Grossman right off, and I recognized one of the men with her as having been behind Cletus Borglan in the doorway when Davies and I were out at the house on Wednesday. Chunky, about forty or so. He was the one with the weapon. Looked an awful lot like an SKS or AK-47. I could just see the middle part of the barrel clearly. Way toward the rear, and partially hidden by Harvey Grossman, was a white male, looked about fifty, taller than Harvey, so I'd guess about six feet. Didn't recognize him, but since I'd never actually seen Gabriel, it didn't mean much. Nancy thought she had, and I was prepared to take her word for it. I didn't see any weapons other than the one SKS.

It was the only photo showing the unknown male. The rest were of a portly fellow who just had to be Mr. Brainerd.

I was standing damn near on top of Shamrock, peering intently at the photos. "They aren't looking at you, are they?"

"No. I don't think they knew we were there right away."

"Really?"

"Nope. Good old Hubert had walked us down the lane for a ways. They couldn't see us from the house. When they came up the lane, on foot, I don't think they were aware we were where we were." She stopped. "That wasn't very clear, was it?"

"I got the gist," I said. I was looking at the next photo. "This must be Hubert."

"Yep."

"Looks friendly enough."

"Oh, he's friendly, all right. Downright gushy."

I laughed. "Wiles are one thing, but you gotta learn to use them in increments. You don't want Hubert asking you to marry him."

"Good photos, aren't they?" she asked.

"They're great! Really good."

"Thank you." She smiled very sincerely.

I got back to the office just before lunch, and almost literally bumped into Art in the entrance.

He greeted me with "You know when I forgot to tell you about the lab finding a shell casing?"

"Yeah?" I said.

"Well, anyway, they did, as you know. A strange one, but my sources…" The way he said "sources" implied that his were much better than mine. I'll never know just how he does that. "… tell me that good old Fred would go to a gun show occasionally. Opportunity, again."

I smiled. With my telephone evidence, I felt I could be magnanimous. "Still have to link him with a gun of that sort, though." I held up the copy of Borglan's phone bill. "I think this might change the, uh, direction of your investigation?"

Art looked at it for a few moments, and at first seemed gratifyingly startled. Then he lowered the phone bill, and gave me the best example I'd ever heard of bending the evidence to fit the theory.

"Insurance scam." That was all he said, but he did it with such conviction I wondered if I'd missed some printing at the bottom of the bill.