Eleven (17 page)

“Yeah at least a couple o’ seasons.”

Jack pulled out his cigarette and lit up.

Sheriff Harris’s eyes went from the amber butt upward to meet Jack’s eyes. “Guess I better git on over to Nancy’s to let her know about Sally.” He stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Do y’all know if one of the victims was Robert?”

Paige and Zachery stayed behind to ensure that the evidence was collected and handled properly. With such a small community and their connections, Jack thought it best not to leave things in the hands of Royster’s friends. I agreed with him. After all, we didn’t know who else was in the photograph with Royster.

Jack and I loaded into the SUV and headed for
old Gord’s
place. The man’s last name was Coleman and the farm had been in the family for generations.

I studied Jack’s profile which appeared somewhat void because he didn’t have a cigarette dangling from his mouth. I thought about how investigations were like a poker, deciding what to expose, what to conceal and when to do either.

Jack must have sensed me watching him and glanced over. “I want to know why you asked Royster about his wife. You knew from the file he wasn’t married.”

“I thought it would distract him enough to gain control of the situation.”

“Risky.”

“But it worked.”

“Hmm.”

This time I could swear he was impressed. Maybe I should keep a logbook. At least I’d know if I was coming out ahead or falling behind.

The Coleman farm although two miles from Bingham’s property could probably be smelled from there if the wind were right. The summer breeze was ripe with the stench of pig manure.

I glanced in the rearview mirror at the forensic investigation van following us. We had one of the CSIs come with us to collect trace evidence from the pig trough. Jack said for speed’s sake we’d have to trust one of the locals for this.

I knew Jack didn’t like questions that pulled on hypotheses. He preferred calculated facts built upon evidence, but I asked the question I was thinking anyway. “Think we’re going to find anything?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

My question really only served as a brief filler for the awkward silence that kept resurfacing. Even though my confronting the CSIs had been addressed with a threat to my job, Jack hadn’t put it behind him. “You’re still mad at me.”

Jack pulled into the graveled driveway with a red mailbox at the road that read
Coleman Family Farm
. The farmhouse and barn were set back from the road. The fields stretched to the left and right borders of the property.

“You’re not going to answer me.”

He parked beside a John Deer tractor and behind a beat-up Ford pickup. “You’ve got to move forward, Kid.”

“So, it’s behind us? I don’t think it is.”

“Well, then Kid that’s your issue.” Jack got out of the SUV. The door closed heavy behind him.

Stepping out in the evening air this close to the source of the
natural pollution
made my stomach heave. If I were anywhere else, the evening would actually be a pleasant one, perhaps even a slightly sleepy one. Here the smell served as strong espresso.

The CSI got out of the van behind us, seemingly impervious to the quality of the air. He didn’t even appear to take shallow breaths.

“Go in ahead of us. We’ll be there soon.” Jack directed the CSI toward the barn and tapped a hand on the box of the pickup.

The CSI stopped walking and held his evidence collection kit with both hands. “Shouldn’t we wait until we have permission?”

I gave the CSI merit for standing up to Jack while he was trying to appeal to his sense of right and wrong.

“You let me worry about that.”

“What the heck are you people doing?” The voice came from a woman in the direction of the farmhouse, but I couldn’t see her.

Jack and I moved toward the house. My cell phone rang with the personalized tune I had picked to identify Debbie. Jack didn’t say anything but looked from it to me. There was no way for me to win in this situation. It was either enrage Jack or upset my wife. But seeing as my current company was Jack that made the decision easy. I unclipped the cell and chose ignore.

“You have a warrant?”

As we rounded the truck, we saw her. A woman of about five-two with a petite build stood on a mound of grass, an apron wrapped around her small frame. She watched the CSI heading toward the barn. “What are you doing back here? You people were already here—”

 The CSI swung the barn door open, and it made a deep moaning sound. “What the heck.” She went after him. “You better be happy Gord’s gone to visit a neighbor tonight.”

“Mrs. Coleman,” Jack said.

“You would be right.” She stopped quickly enough that I imagined one leg poised mid-stride. She turned around and came toward us.

“Lance Bingham worked for you.”

“Yes. I told all this to some lady. She’s with you. FBI.” The way the three letters came out they were tainted with disdain. City folk, especially feds, interfered with her peaceful life.

“What did he do for you exactly?”

“Like I told her, he fed ’em, cleaned stalls, did some fixin’ of things.”

“Did he feed the pigs?”

“Course.” Her brows pinched downward as if to say,
what are you getting at?

“What did he feed them?”

“Oh no, I’m not sayin’, but it’s dang expensive stuff. To sell ’em for food, we don’t have a choice. The industry has high standards, but they pay good too.”

I was going to be sick between the smell and the likely possibility people consumed pigs that had eaten human intestines.

“Did this food come in white plastic bags?”

“Course not.” Her hips swayed to the right, both arms crossed over her chest. “Why are you askin’?”

“We suspect that Bingham was feeding them something else.”

A raised finger came out, removed only a few inches from Jack’s nose. From there it changed direction and pointed at me. “You’re here to shut me down. Some big fancy wig has a baby brother or family member wantin’ to get into the farmin’ business.”

“I assure you we’re not—”

“Don’t lie to me, agent. I know your types. Ruthless. You care nothing about other people’s welfare.” She turned toward the barn. “Git that man outta there before I call the Sheriff.”

“The Sheriff sent us.”

“Like hell he did.” Mrs. Coleman stormed off toward the house, the strings from her apron gaining hang time from the gusts of air formed in her wake.

“Come on, Kid. Let’s go to the barn.”

“Are you sure we—”

Jack kept walking. I looked back at the house expecting the screen door to open with Mrs. Coleman coming out riding on a broomstick. She might have been a little woman, but she had a wild look in her eyes.

“No need to be afraid, Kid. I’ll protect ya.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh huh.”

There were a couple exhalation words worse than
Hmm
. Jack had just said them. At least with them, there was no room for misinterpretation. It conveyed disbelief and mockery wrapped up in a concise package.

We walked through the barn. The fumes were intense, but they didn’t assault my sinuses the way I had expected it to. My sinuses must have been scorched and no longer a reliable sensory function. But what was worse was the smell had converted to a tangible quality, coating my tongue. A deep exhale made me cough and the scent came up as a flavor from my lungs.

The feeding trough for the pigs was located at the back of the barn. The CSI was standing at the doorway to the pen. He turned around as we approached. “I’m not going in there.”

“You are.”

“You can’t make me, agent.” The CSI pointed to a large sow with piglets nursing from her at the far end of the enclosed area. “That sow will kill me if I step in there. Can’t you see the way she’s looking at me?”

“It’s all about perception. She senses fear she’ll charge you. Be dominant.” Jack opened the gate. “Now, get in there.”

“This ain’t a dog.”

“They belong to the mammal family, can’t be much different.”

“I’m not sure if I’m the right person for the job.” The CSI stepped into the pen, and Jack latched the gate. The sow lifted her head and assessed the CSI. “See, I’m going to die.”

Jack pumped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I have faith in you.”

The CSI took another step toward the trough. His feet sank into the muck and made a suctioning noise as he lifted them out. “Oh, this is—” The CSI grunted.

At the end of the pen, the sow wasn’t moving.

“You can do it.”

I laughed unable to hold it in any longer.

“Hey, you think this is funny? Get in here with me.”

“No way.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea.” Jack turned to me. He watched my expression fall sober. He smiled. “Don’t worry Kid, I wouldn’t want the smell and mess in the SUV.”

I watched as the investigator made it closer to the trough. His feet sank further into the muck with every step.

“Maybe you should have worn boots.” Jack picked up a couple thigh-highs that were in an empty stall to the right.

“Now you bring those out.” The CSI teetered from side-to-side, as he pulled his feet out, careful not to lose balance. “My wife’s gonna kill me.”

“You’re almost there, only about six more feet.”

The sow let out a grunt, and the piglets shifted. The CSI froze.

“Pull back the attitude a bit. She’s starting to view you as a challenge.”

He never looked at Jack, but I could feel the man’s energy. Jack was on his shit list. The thing was Jack wouldn’t care. I actually had the feeling it fueled him.

“Okay, I’m here.”

The sow had her attention on the CSI, who was at her feeding trough.

“Just move nice and slow. No fast movements.”

“I’m gonna die.” The CSI faced heavenward and said some words that were only disclosed by his moving mouth.

“What do you expect he’s gonna find anyhow?” I asked.

Jack pulled out a cigarette and lit up.