Hard Row Part 13

"It's a match. No question about it. The state lab can take a look if you want, Major, but it's Harris."

While Mrs. Samuelson showed Richards and Denning over the house and the nearer outbuildings, Dwight called Reid Stephenson as he had promised and asked him to notify the Harris daughter before it hit the news media. "And you might as well tell Pete Taylor so he can pa.s.s the word on to Mrs. Harris."

Then he and Jamison drove along a lane that was a shortcut over to the farm manager's home. Trim and tidy, the white clapboard house appeared to date from the late thirties and sat in a grove of pecan trees whose buds were beginning to swell in the mild spring air. No one appeared when Dwight tapped the horn, but through the open window of the truck, they could hear the sound of tractors in the distance and they followed another lane past a line of scrubby trees and out into a forty-or fifty-acre field. Two tractors were preparing the ground for planting. A third tractor seemed to be in trouble. It was surrounded by a mechanic's truck, two pickups with a Harris Farms logo on the doors, and several Latino and Anglo men.

As the two deputies drew near, a tall Anglo detached himself from the group.

"Mr. Lomax?" Dwight asked. "Sid Lomax?"

The man nodded in wary acknowledgment. He wore a billed cap that did not hide the flecks of gray at his temples and his face was weathered like the leather of a baseball glove, but if the muscles of his body had begun to soften, it was not evident in the way he moved with such easy grace.

"Lomax," Dwight said again. "Didn't you use to play shortstop for Fuquay High School?"

Lomax looked at Dwight more carefully and a rueful grin spread across his face. "I oughta bust you one in the jaw, bo. You played third for West Colleton, didn't you? Can't call your name right now, but d.a.m.ned if you weren't the one got an una.s.sisted triple play off my line drive in the semifinals with the bases loaded, right?"

"Dwight Bryant," Dwight said, putting out his hand. "Colleton County Sheriff's Department."

"Yeah?" Lomax took his hand in a strong clasp. "Reckon I'd better not punch you out then."

"Might make it a little hard for my deputy here," Dwight agreed as Jamison smiled.

"Man, we were supposed to go all the way that year," he said, shaking his head. "Oh well. What can I do for you?"

"You've heard about the body parts been scattered along this road?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm afraid it's your boss."

"The h.e.l.l you say!" His surprise seemed genuine. "Buck Harris? You sure?"

"We've just compared the fingerprints with those in Harris's study here. They match."

"Well, d.a.m.n!"

"When's the last time you saw him?"

Lomax pulled out a Palm Pilot and consulted his calendar. "Sunday the nineteenth at the Cracker Barrel out on the Interstate. I was having dinner with my son and his wife after church and he stopped by our table on his way out. I walked out to the car with him because he wanted to firm it up about moving most of the crew on this place to one of our camps down east. We've had tomatoes here the last two years, so this year we're planting these fields in soybeans. Beans don't take a lot of labor."

"So did you move them yet?" Dwight asked.

"All but these guys you see here. Why?"

"Any women or children left in the camp?"

"A couple to cook for the men. Three or four kids and they all go to school. We encourage that. We don't let 'em quit or work during the school year. Mrs. Harris is pretty strict about that."

"Not Mr. Harris?"

"Well, you know Buck." He paused and looked at them dubiously. "Or do you?"

"Never met him that I know of," said Dwight.

"Me neither," said Jamison.

"Buck didn't mind cutting corners if it would save a few dollars."

"In what way?"

Lomax shrugged. "Hard to think of any one thing. He's one of those up-by-his-bootstraps guys. Always saying he started with nothing and built it into something. Wasn't completely nothing though, was it? He had what was left of his granddaddy's farm. Gave him a place to stand while he leveraged the rest. Not the most patient man you'd ever want to meet. Couldn't bear to see any workers standing around idle if the clock was running. Thought they ought to keep picking tomatoes or cutting okra even if it was pouring down rain because that's what he did when he first started. Always pushing the limits."

"You got along with him though?"

"Enough that I never quit him. Came close a couple of times. But he paid good wages for hard work and he knew he didn't have to be breathing down my neck every minute to make sure I was keeping to the schedule. And most of the time he could laugh about things. He liked to keep tabs on whatever was going on. He'd come out here in the fields and get his hands dirty once in awhile or plow for a few hours. That man did love to sit a tractor."

"Yet you weren't surprised when he didn't show up for two weeks?"

Again the shrug. "I knew he and Mrs. Harris were fighting it out in court. I figured that's where he was."

"You have a couple here named Ramon and Strella?"

"Ramon? Sure. Only they're not on the place now." Once more he consulted his Palm Pilot. "They moved over to Harris Farm Three back around Thanksgiving. That's down near New Bern."

"Any objection if we question the people still here?" Dwight asked.

"No problem. Either of you speak Spanish?"

As both deputies shook their heads, Lomax unclipped the walkie-talkie on his belt. "Let me get Juan for you. He's pretty fluent in English." When the walkie-talkie crackled, the farm manager said, "Hey, Juan? Come on in, bo."

Immediately, one of the tractors broke off and headed in their direction.

Before it reached them, though, Dwight's own phone buzzed again.

"Hey, Major?" Denning said. "You might want to get back over here. We've found Harris's car. I think we've also found the slaughterhouse."

CHAPTER 18.

A good barn is essential, and no farmer can afford to be without one, which should be of sufficient size for all the purposes to which it is to be appropriated.

-Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890 DWIGHT BRYANT.

MONDAY AFTERNOON, MARCH 6.

Sid Lomax followed Dwight and Jack Jamison back to a cl.u.s.ter of outbuildings, which were screened from sight of the farmhouse and garage by a thick row of tall evergreen trees and bushes. In addition to the usual shelters, several of the sheds held specialized equipment for the different crops. The two trucks pulled up in front of a shed where Richards was already cordoning the place off with a roll of Denning's yellow crime scene tape. This shed was built for utility, not beauty: a concrete slab flush with the ground, steel studs, steel framing, a tinned roof that sloped from front to back, no windows. One of the tall double doors stood open and gave enough light to see that a silver BMW was parked inside.

"What's this shed used for?" Dwight asked Lomax as they walked closer.

"It's where we store the tomato sprayers, but we sent them on to the other farms before Christmas because we're going to grow beans here this year. It's supposed to be empty right now."

"Watch where you put your feet and don't touch anything," Richards cautioned him as he started to follow them inside.

Not that there was that much to touch. The car was the only object of any size in a s.p.a.ce designed to hold at least two large pieces of machinery.

As they entered, Dwight paused and examined the door fastenings. The hasp was a hinged steel strap that slotted over a st.u.r.dy steel staple meant to hold a padlock and secure the strap. A wooden peg hung from a string but there was no padlock in sight and no sign that the doors had been forced.

Lomax followed his eyes. "We keep the sheds locked if there's something worth stealing in them," he said, "but we don't bother when they're empty, just peg the doors shut. I doubt I've stuck my head in here since Christmas."

Carefully, Denning used a screwdriver to pull a chain that released the catch for the other door and let it swing wide, then used equal care to switch on a couple of bare lightbulbs overhead that immediately lit up the gory scene at the rear of the shed.

Blood, lots of blood, had pooled at a slight low spot and blow flies and maggots were busily churning it on this mild spring day. Small dried chunks were scattered around.

"Bone," Denning said succinctly.

The b.l.o.o.d.y axe had been flung to one side but there were deep gouges in the concrete floor where the blade had come down heavily.

But that wasn't the worst.

The real horror was a length of b.l.o.o.d.y rusty iron chain that lay in heavy loops, the links caked in blood and gore, the two ends secured with a lock.

"Dear G.o.d," Lomax murmured. "He was alive and conscious when the hacking started?"

Denning nodded grimly. "Looks like it."

"And after it was finished," said Dwight, "the killer didn't need to open the lock. He just pulled away the pieces."

Lomax turned away and bolted for the door. They heard him retching, but there were no grins from any of them for a civilian's involuntary reaction.

Except for Denning, all of them had grown up on working farms where food animals had been routinely slaughtered to fill the family freezer for the winter, but that sort of killing was done cleanly and as humanely as possible.

This though-!

I'm getting too hardened, Richards thought sadly. What would Mike think of me that I'm not out there throwing up, too?

"Looks like his clothes over here," said Denning.

Jockey shorts lay tangled with a jacket, shirt, and pair of pants. Shoes and socks had been tossed into a corner.

"No blood," said Richards. "So he was stripped naked before the chain went on."

Jamison was appalled by the level of cruelty. "Somebody really hated his guts, didn't they?"

"But where the h.e.l.l's the head and p.e.n.i.s?" asked Dwight. "Either of y'all check the car?"

"Not there," Richards said. "The keys are in the ignition though."

Dwight peered through the windshield. The steering wheel sported a black lambswool cover, so no chance of fingerprints from it.

"Y'all open the trunk?"

"Not yet," Richards admitted.

They waited for Percy Denning to dust the door handle. "Too smeared," he reported.

After gingerly extracting the key from the ignition, he fitted one of them into the trunk lock.

Richards held her breath as the lid lifted and immediately realized she was not the only one when the others collectively exhaled.

The trunk was upholstered in dark gray and, except for the spare tire, appeared at first to be empty. And then they took a second look.

"s.h.i.t!" said Denning. He got his camera and took pictures of the stains on the floor and lid of the trunk and of the once-white undershirt with which the killer had probably wiped the worst of the blood from his hands. "This was the delivery truck."

CHAPTER 19.

With a zest, seasoned and heightened by congenial companionship, let him have at times ... such festivities as sweep from the brain the cobwebs of care.

-Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890 DEBORAH KNOTT.

MONDAY AFTERNOON, MARCH 6.

After lunch, I finished up the first appearances. Normally, unless an address is familiar for other reasons, I don't pay much attention to the ones given by the miscreants who come before me, but so soon after talking with Dwight and with the Harris divorce on my mind, I looked closer at the Latino who had been picked up Sat.u.r.day night and was charged with possession of two rocks of cocaine.

"Ward Dairy Road?" I asked through the interpreter. "Harris Farms?"

"Si," he said and followed that with a burst of Spanish. The only word I caught was Harris and the interpreter, a young woman going for an a.s.sociate degree in education out at Colleton Community, confirmed that he lived in the Harris Farms migrant camp out there on the old Buckley place.

I appointed him an attorney, set his bond at five thousand, and before remanding him to the custody of the jailer, asked if he knew Mr. Harris.

"Conoce el Senor Harris?"

From the negative gestures and the tone of his reply, I was not surprised to hear that this guest worker knew the "big boss" by sight but had never had direct dealings with him.

The rest of his reply was almost lost to me as a distraught white woman burst through the doors at the rear of the courtroom with a wailing infant. There was a huge red abrasion on the side of her face and blood dripped from her cut lip onto the dirty pink blanket wrapped around the baby.