Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “I'd say you were looking good but I'd be a liar,” Jake said.

  “You don't look so hot yourself. Your chest is down around your testicles,” I replied.

  “You always had a sharp tongue, even as a kid.” His face crinkled into what might have been a smile or a grimace. “I'm not here to apologize….”

  “Why change now?”

  “Look…” Jake paused. “I could do with a smoke. Let's step out on to the porch. I know your aunt doesn't like smoking in the house.” I didn't say anything. He craned around. “Sid–going for a smoke–all right?” The older cop looked at him, then at me and waved his hand. “Guy thinks I'm going to make a run for it,” Jake muttered. “That's a laugh.”

  We stepped out on to the porch. I shook out a Sweet Cap and lit it for him. He took a long pull.

  “Neighborhood hasn't changed that much,” he said, taking in the neat lawns, the kid across the street washing his daddy's Biscayne–white with red leather interior–the guy opposite pushing a hand mower. I think I saw Jake shudder in fear and loathing at the domestic scene in front of him. Never enough action for Jake Gold and certainly not in this boring neighborhood where the strip mall two blocks down had a Laundromat, a cinema, a hairdresser's and a bowling alley. Nowhere to buy a beer or place a bet.

  “How would you know? We only lived here five minutes.”

  He gave me a sour look like I caused all his problems.

  “Can't we just talk without gouging each other's eyes out?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” I replied.

  He wheezed out some smoke. “You haven't changed.”

  “Either have you and I don't mean that in a good way.”

  “You still think and talk like a copper.”

  “Better than acting like a goniff,” I said.

  Jake shrugged. “It's a living.”

  I almost laughed. “No, it's not. What kind of living you going to make when they send you up to Kingston Pen for 10 years? Oh right. You can save the pennies you earn in the prison laundry or bank your take home pay from weaving baskets.”

  “Who says I'm going up to the Pen?” he asked.

  “Well, that's where convicted felons go, especially those who commit murder.”

  Jake took another long drag but couldn't keep the smirk off his creased face. “Maybe some guys end up there but not me.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah—bigshot–really.”

  “How do you figure?” Jake didn't answer but gave a shrug in response. The sort of gesture that if he hadn't been so decrepit as well as my old man, I would have slapped him around. Hard. Family. The buttons they push.

  “You'll see,” he said.

  “I don't give a shit.”

  “You're not as sharp as you used to be,” Jake said. “I can see that someone laid into you real good. In fact, I heard about it inside. I hear about a lot of things. I've still got connections in this town.”

  “As you can see I'm still standing.”

  “I heard something else too.”

  “Yeah? What's that?”

  This time he didn't hide the sneer. Jake always wanted to win. It was a compulsion. It explained why he was a lousy gambler and a rotten crook. Couldn't walk away when ahead of the game.

  “You're looking for a little Chink girl and her kid.” He took a final drag then flicked the butt on to the front walk. “Am I right?”

  “Where'd you hear that?”

  “Like I said, Boychick. I still got connections.”

  He began to turn away to head back inside. I grabbed the meaty part of his shoulder and squeezed. “I asked you a question, Jake.”

  He snorted. “Tough guy. Doesn't even call me dad….”

  “So?”

  Jake peeled my fingers off him. “You come see me and maybe I'll let you in on something. Something that could see you through.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Jake shook his head. “Sorry, Boychick. Doesn't work that way.” With the old man, there'd always been a price to pay. He yanked on the screen door and stepped inside.

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered. “Son of a bitch.”

  27

  I said, “If Henry Turner was still alive, where would he be hiding?”

  “What are you thinking?” Birdie asked.

  I explained it to him.

  “I can't get those damned broken toys out of my mind and Mrs. Turner's unshaken faith that her son isn't dead. Let's start with Aida Turner's place. It makes sense that if he was alive he'd want to stay somewhere close but out of sight. So, why don't we start there and work our way out and see what we find?”

  “You mean, like concentric circles?”

  I looked at him. He never ceased to surprise me. “Exactly.”

  We took our time driving around the streets with Aida Turner's apartment at the centre, gradually working our way outward. Eventually, the circle grew wider and wider until we ended up at the knacker's yards. Canada Packers slaughterhouse.

  “He wouldn't be here,” Birdie said. “The smell alone would kill him.”

  I shrugged. It wasn't just the odour of animal parts or tanned hides that assaulted the senses. It was the smell of fear. “Maybe that's why no one would look for him here,” I said. “But I agree, it's a long shot. I wouldn't last five minutes.”

  We pulled up to the gatehouse, minus the gate.

  A guy who put his belly first, ambled out of the guard hut. I could hear the radio–tuned to a Bison's ballgame from Buffalo.

  “What happened to the gate?” I asked.

  “Drunk trucker drove through it a while back. Been waiting for it to be fixed,” the guard said.

  “How long ago was that?” I asked.

  “Five years, give or take,” the guard replied.

  “No worries about security, I guess?”

  “Not too many cows break out of here,” the guy drawled. “Not since I've been working here. And I don't think any would try to sneak in, neither.”

  “How you doing, Muldoon? Been a while.”

  “Not bad, Sarge. How about you?”

  “I'm not on the force anymore. Working private now.”

  Muldoon, lifted his frayed cap and scratched his graying head. “No kidding. That's too bad.”

  I introduced Birdie, who reached across to shake Muldoon's hand. The ex-cop hesitated then extended his arm tentatively.

  “You like working here, Muldoon?”

  “Can't stand the smell, to be honest. Gets under your fingernails, seeps into everything. The wife hates it. Even bleach won't get it out. Apart from that, it's fine. I got no complaints.”

  “We're looking for a guy,” I said.

  Muldoon chuckled. “Well, you can take your pick of 855 of 'em and 47 women too.”

  “Don't think he's working here. I'm wondering if he could be shacking up somewhere.”

  Muldoon looked surprised. “Here? He'd have to be crazy. No one in their right mind would want to spend an extra second in this place.”

  “Well, for a guy who doesn't want to be found, it could make sense,” I said.

  Muldoon gave it some thought. “A fella would have to be pretty desperate,” he said.

  “Yup. Mind if we take a look?”

  “I gotta call the production supervisor. Let him know you're coming.”

  We drove along the gritty road toward the complex of buildings that looked like a giant cow shed made out of industrial-sized many bricks. An ominous looking smokestack stood to one side. I didn't like to think about what was stoking the ovens or whether it would end up on my plate beside the potatoes and peas at supper. The road followed along a dry riverbed that had leached all its water. The banks appeared crumbly. Good place to toss a carcass or two if you were in mind of it.

  “Not a happy place,” Birdie intoned.

  “No sermons,” I said.

  The road opened up into a marshalling yard where hundreds of trucks stood parked in neat rows. Waiting their turn to ferry t
he dead. As we drew closer, I saw half a dozen guys scurrying between the trucks left off to the side. They climbed into the cabs, started up the engines and maneuvered each rig into alignment. All of the slots were numbered. Then they'd hop down and move on to the next one, all in a coordinated dance.

  “Truck jockeys,” Birdie said.

  “How'd you like to do that for a living?” I asked. He answered by giving me a pitiable look. “Thought so.” We'd had enough of regimentation in the army. To the right of the marshalling area stood a vast parking lot filled with jalopies. Here too, each spot was numbered.

  “Guess they don't get many visitors.”

  Just in front of the main entrance, four spots had been earmarked for guests. Three of them were taken. I pulled into the fourth spot and cut the engine. We stepped out of the car and the animal smell felt like a frontal assault. I shook my head.

  “Smells like Normandy,” Birdie said.

  Not to me. It smelled like Bergen-Belsen. A heavy-set man wearing a weathered hard hat, a badly stained smock, holding a clipboard, stood outside the entrance. He hugged the clipboard to his grimy chest and spread his feet to keep his balance.

  “You the production supervisor?” I asked. He didn't answer. “It wasn't a trick question.”

  The beak of the hard hat dipped. “Yeah, that's right. Dick Olsen. I help you gentlemen?” His face was pale and doughy as if he didn't get outdoors much. “Mr. Muldoon said you were looking for someone?”

  “That's right. Someone who may be hiding out.”

  “You think he's employed by Canada Packers?” Olsen asked.

  I shook my head. “No, hiding out here somewhere. This is a big place.”

  Olsen's jaw dropped and his doughy face creased. I realized he'd put a smile on his wide kisser. “Impossible. This place is locked up tighter than a drum. We operate seven days a week, 24 hours a day. You've got a bum steer, no pun intended.”

  “Even so,” I said. “Mind if we take a look?”

  “You been inside a slaughterhouse before?” Olsen asked.

  “No, but I've seen plenty of slaughter in the War. Is it as bad as that?”

  This time Olsen laughed outright. “Not even close,” he said. “This here's the most modern facility in the country.”

  “Impressive.”

  “You'll need coats and hard hats,” Olsen said. “Come with me.”

  We went through the main entrance into the reception area consisting of a long wooden counter and a desk behind it where a secretary sat typing forms with staccato precision. He pointed to a logbook where we signed our names, the time in and the date. Olsen watched us carefully, checking if we knew how to read and write.

  “This way,” he said.

  He pushed his way through a low swing door and took us into an enlarged cloakroom. White coats hung on pegs and each peg had a number. He walked down the line of coats staring at the numbers. He took one off and tossed it to me. “Your friend might be a challenge.” Olsen walked right to the end of the row. “This is the largest size we have,” he said.

  Birdie took it and shrugged it on. It was tight in the shoulders and the sleeves came partway down his forearms. He looked ridiculous. “It'll have to do.” At the far end of the cloakroom, hardhats were laid out on wooden shelves. Each of these was numbered too. Olsen tossed me a hard hat. It fit perfectly.

  Again, he went to the end of the row, shook his head and held out the hardhat in his hand to Birdie. It added three inches to his height. “Better duck through that doorway.”

  We went through a door marked, Slaughterhouse One. Olsen led us down a long, industrial corridor bare of any markings to a door with a push bar marked, Holding. He pushed the bar and we stepped out onto a concrete platform. The sound of the cattle was deafening, louder than any cattle drive I'd seen in the nickel westerns I'd enjoyed as a kid at the Odeon.

  “These here are the holding pens,” he said. “Cattle are shipped by truck or rail.” He pointed to his left. “Over there is the marshalling yard for the incoming transports.” Then he pointed to his right. “The rail line is on that side, just over that long berm. The rail cars unload at the front of the pens down yonder.”

  I looked but couldn't see that far. The vast pen seemed to disappear into the horizon.

  “Why is it curved?” I asked, indicating the line of fence leading up to the plant.

  Olsen flashed a macabre grin. “Animal welfare and a bit of psychology,” he said.

  I must have looked surprised because the besplattered production man actually laughed.

  “Yeah, that's right. Came out of the anti-cruelty legislation of the Fifties, if you can believe it. Cattle, like all animals, have a survival instinct and they get spooked. If they were lined up straight, they could see and sense what was coming and cause a ruckus. If the animals are spooked, it also affects the quality of the meat. With the fencing set up in a curve, all they can see ahead of them is the butt end of the cow in front. Keeps them calmer and easier to handle.”

  “And this works?” Birdie boomed.

  Olsen nodded, his helmet bouncing on this round head. “Seems to. That's what the knackers say, anyway. Those that have been around for a while and came up using the old methods.”

  “The psychology of death,” I said.

  With a twinkle in his eye, Olsen replied.

  “That's one way of looking at it. I like to think of it as the way of commerce. This is a big business in a bigger industry. You enjoy a steak or a roast for your Sunday dinner, don't you? We're past the days when people went out and slaughtered their own. Now it comes in a nice, neat packet on the supermarket shelf ready to go into the fry pan.”

  I swallowed trying not to breathe in the stink of too many bodies pressed into a tight space.

  There was no way down from the platform so he took us back inside.

  “Here's the good part,” he said, pausing before a door that he had to unlock with a set of keys. When he opened it, we heard the sound of industrial machinery hammering and whining away in addition to the pitiable lowing of the cattle.

  An assembly line of death. The cattle were fed into a kind of chute that kept them immobilized from the neck down. I could see the panic in their eyes. A worker clad in soiled apron, pants and rubber boots picked up what looked like a pneumatic drill and placed it against the cow's forehead. He pulled the trigger and gave it a jolt. The cow's body went slack, the eyes rolled up.

  “That's a captive bolt pistol,” Olsen intoned. “We use it to stun the animal. This way, they can't resist. If they thrash around, our guys could get hurt plus, of course, it slows down production and that costs money.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Maybe they should use them in prisons.” I must have been thinking about Jake and our recent conversation.

  Olsen laughed uncomfortably. “I think the death sentence has been repealed if I'm not mistaken.”

  “Sure it has,” I replied. Nothing but gruesomeness followed.

  The knacker shoved a huge hook into the animal's underbelly, yanked on a pulley and hoisted it in the air, forelegs and head down. Using a razor sharp knife, the worker jabbed the cow at a point just above the neck and behind the jaw line. He brought the blade forward and around, efficiently slitting the cow's neck. The animal jerked on the hoist. I watched the blood spill out. It splashed over the guy's thick rubber boots. Gradually, the cow's eyes lost their luminescence. The floor became slick with globules of fat, littered with bits of gristle and sinew.

  “The carotid artery and jugular are severed,” Olsen lectured. “This leads to exsanguination which means…”

  “I know what it means. I was a cop for 10 years, Olsen.”

  Olsen stopped for a moment, perplexed. I threw him off his rhythm. “Right. Sorry.” He continued. “Once the animal is dead, we remove the head and front and rear feet.”

  The knacker sliced down the corpse vertically, two lines in front and two lines in back. Using what looked like a large pair of pliers, he gr
abbed the edge of the hide and peeled it off in strips.

  “Those are called 'pullers' for obvious reasons,” Olsen said.

  “I wouldn't mind using those on a guy I know,” I said.

  “Just one?” Birdie asked.

  “You've got a point,” I replied.

  Olsen chuckled. He seemed to enjoy our banter. I'm sure he liked doing the tour just to see what sort of reactions he got.

  The knacker cut into the belly of the cow and ripped out its viscera. I noticed he separated the heart and the lungs then the liver and dumped them into separate bins.

  “That's called the 'pluck' ”, Olsen said. “for….”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Obvious reasons. Why did he separate the liver?”

  “New regs,” Olsen replied. “Gotta check it for disease.”

  The knacker deftly lopped off the tongue and stuck it on a hook then went to work sawing off the head. It looked tricky and required some muscle. After he was finished, he stuck the head on a smaller hook. With a bloody finger, the knacker pressed a button and the head and the carcass lurched off down the line.

  “The carcass goes through a steamer to kill any bacteria,” Olsen continued. “Then it's sent into the cold room before distribution. The beef is always split in half then quartered before heading out to market. Local butchers then make up the cuts you see on the shelf.”

  “What do you do with the leftovers?” I asked indicating the various organs left in the bins.

  “Some of it is used for human or animal consumption. A lot of people like organ meat and the rest is ground and mixed with feed,” Olsen explained. “The waste like the bones, lard and tallow are sent to a rendering plant.”

  He paused. “There's not much else to see.”

  The knacker already worked on his third cow since we'd entered the area. Fast work, slaughtering.

  “You have any storage units in the main building or off-site?”

  “Yep. But we keep them locked at all times. And there are only three sets of keys. A master is kept in the office. I have another set and the plant foreman has the third.”