Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (8 page)

Her thoughts skipped like a stone across the water. It had been easy to cast herself as the victim in the divorce, to place the blame on Eric. Just about everyone who knew them sympathized with her, everyone, that is, except his new friends in the world of academic law. But what had she contributed to the divorce? What was wrong with her?

Forgiveness eluded her. She hadn't let go. She couldn't let go. Eric had rejected her.

And so, apparently, had God. The God she thought she knew, anyway.

At 8:00 a.m. sharp, Kit pulled into the parking lot at the Coast Guard Station, entered the building, and asked to speak to Rick Sellers.

“Why didn't you tell me about IOOS?” she said, piercing him with her eyes.

“IOOS? Oh, gosh, well . . . I guess . . . I totally didn't connect it with your case.”

“It provided just the information I needed.”

“You know, we don't use IOOS much ourselves.”

She frowned to convey to him that his excuses were gaining no traction. She told him about the gunfire on the ocean.

His brow wrinkled with concern. “That's incredible!” He ran his hand through his hair. “Do you think this has anything to do with the kid you found?”

“I don't know. But the boat was traveling near where he was probably dumped overboard.”

“And who were you with?”

“David O'Connor.” She explained who he was, leaving out the part about his wound.

Rick nodded. “Look, I'll file a report . . .”

“With whom?”

“The commander. Tonight we'll send a boat out there to see what's going on. What time did you say this happened?”

“Between 11 and midnight,” Kit said.

“I'm on it.” He stepped behind his desk as if action was imminent. “And I'm sorry, Kit, about IOOS. It honestly skipped my mind.”

It “skipped his mind” or he “didn't think it would relate” to her case?

Brenda Ramsfeld called Kit's cell phone as Kit drove away from the Coast Guard station. “Hey, I'm referring these reporters to you.”

“What are you talking about?” Kit gripped her phone and almost missed her turn.

“They're coming around here, asking questions about that dead kid. Wasting a lot of my time. So I told them it was your case, check with you.”

“Did you give them my number?” Kit's face felt hot.

“No. I told them you had rented a place on the island. That's all I said.”

“Don't give them my information!”

Kit hung up and called Connie. “For crying out loud, don't tell them anything,” Kit said.

“Oh, don't worry, honey. I got your back. I already sent one packing. Told 'em our rental information was confidential. Like medical records.”

That brought Kit's heart rate down a notch. Then another thought occurred to her. “Connie, is Bob around? Do you think he'd help me with something?” Her best lead so far was the plant material—the acorns and tomato seeds—found in the victim's clothing. She already knew that plants, like animals, had DNA specific to each individual, and that plant DNA had
been used in a few cases to link a suspect to a crime. But the FBI lab didn't do DNA testing on plant material. It had to be sent to a contract forensic botanist at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington.

In the meantime, Kit could pursue general knowledge of agriculture on the Delmarva Peninsula—a subject Connie's husband knew as well as anyone.

“You gonna take him off my hands? Well, honey, have at it,” Connie joked. “Can't never tell where he is on his days off. Here's his cell number.”

Kit pulled over into a deserted parking lot. The fact that the child was a Latino with a load of tomato seeds in his gut pointed to the possibility, at least, that he was the child of migrant workers employed on one of the vast tomato farms on the Delmarva Peninsula. And that determined her next step—find out as much as she could about tomato growing in the area.

That's where Bob came in.

A
TRUCKER
, C
ONNIE
'
S HUSBAND
B
OB RAN DRY GOODS UP FROM
N
ORFOLK
, four days on, three days off. Unlike Connie, he didn't come from Chincoteague—he'd grown up in Salisbury, Maryland, about fifty miles north, which is why Connie went by her maiden name. “If you're a Jester, on Chincoteague you are somebody,” she had explained. “Ain't no man can come up to that.”

Kit dialed his number. “Bob? It's Kit McGovern.”

“Well, hey, girl! What's my favorite Fed up to?”

“I want to know about big farm operations on the Peninsula.”

“You thinking about changing careers? Or is this about some farm boy?”

She laughed. “Can I just ask you some questions?”

“Sure.”

Kit started in, but Bob stopped her. “Whoa, honey. We need to do this in person. Where are you?”

Ten minutes later, Kit walked up to Bob and Connie's front door. The low brick rambler house sat on Chicken City Road, sheltered by tall pines and trimmed by riotous impatiens in full bloom. “Come in, come in!” Bob said, when he opened the door. His bald head, fringed in white, framed his tanned face.
He looked healthy, and considering he'd had a heart attack just a few years before, Kit thought that a blessing.

Bob showed her into the kitchen where he had already spread out a map of the Delmarva Peninsula. “Now, how kin I help you?” he asked. She explained what information she wanted. He started pointing out some relevant features. “You've got major poultry operations here, here, and here,” he said, making small circles on the map. “There are smaller plants, too, but those are the big ones.”

“Do they use migrant workers?”

“Not usually. Their product isn't really seasonal. Some migrants may find work in the plants and decide to stay on.”

“What other big agricultural operations are on the peninsula?”

“A whole lot. You've got major growers here, here, here, and here,” he said, drawing triangles this time. “There're a lot of truck farms, too . . . low-acreage operations where they grow melons, tomatoes, squash . . .”

“Tomatoes?”

“They get shipped to the big east coast markets—New York, Philly, D.C.—really all over. Now they would use ag workers. From July on, especially. So do the melon farmers. Virginia's the fourth largest tomato grower in the U.S. Lots of acres planted in tomatoes.”

“Where do the field workers come from?”

“South of the border.”

“And where do they live when they're here?”

“There aren't many farms that have housing for them anymore. You used to see that, you know . . . those little white houses, almost shacks, around the edge of a farm. Nowadays, most of them are housed in those little strip motels all up and down the peninsula. The ag concerns don't want to be responsible for their immigration status, so they contract with a
foreman. He supplies the actual workers. If there's an immigration enforcement problem, it's on him.” He stood up straight. “Hey, look. What's your schedule? I don't have to be at work until tomorrow afternoon. Why don't I just show you?”

Kit climbed into Bob's old red Chevy pickup and they left Chincoteague, traversing the causeway to the mainland. Bob turned right on Rt. 13 and headed north. “I'm guessin' you're interested in illegals,” Bob proffered.

“I'm interested in tomato growing,” Kit responded. “Growing, harvesting, shipping . . . the whole routine.”

Bob glanced at her. “Got some criminal tomatoes around, huh?” He laughed at his own joke. “I heard of ‘cereal killers' but nothing 'bout criminal 'maters.”

Kit rolled her eyes.

“All right, then. Some of the big growers have been turning to corn to supply the poultry houses. And ethanol, of course. That's the biggest dang boondoggle ever . . . ethanol. Why don't we just shoot ourselves in the foot? Puttin' food in the gas tank. How dumb is that?” He turned off onto a side road. “But this is the right time of year for 'maters. You came at peak pickin' time.” He accelerated, and Kit noticed in the outside rearview mirror that a cloud of blue smoke had emerged from his exhaust. “Y'know,” Bob continued, “a few years ago we had that dang salmonella scare. 'Bout did farmers in. Kept the 'maters off the market for weeks. Finally found out the stuff was in peppers. Jalapeño peppers. Serrano peppers. From Mexico, no less. Go figure.”

“Is that right?”

“Tomato growers lost
250 million, nationwide, and all because a few folks got the trots.”

“How many is ‘a few'?”

“Thirteen hundred's what I read.”

Kit smiled. “That's a bit more than ‘a few.' Did you lose some work?”

“Naw. I run dry goods, so I was OK. But other truckers lost money. Truckers along with the growers.” Bob turned onto a small, two-lane country road with oyster shells on the shoulders. “It was overreaching by the Feds. That's what I think.”

Bob pulled the truck over to the side of the road in the shade of some trees on a small hill overlooking a large field full of tomato plants staked up with twine. Even without getting out of the truck, Kit could see the ripe red fruit waiting for the harvesters who were spread out over the field. They wore long-sleeved white shirts and long pants, and some of them, she could see, had gloves on. They were walking down the rows, bending over, picking individual fruits, and putting them in soft bags worn across their bodies.

“That guy there,” Bob said, pointing to a man leaning against a pickup truck parked in the shade, “he would be the boss. The crew chief. He's hired all these pickers, and he's responsible for them.”

“How long will they be in this area?”

“A month, maybe six weeks, then they'll move on.”

“Where does the crew chief find them?”

“Who knows? I figure most of 'em get jobs by word of mouth. They all got the same last names: Rodriguez, Martinez, Hernandez . . . you know. They're all Mexicans.”