Part 13 (1/2)
”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 pus.h.i.+ng 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.