Bone Harvest

by Mary Logue

  Judy rolled her eyes, but Claire could tell she liked all the excitement. “They’ve still got their suits on today. And they’ve been tromping around in the fields. They’ve gotta be hot as the dickens in them.” Judy shook her head and pointed toward the conference room. “I just delivered lunch.”

  When Claire walked into the room, Stewy held up a bag for her. She had been starving when she left the Lindstroms’, but had decided she needed to get back to the office to check in before eating. She thought she had had a piece of toast for breakfast, but couldn’t quite remember. Tyrone was talking about the new letter the paper had received.

  “What strikes me about this letter is that it’s handwritten. That element tells us something very important about this man,” Tyrone was saying.

  Not wanting to interrupt him midthought, Claire leaned against the wall by the door.

  Singer saw her and nodded. Tyrone was in full sermon and didn’t notice her. The sheriff and chief deputy were listening, but looking into their lunch bags at the same time. Not much threw them off their feed.

  Tyrone leaned over the table. “This guy wants us to catch him. Or maybe to put it more implicitly, he doesn’t care if we catch him, he doesn’t care if we find out who he is. One thing that’s in his favor, and he knows it, is time. He’s running the schedule and we’re just trying to catch up. Even though we have his handwriting, we have no way to trace it back to him, no database that we can plug it into. He might well realize that, but more probably he just doesn’t care.”

  There was silence; then Claire spoke up. “It might also tell us that he doesn’t own a computer or for that matter a typewriter. This is a farming community. I’d guess that only about fifteen percent of the county is plugged into the Internet; maybe another twenty percent have computers. In fact, it’s hard to get service down here.”

  Everyone turned around to look at her as she walked up to the table and slid in next to Tyrone. “What I noticed was that he didn’t just handwrite it; he used a pencil. My guess is he’s a farmer. They always have pencils on hand to mark things, to jot things down. They work better in dust and grease than an ink pen.”

  Tyrone looked at Claire with some interest. With a nod in his direction, she added, “But I think you’re right that he doesn’t care if we find out who he is. Also obvious by the way he sauntered up to the Danielses’ house last night and dropped off the rest of the bones. He’s a man on a mission and he wants it done and figures it will be done before we can stop him. He’s wrong about that.”

  Singer spoke up. “What I don’t understand is that if he really wants this information, the truth about these old murders, then why does he put such a tight time limit on it?”

  Claire had given the deadline issue quite a bit of consideration over the last several days. “I think this date is very important to him. He probably has watched it roll around for many years. This year he wants everyone to remember what happened on the seventh of July. He’s never forgotten.”

  Stewy slapped his sandwich down on the table. “I think it’s because he’s nuts. He just wants to raise hell. And he’s doing it. People in this community are scared. I’m getting calls from all sorts of people demanding that we catch this guy and make the county safe again. When this next letter is published today, I expect all-out panic to erupt. We’ve got to do something. But first let’s eat.” Swanson dug into his bag and everyone else followed suit.

  Claire opened the bag lunch that was waiting for her. Tuna-salad sandwich. Not her favorite. She wrinkled her nose.

  Tyrone noticed and looked over at her food and said, “I’ll trade you a half a turkey sandwich for part of that tuna.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you.” She handed him half of her sandwich. “I guess my mom made me too many tuna-fish sandwiches for school lunches when I was growing up.”

  “My mother specialized in olive loaf.” He smiled at her and she envied his straight, white teeth. Teeth always looked better next to dark skin. His skin, seen close, was the color of the dark soil in her garden. Good growing soil.

  He said, “I heard you used to work for the Minneapolis police department.”

  “Seems like a long time ago, but yes, I was an officer there.”

  “That’s a big agency. Nearly the size of Milwaukee. I’ve done some work with them. Quite a change to come here.”

  She had expected a note of condescension in his voice, but was surprised to find a bit of envy. “Yes. I’ve enjoyed having more of a life.”

  “I hear you. I like working for the DCI, but I enjoy the traveling less and less. My idea of fun is not sleeping in the Durand Hotel without air-conditioning. Like I had to do last night.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “My air-conditioning unit didn’t work. I ended up bunking in with Phil. We get along, but too much togetherness is not good. Neither of us was too happy about the sleeping arrangement. But it gave me some time to go over the file on the Schuler murders. Man, that’s some grisly reading.”

  “You find anything up at the Danielses’?”

  Her question caught him in midbite. He carefully took his time finishing chewing and then patted his mouth with his napkin before answering. He looked at her and then said, “No. But what occurred to me was that there is a good chance this man walked over there. I mean, he might have had a truck tucked into the weeds on a side road. But maybe he’s a neighbor, just waiting for an opportunity to teach everybody a lesson.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Bridget stretched out on the lounge chair on the screened-in porch. Even though it was going into the eighties today, there was a slight breeze from the east and it was cool. She patted her belly. She had almost lost all the weight she had gained with the baby. She had ridden Joker this morning before her husband went to work. Rachel had just gone down for a nap and would probably sleep for a couple of hours. Bridget thought of all the things she should do while she had the chance.

  First she wanted to call her sister. Bridget hadn’t heard from her since Claire had called asking about the pesticides.

  The fact that she hadn’t heard from Claire in three days made her nervous. They usually talked every day or two. She picked up the cordless phone and punched in her sister’s work number.

  “Watkins here.” Her sister’s voice was crisp and so sharp that Bridget wondered how many cups of coffee she had had so far this morning.

  “This is your darling sister. I haven’t heard from you in a few days. What’s going on over there? I read about the poisonings.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy. I should have called you. The man who stole the pesticides is wreaking havoc.”

  “Mom used to use that phrase—wreaking havoc—but as I recall it was about the way your room looked.”

  “Thanks for that reminder.”

  “So are you working nonstop?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Meg? Do you want her to come and stay with me for a few days?” Bridget didn’t know how Claire managed on her own, trying to raise a daughter with the hours her work required.

  “Thanks, but she’s taken care of. She went to stay at Steven’s parents. They’re happy to have her. She’s having a good time. They dote on her.”

  “I bet. How are you and Rich doing?”

  Claire didn’t say anything for a moment; then her voice sounded lower. “What, do you have extrasensory perception or something? Why do you ask?”

  Something was going on. Bridget had felt that those two were ready to take another step forward. They had moved up to spending nearly every other day together. She wouldn’t be surprised to hear they were going to move in together. “I don’t know. Just wondering how he handles it when you get so busy.”

  “Not great.” Claire took a deep breath and then confessed, “Bridge, he asked me to marry him.”

  “Oh, a wedding. I love it.” When Claire had married Steven, they had done the justice-of-the-peace route. Bridget had been so disappointed. This time she wo
uld insist on more and offer her help. Maybe a simple church wedding, early fall, great flowers, and a buffet dinner. They could do it at her house in Wabasha. It would be perfect. Too bad Rachel wasn’t old enough to be a flower girl.

  “Slow down, Bridget. I haven’t said yes yet.”

  “And why not?” Bridget thought Rich was perfect for her sister. A little on the quiet side, but he had a real solid sense of humor that would get them through the tough times. And he loved Meg.

  “I’m not sure I want to get married again.”

  Don’t argue with her, Bridget coached herself. Whenever you argue with Claire she gets stubborn. “I can understand that. Losing a husband the way you did might make a woman jumpy.”

  “Maybe that’s it.”

  “How do you feel about Rich?”

  “I think he’s great. He’s one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. So considerate. Solid.”

  “Boring?” Bridget asked, wondering what could be wrong. It might be the sex. Claire had her needs.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. But certainly traditional. I think that’s one of the reasons he has such a hard time when I’m not available to him, when I have to work such long hours. He has this image of the good woman by his side. Not necessarily doing everything for him, but available.”

  “The man can go out into the world and the little wife is supposed to be home with dinner ready whenever he arrives, but it can’t be the other way around.”

  “In all fairness to Rich, I think he wouldn’t mind having dinner ready. It isn’t that he wants me to take care of him. I actually think he’d rather take care of me. But he wants me to be there. His idea of a relationship doesn’t allow for much room to move. He’s surprisingly needy.”

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I needed time to think.”

  “How much time?”

  “Well, I wasn’t specific.”

  Bridget knew she had pushed as far as Claire was comfortable. They needed to have a longer talk. Maybe it was time for Rachel and her to go visit Auntie Claire. “Take your time. This is a big decision.”

  “Bridget, I gotta go. I can’t think about anything else but this pesticide guy. It might be over tomorrow; it might be starting tomorrow. It depends on if I can figure out what is going on. It’s hard to think about love when people are in danger.”

  Ray Sorenson walked into the sheriff’s department and asked to see Claire Watkins. “Do you want to go back? Her desk is right in the main room,” the woman receptionist told him.

  “I’d like to see her out here, if that’s okay,” he said. He didn’t want to talk about Folger with a whole room listening. “Could you go get her?”

  It took a minute, but then Claire appeared. She had her hair pulled back from her face and the top button on her uniform undone. She looked tired and preoccupied, but when she saw Ray she smiled. It made him feel worse.

  “Ray,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Can we go outside?”

  “Sure, that sounds good.” She followed him outside. She looked around like she hadn’t seen the day yet. “I can use a break.”

  “My pickup’s over there. In the shade. I left the windows open, so it shouldn’t be too hot. We could sit in there.”

  “Fine.”

  When they got to his Ford Ranger pickup truck, Ray walked around and opened the passenger-side door for her. She thanked him and climbed in. He circled the truck, jumped in his side, and pushed back the seat. He didn’t know where to start. She was looking at him, waiting.

  “This is hard,” he said.

  She didn’t say anything. He took a deep breath, then started. “I’m kinda being blackmailed.”

  “Really?” she said, and waited.

  “You remember about Tiffany,” he said, making it half a question.

  She nodded.

  “Well, once she came to see me at the co-op.”

  This time she asked, “At the co-op?”

  “Things got out of hand.”

  She waited.

  “It was Tiffany’s idea.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We kinda did it in the storage area.”

  “Oh.” The deputy turned and looked out the windshield.

  He thought maybe it would have gone easier if they were driving. They could have driven down to the river or anyplace. If they were moving, they would have something else to look at while he told his story. “Someone saw us.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Mr. Folger.”

  “The agronomist.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s blackmailing you?”

  “I guess.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He said that if I told him about what’s going on in this investigation about the stolen pesticides and everything—anything that I could get out of my dad he wants to know—that he wouldn’t tell my father about what I did with Tiffany.”

  As he spoke, Ray couldn’t help remembering what he and Tiffany had done. She had wanted to do it like the animals, she said. Being in with the feed and all, she wanted him to take her like a horse, from behind. She had dropped her jeans and offered her white buttocks to him. He had been unable to resist. He hated to be thinking about it with this woman deputy in the car with him. He felt like she, in her quiet way, would be able to read his thoughts.

  Claire sat for a moment, then asked, “Why is he so interested in all of this?”

  “He’s got an obsession with the Schulers.”

  Claire turned and looked at him. “Really? How do you know that?”

  “It’s gone on forever with him. He’s shown me the newspaper clippings. He has a whole file on the murders. I think it was the most important thing that happened in his life.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “I think you’ve already done it. You’ve come and talked to me, reported Folger. What he’s doing is against the law. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Are you going to let my dad know?”

  “No, but I think you should. You don’t need to lay it all out for him. But I think you should let him know that you did something inappropriate with Tiffany at work and that you’re really sorry. Assure him it won’t happen again. That way if Folger does tell him, it won’t be as big a shock. But I think I’ll take care of Folger for you. I don’t think he’ll be divulging anything to anybody.”

  “Tell my dad?” It was the last thing in the world Ray wanted to do. The thought of having his dad know anything about Tiffany made him want to gag. Maybe it would have been better to let Folger tell him. Then he wouldn’t need to see his father’s face when he heard the news of his son’s bad behavior.

  “Give him a heads-up. Don’t go into gory detail. He was young once, too. He might even understand.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Claire touched him on the shoulder and made him look at her. “You need to pull in the reins on this young woman you’re seeing.”

  Wearing plastic gloves, Claire lined up and counted the ivory-colored objects. Eight. Then she counted them again. Still only eight. The number didn’t seem right to her. There were seven people killed at the Schulers’—two adults and five children. Seven baby fingers cut off. There were three bones in each finger. That should make twenty-one bones. They had found seven bones when the pesticides were stolen, one by the dead flowers, one by the chickens, and one with the lemonade. That made ten bones they had found. That left eleven, but all she had was eight.

  There was one whole finger still missing.

  “You need to get those ready to send off to the crime lab,” Tyrone told her when he walked into the back room.

  “I know. I want to take some pictures of them. Some close-ups. They are like pieces of a puzzle. I think one of the fingers is missing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Claire explained to him what she had realized. “I’d like to figure out
whose finger is missing.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “By trying to match up the bones we have found and see what size they are. We might be able to figure out whose finger isn’t there.” She pointed out two very small bones. “These are obviously the baby’s. However, even if we puzzle this out, it might not tell us much. Maybe some of the bones were lost. Maybe the pesticide guy still has some. But it’s worth a try.”

  “Do you have pictures of the other bones?”

  “Yes, but they’re not exactly to size. It might be hard to match them up.”

  “What about the pipe tobacco can?”

  “That’s ready to go.” She lifted up a Polaroid. “I have a picture of that. I talked to an antique dealer in town, and she said this particular tin was being made in the late forties, early fifties. Fairly common, she said. Worth about ten bucks now. I wonder if it would be worthwhile to ask around and see if anyone remembers who used this particular brand. It was so long ago, it’s hard to say what someone might remember. I might call Harold Peabody at the paper. He seems to have a mind like a steel trap.”

  “The sheriff just stationed someone at the water tower to watch it until we catch this guy. He said he was going to poison the water, and that might well be where he would plan on doing it.”

  “Good thought.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Earl Lowman had forgotten the lush green beauty of the Iowa farmland in midsummer. He had pulled over at a rest stop to relieve himself and stretch his legs. The fields around him were in full growth and the grass leaned in the wind like the plush nap of green velvet. Tucson was brittle and dry this time of year, and he avoided going outside in the middle of the day.

  The sun was still quite high, but it was getting toward the end of the afternoon. He had been driving for ten hours already. He had gotten up at five and left by six. He had another six hours to go before he drove into Wisconsin.

  He didn’t know how he was going to do it. His head felt like it was full of water and if he leaned to one side it all sloshed over, pulling him that way. Sleep was what he needed. Just a short nap. An hour or so and he would still get into Durand before midnight.