The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  She dialed Pam again.

  Still no answer…

  The farmers stood in a semicircle next to the door of the job-site trailer. They watched the National Guard convoy pull away in a roar of diesel and dust. “Don’t know much about the law,” Stutzman said to no one, “but Biggie told me they’re saying murder.” Biggie was John Biggs, and he was Hank Stutzman’s second cousin, and a Shelby County deputy.

  “Biggie’s about as smart as a box of shoe laces,” Graves said.

  Stutzman’s face closed in on itself. “I didn’t say he solved the crime. Just telling you what I’ve heard. My point is this: Charlie was murdered and if you think about motive there are exactly five people who’ll directly benefit from his death, and we’re all standing right here.”

  “You’re forgetting about Martha,” Mizner said. “She’s still alive and getting better, according to the docs. That takes the motive away from us right there.”

  “The hell it does,” Stutzman said. “They’re going to look at it and say if Charlie was still alive there wouldn’t be any deal.”

  “That’s what lawyers are for,” Lipkins said. “The way I see it, the motive is off of us, except maybe for good old Vern, here. Ain’t that right, lover boy?”

  But Conrad wasn’t listening. When the sheriff and the other two men started their way, he muttered, “Here they come.” His voice almost broke when he said it.

  “Get your shit together, Vern,” Lipkins said. “You sound like you’re about to cry.”

  Stutzman spoke before Conrad could respond. “Take it easy, Cal. He’s just nervous.”

  “Nervous? He sounds like a schoolgirl. And a guilty one at that. If they sense any weakness in any of us, we’re screwed.”

  Vernon Conrad was nervous, but cops or no cops, it was time to make a statement. As Stutzman spoke, Conrad—anything but a schoolgirl—slid behind Lipkins, planted his feet and let go with a solid blow to Cal’s kidney. Lipkins arched his back, his mouth opening and closing without sound, as if the magnitude of pain he was experiencing was too great for the human voice to express. When he fell to one knee, Conrad moved around in front of him and threw two more punches at his face, the first one connecting solidly to his eye, the last one at the side of his jaw. Eventually, Stutzman, who was right there and probably could have moved a little quicker if he’d wanted to—which he really didn’t—grabbed him and pulled him away.

  Someone was shouting, “Hey…hey…hey!”

  Conrad shrugged away from Stutzman, landed a final blow to Cal’s face, his nose crunching audibly. Then they were all on top of him, and it was over.

  They were about twenty yards away from the farmers when Murton said, “Looks like they’re tensing up. Look at that guy…the one moving around behind the others. Oh boy, here we go.”

  Virgil, Murton, and Holden saw Conrad move behind Lipkins and sucker punch him in the kidney. The sheriff yelled, “Hey…hey…hey,” and started to pick up his pace, ready to break into a run, but Murton grabbed his arm and held him back. “The hell you doing?”

  “Saving your knees, if nothing else. Let’s see how it plays out,” Murton said.

  Holden looked at Virgil but all he got was a shrug. “Murt’s right.” They’d stopped now, and Virgil faced the sheriff. He lowered his voice. “Someone’s mad about something. I’d like to know what. At its core, anger is nothing more than fear. That means one of them, or maybe more than one might be afraid of something.”

  “And your plan is to stand here and let them beat the bejesus out of each other to find out?”

  Virgil looked at the group of farmers. “Don’t need to. Looks like it’s over. But we just witnessed an aggravated assault so now we’ve got a little leverage if we need it.”

  “This ain’t the city,” Holden said. “Not exactly how we do things around here.”

  Murton turned around and looked back at the demolished silo and Charlie Esser’s body. “How’s that working out for you?”

  Lipkins had a couple of loose teeth, but his bent and bloodied nose was the worst of it. There was no question…it was broken. Holden disappeared inside the trailer and brought out an armful of lawn chairs, the kind you’d see next to a backyard grill or swimming pool, and a marginally clean shop rag. He dropped the chairs in the dirt and tried to hand the rag to Lipkins who was still on one knee, his eyes not quite focused.

  “Let me see that,” Murton said.

  Holden gave him the rag and Murton got down on one knee, next to and slightly behind Lipkins. He placed the rag gently under Cal’s nose and said, “We’re gonna straighten you out, Bub.”

  Holden looked at Virgil, who said simply enough, “He’s had some medical training.”

  “Maybe we should call and get one of the fire rescue guys over here, or run him in to the doc’s.”

  “Good idea,” Virgil said. “Why don’t you go get them?”

  Holden didn’t move.

  “Sheriff?”

  “Is he gonna do what I think he’s gonna do?”

  Murton reached around from the back of Cal’s neck, placed his palm on his forehead and pulled his head back tight against his own chest. “Hold on now, this might sting a little. On three. Ready?”

  Lipkins blew a bloody bubble and said something none of them could quite make out.

  Murton said, “One,” then pinched Cal’s nostrils together tight and yanked down as hard as he could. There was a crunching noise, followed by an audible pop. Lipkins screamed and passed out.

  Graves and Mizner turned away. Conrad stared stone faced at Virgil. The sheriff said, “Jesus Christ, you told him on three.”

  Murton laid Lipkins on his side in the recovery position. “You never go on three. They tense up. That should do it…for now anyway.” He stood, used the rag to wipe the blood from his hands, then turned to the other farmers and said, “We’ve got some questions for you boys. Who wants to go first?”

  One of the fire rescue crew had walked over with a med kit. He looked at Murton, then Lipkins, then back at Murton. “I’ll get him taped up. Nice work. Did you go on one, or two?”

  Murton tipped his head. “One,” he said with a measure of interest.

  The medic nodded. “Sometimes I go on two, but not very often. Most of the time it’s on one. You get to two and you can already feel them starting to get a little stiff…”

  When no one volunteered, Virgil and Murton took Conrad—the obvious choice—inside and sat him down while the others waited outside with the sheriff. “What was that all about?” Virgil asked.

  “That was about Cal Lipkins running his mouth. Who’re you, anyway?” Conrad asked. Virgil introduced himself and Murton, pulled up a chair, sat down and gave Conrad the Miranda spiel. Conrad dismissed the lawyer idea away with a wave and a frown, so Virgil asked about Charlie Esser.

  Conrad was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “Charlie was a miserable, wife-beating drunkard.” He sat forward in the chair, his forearms resting on his thighs. He stared at the floor.

  Murton threw three quick questions at Conrad. “That why you killed him? Or was it because of the gas deal? Or both?”

  Conrad brought his head up. “No. What? I didn’t kill him. Quit trying to twist me up. You city hotshots think you can come down here and roll all over us? We’re farmers but we’re not idiots. Well, except for Lipkins. He’s an idiot.”

  “You sure about that? The killing, I mean. Because someone sure did a number on Mr. Esser and it looks like you’ve got some anger issues…” He let the statement float around the room.

  Conrad didn’t let it float very long. “Don’t have no anger issues. Ain’t never even punched anyone before in my whole entire life. Probably won’t ever again, either. It hurts. Am I gonna go to jail? For punching Cal, I mean?”

  “That would be up to Sheriff Holden,” Virgil said. “We don’t really care about that. That’s not why we’re here.”

  “Still would like to know why you hit him, though,” Murton said.r />
  “Because he’s an asshole.”

  Murton laughed without humor. “Not good enough. You go around punching people because they’re assholes, you’d have a full time job.”

  Conrad leaned back in the chair, his shoulders slumped. “Yeah, you’re right. Hadn’t thought of that. But Lipkins is a particular type of asshole. The type that doesn’t know when to stop spewing shit at other people, me in particular. We’ve never really liked each other all that much.”

  Virgil leaned forward. “He sort of looks like an asshole.” Playing a little bit of the good guy.

  “He is,” Conrad said, nodding as he spoke. “I’ve known him all my life. We’ve all known each other our whole lives. Cal is a bully. Always has been.”

  “How’d he get along with Mr. Esser?”

  “Cal didn’t get along with anybody except Cal, and I ain’t even sure about that.”

  “Do you think he killed Charlie Esser?”

  Conrad thought about it for a moment. “No, I guess I really don’t. Bullies are cowards. Surely you guys know that better’n anyone. I didn’t see Charlie laying over there…they wouldn’t let us any closer’n where we are now, but I heard he’s flat torn apart.”

  “Yes, he is. The auger,” Virgil said. “But someone beat his head in, kicked him around a little, then locked him in the silo. The medical examiner says he was still alive after the attack. He died of suffocation.”

  Murton walked over and stood to the side of Conrad. He leaned in close, right next to his ear. “So you’re probably right. This wasn’t done by a bully. This was done by someone who was mad enough to smash his head in.” He backed up a few steps and leaned against a desk. “Someone with anger issues.”

  “Weren’t me,” Conrad said. He folded his arms across his chest. “I ain’t never tried to kill no one.” Then, as if he had to defend his honor, “But I ain’t no schoolgirl, either.”

  Virgil walked over to the window and looked at the fracking operation outside. “Tell me about all this. How it all came together.”

  “Thought you’d know all about it by now.”

  “We want to hear it from you,” Murton said.

  He let out a sigh, like he was tired of talking about it. “The co-op is a necessity…at least in this area. We all own our individual farms, but we pool our profits and losses together under the umbrella of the co-op. At the end of the season, if we’ve had a good year, we split the profits proportionally between all the members.”

  “How many members are there?”

  “Just the six of us. I mean, other farmers in the county use the facility, or they did anyway, before the gas people come along, but they weren’t shareholders or stakeholders or whatever. They just used it as a terminal…a way to sell whatever they’d grown that season.”

  “So they didn’t share in the profits or losses of the co-op itself,” Virgil said. A statement.

  “That’s right. There aren’t that many of them, anyhow. A dozen or so. Small-timers. Me and Hank and Basil, Angus and Cal, and Charlie…we ran the big farms in the county. Even if the other guys pooled their farms together it wouldn’t have been enough for a single share in the co-op. They could have had a share or two…nothing against it, but they were just too small. You know…hundred acres here or there. Just enough to get the farm tax credit. As far as the co-op goes, wouldn’t be worth the effort, for them or us.”

  “So what happens in a bad year? You all have to take the hit together, just like you’d take the profits, is that right?”

  Conrad was nodding. “That’s right. But we didn’t have too many bad ones. Never had one like this year, that’s for damned sure.”

  Virgil didn’t know anything about farming and admitted it. “I guess I don’t see the logic. If all you’re doing is pooling your resources and sharing in the profits…and once in a while the losses if it’s a bad year for everybody, what’s the advantage? I mean, why not just run your own farm and let everyone else do the same?”

  Conrad looked at Murton, then Virgil. “You think we’re all a bunch of country bumpkins, don’t you?” He pointed his finger at the space between them. “We’re not. Me and Basil and Angus all have Bachelor of Science degrees in agriculture from Purdue. Hank does too, with a Master’s in business. I know we look dirty and we smell bad and we talk different than you, but if it weren’t for guys like us, guys like you wouldn’t eat.”

  “No one’s calling your intelligence into question, Mr. Conrad,” Virgil said.

  “So now it’s mister, is it?”

  “Just relax,” Murton said. “And answer the question. Why not just run your own farms individually?”

  Conrad relaxed a little, his defensiveness dropping a notch. “These are mega-farms we’re talking about here. Before this gas deal come along I was farming over a thousand acres. We all were. I’ve got…or had anyway, over thirty people who worked for me. And that’s just me. Plus, I’m carrying over a million dollars in debt on equipment that I’ve either purchased outright or leased...some of it long-term, some of it short. Anyway, on top of all that there’s the insurance, payroll, taxes, the seed to plant every spring—and fall if you’re doing winter wheat—maintenance on all the equipment, fertilizer, fuel, and on and on and on. Farming is a business just like any other business. Most people think it’s one or two guys with a tractor and a plow, but it’s not. It’s much more sophisticated than that. It has to be in this day and age, otherwise there just wouldn’t be any profit. And profits are slim enough as it is. We can barely keep up.

  “Look, here’s a good example: If it were just me going it alone, I’ve got enough equipment to keep exactly seven mechanics working full-time. Seven. That’s full-time with salary and benefits. But Basil’s operation is a little smaller than mine…he had four mechanics. Now, say one or two of those guys are sick or has some vacation time or whatever. Now someone is short. So…the co-op. It solves everyone’s problems. We’ve got our own mechanical shop for all the equipment and if you pool your resources, including your people you just don’t have to have as many employees. If the co-op was just me and Basil for example, we wouldn’t need my seven mechanics and his four. We’d only need eight…nine tops. So you save. Next to fuel and capital expenditures on equipment, payroll is one of the bigger expenses when it comes to mega-farming. People cost money. More money than anything else. Same thing with the administrative end of things. We’ve got central accounting, great buying power from the seed and fertilizer companies, and the fuel distributors. Also, push come to shove, we can in a small way, set the selling price of our corn or beans or whatever by stockpiling until we get the price we want.”

  “Sounds a little like OPEC,” Murton said.

  “It sort of is,” Conrad said. “Except we deal with food, not oil.”

  “Not anymore though,” Virgil said.

  Conrad nodded at the truthfulness of the statement. “Small farms are a thing of the past. They just can’t compete. Our grandfathers all saw the future. They knew what was coming down the line. When everyone else began moving toward the mega-farm model, they went a step further and joined forces and created the co-op. It must have seemed bulletproof to them all those years ago, but now…” he spread his arms then let them fall to his sides.

  “The gas deal,” Murton said.

  “Yeah, except it’s not that great of a deal, really. I’ll have enough to live on, but after taxes and all, I’m not going to be much better off than I have been. A little, but not much. Certainly not enough to kill for.”

  Virgil gave him a skeptical look. “You see, that’s the part that doesn’t make sense to me. We heard you were each getting two million up front with a back end. You make it sound like you might just squeak by.”

  “Gotta pay off the debt and offer a severance package to all the co-op employees. Again, people are expensive. And don’t forget about the taxes. There’s the windfall tax, capital gains tax, land tax that still needs to be paid whether you’re farming the land or not, lo
ss of the farm tax subsidy, taxes on the earned interest…it all adds up.”

  “There’s some speculation that Mr. Esser was trying to put a side deal together with Westlake and the gas people,” Virgil said. “Try to hold out until next spring and take the deal away from you and everyone else.”

  Conrad nodded. “Yup. That was the talk. But no one knew for sure. City…that’s Westlake, said it weren’t true, and I gotta tell you, I don’t know to believe him or not. Esser had a little Jew in him and don’t get me wrong, if it would have worked out that way, he’d have taken the deal for sure. Cal is the one who thought that’s what was happening, but I just don’t know what to believe.”

  “So if we believe your story, you didn’t have motive to kill Charlie Esser,” Murton said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Conrad smiled for the first time. “Not exactly. Even if you don’t believe my story, I still didn’t have motive to kill him. Charlie had disappeared, no one knew where or why—though most everyone thought he’d gone on another bender—but it didn’t matter in the end because even though Martha Esser was hurt and in the hospital, she was well enough to sign the contract.”

  “But someone could have disappeared him before Martha signed,” Virgil said, slipping in a little country syntax. “As I understand it, she was sort of touch and go there for a while.”

  “Yeah, she was,” Conrad said. “But killing Charlie because he wouldn’t take the deal just doesn’t make any sense. He wasn’t going to sign when he was alive and he can’t sign when he’s dead. And you just said it yourself…she was touch and go.”

  Virgil and Murton looked at each other. Conrad had a point. They took down his personal information before Virgil took one last swing at him. “I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Conrad, and you can do whatever you want with it. I think this whole gas deal spun out of control when Charlie Esser said he wasn’t going to go along with it. If one or more of you had something to do with it and you cooperate with us right now, it’ll work in your favor. We can help you with the prosecutor. Maybe it was an accident, or an argument that just got out of hand…”