by Thomas Scott
“Any chance at a time of death?” Virgil said.
“Exactly none. The silage kept the body temp up much longer than normal. Factor in the dismemberment, the time from silage removal until discovery…there’s just no way. I think the best estimate you’re going to get is who saw him last and when. Work it from there.”
“Okay,” Virgil said. “Listen, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here, but your office was a little slow in responding.”
“And now you want to know why it took me so long to get out here. Is that it?”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Virgil said.
The ME looked at Esser’s body, sighed, snapped off his gloves and said, “What a gol-darned mess. I’ll send the wagon back when you’re ready.” Then to Virgil: “My wife is…well, she’s dying. Got here as soon as I could. What’s left of Charlie wasn’t going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry about that, I really am,” Virgil said. “But the duties of your office dictate that—”
“The duties of my office don’t mean dick to me right now. You married?”
Virgil nodded.
“Then I hope you never understand. Besides, from the looks of it, seems to me that you were the last one to arrive on the scene.” He shook his head and walked away.
Virgil, feeling a little like an ass, turned to Holden and said, “Tell us what you know for sure.” He looked at him with his skinny frame and lightweight uniform. “Aren’t you cold?”
Holden was staring at what was left of Charlie Esser. The body looked like someone had run it halfway through a wood chipper, feet first, before changing their mind and hitting the reverse switch. The only part of Esser that remained intact was his upper torso. From his breastbone down, there was nothing.
“I don’t feel much anymore,” Holden said. “It’s the dry cleaning chemicals. I think they’ve changed me over the years. I truly believe that.”
Virgil had to prompt him to continue. “Sheriff?”
“Sunnydale Farms was storing some feed stock in the silo where the demo crew found Charlie. They’d hauled the last of it out yesterday. Everything is pretty automated these days, but about half of Charlie went through the auger when they emptied the silo. The crime scene people over at Sunnydale are saying that most of the lower half of Charlie has already been eaten by the hogs. There’s a few bones left, but not much of anything else.
“The guy with the shoes is named J. Connor Westlake. I don’t know what the J stands for. Maybe it’s just Jay, but I doubt it. I carry a profound dislike for people who use an initial as a replacement for their given name. Anyway, he’s a lawyer. Represents the group that’s raping the land down here. It’s a buyer’s market down river if you’re thinking of moving. They can’t keep the bottled water in stock at the grocery store. Did you know that the state of Oklahoma used to average one or two small earthquakes a year? That was before they started fracking. Now they average eight a day.”
Virgil cared, but he didn’t want a geology lesson or the philosophical debate that went with it. “Tell us about Mr. Esser, Sheriff. Start at the beginning.”
“He was the holdout. This was Charlie’s land. Technically it still is. Westlake’s group bought the mineral rights from all of the farmers who were in on the co-op.”
“Who are the other farmers?”
Holden gave them the names and took fifteen minutes to lay it all out for them.
“Why didn’t the others just do the deal without Esser?” Virgil asked.
“Couldn’t. Word is, Esser wouldn’t let them. They each owned their own land, but it was all held in a trust, controlled and maintained by the co-op. It’s like a bunch of smaller companies under one holding company. It’s really the only way farmers can survive anymore.”
“Let me make sure I’ve got this right,” Murton said. “This group of farmers were all going broke because of a dry season and while drilling for water they hit natural gas instead. Then Westlake and company offer to buy them out but Esser, who was the co-op’s chairman says no? Why?”
“There’s some speculation that he wasn’t exactly saying no. He was just biding his time.”
“To what end?” Virgil said.
Holden didn’t answer for a long time. Eventually he said, “Look, Charlie wasn’t perfect. I meant what I said earlier. We was friends and I don’t like to speak poorly of the dead.”
“But…”
“But there was two sides to the man, which,” the sheriff said as he pointed his finger at no one, “is true of just about anyone I’ve ever known. I seen him get rough with Martha when he thought no one was looking and I don’t approve of that type of behavior, but I also seen him untangle a dead doe that got caught up in barbed wire a few winters back. It was frozen solid. He could have skinned that deer, ate venison all winter and made a profit off the hide. Instead he got a pick axe and shovel out of his truck and chopped through the frozen ground and buried the damned thing right on the spot. The air was so cold and dry the tears were frozen to his cheeks by the time he finished. He wouldn’t let me help him none, either.”
Virgil was losing patience. “Biding his time for what, Sheriff?”
“An end run at the other members,” Westlake said. He’d come up from behind them. He also looked like he’d adjusted his attitude. “Listen, I’m sorry about all this.” He glanced at Murton. “Really. I know you guys are simply trying to do your job. I’ll stay out of the way. But I’m trying to do mine, too. This delay is going to cost a fortune. Every minute those pumps aren’t running costs my investors money.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Murton said, his voice dry with sarcasm. “It’ll be just a few more minutes and we’ll have this carcass out of your way and you can get back to poisoning the planet and saving capitalism.”
Westlake raised his voice. “Hey, that’s out of line.”
Murton spat on the ground, right next to Westlake’s pointy shoes. “Take it up with the governor. We’re here on his nickel, not yours.”
“How about everybody just relax a little,” Virgil said. “Mr. Westlake, what did you mean about an end run at the other members?”
“It wasn’t true,” Westlake said. He peeled his eyes off of Murton and looked at Virgil. “It simply wasn’t.” He took a deep breath, got his voice under control and started over. “There was a rumor going around that Mr. Esser—because he was the majority land owner and chair of the co-op—was holding out on the deal. The thinking was, if he held out long enough the others wouldn’t be able to make it through the winter, much less next spring. They’d all go up at auction, Esser would buy them out at a greatly reduced price and then take the deal. But it just wasn’t true.”
“How do you know that?” Virgil asked.
“Because I’m the one who put the deal together for the gas companies. My job is to make the deals, then see them through to completion. Completion for me is defined as a fully functioning and producing well. Once that’s been accomplished, I move on to the next operation. Mr. Esser and I had many conversations and he never once indicated to me that he was willing to take our offer, now or in the future. He wanted nothing to do with it. As far as an end run goes, he couldn’t have pulled it off if he wanted to. The gas companies weren’t willing to wait it out. They get enough bad press as it is. The last thing they want is a messy court battle over who screwed who by waiting it out.”
“Whom,” Murton said.
Westlake ignored him. “When the other members of the co-op approached me about an extension I made it perfectly clear that I was unwilling to grant them one.”
Virgil almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Yet here we are, ready to drill baby, drill. How did you get Esser to sign?”
Westlake looked away for a moment. “We didn’t actually.”
“Then how is it that you’ve set up operations against the wishes of the majority land owner, a land owner who, I might add, has been cut to shreds by the auger coming out of the bottom of that silo?�
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“We pride ourselves on being equipped for most any contingencies that may arise. This isn’t our first well, you know. We were almost ready to commence with operations until this, uh, unfortunate discovery.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Virgil said. “Now how about you answer the question.”
Westlake lifted his chin. “We did have consent. The majority land owner signed the contract. Perhaps you haven’t heard. Martha Esser…Charlie’s wife? She woke up. The doctors say with time a full recovery is not only possible, but probable. She’s having some minor difficulty with her speech, fine motor skills and so forth, but she signed the contract the moment we presented her with the deal. I’ll tell you something else: she didn’t seem all that upset about the news of her husband’s death.”
“Is that right?” Murton said.
Virgil shot Holden a look, and noticed that the sheriff was somehow managing to nod and shake his head all at the same time. He looked like a bobble-head. “It’s true. I guess I should have brought that up already. If Charlie wasn’t laying here ripped to shreds, he’d be sitting in the county lock-up charged with attempted murder. Martha said he tried to kill her by throwing her down the stairs. Damn near got away with it too. I’ll tell you something, we’ve had a pretty good run lately, crime wise. It’s been nice and quiet. Couple of minor burglaries, an occasional bar fight, and other than Esser here, only one other domestic. This is something I’d expect in the city, not out here. We haven’t had a murder in over fifteen years. Sort of stains our record. Did I mention that I hate this job?”
“Where is your office, Mr. Westlake?” Virgil said.
Westlake handed Virgil his card. “I’m based out of Irving, Texas, but I’ve set up a temporary office in Indianapolis. I have a short term lease on a condo downtown as well. We’re in the process of closing it all up.”
Virgil glanced at the card, shoved it in his pocket, then looked back at Westlake. “The sheriff or one of his deputies will escort you to their station where you’ll give a full and complete written statement regarding your involvement in this matter. You will document everything you know about not only your involvement with this operation, but anything else even remotely connected to Charlie Esser and the other members of the co-op and you’ll give a complete accounting of your whereabouts over the last seventy-two hours. You’ll have the right to have your attorney present if you wish. After that you’ll be free to go, but I’ll expect you to make yourself available to me or anyone on my team at any time until we’ve completed our investigation. If you have any travel plans in the near future, I’d make other arrangements if I were you. In other words, don’t make me come looking for you. Is their any part of that you don’t understand?”
The look on Westlake’s face was one that Virgil had seen hundreds of times before. It was the look that said the police and other public service personnel were there solely for the benefit of the wealthy and powerful. If Westlake was trying to hide his feelings, he didn’t do a very good job of it, his distain clear. “I’m a lawyer, so I won’t be needing representation in this…matter. And listen, I don’t mean to be a bother, but I really do have to answer to some very…mmm, influential people. Do you have any idea when we might be able to resume setting up the drill rigs?”
“He doesn’t mean to be a bother,” Murton said to no one. Then to Westlake, “Get lost. Now.”
After Westlake left, the sheriff looked at Murton and said, “Little rough on him back there, don’t you think?”
“I doubt it. Did you see those shoes? What a clown-stick.”
At the end of the service road a small gathering of men stood off to the side talking amongst themselves. “Who are they?” Virgil asked.
“Rest of the co-op members,” Holden said.
“You talk to them yet?”
“Yup. I interviewed each of them after Charlie was found. They all had the same story. An early meeting here at the co-op to talk about the gas deal. Charlie told them he wasn’t interested, though their descriptions of ‘not interested’ varied somewhat. Anyway, he said he wasn’t going to take the deal, and that was that. According to the rest of the co-op members, Charlie went out to clean the silo and the rest of them went into town for breakfast. The waitress at the diner backs up their story. Said they were having an argument…trying to be quiet about it, but everybody in town knows what it’s about anyway. The argument started to get heated and they all left before their food was ready. Didn’t even finish their first cup of coffee.”
“What are they doing out here…right now?” Murton asked.
Holden shrugged his shoulders. “I thought you’d want to talk to them. I told them you were on your way.”
Virgil and Murton exchanged glances. It was a procedural error on the sheriff’s part. The unspoken look said they wanted to talk to the farmers individually…and at a time they weren’t expecting.
The sheriff missed the look—and his own mistake. “See the one doing all the talking? That’s Cal Lipkins. He’s the one who pushed the deal, is what I hear. Stutzman’s the vice-chair of the co-op, but it’s Lipkins that railroads everyone into doing what he wants.”
“Any of them have it in them to do this kind of thing?” Virgil asked Holden. He glanced down at Esser’s mutilated body.
“Let’s be clear,” the sheriff said, following Virgil’s gaze. “This is bad, but the auger done most of what you’re looking at. What come before, the knock on the head? That’s what you’re really asking about.”
“It is,” Virgil said, his annoyance starting to show. “And let me be clear. We’re not talking about a knock on the head. You make it sound like a bar brawl. What we’re talking about is murder. So what’s the answer? Any of these guys capable of that kind of thing or not?”
Holden sucked on a cheek. “Spend your entire life on a farm and you learn how to kill and not let it bother you. I’d say just about any one of them could have done it, but, these are just regular guys. I don’t see it.”
Murton grinned without humor. “So what? Nothing’s perfect. Let’s go jack up some farmers and see who starts to sweat.”
The sheriff looked at Virgil. “What’s that mean? Nothing’s perfect?”
Virgil shook his head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. You did a fine job of gathering information, Sheriff.”
12
Sandy wanted to let Jonas sleep for as long as he needed, but she didn’t dare let him wake up in a strange house after what he’d been through. She checked on him every ten minutes until after eleven o’clock, then finally sat down on the bed and brushed the hair from the side of his face. “Hey little man, time to wake up.”
Jonas blinked a few times, mumbled something that sounded like “mommy” or “potty” then sat bolt upright, his lower lip quivering. He looked around the room for a moment, his anxiety gradually fading as he recognized his surroundings. “Miss Sandy? Where’s my mommy? I have to go potty.”
“Your mommy’s at home. You stayed here with me and Mr. Virgil last night. Remember?”
“I guess.”
Sandy took his hand. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the bathroom.” Jonas hopped out of bed and they walked out of the bedroom and down the hall to the guest bathroom. “Do you need help or can you go by yourself?”
“I can do it.” He said it with a sigh, the way an old man would when asked if he was capable of a task that might lead to his undoing. He walked into the bathroom and with the innocence of a child let the door hang open. He pulled down his pants, turned around, pushed himself up on the toilet, gave Sandy a sleepy smile and said, “I’m hungry.”
“Mmm, me too. Which sounds better, pancakes or eggs?”
“Both!” It came out ‘boaf.’
Sandy smiled back at him. “Okay, little man. Boaf it is. I’ll be in the kitchen. Holler if you need me.”
“My daddy used to call me that, before he went to heaven.”
“Little man?”
“Yeah.”
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sp; Sandy looked at him for a moment, then kissed him on the top of his head. “That’s because it’s true.” Then, “Quick, give me your hand.”
Jonas put his hand out and when Sandy placed it on her stomach he almost jumped off the toilet. “What’s that?”
“That’s Wyatt. He’s kicking. Can you feel it?”
Jonas nodded, his eyes round and wide. “When is he coming out?”
Not soon enough, Sandy thought. “In a few weeks. Pretty neat, huh?”
Wyatt kicked again and Sandy winced. Jonas snatched his hand away. “Does it hurt?”
“No, not really. It just surprises me sometimes, that’s all.”
“How does he come out of there?”
Oh boy. “Listen…how about you finish up your business and I’ll get started on breakfast, okay?”
Jonas giggled. “Business. Okay, I’ll finish my business.” Then, “Is Wyatt going to be my brother? My mommy said I couldn’t have any brothers or sisters because daddy went to heaven. I want a brother.”
“No, not your brother. More like cousins. See you in the kitchen, okay?”
“Okay.” Then, again, “Miss Sandy?”
She stopped and thought, better get used to it. “What, honey?”
“How long do I get to stay here?”
Get to? She looked at him for a long time, then said, “As long as you want, sweetheart.”
In the kitchen: Sandy breaking eggs into a bowl, her anger at Pam growing by the second. Who puts their own child through a particular type of hell? Answer: Someone who’s selfish to the core. She picked up the phone and dialed Pam’s cell. It rang five times before kicking over to voicemail. She hung up and redialed two more times with the same result. She was either on the phone or the battery was dead or the phone was turned off. Lately with Pam, who knew?
Jonas still had a year before he started school. He was, Sandy thought, still a baby. Was he aware of the words he was using or the meaning they conveyed? Get to? Did he mean to say that? Maybe she was reading too much into it, but wouldn’t a child his age say it differently? Wouldn’t they say something like have to stay here or when do I go home? But Jonas had said get to, as if being at home with his own mother was too much for him to endure.
