Fire Blight

by Nat Williams

  “Gonna be a hot one,” Obie Lynch said as he opened the door to an old pickup truck and got in. “We’ll be out here at daybreak.”

  Janet got in the passenger side and took off her hat, fanning it in a futile attempt to scare the heat away. It didn’t work. It was late July in southern Illinois – hot and humid. But it was peach harvest, time to work up a sweat that requires not a handkerchief, but a towel. Maybe two or three.

  At thirty-five years old, she was attractive in an earthy way, sporting a perpetual tan and a friendly face framed by short, brown hair in a pixie style that somehow appeared both playful and serious. Years of working outdoors etched subtle lines onto her face. She dressed modestly, usually in a T-shirt and jeans. The simple look worked for her.

  Obie was sometimes mistaken for the Mexican laborers he supervised, but he was at least part Anglo. Born in the Florida Panhandle to a single mother, his name was inspired by an old sign painted on the side of a brick building. It was the former O.B. White Flour Company. She saw the sign shortly after learning that she was pregnant and decided that was as good a name as any. The birth certificate listed the baby as O.B., but Obie changed the spelling.

  He was a bit stocky and had a dark, rugged complexion, with a strong face and black hair that curled a bit around his ears, especially in the heat. The forty-something’s arms were thick and strong, the result of a lifetime of hard work. He spent some time in the oilfields of southern Louisiana until crude prices fell and jobs dried up. Many of the Hispanics he worked with convinced him to join them as they migrated north, to the orchards of southern Illinois. There he found a home and became a valued worker.

  His work ethic, leadership skills and mastery of Spanish made him a natural as a field supervisor. Hal Purcell was impressed with Obie’s interest in the business and his rapid uptake. He peppered his boss with questions about fruit production and often accompanied him to horticulture seminars. He became as knowledgeable as anyone in the region about growing apples and peaches.

  He enjoyed the region’s varied appeal. It is rural, but a short drive from St. Louis, Memphis and Nashville. The Shawnee National Forest beckons campers, hikers, equestrians and game seekers to its hilly 250,000 acres, its splendor punctuated with rocky outcrops, placid vistas and winding rivers.

  Obie brought with him a love of fishing, forged in the ponds of his native Florida. Whenever he got a chance, he took his small motorboat to one of the many lakes in the area, catching some crappie or bluegill – a few dozen on good days – to provide the fare at a backyard fish fry. But summer is a busy time in the orchards, and Obie usually found it difficult to carve out any time for fishing. Especially this year.

  The peach crop was coming along, but it was the first crop after the devastating freeze the previous year, which was defined by a perfect storm. Record high temperatures in March brought out buds on the trees, then record lows in April killed them all off.

  The extremes of the previous March and April also virtually wiped out the apple crop, a rare occurrence that many old-timers said hadn’t happened since the 1950s. The loss was severe at the Purcell farm. The bankers exhibited patience largely due to the successful history of the operation. But it was becoming clear that their patience was being tested.

  And now there was another problem: E. amylovara, commonly referred to as fire blight. The name comes from the appearance of affected trees, which look as if they’ve been hit with a blowtorch. The bacterial disease can be devastating to apple orchards. Last year’s crop was severely affected, with many trees dying an early death.

  Hal and Doris Purcell expended precious time, money and labor to contain the problem. It required a combination of chemical and cultural remedies, including a stepped-up pruning campaign, removal of diseased material and application of expensive chemicals.

  Results so far had been elusive. The orchards were a mix of healthy and damaged trees, often standing side by side. Adding to the problem was the increasingly tight wholesale market for apples.

  Unlike some of their neighbors, the Purcells had not made the transition to retail. They had resisted embracing the agritourism craze becoming common in the country, in which customers could pick their own fruit, take hay rides, get lost in corn mazes and enjoy local entertainment. David Purcell had inherited his father’s aversion to such triviality. And, he was lazy.

  Refusing to recognize the changing times was only one of the many mistakes David Purcell had made recently. Mistakes that would turn his world upside-down.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gilbert County Sheriff Frank Bachelor surveyed the result of an act that had transformed the living room of the Van Okin residence from a serene space to a blood-spattered scene of terror. The décor of the room reflected the doctor’s masculinity but was tastefully tempered with softer touches, the handiwork of Mrs. Van Okin. The hardwood floor was surrounded by walls of rustic paneling. Oak beams spanned the high, vaulted ceiling, sharing space with two large ceiling fans that were motionless.

  An arched passageway welcomed visitors into an anteroom that served as a showcase for Norma Van Okin’s lifelong pursuit of antiques. Showy furniture punctuated the space, including a Louis XVI gilded settee and a Victorian walnut armoire. A tasteful mix of handsomely framed prints by nineteenth-century artists Mather Brown, Margarethe Hormuth-Kallmorgen and Piet Mondrian graced the pastel-papered walls. An original piece by the feminist sculptor Adelaide Johnson rested on the marble top of a small, wrought-iron table in a corner.

  A baby grand piano dominated the center of the room. Norma Van Okin had been an accomplished pianist, giving lessons for several years before age and arthritis diminished her skills.

  Bachelor and Carroll again spread out to examine the house, this time with a steadier pace that allowed careful attention to detail.

  The incongruity between the murder scene and the order of its surroundings stood out to Bachelor. Aside from the horrific scene in the living room, nothing else there in the home seemed out of place. There were closed drawers, an untouched jewelry box and a dearth of signs indicating any type of struggle. There was no evidence of forced entry.

  There was a landline phone in the living room, but no sign of a cellphone. Bachelor made a mental note to try to locate cellphones for the couple. He assumed they owned cellphones.

  Deputies Adam Zilli and Trey Bibb arrived at the scene after getting notification from Bachelor. They were assigned basic tasks of surrounding the Van Okin estate with crime scene tape and scouring the yard for any possible evidence, with orders to be especially on the lookout for shell casings or signs of blood.

  Meanwhile, Bachelor and Carroll continued their examination of the property.

  Outside, the deputies walked slightly stooped over as they canvassed the front yard, scanning the ground for anything out of the ordinary. “Frank!” Bibb yelled. “I may have something here.”

  Bachelor walked over and gazed at faint tire tracks in the grass, just outside the asphalt drive. They appeared fresh.

  “Did it rain last night?” Bibb asked.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Bachelor answered. “But it’s worth checking out.”

  They placed a marker next to the tracks. Bachelor took a cellphone photo and made a mental note to check with Win Romines.

  “Keep an eye on everything, J.C.,” he told Carroll. “I’m putting you in charge of the scene.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I need to interview the lady who called this in.”

  Morella Watson had been taken by a deputy to Bachelor’s courthouse office, where she was offered coffee or anything else she would like.

  Bachelor entered the office of his secretary, Liz Johnson, which was empty. It was Saturday, after all. He went straight to Interview Room One, where Morella Watson sat, wiping her hands on her jeans. A bottle of water sat on the table. He gestured toward the open door.

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No, the water is fine. Thank
you.”

  Bachelor and Morella sat.

  “I know this is very stressful. But I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you know the Van Okins?”

  Morella described her position at H&H, her history with Dr. Van Okin and her admiration of Mrs. Van Okin. She offered what little information she could, including her planned trip to visit her sister, her stop at Jack’s Shack and the short drive to the house.

  “When did you first realize something was wrong?”

  “I went to knock at the door and noticed it was ajar. You know, open a little. I thought that was very strange, so I called out to Dr. Van Okin.”

  “How long was it before you decided to check inside?”

  “I don’t know, it seemed like a long time, but it was probably just a few seconds. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I didn’t really expect to see anything …”

  She put her hand to her eyes. Bachelor pushed a box of Kleenex toward her. She pulled a tissue out and wiped her eyes.

  “I just thought, maybe someone had left quickly and hadn’t closed the door all the way or something. But I thought I’d better take a quick look. I felt kind of funny walking into their house, but I poked my head in and took a couple of steps inside.”

  “That’s when you saw the bodies?”

  She lowered her head again.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I ran back out to my car, got in and called 911. I was scared. Too scared to even start up the car. I guess I was sort of frozen, you know? I just waited. Thank God, you and your deputy got there so quick. It felt like hours, but I know it was just a few minutes.”

  Bachelor knew that it was exactly three minutes, twenty-eight seconds from the time the call was received to the moment he and Carroll arrived on the scene. One of his campaign promises was to track response times and make the statistics available to the public.

  “Do you know what happened? Who did it?” Morella asked, weakly.

  “No, we’re working the scene right now. Maybe you can help. Do you have any idea who may have wanted to do harm to the couple?”

  “Not at all. I couldn’t imagine. You do know about Mrs. Van Okin, right?”

  “No. What about her?”

  “She has Alzheimer’s disease. She was fading pretty quickly. Why would someone want to do that to her? Or to Dr. Van Okin? All he did was help people.”

  “Do you know of anyone who helped the couple? Maybe someone who did yard work or something?”

  “Dr. Van Okin mowed the lawn and everything. He was very active. Very healthy. And I don’t know anyone else who may have wanted to hurt them. This is so awful.”

  Bachelor rose up. He handed Morella a business card.

  “Thank you for coming down here. Please get in touch with me if you think of anything. I’ll have someone take you back to your car.”

  She got up and he walked her out of the office.

  CHAPTER 7

  Three Days Before the Crime

  Roseanne Cook was on the phone in her cluttered office, which was nothing more than a room in a small trailer at the entrance to the Southern Illinois Migrant Center outside the town of Coleton. She pawed at the papers piled on her desk.

  Roseanne had a special talent. She could talk very clearly while keeping a lit cigarette balanced on her lower lip, held by a thin layer of saliva that behaved like Velcro.

  “There’s a list here somewhere,” she said, holding the phone between her shoulder and chin. “Here it is: printer cartridges, paper towels, sugar … no, that’s an old list.”

  The storm door rattled as a man dressed in a no-nonsense business suit lightly rapped on its flimsy frame.

  “Can I call you back? Someone’s here.”

  She hung up the phone while keeping her eye on the door. “Come in,” she said in a voice that made one imagine what it would sound like if Bette Davis and Kathleen Turner spoke in unison.

  “Roseanne Cook?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Doug Munro,” the man in the suit said over the noise of the window air conditioner, four thousand BTUs straining to make the room bearable on a ninety-five-degree day.

  He handed her a business card indicating that he was indeed Douglas Munro. Special Agent. Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  He pointed to a folding metal chair in the corner.

  “May I?”

  “That’s what it’s for,” Roseanne said.

  She looked him over from head to toe. Not bad. He was, she estimated, about six-foot-one. A beautiful, thick head of black hair, a strong nose, a stylish five o’clock shadow and sky-blue eyes.

  “We don’t get many visits from government folks. Didn’t think you even knew we were here. Except, of course, IRS and immigration. But I guess you’re not either one of those, are you?”

  Munro held a manila folder in his hand.

  “Nope.”

  “Then what can I do for you, Mr. Munro? Or may I call you Doug?”

  He straightened his tie. The chair squeaked under the hundred-ninety pounds of pure hunk, with a face that looked like it could be the inspiration for a classic Greek bust.

  “How many people live here?”

  She gently put her fingers on the cigarette hanging from her mouth, lightly squeezed, and inhaled it as if it were the only thing in the world that could satisfy her.

  “There’s 36 houses at this camp. Some people call them barracks, but they’re houses. Family homes. They can hold up to eight people each, but most don’t, and some are empty. Especially lately. Since you’re with the all-knowing FBI, I’m sure you’re aware that the fruit biz around these parts ain’t exactly thriving like it used to. Anyway, there are about a hundred-twenty here right now, give or take. Including kids. About thirty-five families. By the way, what business is it of yours? With all due respect and everything.”

  “You have a man living here named Miguel Cuellar?”

  “Do I get a prize for a correct answer?”

  “Look, Ms. Cook. May I call you Roseanne? I’m just a working stiff, trying to make the world a slightly less shitty place than it is. Like you. Like Mr. Cuellar. And the good news is, as soon as I get the information I need, the sooner I’ll be done with my job. The sooner I’m done with my job, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair, which, I’m guessing, is Clairol Medium Reddish Blonde. And by the way, it is a violation of federal law to lie to an FBI agent. With all due respect.”

  “Damn, you’re pretty good. It’s Clairol Natural Warm Auburn. It’s close to the Reddish Blonde, depending on the lighting. Some people who are within spittin’ distance of being color blind can’t tell the difference.”

  She gently flipped her hair.

  “But yeah, Miguel lives here. Did he do something wrong?”

  She took another drag and drifted closer to ecstasy. Munro’s gaze pierced hers like a laser.

  “He’s not in trouble. I don’t give a shit where he came from, how many anchor babies he has or what he does with his money. I just need some information.”

  “OK, shoot.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “You need a date?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  Roseanne pulled out a drawer of a file cabinet and thumbed through some folders. She found one, took it out, set it on her desk and opened it. An ash of unfulfilled tobacco pleasure fell onto it. She gently brushed it off.

  “He began receiving our services on June fifth of last year,” she said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t in the area before then.”

  “Has he had any serious medical problems that you know of?”

  She put out the cigarette in an empty Pepsi can and blew a full stream of smoke that covered the office.

  “We do what we can to help them out. They came a long way to a strange land. We give them a place to stay. And they pay rent. But they’re not prisoners here. Of course, they have medical problems
, like anyone. But they usually don’t go to the doctor. They don’t want to miss any work. These people don’t get paid by the hour; at least most don’t. And there aren’t a shitload of job benefits, like sick pay. Not that things aren’t getting better. I got nothing against the orchard people. Some of them are havin’ a hard time too. But I still keep my eye on ‘em. Can’t help it. Habit, I guess. Always looking out for the underdog. Though nowadays it’s hard to tell which one that is.”

  She pawed at the cigarette pack, but it was empty. Munro pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights out of his jacket pocket. He put one in his mouth and offered Roseanne another.

  She put it to her lips and he lit it with his fancy Ronson. She took a long drag. Then he lit his, took a short puff, and held it in, focusing on this beneficent queen of the migrants.

  “The camp is more than just cheap housing,” Roseanne said. “It’s a social center. We offer things. English classes, pre-school education, banking services, legal assistance. We stock ingredients for Hispanic dishes in a little shop here. They can also get Spanish-language newspapers and magazines.”

  Munro listened patiently.

  “These are good people. Better than those fucking so-called gangstas in Chicago, pardon my French, mowing each other down every night, sometimes taking out an innocent little girl who’s doing nothing more than walking home from school or church or something. Collateral damage, they call it. These people down here work hard. They love their families. They worship Jesus and send up prayers to the Virgin Mary. And they mind their own asses.”

  Munro shifted in the metal chair. He leaned forward, flipping an ash into the empty Pepsi can sitting on Roseanne’s desk.

  “Is it possible that Cuellar could have been treated for prostate cancer?”

  Roseanne suddenly looked bored.

  “I have no idea. Plus, it’s none of my business. Illegal, too, I believe. They got these hippo laws.”

  “HIPAA,” Munro said. “The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act.”