by Nat Williams
CHAPTER 27
Two days before the crime
David Purcell pulled his pickup truck into the Southern Illinois Migrant Center and parked it in front of the trailer office inhabited by Roseanne Cook. He walked up the steps to the wooden porch and opened the storm door.
Inside, a window air conditioner hummed. Roseanne was half-watching a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie on the smallest TV he had ever seen. She looked up at Purcell.
“David. What’s up?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
She knew him well, as she did all the orchard owners in the region. Probably better, since he had come on to her a couple times and she set him straight, reminding him that he was a married man. Plus, he wasn’t her type. And she seemed like the kind of gal who wouldn’t hesitate to kick a man in the balls if she didn’t like the direction things were going.
“What do you mean?”
“I heard some suit’s been poking his nose around here. Heard he was here the other day. In your office. Anything I should know about?”
“Well, he’s got beautiful blue eyes, a hard body and dresses like a peacock.”
“I’ll file that away in my who-gives-a-fuck folder,” Purcell said. “I mean, who is he and what’s he doing here? From what I hear, he didn’t look like a salesman.”
Roseanne reached for her pack of Marlboros.
“And, according to your divine gift of observation, what exactly does a salesman look like?”
“Well, he usually doesn’t drive a Cadillac, unless he’s pretty successful. And if he’s pretty successful, he wouldn’t be hanging around this shithole.”
“And a good-looking, successful guy wearing nice clothes and driving a fancy car wouldn’t pay me a social visit because … why?”
She gently lit the cigarette with a fuchsia-colored Bic lighter.
“Don’t give me any shit, Roseanne. I don’t have time for it. Who was he?”
“Do I get a prize for a correct answer?”
Sure, she’d used that line on Munro, but thought it was worth another go.
“Sure. Let’s see. Yeah, I won’t unfriend you on Facebook. Look, just let me know who the dick was so I can go about my business. I got some stuff going on and I don’t need anybody cramping my style.”
“Damn. That’s original. What kind of style do you have that could be cramped?”
“Did I mention I don’t have time for this?”
“I got all the time in the world,” Roseanne said. She looked at her watch. “Actually, I only have about five more hours before I get off, so my time is limited a little. If you don’t care to wait.”
“All right. Forget it. You know I got some problems.”
“You’re gonna have to get way more specific.”
A vein in David Purcell’s neck bulged.
“We’re really on the same side, you know. If the orchards are dying, the workers are leaving. If the workers are leaving, you don’t have any customers.”
“Clients.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
Roseanne Cook turned to David. Her mannerisms somehow put him on his heels.
“You think this is a business, like yours?”
“No, I know it’s different. But that doesn’t change the fact that we have the same goals. Right?”
“In some ways, yes. In others, hell no. I know you guys are having a hard time, like I told Doug.”
David put his hands on her desk and leaned forward, almost menacingly.
“Doug? Who the hell is Doug?”
Roseanne, taken aback after a rare misstep, reverted to her usual backup: music.
“He’s a picker. He’s a grinner. He’s a lover. And he’s a sinner. Playing music in the sun.”
“What?”
“Steve Miller Band. You’ve heard it, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it. And it sucks.”
“Well, you’re entitled to your own opinion. It is a free country, after all. Anyway, I’m not sure exactly who he is yet. I ain’t done Googling him.”
Purcell shook his head and reached for the door handle. Roseanne tilted her head upward ever so subtly, her chin becoming the room’s fulcrum. She blew out a thin stream of smoke that resembled a shoelace.
“Well, dear, to be honest, we were talking about the blues.”
“The blues?”
“Not depression. The music.”
David’s frustration was taking a physical form. He was virtually shaking.
“I told you, I don’t have time for this. I know about your hand and the cookie jar. Some things in your past are better left in the past, wouldn’t you say?”
She tapped the ash off the end of her cigarette into a Pepsi can.
“He was a cop. Just asking some basic questions.”
“What kind of cop? What questions?”
Roseanne held out her palms.
“Whoa, big fella. He was asking about the migrants. Probably just following up on some bullshit complaint. I’m sure DHS has a big-ass budget and bureaucrats gotta justify their existence. They got all that money and lots of ways to spend it. They’re under pressure to lean on migrants and use that as an excuse to give some government dude a face-to-face with Yours Truly. Not exactly a bad assignment, you think?”
“You mean he was federal? What was he fishing for?”
“He was just being polite, asking about the health of some of the residents here. I guess just making sure everyone is being treated well.”
Purcell tensed up. He balled his fists.
“I’m not buying that. Who else did he ask about? Me?”
Roseanne smiled as she blew out another stream of smoke.
“My, don’t we have a high opinion of ourselves. Don’t worry, babe, he didn’t ask about you. Why would he?”
“I don’t know. Never mind. Anyway, let me know if he contacts you again. And what he wants.”
“You got it, sweetheart. Good luck with your crop this year.”
David opened the door.
“I really do mean that, you know,” Roseanne said.
David paused for a moment, the door half open.
“I know you do. I know this sounds stupid. Corny, probably.”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t mind if you prayed for me. For us, I mean. We’re going through some really hard times.”
“I will. And I do mean that.”
He closed the door, got in his truck and pulled out of the camp. Roseanne pulled the curtain away from the tiny window and watched as he backed his truck up, turned toward the exit and pulled away. She took another drag from her cigarette and made an oblong smoke cloud that was a dead ringer for the artwork on the cover of Led Zeppelin’s first album.
CHAPTER 28
The orchard was on a slightly elevated piece of land, which usually meant a mild breeze would at least make the oppressive heat bearable. But today there was no breeze. There were peaches ready to be picked. That’s the reality of peach harvest – the fruit ripens in the hottest part of the summer. Got a problem with that? Take it up with Mother Nature and her father, God.
Obie Lynch was behind the wheel of a small, open-cab tractor that pulled a flatbed wagon carrying a dozen Mexican laborers. They shared the space with crates, ladders, a 20-gallon water cooler, a toolbox and other odds and ends.
He navigated between rows of Cresthaven trees, then put the brakes on. The old Farmall creaked to a stop and the pickers began hopping off. They each grabbed a straight, wooden ladder and a picking bag, which they strapped over their shoulders. The open-top canvas bag hung from their front.
“We’ll start with these rows,” Obie said to Pedro Mendoza. Like many crew leaders working southern Illinois orchards, the main reason Mendoza was a crew leader was because he was bilingual.
“Comience con estas filas,” he repeated to the crew.
They immediately went to work, each leaning a ladder against a tree, climbing a few rungs and
pulling fruit with both hands, dropping them in the bags they wore. Obie never tired of watching the pickers work their magic. They performed like machines, emptying one tree of its ripe fruit, climbing down, grabbing the ladder and moving to the next one. He did the same for years, but obviously didn’t have the opportunity to pay attention.
The workers were paid a salary but also piecework, which made efficiency a profitable trait. Most did very well, earning as much as eight to ten dollars an hour. For the same work in their native land they would have pulled down maybe two-hundred pesos a day – about twelve U.S. dollars. No wonder they tripped over themselves to make the Worker Run each year.
It hadn’t been ten minutes since the pickers had started when Obie got a call on his cellphone. He looked at the ID. It was Jenny Hahn from the retail shop. Jenny, a skinny blonde just out of high school, answered the phone and rang up customer purchases of fruit and other odds and ends, such as jams, honey and jars of pickled peppers.
Compared to many of the other orchards in the region, Purcell’s didn’t offer much in the way of extraneous goods. Shockley’s, Bergmann and other successful orchards catered more to the public. They filled their shops with food products, recipe books, T-shirts and other merchandise.
“What’s up, Jenny?” Obie said as he stood next to the wagon.
“There’s someone here that needs to talk to you.”
“I’m busy right now. We probably won’t be in for two or three hours.”
“It’s the cops.”
Obie was silent.
“You still there?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Volveré pronto,” he said to the crew. He caught Pedro’s eyes. “I have to see someone at the shop. I’ll be back pretty soon.”
He unhitched the wagon, fired up the tractor and rolled out of the orchard onto the blacktop. Soon he pulled into the gravel parking lot fronting the main office. He rolled the tractor past an aging sign with faded letters that read Purcell Orchards and entered the retail shop.
Frank Bachelor and Jerry Carroll were waiting inside, doing what little browsing was possible among the limited offerings. They turned when they heard the crunch of the tractor pulling into the gravel parking lot. Obie entered the shop.
“Obie Lynch?” Bachelor said, holding out his hand. “Frank Bachelor.” He nodded toward Carroll. “Jerry Carroll, my chief deputy.”
Obie shook their hands. “I believe we’ve met before.”
“Yes, I think so,” Bachelor said. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Obie pointed to the packing shed across the lot. “There’s an office there.”
The three men took the short walk to the building. They climbed the steps next to the loading dock and entered a dimly lit area that included a long beltline, wooden pallets, a forklift and crates. He led them to an office tucked into a corner of the shed. Obie picked up some newspapers, catalogs and other dusty reading material from the folding metal chairs and placed them on the floor.
“You probably know why we’re here,” Bachelor said.
“I’m not really sure,” Obie answered. “Does it have something to do with the Van Okins?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t really know anything.”
“As you can imagine, in a case this serious, we talk to a lot of people.”
“I’m sure.”
“Anyway, I have a few questions for you.”
Bachelor pulled out a notepad and glanced at some scribblings.
“Where were you between the evening of August the second and the early hours of August the third?”
“I was at home. Sleeping.”
“Is there anyone who can corroborate that?”
“If you mean do I have a roommate, then no. I used to be married. But … well, not anymore.”
“You live on property owned by the Purcells, right?”
“Yes. I rent a place.”
“When did you first hear about the crime?”
Obie turned his head slightly, as if looking for the teleprompter of his memory.
“I’m not sure. Mid-morning, I believe. Janet called.”
“Were you with David Purcell that evening?”
“No. I stopped by Lefty’s for a couple of drinks and headed home. Live PD was on.”
“Any idea who may have had reason to kill the Van Okins?”
“None at all. I can’t imagine why anyone’d want to hurt them.”
“Do you know if anyone had access to the Dr. Van Okin place? Maybe someone who did work for them? Relative? Anyone?”
“I wouldn’t know. Probably just David and Janet.”
Bachelor handed Obie his card.
“Let me know if anything comes to mind, OK? We’ll be in touch.”
“Sure thing.”
Obie got back on the tractor and headed back to the field.
CHAPTER 29
Bachelor’s cell phone rang as he steered the squad car back to town. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Bachelor,” he answered.
“Sheriff, I hear you been looking for me.”
“Mr. Tucker?”
“Yeah, this is Tuck.”
“We’d like to talk to you, yeah.”
“I don’t like having word out that the cops are wanting to talk to me. Not good for my reputation.”
From what little he knew about Tucker, his reputation wasn’t worth fretting over.
“Gotcha. Then let’s get this out of the way, shall we?”
“You at the office?”
“I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”
“OK, I’ll meet you there in ten.”
Twenty-two minutes later, Tuck came strolling into Bachelor’s office. Bachelor had already told Liz Johnson, his secretary, that he would be having company. Carroll sat in a chair beside the desk.
Tucker swaggered in, looking around like he was casing the place. Habit. He had a dark, square face and good hair that highlighted a strong forehead. He sported a mustache and five o’clock shadow that matured at four o’clock. He wore a silver chain around his neck and matching silver earrings.
His good looks were partly the result of the projection of his personality. Bachelor could imagine that his swag could draw women. And drive them away just as quickly.
Bachelor motioned for him to take a seat.
“I don’t have long. I’m a busy man,” Tucker said.
“I’ll bet.”
“Yeah, I been lookin’ for a job. My girl’s dad may need someone down at the salvage yard.”
Bachelor tapped his pencil.
“Last time I talked to your girl, she wasn’t your girl anymore.”
Tucker shook his head.
“Aw, just a snag. We’ve agreed to give each other a little time. You know, reassess our relationship. She’ll come around.”
“That’s what I hear,” Bachelor said. “So where were you Saturday morning, like right after midnight?
“I was sleepin’ like a baby.”
“Sounds like you don’t have a place to lay your head right now. Where were you sleeping?”
Tucker shook his head.
“Hell, I don’t remember. I got lots of friends. I crash wherever I can.”
“What if I told you I know you weren’t sleeping?”
“What, you a peeping Tom or somethin’? Lookin’ in my windows to get your jollies?”
“This is not a good time to strut your stuff, Tuck. Why don’t you tell me why you were driving a stolen vehicle on the night a double murder took place?”
“You’re trippin’, man. What the hell you been smokin’?”
Bachelor leaned forward.
“You got a bank account, right? With a debit card?”
“Most people do nowadays. So what?”
“And you used it at Jack’s Shack in the wee hours of Saturday, August third.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I got no idea what the hel
l you’re talkin’ about. I think someone took my debit card the other day. I’m still working on getting those charges taken off.”
“I’m talking about you driving a stolen vehicle right around the time of a double murder, remember? One that was seen at the Van Okin property shortly after midnight. This isn’t something you can ‘sleep like a baby’ through.”
“Let’s get this straight. I didn’t know them people, I didn’t have any reason to kill them people. And uh, let me think … yeah, it’s all comin’ back to me. I didn’t kill them people. Sorry to disappoint you. By the way, I didn’t steal no fuckin’ truck, either.”
Bachelor tapped the eraser of his pencil on a legal pad.
“Who said anything about a truck?”
“You did.”
“No I didn’t,” Bachelor said. “I said vehicle.”
Tucker stood up.
“Bullshit. I didn’t steal nothin’ and I didn’t kill nobody. And I don’t appreciate being accused of stuff I didn’t do.”
Bachelor tapped his pencil again.
“You’re pretty good at getting off little shit. But this is big shit. Really big shit. If you’re mixed up in this it’s going to take a lot more than your punk-ass attitude to get you out of it. And the more you dance around like this, the harder it’s going to be on you.”
“Am I free to go?”
Bachelor raised his right arm, palm up.
“You’re free. For now. We’ll be talking again. Oh, and thanks for coming in. Good call on your part.”
Tucker walked out of the office with a little less bluster than when he walked in.
CHAPTER 30
Carroll’s eyes followed Tucker as he exited the building. He tilted his head and looked at Bachelor.
“We just gonna let him go?”
“What do we have? A pickup truck that was vaguely identified by a bread truck driver at 1:30 a.m. and ended up at the same place it was before it was allegedly stolen. A video that appears to show Manny Tucker shopping at a convenience store in C-Camp.”
Carroll sighed.
“Well, when you put it like that …”
“Plus, what do we have at the Van Okin home? No forced entry, nothing stolen, no sign of a struggle. I’m having a hard time picking up on a motive for Mr. Tucker.”
