Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

  “I won’t take long.”

  “Who? Who would turn me in? And why? What have I done wrong?”

  He rose and walked to the large window facing the pens. He turned back. “Nevermind. I’ve got a pretty good idea who the bastard is. And I’ll see to it that he never works for anyone ever again.”

  It was just as Dimon had predicted, Dwayne’s mind had supplied a name.

  “Don’t do that. Please.” Sickened at the thought of causing someone to lose his job, I told him that his suspicions were probably all wrong and even if he were right, he would be in even more trouble by coming down on a whistle-blower.

  “That’s why I’m doing it on the quiet. We have to check it out, but the KBI doesn’t want to draw any more attention to this feedyard right now. I’ll give OSHA the information they need, and then get out of your hair.”

  The lines deepened on his craggy face as if he were maxed out on misery.

  “Trust me, Dwayne. I’ll be out of here in a heartbeat.”

  I hadn’t planned on dealing with Bart. When he came in and Dwayne told him what I wanted, Bart exploded.

  “You want to see all the employee records? Without a subpoena?” He looked at Dwayne. “That’s illegal. How many years have I worked here and you have never asked to me to do anything that’s against the law. Not once. That’s how many.”

  Then he turned on me. “Do you think we are all fools out here?” His voice shook. I had never known this man to lose his temper. “Do you know how many hours I spend checking people out, seeing to it that we’re okay with state and national compliance requirements? I’m half nuts most of the time trying to make sense of rules that are in violation of some other agency’s rules.” He gestured toward the rows of manuals on a bookshelf. “Want to know how many hours a day it takes to keep on top of this place?”

  “Bart, I know you’re under a lot of stress right now. We all are. But you’re not giving me a chance to explain,” I said. “Tell him, Dwayne.”

  “I don’t want to hear any explanations.” Bart laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. To keep them from curling into fists, I suspected. “You want to know about the one law we do violate? And that one fairly frequently? The one governing the number of hours a driver can be behind the wheel on any given day. What do they expect us to do when we’re out of hours due to construction? Pull over to a rest stop and let cattle boil alive in aluminum trailers because some ignorant bastard in Washington has decided we should stop our day right on the dot?”

  “Bart…” Dwayne grappled for words. I couldn’t think of anything to say either. We were locked in a motionless tableau like we had been playing the child’s game of statues. I hardly trusted myself to breathe.

  “I can’t police this office and the feedyard too, goddamn it. I can’t be here all day and all night. Someone should have been here the night Victor got killed.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself, Bart.”

  “I’m through, Dwayne. Done here.” He headed toward the door.

  “Come back, Bart. I can’t make it through a single day without you. Get back in here and hear me out.”

  Bart turned, and with arms crossed, stared at Dwayne.

  “Lottie is trying to forestall an OSHA investigation. We figured the fewer who know about this, the better. Think about what you just said. Some of our drivers put in too many hours. You know that. I know that. Hell, we’re no different than any other livestock carrier. If we didn’t, we’d be in the dead animal transport business.”

  For once, Bart Hummel’s hands did shake. I knew I had misjudged the man. His cool façade could only be maintained if he had total control over systems he created. And he was straight as a string.

  “Knew it, knew it, goddamn it. Knew letting those last couple of men hire on would get me in trouble. There was something about them. All their paperwork checked. Valid commercial driver’s licenses. No criminal records. But Hugh Simpson recommended them and they had some distant connection with Maria. Second cousins or something. She was doing a favor for some aunt. But since Hugh is the head cowboy…when he wants someone signed on, I try to make it work.”

  “Was either of them a Diaz?”

  “No. American names, in fact.”

  “Are they still here?”

  “No, I ran them off. I didn’t like their attitude.”

  “Lazy?”

  “No. But I put them on the maintenance crew and they were madder than hell. They wanted to be on the cowboy crew. A lot of men wanting to work here want to be cowboys. Even if they don’t know one end of a horse from another.” He looked at Dwayne. “I would bet my hat those two bastards turned us in for discrimination or something.”

  “An OSHA inspection would not be due to any neglect on your part.” It would come through malicious harassment by the KBI. I hoped my bitterness didn’t show on my face.

  “Go home, Bart.”

  The two men looked stunned.

  “I mean it. Dwayne, give Bart a day or two off. So he won’t be involved. Not at all. In case he ever has to testify under oath.”

  Neither of them spoke.

  “I imagine you know where all your own records are.”

  Dwayne gave a weak smile and nodded.

  “Bart, you’re right. What I’m doing isn’t right, despite my good intentions. Just go home. Don’t come back until the day after tomorrow.” I glanced at his work station. “Do you have remote access to this place at your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, I don’t want Dwayne to get too far behind.”

  He picked up his Stetson and gathered some papers from his desk. Even though he hadn’t said another word, I knew the crisis had passed.

  “And Bart,” I called softly. He stopped, but wouldn’t turn to face me. “You’re a good man.”

  He was. And if anyone hassled him for any reason, including Dimon, I would see to it that there was hell to pay.

  Dwayne and I walked down the hall. He unlocked the file cabinet where they kept all the personnel records. I went to the break room and put my sack lunch in the refrigerator. Then I set to work. I opened my laptop and created a preliminary spreadsheet. The feedyard had all the data on a spreadsheet too, but Dimon had asked for copies of the original W-4s signed personally by each individual applicant.

  About twelve-thirty, I took a break and stepped outside. Heat rose in visible waves. The wind was picking up, bringing the odor of ammonia from the massive herds. Feed trucks made their rounds, with contents calculated for each pen. They were equipped with GPS systems controlled by the mainframe computer inside the office which made sure special blends weren’t distributed to the wrong pen.

  Hugh Simpson rode up and dismounted, then tied his horse to a traditional hitching post that I had wrongly assumed was just for show. Not bothering to tip his hat, he pulled down the bandanna covering his mouth and rushed inside. Minutes later, he and Dwayne came out. Hugh unhitched his horse, mounted and set off. Dwayne headed for a four-wheeler.

  “We’ve got an emergency,” he yelled at me over his shoulder. “You can come along if you’re up to riding in this heat.”

  “Okay.” I rushed over and jumped in beside him. “What’s going on?”

  “Cattle too hot in pen forty-eight. They get heatstroke just like people.”

  “What can you do for them?

  “Cool them off, just like you would with a human.”

  We flew down the lanes between the pens, but Hugh and four other cowboys were already there placing garden sprinklers in the pen to cool off the stressed cattle.

  We hung over the fence and watched.

  “This is why I use cowboys and horses. Mounted, the men can see down into the pens. There’s usually about eight working full time, riding the pens, checking for sick cattle or critters that are down.”

  I g
azed at the cattle in the pen across from pen forty-eight. Disturbed by the commotion, some of them came up to the fence. They looked fine, taking the heat in stride, but I doubted any of them would look this alert parked in a broiling aluminum trailer forced to stop moving by an overzealous highway patrolman.

  Satisfied by the cowboys’ progress, Dwayne drove back to the office. “The full western attire is kind of their own touch,” he said. “But there’s a sound reason for each and every item.”

  “I figured out that the bandannas are essential face masks.”

  “Right, and the heavy jeans and chaps protect them when cattle force horses against a fence post.”

  “As to the boots. Can’t imagine sandals would be a sound choice.” I smiled at the image of someone trying to work around cow shit wearing flip-flops.

  “Nope. They need boots with a decent heel to keep from slipping out of stirrups when they are bending sideways on a horse.”

  Black sunspots and floaters swarmed before my eyes. Relieved when we drew up to the door, I headed to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face. The ride hadn’t lasted more than twenty minutes, but I had lacked the guts to tell Dwayne I wasn’t sure I could bear it much longer. My face and neck were turkey red. Swept by nausea, I braced my arms on the sink.

  Moving carefully, I went to the kitchen and took a bottle of water and extra ice from the refrigerator and returned to the bathroom. I dug some Advil out of my purse and swallowed it to squelch my headache, knowing it certainly wouldn’t help my nausea. I wrapped the ice in hand towels and placed a pack on my head. I draped another ice pack across my neck and shoulders, sat on the stool lid, and started sipping water.

  If I called 911, I was the one who should be answering the phone.

  When I had cooled down and could compose myself, I worked quickly, copying W-4 forms, and matched social security numbers with spreadsheets. My anger toward Dimon built throughout the afternoon. He was interfering with people he knew nothing about.

  There were too many records to fax. I would need to deliver it in person. If I finished by noon tomorrow I could get to Topeka before he left the office. No, I decided. When he wanted to go home had nothing to do with it. We would have it out if I had to go to his house and break down his goddamned door.

  About five-thirty, Dwayne stood in the doorway and watched me work. He glanced at his watch.

  “About ready to call it a day?”

  “If you’ll trust me to lock up, I’ll stay for a couple of more hours.”

  “I don’t want you here alone. You stay, I stay.”

  Whether because he was concerned about my safety or worried about my rummaging around, I couldn’t say.

  “Okay.” I started gathering my things. He had put in a hell of a day and I wasn’t going to delay his getting home.

  Something in his face told me he really, really didn’t want me in the office by myself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Keith was in the music room playing an old Eagles song, “Lying Eyes.” Puzzled, I went to the doorway and watched quietly for a moment before I turned to start supper. Josie and I were amused by his unconscious selection of songs that signaled his inner state. A couple of nights ago, he had strummed out the old Jimmie Rogers tune, “Hard Time Blues,” followed by a plaintive rendition of “Cool Water.”

  “All day I’ve faced a barren waste

  Without the taste of water, cool water…”

  He was strangely silent during supper. Worried, I supposed, like everyone else I met on the street. Worried over losing a corn crop, losing his herd, losing his topsoil.

  I cleared the table, then went upstairs and showered, climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling. Later, Keith came to bed too, but he didn’t immediately fall into his usual untroubled sleep. He gathered some pillows and propped himself up on the headboard.

  “Missed you at the feedyard today,” he said finally.

  “What?” I jolted straight up and turned on my bedside light. The skin around his mouth was white, his lips a dull red, his voice husky.

  “What?” My cheeks flamed. Blood throbbed in my ears.

  “I said I missed you at the feedyard.”

  “I was there all day. All day. When were you there?”

  “During the time I thought you might be eating lunch.”

  “I was with Dwayne.”

  “Hell, I know that. I missed him too. Your Tahoe was there, and his pickup, but he wasn’t in his office. The place was as quiet as a tomb. Even Bart wasn’t there. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to go snooping around the back rooms.”

  “We were looking at some cattle that had gotten too hot. We used a four-wheeler. You had to have just missed us. Why were you there?”

  “My conscience was bothering me. I felt like a real asshole for letting you do the dirty work. Just because Sam and I couldn’t bring ourselves to do it. I know you did the right thing. It took me a while to face up to it. You made the right choice, Lottie. I should have been right there by your side.”

  “Compromise comes easier for me. So I’m the one to do it. But it’s a comfort being married to a black-and-white man. I always know where I stand.”

  ***

  Traffic was light on I-70. I had finished my work by noon and arrived at the KBI office before closing. I went through the usual security check, busted into Dimon’s office and slammed the door shut. I slapped the information down on his desk.

  “Sit down, Lottie, and I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “I don’t want your goddamned coffee and I’m going to stand for what I’ve got to say. You’re the one who had better be sitting down.”

  He said nothing and his face reverted to a trained expressionless mask. Drawing from a page in the KBI handbook, no doubt.

  “Scratch me off the list as your go-to person. If you need anything else done, send your agents out.”

  He still did not speak. Just stared at his aligned pencils.

  “I still control your access to information in Northwest Kansas,” I reminded him.

  He gave me an appraising look, like he was still wrestling with some decision.

  “All right.” With a reluctant sigh, he placed his hands on the desk. “There is a lot at stake with this new regional system. A lot of money. A lot of jobs involved. I need to close this case fast. By whatever means it takes.”

  “There’s a lot at stake for men living in the counties you want to squash.”

  “It’s going to happen, Lottie. There’s no way some old geezer like Sam Abbott has the expertise to find out who killed Victor Diaz. Keith is running back and forth between the sheriff’s office and his farm. So that leaves you. A part-time undersheriff and part-time historian. Not a very impressive group of law officers is it? And I suspect you’ll cave. What’s the good of having a PhD you can’t use? You’re not going to last much longer.”

  The bastard! He wanted me to resign.

  “So how are you doing, Frank? Made any real progress yet?”

  “We will as soon as our mathematician analyzes all the employment records.”

  “Have you come up with a possible motive?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s money. It always is. Or in the case of your part of the state, land. Which is the same as money.”

  “Oh yeah? And why would anyone want it? You know yourself that farming is a crap shoot. Even the best farmers can’t make a go of it some years.”

  “Some corporation won’t look at it that way. Or maybe some foreign investor.”

  “Frank, I’ve been trying to tell you. This murder was a personal issue. You won’t listen to word I’ve said about Francesca Diaz’s information.”

  “Oh, that again. Well, our teams thinks the murder might have been a professional hit. And we are looking at some land connection.”

  “There is a land connec
tion. That’s what Francesca told me.” I didn’t bother to keep the frustration out of my voice. “And as to foreigners trying to acquire land in Kansas, I think you need to do a little homework. It’s illegal for them to buy land in this state. Kansas laws are really strict about that.”

  Dimon flared. “What about all the family corporations?” He wiggled his fingers to indicate quotes around the “family corporations.”

  “The stockholders have got to be blood relation, and one of them must actually live on the land, or work it, or play a major role in the management. There’s nine states in the heartland with those kinds of laws.”

  He wasn’t the kind of man to appreciate a lecture. I decided to push a few more buttons. “These laws are in place to protect the nation’s food supply from falling into foreign hands, but even if the laws weren’t there and corporations had free rein, most years there’s no real money to be made off of such a tricky investment. People who farm do it because they love it.”

  He studied his nails and rose from his chair. A gesture of dismissal. Most of the employees were leaving for the day.

  I glanced at my watch. “Well, you have the information you wanted. Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. As I’m sure you know, we’ll be handling it on this end from now on.”

  My smile was as stiff as a corpse’s as I walked out the door. I had come to bring all the damned copies of employee records and I had come to turn in my badge. Now they would have to carry me out of the sheriff’s office feet-first.

  The only productive thing to come from the meeting is that he had formally run me off. I was free to investigate on my own.

  The race was on. The KBI versus Sam Abbott and local systems. County versus state.

  ***

  Marvin Cole was holding down the fort at the sheriff’s office. Keith had left the house long before I got up.

  Determined to settle in to a day of challenging work, I eyed the stories stacked on my desk and picked up the one from Jane Jordan’s family.