Scratchgravel Road: A Mystery

by Tricia Fields

  Otto leaned back in his seat and Josie noticed the gaping spaces around the buttons on his uniform shirt. She would work on him to cut back on the pastries and Cokes.

  He said, “I worked twenty-five years with the highway patrol. It was a good career, but I was ready to slow the pace. When I left the patrol, Artemis was looking for a chief. It was a good change for my family.”

  “How does someone get from Puerto Rico to the Chihuahuan Desert?” Josie asked.

  “Ahh. I was born in San Juan. Joined the military right out of high school and ended up stationed in California. I became involved in engineering while in the service. I’ve been in the States for almost twenty years now as a nuclear engineer. Beacon hired me to manage their cleanup projects.”

  “You travel quite a bit then?” Josie asked.

  “My last post was in rural New York. When this post came along?” He put a hand in the air and wavered it back and forth. “I don’t like the big city, but I do like people.” He looked at Josie. “It’s difficult to connect with people here. Would you agree?”

  Josie felt the heat in her face and hoped it didn’t show. “I would agree.”

  Otto redirected the conversation. “We actually came by here today to discuss one of your workers at the plant.”

  “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  Josie glanced at Otto. He tended to judge people quickly and sometimes harshly, and she wondered if the abrupt turn in conversation meant that Otto had already made up his mind about Diego Paiva.

  “We have some disturbing news and would like to ask you some questions concerning a possible employee of yours. Would you know if any of your employees have been absent for the past several days? Most likely an unexplained absence,” Josie said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know that for most of our employees. All of our supervisors have been here. I’ll have to consult them to ask about their crews. May I ask why?”

  “A man was found dead, about twenty minutes from here. His body was found by a hiker in the desert,” she said.

  He gave a quizzical look. “How does that connect to us?”

  “He was wearing the same black boots that the workers here used to wear. We’re not aware of any other local factories or businesses that use this brand of boot. We’re assuming he worked for you at some point.”

  He frowned, his expression concerned. “I certainly hope it isn’t one of our employees. Do you have a name?”

  She shook her head. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us figure out his identity.”

  He placed a forefinger on his lips, nodding his head. “I do have a way we can narrow this down. Our attendance records are online. I don’t use the program, but Sylvia monitors the information.” He stood from his chair. “Excuse me a moment.” He walked over to his desk and picked up his phone to ask her to join them.

  Sylvia entered the room, unsmiling, notepad clutched to her chest with one hand, a pen ready to take notes in the other. Diego said, “Can you please pull up the attendance program on my computer? I need you to check unexcused absences for the past—” He paused and looked up at Josie. “How many days?”

  “Can you check for the past two weeks?”

  Sylvia sat down in his desk chair and began clicking and typing.

  “How’s the cleanup progressing?” Otto asked. “We don’t read very much about it in the newspaper anymore.”

  Diego turned from looking over Sylvia’s shoulder and gave Otto a half smile. “It has been my experience that communities prefer the cleanup progresses quietly. Negative media attention causes exponential increases in time and resources for any project. I’m sure in your position you’ve experienced the fickle nature of the media. One never knows when the ally may become the opponent. It is in our best interest to do the work quietly and efficiently.”

  Sylvia turned slightly and looked up at Diego to get his attention. She pointed to the computer screen.

  “This doesn’t look good,” he said. He asked Sylvia to print the attendance record. He retrieved the piece of paper from his printer and read the name. “Juan Santiago. His job classification is listed as Unit Seven Shutdown Crew.” He ran a finger down the printout, squinting slightly at the page. “It says he’s been absent from work since last Wednesday.” He looked up from the paper, his brows furrowed. “I don’t know this person, but his supervisor is Skip Bradford. He’s supervisor in Unit Seven.” He looked at Josie and Otto. “Would you like to meet Skip in the unit? I’ll give you a brief tour of the plant and you can see the cleanup firsthand.”

  Otto looked surprised, but pleased. He and Josie had both agreed on the ride over that they hoped for a look at the facility. There was something about off-limits areas that fed a cop’s imagination.

  “Sure. I’d like to see the plant,” Otto said.

  As they stood, Sylvia turned to leave the room. Before she reached the door Josie said, “Excuse me, Sylvia?”

  The woman turned, looking startled.

  “Could you provide me a home address for the employee as well?”

  Something flickered across her face, but Josie couldn’t read her.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, and left the office.

  Diego pointed to a framed map hanging on the wall. “Take a look at the layout of the plant before we leave. It will give you a better sense of the scope of the cleanup.”

  Josie and Otto stood behind Diego and looked at a series of buildings that were situated around an oval driving track, each one notated with a number from one through ten, except for one building labeled the pilot unit. It was the first unit past the building they were in now.

  Diego pointed to the building labeled with the number one. “The processing started in Unit One with the uranium ore, and moved through each of the remaining nine buildings until enriched uranium was ready for shipment. Each of these buildings contained an amazing array of chemicals that we’re still working to dispose of.” Diego turned and motioned toward the door. “Let’s suit up and I’ll take you over to Unit Seven to meet Skip.”

  * * *

  Josie and Otto followed Diego to the back end of the building where they each grabbed a hard hat off a metal rack with a sign that read SAFETY FIRST. Before they walked outside Sylvia approached Josie and handed her a Post-it note with Santiago’s name and address neatly written on it. She said nothing, and turned and left after Josie thanked her for the information. Looking at the address, Josie realized his apartment was above the Family Value store.

  She excused herself for a moment and called Lou on her cell phone. “Do me a favor. Call Marta at home and ask her if she’ll check an apartment in town to see if anyone’s home. Ask her to check with neighbors, see if anyone has seen the tenant in the past three days.” Josie read off the name and address Sylvia had provided. “Also, check BMV to see if there’s a car registered to that name. If there is, make sure the address is the same as the one I just gave you, and have Marta check it out as well.”

  Following Otto and Diego outside, Josie looked up into what seemed to be a perpetually gray sky. The rain had diminished to a drizzle that didn’t merit an umbrella, but it still made for a miserable morning. They walked down a sidewalk and through an unlocked gate.

  “Inside this fenced area is what has always been referred to as ‘production.’ You can see each of the ten units I showed you on the poster inside my office. Each unit is marked with a sign outside the main entrance.” He pointed to a building on the back side of the oval track. A sign that read UNIT 7 hung beside the entrance door. “Let’s use the golf carts to keep from walking through the mud.”

  The scene behind the main office building was a set out of an old black-and-white horror flick. Driving up to the plant and approaching through the front gate had made the size of the plant deceiving. Most of the buildings had massive steel pipes and drums attached to the sides and tops of the structures, and two large silos, at least thirty feet tall, were located near the back
of the plant. Several buildings were connected with enclosed conveyor belts that rose twenty feet off the ground.

  Two golf carts were parked by the building in front of a wooden fence that looked like a hitching post. They followed behind Diego and sat in one of the golf carts. Diego started the electric engine. “The most startling fact about this plant?” he said. “In 1956, the year it reached peak production, 2,045 workers came here every day.”

  “That’s almost the size of the entire town of Artemis,” Josie said.

  “The railroad brought them in and out every day. It was a long commute for some, but the pay was top-notch. Talk to the people who worked here. They were proud to serve their country. Production stopped in 1969. Transportation became too expensive.”

  As they drove past the empty crane Otto said, “I thought we’d see more demolition.”

  Diego nodded. “Taking the buildings down is the easy part. Removing what’s inside the buildings is the problem.”

  He drove the golf cart on the track, around the center of a massive courtyard that was a muddy mess. A recent load of gravel had been spread in order to keep the machinery from getting bogged down.

  Diego drove past several large structures toward a steel building surrounded on all sides by round vats and pipes. He pulled the golf cart in front of the entrance, which was gated by chain-link fence. Diego continued with what sounded like a prepared tour speech as they walked through the gate to the front door.

  “Unit Seven made enriched uranium ingots during the fifties. Today we’re experimenting with a waste stabilization project. The biggest issue we face at plants like this one is what to do with all the waste. For every pound of uranium that was refined, two and a half pounds of waste was created. And who wants it? With Yucca Mountain lost in political purgatory we’re back to containing it here the best we can.”

  Josie pointed behind the production buildings to where hundreds of black metal barrels were stacked on wooden pallets. “So we have our own little Yucca Mountain here in Artemis? Except it’s above ground and could leak into our groundwater.”

  Diego opened the building’s door for Josie and stepped aside to allow her and Otto entrance. He smiled sternly at her as she walked past him. “That’s why I’m here. To make sure that does not happen.”

  Josie looked around the room and felt her stomach seize up in a knot. At the back end of the building a group of four people dressed in white hazmat suits with helmets were working on a machine that was about the size of her kitchen. A tank was attached to each person’s back and she assumed these were some type of respirators. Large fans and machinery roared throughout the building.

  Diego placed a hand on Josie’s back and talked close to her ear to be heard above the noise. “Don’t worry,” he said, pointing to the men in white. “The suits are precautionary. Better to be safe.” He gestured toward the rest of the building. “Would you like a quick tour before we meet Skip?” Diego yelled.

  Josie and Otto both nodded and he motioned for them to follow. They began walking over concrete where steel beams had been filed down to the ground, revealing that something had obviously been removed. “This area of the plant was where the uranium fuel core was finished. The core was then shipped to other factories where it was fed into reactors to make nuclear weapons.” He walked them across the plant floor to a wall with several metal doors. “The first two rooms are storage areas. One contains chemicals waiting for disposal. The other is dismantled apparatus waiting for shipment.” He approached the third door and opened it. “This room houses our security tapes. Part of our contract with the government promises the site is secure. We have an expansive security system to ensure that.”

  Josie noted that the room housing the security tapes wasn’t locked. She wondered if the security operations at the plant were mostly for show. She imagined very few people not already associated with the plant ever visited. But then, who would want to?

  Diego shut the door and walked them over to the large machine where the men in white suits were gathered over a large metal pipe they appeared to be feeding into a furnace. He stopped Josie and Otto about thirty feet away and they watched the men working in tandem. She wondered if they had radios inside their suits. After several minutes Diego moved on and finished a quick tour of the building. He had neglected to explain what the men were doing and she wondered if it was simple oversight or intentional.

  Next to the building’s entrance door was an enclosed office area. Diego opened the door and motioned for Josie and Otto to enter. Once he closed the door the noise from outside stopped, almost completely. It was uncomfortably cold, and Josie could feel air movement. The room was approximately twenty feet square and had three metal desks that looked like they had been scavenged from offices in the 1950s.

  A man in his sixties wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, striped tie, and black dress slacks sat at one desk. Diego introduced him as Skip Bradford, and he stood and shook hands with Josie and Otto. He was average height and build and had the serious, introspective demeanor of a scientist, complete with a calculator and pens in his shirt pocket.

  Skip excused himself to answer the ringing phone on his desk and Diego continued. “Skip supervises a crew of five men, including Juan Santiago. The men are on the floor working on a vitrification project. We take waste sludge and contaminated material that needs long-term storage to give it time to stabilize. We basically heat it, mix it with glass fragments, and resolidify it. The result is waste contained in glass that is highly resistant to water. Then it can be stored underground for several thousand years until the radioactive material is safe.”

  Josie shook her head in amazement. “We have waste in our backyard that is so toxic it has to be stored inside glass and buried underground for thousands of years.”

  Diego tipped his head at Josie. “True enough. But we’ve found an excellent, safe solution.”

  Skip hung up his phone. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. We appreciate you talking with us,” Josie said. She didn’t have any idea what kind of relationship Skip had with his subordinate. And she had intentionally not told Diego that they expected foul play. She wanted to gauge his reaction when she told Skip. She had found that people performed for the police when asked a question directly, and often provided more honest reactions when listening from afar. If Diego showed no sign of surprise when learning about the murder, then her suspicions would multiply fast.

  “I have some disturbing news. I’d like to talk with you about someone who might be an employee of yours,” she said. “We found a man’s body in the desert several days ago. We suspect he may have been murdered.”

  Skip’s mouth opened and his eyes grew wide. “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t mention murder,” Diego said, his expression more angry than shocked.

  Skip placed his palms on his cheeks and sat back down in his chair. “Santiago’s been absent since last week. Is that who you mean?” The gravity of what he had just heard showed in his face. “I called him at home on Monday and yesterday but got no answer. I just figured he went to Mexico, back to his family.”

  Diego walked over to a kitchenette area in the corner of the room that contained a water cooler with disposable cups beside it. He filled a cup and handed it to Skip, who looked at his boss, bewildered. “I never thought about calling the police. I never dreamed of anything sinister. I assumed he’d just left.” He turned back to Josie and Otto. “People do that. Employees just don’t show up for work one week. No call or notice. They just quit.”

  “We’re still trying to identify the body,” Josie said. “Can you tell me if Mr. Santiago was bald?”

  His eyes widened. “Yes,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “Has he been bald as long as you’ve known him?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Were you aware of any serious illnesses he may have had? Cancer or something that would have caused him to lose his hair?”

  He
frowned. “No, ma’am. He rarely missed work. I’m not aware of any illnesses.”

  She wondered how that played into their chemotherapy theory.

  Josie sat down in an office chair beside Skip and put her notebook on her lap. “Would you have expected him to quit? That he would leave with no notice?”

  The shock of the news weighed heavily on his movements. He sipped from the cup slowly, then looked again at Josie as if she had asked a strange question. “No. I wouldn’t think so. He was a good worker. Not stellar, but he showed up each day. He worked while on the clock. You know?”

  “Did he have another job that you were aware of? Anything else that consumed his time after work?” she asked.

  “His family was the only thing I ever heard him mention. I think his paycheck was sent home. He lived by himself.”

  “In Artemis?” Otto asked.

  He looked surprised to hear from Otto, and turned in his chair slightly to see him. “Yes, downtown. Somewhere near the Family Value. I don’t know exactly.”

  “Do you have a photo of Mr. Santiago that would help us identify him?” she asked.

  “Yes. Employees have a picture on their ID badge. I believe it should be in his personnel file,” Skip said.

  “Would you be willing to come to the coroner’s office to identify the body?” Josie asked.

  He looked shocked at the question and took a moment to answer. “Of course.”

  “I assume he was in the country legally?” Josie asked.

  “Absolutely.” Diego cut Skip off. “We follow strict protocol. His papers are on file if you wish to see to them.”

  Josie put a hand up to wave off the suggestion.

  “We actually have quite a few legal immigrants working at the plant,” Diego said.

  “Did he socialize with anyone? Ever talk about dating anyone, or going out for a beer with someone from work?”

  Skip looked miserable. “I don’t think so. He kept to himself. You can talk to the crew, though. There’s four other guys. I’ll call them all in here if you want.”