Another Man's Ground--A Mystery, page 5
Hank strode over to Ramsdell’s squad car like he’d planned this all along.
“Bill, please tell me you’ve done the orienteering badge,” he said in a low voice.
“Uh. Yeah. We finished it in the fall. It was a doozy. We—”
Hank cut him off. “Can you find this site? We have to get into it from this direction. Can you do that? Cell and GPS is sketchy out here.”
Ramsdell pulled up the left sleeve of his uniform and stuck out his wrist. A shiny new Casio watch sparkled in the sunlight.
“Compass, altitude, everything,” Ramsdell said with an eager grin. “Got it for Christmas.” He paused. “You’re sure, though? You want to take this on? Take him on?” He made the faintest of nods toward Kinney, who still hadn’t moved.
“There’s a dead body out there,” Hank said. What was it with these people? “We are well within our purview as local law enforcement.”
“Okay, then.” Ramsdell shook his head. “Traipsing around on Kinney land. I never would’ve thought I’d see the day. Unbelievable. Wait until I tell my folks.”
Hank sighed and walked back to Sheila’s squad car, where she appeared to be casually leaning against the hood. He knew better. Her jaw was clenched tight and she had reached up to pat at her immaculate hair, which she did only when she was either flustered or pissed off. He strolled around her and then stopped and turned as if he’d forgotten to say something. His position blocked her from Kinney’s view.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said in the same low voice he’d used with Ramsdell. “If he’s making you uncomfortable—”
Sheila suppressed a snort. “No. He is not making me uncomfortable. He’s making me reinforce my stereotypes. Backwoods racist asshole. I bet he’s never even had a black person on his property before.” She grinned. “So I’m going to stay right here.”
“Oh,” Hank said, “I figured it was because you’re a woman.”
Sheila gave him a you’re-an-idiot look. “Nah. If that was it, he’d have leered at me, or stared at places lower than my eye level. When they don’t look at you at all, it’s your skin, not your tits.”
Hank looked at her flawless complexion, the color of a good medium-roast coffee, and the brown eyes that crackled with intelligence behind her glasses.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Go take command of the orienteering party.” He jerked a thumb toward Ramsdell, who was enthusiastically waving his watch in the air and pointing his fellow deputies into the woods behind the Kinney house. “When you find the most direct route, radio me and I’ll bring in Kurt and Alice.”
She straightened and gave him a grin. “With pleasure.”
He watched as half of his deputies headed into the forest. Then he sent one back to the road with orders to cut the chain on the gate so the forensic team could get in. He then made himself comfortable leaning in the same spot Sheila had occupied and started an in-depth conversation with Pimental about the Cardinals and the Royals and which team was more likely to make the playoffs this year.
Kinney watched silently for a few moments and then deliberately walked across the front of the house, still carrying the shovel, and went inside. The door shut behind him without a sound.
* * *
Hank waited about a minute and then sent Pimental around the back of the house. The last thing he wanted was Kinney coming out a back door without him knowing. Twenty minutes later, the evidence van came down the lane and bounced to a stop behind the fanned-out patrol cars. Alice Randall, barely visible behind the wheel, shut the engine off and hopped out. She stood about five feet two and, as always, was dressed in a button-down shirt, black cargo pants, and sturdy work boots. She reached back into the van, pulled out a wide-brimmed sun hat, and slapped it over her short, steel gray crew cut.
“So,” she said as Hank approached, “we got a decomp?”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Hank said. “Did you bring respirators?”
“Kurt did.”
At that, the van lurched and Kurt Gatz, clad in similar boots and pants but a bright blue T-shirt, climbed out of the passenger door. He wasn’t much taller than Alice, but was probably three times her weight. He hustled his considerable bulk toward the back of the vehicle, calling out that he’d be ready as soon as he unpacked his cameras. Hank still hadn’t figured out how he managed to haul all of that equipment and his extra pounds around crime scenes so nimbly.
The radio crackled. They’d gotten to the hole. And from the sounds of gagging in the background, the smell hadn’t dissipated much.
“It’s not a bad route, but no vehicle access,” Sheila said. “Should be fairly quick on foot. We had to backtrack twice, which was why it took a while.” Hank could hear someone making a crack about Ramsdell’s watch.
“Just follow the crime-scene tape tied to the trees,” Sheila continued.
Hank told her to send someone across the creek to help Sam with the inmigrante and Vern Miles. He wanted them both back at the station for interviews, and Sam couldn’t drive them out of there alone in his Bronco—he’d need a partner. Then he and Kurt and Alice set off into the woods.
* * *
The body had been there at least a week. They’d lowered Alice down into the narrow fissure (the choice between her and Kurt had been an easy one) and she’d done the photographing and somehow managed to get what was left of the body into a body bag. They’d used the pulleys to haul it topside and then she’d gone to work collecting the maggots and other lovelies that had set up shop around the remains. Everyone was staying well clear of the edge when she let out a shout.
“What? You okay?” Hank peered over . Alice sat back on her haunches and grinned up at him.
“Sometimes,” she said, “sifting through bucketloads of dirt actually pays off.” She held up something so small Hank couldn’t make it out. “Buckshot. Covered with deceased-person goop. And there’s more of it down here.”
Well, damn. That changed things. They’d have to wait for the autopsy to be sure, but he could certainly start operating as if this were a homicide. He stood up and smacked his hands together.
“Kurt, find the metal detector, please. Alice needs to bag up some buckshot.”
He hollered down a big “thank you” as everyone settled in for a longer wait. Finally what was left of the remains was on its way to the medical examiner in Springfield. The maggots were on their way to a forensic entomologist at the University of Missouri in Columbia. And his deputies, several of whom had the same nauseated reaction as Sam, had gratefully departed the scene.
They would have to come back for final cleanup and cataloging, but otherwise were done.
“You’re not going yet, I hope,” Sheila said.
“Hell, no,” Hank said. “There’s a lot of woods we haven’t seen. And if that body somehow turns out to be an accidental death, we won’t have as strong of grounds to come back.”
Sheila shook her head. “Even if the guy was accidentally shot, whoever did it didn’t report it. And that’s a crime, too. Plus, who’d be traipsing around uninvited on Kinney land? Nobody, that’s who.”
Hank sighed theatrically. “Such a dark view of humanity you have. Wanna bet on it?”
Sheila shot him a look. “No, ’cause you know it wasn’t accidental as well as I do. Now let’s get going before we lose the small light we got left.”
Before they headed deeper into the Kinney property, away from the house and away from the creek bordering Miles’s land, Hank found them both long, strong branches to test the ground with as they walked.
“Thanks,” Sheila said. “I don’t want to end up looking like you.”
Hank glanced down at his filthy clothes. He had dirt and leaves smeared all the way down his front, and he was pretty sure he had a bit of corpse on him somewhere. He could smell it, but hadn’t been able to find it.
They walked for what seemed like miles and saw nothing but trees, gullies, rock outcroppings, and the occasional clearing. Almost every slippery elm they saw had been stripped, some of them long enough ago that they were starting to die. Otherwise, there was nothing out of the ordinary.
So disappointing.
They used Ramsdell’s watch, which Hank had borrowed, to find their way back to the Kinney house. Pimental greeted them as they emerged from the woods and said there had been no activity in back of the house. They all three walked around to the front. Hoch, the deputy Hank had stationed there, had the same report. Almost.
As Sheila turned away to walk to the squad car, Hoch pointed quietly at the house. A Confederate flag had been hung in the front window. Hank scowled and instinctively started toward the house.
“Stop.”
Both he and Hoch froze. Sheila hadn’t turned, but as usual, seemed to have eyes in the back of her head. She continued toward the car.
“It isn’t illegal,” she said, never looking back. “No point banging on his door. It’s what he wants. Besides”—she swung open the patrol-car door—“we’ll be back.”
CHAPTER
7
Hank slid a fresh bottle of water across the table. The inmigrante huddled under a blanket opposite him, dry now but still cold from his emergency bath in the creek. He didn’t seem to be able to stop shaking. His hand trembled as he unscrewed the bottle top, and his Adam’s apple slid up and down his skinny neck as he took a swallow. Pájaro. Poor bird.
“You are not under arrest,” Hank said in Spanish. The bird blinked at him. “You are safe. No one is going to hurt you.”
More blinking. Hank wondered if he was in shock.
“Can you talk to me? I need to know how you came to be chopping down the trees.”
The bird took another unsteady drink. A smear of dried mud ran from his ear down to his chin. Hank fought the parental urge to wipe it away. He sat back in his chair. Time to take a different tack.
“How old are you?”
“Dieciséis.” Sixteen. A minor. Hank wondered what he’d gone through to get this far north. “What’s your name?”
The pájaro shook his head violently. Hank sighed. There was a rap on the interview room door and Sam stuck his head in. He muttered about searching through Hank’s desk and handed him two granola bars and a Pecan Delight. The bird chose the candy. When he was finished, Hank started again. This time, he answered. Slowly, in fits and starts, his story emerged.
His name was Javier. He had come over the border from Nuevo Laredo three months before. He and a few others had made it up to Little Rock before they became separated. He was trying to get to his aunt in Chicago. A man in a big blue van had found him outside a Mexican restaurant in the downtown area and offered him a ride as far as St. Louis. But that was not what happened.
Instead, the man—Jorge—had taken him to a campsite where a dozen other men were living. He ordered them all into the van and drove three or four hours until they arrived at another camp, deep in the woods. The bird didn’t know where it was, but he would recognize it if he saw it again. They lived in tents and used a trench latrine. Jorge’s van was the only way out.
From there, Jorge would take them to different laborer jobs, dropping them off for the day and returning for them at nightfall. The gringo foremen would pay Jorge, who would put the cash in his pocket with a smile. He promised to pay them once he had gotten back his own money for the gas and the tents. The bird smiled ruefully. They all knew that was mierda, but they had no way out. All of the work sites were too far away from the towns. If they just walked off the job, they’d have nowhere to go.
And so they had ended up chopping down trees for the bald white man, way back in his property in the middle of nowhere. It was their second day there. He had been told to strip the bark off the cut trees, which he thought was incredibly stupid. Who wanted slimy bark? He thought it was gross, but he was the youngest, so he always got the worst jobs. The man had tossed him a knife and told him to get to work.
Then he—the bird pointed at Hank—had appeared. No one had known he was the police, but when the younger man in the uniform came, they all realized what was going on.
And so he ran.
Tears filled his eyes, and he began to shake again. Hank slid a granola bar across the table. The bird slipped it into his pocket. When’s the last time this kid ate, Hank wondered. On the heels of that—what was he going to do with him? The jail would provide a roof, a shower, and a meal. But Hank hated to put him there. He’d have to book him, which would put him in the system. Plus, he had a feeling that a night in jail would shatter the fragile hold the bird still had on his nerves.
He stepped into the hallway and flagged down Sam.
“Take him to the locker room. There shouldn’t be anyone in there right now. Have him take a hot shower. You have a change of clothes stashed in there?”
Sam gave an exasperated snort and pointed to his Garth Brooks World Tour 2014 T-shirt. “I did. I’m currently wearing them. Got my uniform a little dirty, remember?”
Hank looked down at his own filthy shirt and jeans. He couldn’t even remember where he’d left his windbreaker.
“Okay, fine. Then give him mine. Hopefully that’ll calm the kid down.” And give Hank time to figure out what to do with him.
In the meantime, Vern the bald white man awaited. Hank walked down to the next interview room and opened the door. Vern jerked in his seat and then slumped back.
“I didn’t realize—” He took a few quick breaths and started over. “I didn’t know that they were illegals. I of course … I never would have hired them.”
Hank didn’t even bother to sit down. That would be taking this bozo too seriously. He leaned against the doorjamb.
“Oh, really? And where exactly did you hire these men?”
“Um…” He picked at a fingernail. “Off Highway 160 way out east. It, ah … I’d heard that there was someone there who had people willing to do day jobs.”
“Oh, really?” Hank didn’t try to keep the contempt out of his voice. “So you thought that some guy on the side of the road who was offering up a bunch of half-starved men who don’t speak English—that was legit?”
“Well,” Vern said, pulling his face into an almost-pout, “when you put it that way … I guess not. But I’m really sorry. I’m not going to be arrested, am I?”
Now Hank sat down. “Tell me everything.”
Twenty minutes later, Hank emerged from the interview room. He now knew that Jorge was a big guy, about six-two and muscular, with shaggy black hair and a mustache. Vern had heard about him from some guys on a street corner near the Home Depot in Branson. They’d said there was a man who could deliver cheap labor to out-of-the-way work sites. He’d hooked up with Jorge in that spot off Highway 160. The van was an old blue Ford with Arkansas plates and no windows in the back. Jorge had shown him ten men sitting inside and then followed him to the slippery elm grove. He’d unloaded the men and left.
The arrangement was that Jorge would return at sundown to pick up the crew and get paid—six hundred bucks cash. That happened seamlessly, and Vern requested a second day to finish up the tree cutting. Jorge had dropped the men off at eight that morning. At no point had he mentioned his full name, where he was from, or where the crew was staying. The deal was another six hundred at the end of the second day, but, well, that had been cut short. Obviously.
Sheila met him in the hallway with a sheet of paper.
“Get him to sign this. It’s not lawyered—I just made it up right now—but it gives us permission to go onto any part of his property at any time during this investigation. His consent to search would mean we wouldn’t have to get a warrant. I figured since you’ve got him over a barrel on the illegals…”
Hank grinned. “Sometimes, I think I love you.”
“Don’t get smart.” She shoved the paper at him.
Vern was more than happy to give up a signature instead of his freedom. Hank sent him home with a stern admonition to call immediately if any of his tree workers showed up at the farmhouse. So far, none of them had been found. Except the pájaro.
* * *
He stuffed everything into a thirteen-gallon trash bag, cinched it tight, and left it on the garage floor. He was pretty sure his right sock was the worst of it, but he certainly wasn’t going to do a sniff test to confirm it. He quietly slipped through the mudroom and into the kitchen. It was almost midnight. He knew Maggie was still at the hospital. Everyone else would be asleep, the kids in their rooms and Dunc downstairs in his basement en suite.
Or not.
“What the hell?”
His father-in-law stood next to the kitchen island, half illuminated by the small bulb over the stove, which was all they left on at night. At that moment, it was bright as a spotlight.
“You’re in your underwear, boy.”
Hank glared at him.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“I sure wish I was. Woulda missed your little show here.” Dunc put the canister of Metamucil he was holding down on the counter. “Is this how you always come in after we’re asleep?”
“No.” It came out louder than Hank had intended, and they both jumped. He lowered his voice. “No, it is not. Since you’re wondering, I got dirt, and mud, and decomposing corpse on my clothes today. They stunk. So they’re in the trash. You’re welcome for not bringing the smell into the house.”
Duncan started stirring his powder into a glass of water. “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose I am grateful to see you in your skivvies then.” He eyed Hank. “I got to say, you’re no spring chicken anymore.”
Hank snorted. “Says the man up in the middle of the night for a fiber laxative.”
Dunc let out a bark of a laugh. “True enough. But just you wait, boyo, because—”
The door to the mudroom clicked shut. Maggie stood there. She looked at her husband in his tighty-whities, then turned toward her father, who toasted her with his bright orange drink. She rolled her eyes.
