The Dead Peasants File

by L. Craig Harris

  “Thanks.” Christopher smiled and nodded, then he pointed at him. “I've seen you before. You're a security guard there aren't you?”

  Dillon nodded. “That's right.”

  “Well I appreciate you coming out today. I know it means a lot to the family.”

  Dillon nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Eastland coming toward him. The car she had climbed in hadn't moved. She had gotten out of it and was coming toward them. She grabbed the preacher by the arm. “I want you to come to my house tonight. I want to talk to you.”

  “Yes ma'am,” Christopher said. “I'll come by around seven.”

  “There's lots of food, so plan to eat.” Then she looked at Dillon. “And I want you to come too.”

  Dillon pointed at himself, surprised. “Me?”

  “Yes, you come too. Someone has to eat all of that food. Do you know where I live?”

  “Yes ma'am.” Dillon had been there a couple of times. Once was at a company Christmas party three or four years ago. He remembered how wonderful the house smelled, like cinnamon, pine trees and apple pie. He had also taken Ron home from work last year when Ron's car was in the shop.

  Mrs. Eastland turned and Christopher walked her back to the car. Dillon continued to stand and watch as the car backed up and then moved out of the cemetery. Christopher got in his car, parked next to where she had been, and left too. Dillon finally moved from his spot. He glanced at the casket a last time as he walked past it to leave.

  Dillon was glad to take off the suit when he got home. He put on some denim shorts and a sports shirt, then sat in his easy chair with a glass of iced tea. He had hoped going to the funeral would alleviate some of the guilt he felt about Ron's death, but it didn't. He felt even more guilty after seeing the suffering the death had caused. He sat heavily in his easy chair and kicked up his feet. Jenny came in and asked him how it went.

  “It was okay, I guess,” he said. “As good as funerals go.” He sipped the iced tea. “But I saw something I've never seen before.”

  She stopped in front of him to listen.

  “The widow, Mrs. Eastland, got in Walter's face and accused him of murdering Ron. Right there in front of everyone.”

  “No kidding!”

  He leaned forward. “I'm not kidding. I thought she was going to slug him right there in the cemetery.”

  “Why would she say such a thing?”

  “I don't know, but she asked me to come over tonight, so I hope she gives some details. I'm really curious about all of this. Especially since I'm the one who went to St. Louis to get him right before he died.” He frowned. “I just hope she isn't blaming me for this … ” His voice trailed.

  “Well you didn't do anything wrong. They made you go get him and you were just doing your job.”

  He flexed his face and blew air out of his mouth, shaking his head. “I know. I know.”

  Just before seven, he put on some khaki pants and a nice, button-down shirt and drove to the Eastland house. It was a nice, two-story, brick house in the middle of a cull-de-sac. The Eastland's had lived there a long time if he remembered correctly. He had walked into some tough situations as a Marine, but none of them scared him any more than walking up to this front door. He was afraid of what Mrs. Eastland was going to say to him – or accuse him of. But he was also curious. He wanted to know why she accused Walter of murdering Ron. Did Ron really steal money from the company?

  Christopher Forrest's car was already there when he arrived. Well that's good, he thought, maybe she wouldn't be too rough on him with the preacher standing there.

  He was relieved when she came to the door and hugged him. He immediately knew she was not angry with him and was not going to finger him as an accomplice in her husband's death.

  “Come on in and help me eat this chicken,” she said, ushering him into the entryway.

  The house didn't smell like Christmas this time. It was late September and the place was decorated for fall. Beautiful, of course, and with flowers and greenery from the funeral sitting in every corner and along the walls. Food completely covered the table and spilled over to the stove and counters. The house smelled like Thanksgiving.

  Christopher was sitting with his back to the kitchen in the living room, talking to the family members who were there. It looked like he had already eaten and was sitting with a plastic glass of tea in his hand. He turned and nodded to Dillon, then turned back to one of the sons he was talking to.

  Dillon followed Phyllis to the kitchen. She took a plate and put some fried chicken in it. “Do you like new potatoes?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He stepped up and gently took the plate from her. “You don't have to fix my plate for me.”

  “Oh, okay.” She began to pour tea into a plastic cup that already had ice in it. “Get what you want and then I'll introduce you to my sons and their families.”

  “Yes, Ma'am.”

  Phyllis ignored her family and Christopher as she sat in the kitchen, watching Dillon eat. “Ronny was very fond of you,” she said. “I just want you to know that.”

  Dillon took a drink to wash down the roll he had just bitten into. “I really liked him too.” He looked into her eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

  “I know. It's okay.”

  “I mean, I'm sorry I went to get him at the airport.” He paused and glanced at her. “I still don't understand why he was trying to fly to Mexico or why they wanted me to go get him.”

  “Oh, I know.” She wiped some water off of the table with a cloth. “I don't blame you for that, and Ronny wouldn't have either.”

  Dillon thought about how to ask his next question. “So, why was he trying to fly out of the country?”

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He was running for his life.”

  Dillon winced. “Why? What do you mean?”

  Before she could answer, one of the men walked into the kitchen. “Mom, you shouldn't be saying things like that.”

  Phyllis stood to her feet and picked up Dillon's plate. “Dillon, this is my oldest son, Ron, Jr.”

  Dillon stood up and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about your loss.”

  “Thanks.” He took a carrot from a small bowl and crunched into it. “Dad was about to retire and now ...” He shrugged his shoulders. “But don't let Mom fill your head with her conspiracy ideas.”

  Phyllis snapped at him. “You didn't live here. You don't know what I know.”

  Christopher walked quickly into the room. “Mrs. Eastland, please.” He waved his hand to motion her to stop the argument.

  She walked over and set her plate near the sink. Her voice softened. “Okay.”

  Dillon followed her into the living room and she introduced him to her other son and the members of the family. Some children played on the wood floor, oblivious to the loss that had befallen them. Dillon sat and listened as the families told about their lives. Ron, Jr. lived in Tulsa. The younger son lived on Battlefield Road in eastern Springfield, not far from Dillon. He was glad to know Phyllis had a son living nearby.

  After a few minutes, Phyllis motioned for Dillon and Christopher to follow her into Ron's office. The three walked into the room and she shut the door behind them, which surprised Dillon. The office was small, but with a leather chair and dark wood on the built-in desk and cabinets. Years’ worth of hard-bound books were on the shelves, and Ron's college degree from Midwest University was framed on the wall. A couple of matching prints of ducks flying were near the lone window.

  She walked over and turned on Ron's computer. “I want to show you something.”

  In a few seconds, the computer booted and showed Ron's desktop. She clicked on a round icon. His Internet browser opened. “Look at this”. She clicked the favorites tab. Dillon and Christopher watched as a list of gambling sites populated down the left side of the screen. “She turned and looked at each of them. “This is what he was doing last week. He wasted more than half of our savings.” She pointed at the screen. “H
e was trying to get a lot of money in a hurry.”

  Christopher clicked on one of the sites. “I thought Internet gambling was against the law.”

  Dillon pointed to the oriental writing at the top of the page. “It is, but there are sites overseas that are glad to take your money.” He looked over at Phyllis. “So, Ron was hooked on this?”

  She frowned and answered quickly. “He always hated such foolishness.” She glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “He never gambled a day in his life until this month. I tried to stop him but he yelled at me and said Morgan was trying to kill him.”

  “That doesn't make sense,” Christopher said.

  She reached down and clicked the mouse. “Look at this email.” She opened his email program and clicked on the deleted email folder. She scrolled down until an email appeared that said “Your name is on the list. Do what you have to do.” It was from a man named Travis Reed. Dillon knew him well.

  “What does this mean?” Christopher said, studying the screen.

  “That's what I want you to tell me,” she said. “It's from his friend Travis.” She turned and looked at Dillon. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes ma'am. I've met him several times.” He glanced at Christopher. “He's on the level as far as I know.”

  “Well, when Ronny got this email from him last week he went into a panic. He couldn't eat or sleep and he sat in here all night on these gambling sites.” She paused. “I guess he was trying to come up with enough money to make a run for it.” She looked at Dillon. “So what I want to know is did he tell you anything Monday on the way back from the airport?”

  Dillon looked her in the eyes for a moment. He nodded his head slowly. “Yes, Ron told me Morgan was going to kill him if I brought him back.” He lowered his head, then looked back at her. “I'm sorry, I didn't know what he meant. That didn't make sense to me.” He got a pained look on his face. “I wish now I had let him go. I had no idea this would happen.”

  She spoke softly. “You didn't know.”

  “Morgan?” Christopher said. “You mean the store? Who at Morgan was trying to kill him and why?”

  She pointed at the email. “Something about a list.” She looked at them. “Travis said he was on some list.”

  Dillon looked at Phyllis. “And you think Walter somehow murdered him at his office Monday?”

  “Yes I do. Walter didn't try to help him, he sent you after him, then my Ronny died, just like he said he would.”

  “Who is Walter?” Christopher said.

  “Walter is our boss,” Dillon said. “He's the one who sent me to get Ron at the airport in St. Louis.” He glanced at Phyllis. “He didn't tell me why, he just said to go get him. I thought maybe he had stolen from the company.”

  Phyllis raised her voice. “No he did not. He would never steal a penny from anyone. He was a good, Christian man.”

  Dillon spoke in a soft, sympathetic voice. “Of course. I'm sorry.”

  Christopher interrupted. “Now wait a minute, we don't know what happened to him. They said he had a heart attack. We don't know that anyone's to blame here.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Phyllis said. “He pleaded with Dillon not to bring him back and then he died right after he got here?”

  Dillon and Christopher looked at each other. Dillon spoke. “Do your sons know any of this?”

  “I tried to tell Ron, Jr., but he won't believe me.” She glanced at the closed door. “And I don't want them to know about the gambling – that would humiliate Ron if they knew.”

  “Yes Ma'am,” Dillon said.

  “If you don't mind my asking, did he have life insurance?” Christopher said.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, that's good. So you should be okay then, financially.”

  “Yes, I'll be fine,” she said. She clicked the computer mouse to turn it off and fidgeted with her apron.

  Her son, Ron, knocked on the door. “You okay, Mom?”

  She opened the door. “Yes, sweetie, I was just showing them some of your dad's books.”

  Dillon hugged Phyllis again at her front door and said goodbye to her family members. He and Christopher walked out of the house together and stood by their cars, parked next to each other. Crickets were chirping in the cool, night air. Dillon crossed his arms and leaned back on his car door. “What do you make of what she was saying?”

  “I don't know. I can't deny that Ron was trying to run. He was trying to make a lot of money and he died right when you brought him back. And that list – there's something going on. ”

  Dillon nodded. “But what? This doesn't make any sense.”

  “What can you tell me about Walter Gray?” Christopher almost smiled. “She got in his face this afternoon and accused him of this.”

  “I know. I couldn't believe that.” Dillon shook his head. “I think Walter is power-hungry, maybe money-hungry, but there's no way you could make me believe he somehow killed Ron. He seemed genuinely shaken this afternoon after Ron died. I just don't get it.”

  Chapter Three

  It was a little before eight when Dillon walked into the Morgan Retail Store Friday morning. He paused as he walked through the double glass doors to make sure the scanners picked up his bar code. All Morgan employees are given a tiny tattoo on their forehead. His was in the normal spot, above his left eye, up at the hairline. It was so small, you had to look closely to see it, but it was there, a permanent bar code, tattooed into his skin. He carried a hand-held scanner with him that helped him distinguish between employees and shoppers. That was how he had identified Ron Eastland when he was hiding behind the newspaper at the airport.

  When Dillon walked through the doors, the scanner spotted his tattoo and clocked him in. “Good morning, Dillon McGee,” a friendly female voice said from above. “You are now on the clock at seven-fifty-seven a.m.”

  The place was already busy, with customers milling through the aisles. He made his way through the cavernous building toward the back where employees took breaks and kept their belongings. Dillon paused and breathed in a blast of sweetness as a worker in the bakery set out a pan of fresh donuts. He resolved to come by later and try one of the glazed ones with colorful sprinkles.

  He took his hand-held scanner and .38 revolver out of his locker, then buckled the belt and holster around his waist. He had never had to use the gun, but he knew he would if he had too. Dillon had worked at the store for just over five years. He had chased dozens of thieves, tackling them in the floor and out in the parking lot. He had even pulled the gun several times to get someone to stop, but he had never had to shoot anyone. He wore a blue security-guard suit, complete with the iconic hat, and he patrolled the aisles when he wasn't standing in the doorway. By now, he knew the workers and the customers pretty well. Springfield is a town of more than a hundred thousand, but Morgan had its regular customers. Most just wanted to get in and out, but there were a few trouble-makers, and he knew to keep his eye on them.

  He sauntered back toward the bakery and stood in front of the now-half-empty pan of donuts. The ones with the sprinkles were already gone, but a couple of glazed looked appetizing. He took one and walked with it toward the check-out counter. He found a line with only one person in and and got in it. He could hear the bleeps of scores of cashiers scanning merchandise down the length of the store. The checker typed in the price of the donut, then pointed her hand-held scanner at Dillon's head. “Blip”, it registered on the screen in front of him. When he got to the automatic sliding front doors, Walter was standing there, out on the sidewalk. Dillon knew he could walk out of the doors and not get clocked-out of work because the store computer knew it wasn't time for him to go. Dillon wondered sometimes how it kept up with him running in and out all day.

  “Hey boss,” he said.

  “Mornin' McGee.”

  “How's it going this morning?”

  Walter shook the hand of a customer who was walking by, then turned back toward Dillon. “Oh, you know,
same old.”

  Dillon cleared his throat. “Mrs. Eastland wasn't very happy to see you at the funeral yesterday, was she?”

  Walter nodded at someone else walking by. He moved closer to Dillon and put his face only a few inches away. “That woman is a paranoid schizophrenic. She's delusional. She thinks I killed Ron. How could I have killed him? Do you hear how that sounds? I tried to save him – she should be thanking me for that.”

  Dillon scratched behind his ear. He hesitated, wondering if he should ask what he wanted to know. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, go ahead.”

  “Was Ron on some sort of hit list before he died?”

  Walter looked like Dillon had struck him. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I can't say, Mr. Gray.”

  “I guess she told you that.” Walter shook his head. “I'm telling you, she's crazy. I have no idea what you're talking about.” Walter stepped over and spoke to a woman walking into the store. He turned back to Dillon. “I have to get in there to my office. I'll talk to you later.”

  Dillon watched him walk through the store, speaking to several people before he stepped out of sight. Walter sounded convincing, but Ron was dead. He didn't know who to believe.

  He stood in the cool morning air for several minutes before he went back into the store. He walked slowly across the front, eying each customer as he strolled by. His job was mostly pretty boring. Ninety five percent of the time, he just walked around watching. But the five percent of pure adrenaline rush kept him interested.

  Morgan Retail was the most successful corporation in the world. It started out small, but had overtaken its competition, shutting down big and small stores everywhere a Morgan store appeared. The company not only paid its employees better than the other stores, it consistently had lower prices on everything. The other guys just couldn't compete. Morgan was the brain-child of Charles Morgan, who lived in a mansion in the mountains outside of Denver. He started with one store and had built the empire in less than twenty years. Dillon didn't know much more than that about Charles Morgan, he just knew he was paying him well and that the store was thriving.