Saving Cecil

by Lee Mims

  “Well, I guess I just want to actually see the settling ponds and where the fracking fluids are stored … that kind of thing. I can’t help but worry about the farm, the groundwater and all.”

  “I understand and appreciate your concerns completely,” I said. “The farm was pristine when we arrived and it’ll be pristine when we leave, I promise, but I admire you for taking responsibility and checking things out for yourself.”

  “So I can come by?”

  “Whenever you’d like.” I gave her my card. “Call my cell anytime.”

  Sheriff Stuckey’s Interceptor was parked in front of the doghouse when I returned to the site. I wasn’t surprised. In my mind, he’d take any opportunity to irritate and harass me. Jackie was on the stoop with him. I parked my Jeep and went to see what he wanted.

  Jackie met me before I reached the steps and said, “You need me, I’ll be at the rig.”

  “Thanks, Jackie,” I said, then climbed the stairs to where Stuckey stood.

  “Miz Cooper,” Stuckey greeted me.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, leaning against the stoop railing. I had no intention of inviting him inside.

  “Well,” he drawled, “as you may remember, I’m not one for beating ’round the bush. You’re my main suspect in the murder of that boy you found in the woods Wednesday. What do you have to say about that?”

  The state should never have closed Dorothea Dix Hill Mental Hospital? His utter inappropriateness and lack of professionalism almost left me speechless. Almost. I looked him square in the eye and said, “Looked to me like he was the victim of a hunting accident.”

  “Well, aren’t you just the little detective?” Stuckey sneered. “And for your information, missy, the arrow didn’t kill him and it wasn’t an accident.”

  Now that was a surprise. “Really? How do you know that?”

  “’Cause I’m the sheriff and you’re just a civilian. Just soon’s I saw him with an arrow in his shoulder blade yet bleeding from his mouth as well as his nose, I knew he had to have another wound. Didn’t take an Einstein to roll him up and see the stab wound in his stomach. That’s what caused the bleeding from the mouth.”

  “There you go, Sheriff,” I said. “That’s why you get the big bucks. Now tell me, what makes you think I did it?”

  “Again, I’m the sheriff and you’re … ”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’m the civilian. I’m also working here, so if you could cut to the chase.”

  “I look for the person with the motive and opportunity. You, and for that matter, the Lauderbachs, have the same motive, but since you found the body, that means you were right there in the area, so you go straight to the top of the list.”

  “I hate to encourage you, but please, enlighten me. What motive do the Lauderbachs and I both have?” I asked incredulously. “And while you’re at it, you can tell me why you think I would want to kill him. I didn’t even know him. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to hit the broad side of a barn with an arrow, and I’m pretty sure you’d have to be very skillful to actually hit a moving target like a person.”

  The sheriff squinted his eyes at me and said in a knowing way, “You and the Lauderbachs both have lots of money riding on these wells and since the Baker boy threatened to stop this operation, I’d call that a very credible motive.”

  “You better check your facts, Stuckey,” I said with a smirk. “You do check facts don’t you?” Stuckey just stared at me. “Well, it doesn’t appear so, because if you did, you’d know I don’t have a dime riding on this or any other well in the basin. I’m just a paid employee. I was hired by Greenlite to be their wellsite geologist. And, it’s none of my business, but it doesn’t appear to me that the Lauderbachs are in such dire straights that they’d be willing to kill for it.”

  Stuckey’s face fell the slightest bit so I kept up my ridicule. “And what on earth could a young college student do to stop them from drilling on their own property?”

  Regaining his cocky attitude, he said, “Oh, like you didn’t know Baker was a environmentalist! Everyone around here knows that. He was head of a youth movement that was planning a big protest at the Legislature to stop this damn fracking.”

  “Protesters are a way of life in my profession,” I said calmly. “I deal with them on a regular basis and despite what you apparently think, I don’t dislike them. That’d be like disliking America. Everyone here has a right to protest. Their rights, however, don’t trump the law or the rights of a private citizen to do what they please with their land. As long as no rules are being broken, and the proper permits and leases have been filed, protesters are, well, just protesters. I welcome them as part of the American culture. Plus they help keep everyone on their toes so we can all be safe while we enjoy the comforts and conveniences of living in the golden age of hydrocarbons.”

  “Since you’re so smart, “Stuckey sneered, “you want to know why he was dressed in camos?”

  “Not really … ”

  “’Cause he was snooping on you guys, that’s why. Taking pictures of some of your infractions. You saw him, found out all about him, and didn’t want to take the chance he’d shut down your operation.”

  Infractions? Holding a tight rein on my desire to ask Stuckey where his attendants were—clearly he needed to be under close care on a psych ward—I said, “You should consider letting your detective handle this case. He has a much better grip on … reality than you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do in the lab.”

  I closed the doghouse door behind me and moved to the window to make sure Stuckey left. Then I flopped on the cot beside Tulip and rubbed her bony head. “What the hell?” I breathed. “That man is certifiable.” Tulip thumped her tail. “So you concur?”

  She jumped to the floor and gave me one of her “inside” woofs.

  I stood and patted her sides, my mood already considerably improved. “My thoughts exactly. Come on, girl, let’s go collect samples and get a head start on logging. Then, because your expertise on human behavior is without parallel, I’ll treat you to a burger for lunch. I know just the place.”

  FIVE

  Now, I’m no detective. I have no special skills at rooting out evil or following clues that invariably lead me to the den of a crook or a murderer or other dastardly dude. But I am an investigator of another type. As a prospector I seek out and find valuable deposits of a geologic nature. Like a detective, I look to the past for clues to the present state of conditions deep under the ground. Then I follow up, using my lab skills to prove I’m on the right track.

  So when someone like the head of the local branch of law enforcement accuses me of murder, I naturally try to put all my skills together to save myself. And if there’s one thing that detectives and geologists have in common, it’s that the best tool in our box is our ability to communicate. You’d be surprised what you can learn by just talking to people.

  As I drove the outskirts of Sanford on my way to Chapel Hill, I stopped at a convenient mart and a bought a copy of the Sanford Herald. Just before reaching my destination, UNC, which was about 25 miles from the site, I spotted a Mickey D’s. I hung a left off 15-501 and pulled up to the drive-through and ordered a couple of quarter-pounders with cheese, Tulip’s all-time favorite. She topped off her lunch with a slurp of fresh bottled water. When she was done, I pitched the rest of the water from her bowl and headed up the street to the Mitchell Building, which houses the Department of Geological Sciences.

  I wasn’t sure what the current school policy was regarding dogs in the buildings. In my day, they were allowed, so I decided to chance it. Tulip followed politely at my heels. Because I keep in touch with the department, I knew that the same secretary was there from when I was a student. “Melody,” I said when I saw her seated behind her desk typing away as though in a time warp. “How do you do it? You haven’t changed a bit.”

 
“Cleo!” Melody said, smiling. “What a nice surprise, and I could say the same. You look very happy too. Must be your upcoming nuptials.”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “Oh, now Cleo, you know how fast word travels in the geologic community. When is the big event?”

  “Uh,” I said, trying to remember the exact date. “Just a little over a month away now.” Melody asked numerous questions about the wedding plans, none of which I could answer. I fumbled my way through them as best as I could, then steered the conversation to the reason for my trip. “Say, Melody,” I said. “Do you know anything about an environmental protest group over here, particularly one planning a fracking protest at the Legislative building in Raleigh?”

  “I’d imagine if there was something planned, it’d be the kids over at IE—the Institute for the Environment—doing it. Have you been over there?”

  “No,” I said. “But I will.”

  “Well, if you don’t find out what you need to know over there, I happen to know where a lot of the IE students hang out.”

  “I don’t doubt you do,” I laughed.

  It didn’t take me long to find the student bulletin board on the main hall at IE. When I didn’t find any notice of a scheduled protest at the Legislature, I decided to check out the Internet café, which, according to Melody, was their favored haunt.

  “Perfect,” I said to Tulip as I pulled to the curb a short ways down Franklin Street from the café. “They’ve got outdoor tables.” Much to her chagrin, I clipped Tulip’s leash to her collar, grabbed my copy of the Sanford Herald, and found an empty outdoor table. Tulip’s a magnet for kids of all ages. She just smiles, wags her tail, and they can’t resist.

  It wasn’t long before she’d lured in three dewy-faced co-eds, who, sure enough, were from IE. Their T-shirts, sporting environmental phrases, posed the perfect segue into the bug-a-boo de jour: fracking. It was like pouring gasoline on a campfire. They fumed and fussed with the usual uninformed and misinformed outrage. I waited them out, then mentioned that I had a young friend, Clinton Baker, now sadly deceased, who was also strongly against the practice. Surprisingly, they’d never heard of him.

  I opened my newspaper to the obits and showed them Baker’s photo. “Are you sure?” I asked. “He was majoring in environmental sciences.”

  “Oh, wow. He’s cute!” said the tallest of the girls. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Stephanie,” snapped one of her friends. “Don’t be a goofball. That’s his obituary … hello … under the photo!”

  Stephanie looked at the photo again. “Bummer,” she said.

  The third co-ed spoke up. “Well, honestly, the three of us are freshmen so it could be that since he’s like … older, and a few years ahead, that we don’t know him because we don’t share any of the same classes.”

  “I know,” offered the brilliant Stephanie. “Let me show this photo to Daryl and Tyler. They’re seniors.” She took the Herald, folded it to Clinton’s photo, and headed to a table of guys apparently deeply engaged in iPad games. Either that or they all had to pee really bad. Stephanie shoved the paper in front of one of the squirming young men. He retracted his tongue, which had been wiggling like mine does when threading a needle, and looked at the photo. I watched as the guys passed it around the table. Negative headshakes told me I’d hit a dead end.

  I thought about heading over to the records department, but decided to Google Clinton to see if I could find out what his major was. It would’ve been nice though if I could’ve talked to some students who knew him. I checked my watch. Time to get back to work. My lunch hour was long over.

  The afternoon droned on with drilling proceeding at a normal rate. It was about five thirty and I was in the doghouse, analyzing samples and filling in my log sheet, when the phone rang. It was the company man, Ben Overmire, Greenlite’s top executive on the Lauderbach job and the well designer. Fortunately he was calling from the main office in Pennsylvania and not out at the front gate. The man had a reputation of just dropping in unannounced.

  I caught him up on our current down hole position. Then he surprised me, saying he’d changed his mind on the location of Lauderbach #2. He gave me the new coordinates and explained his reasoning for the move. I told him I’d take care of it and we were discussing the differences between the drill plans for the two wells when I heard a car pull up. It was Sara Lauderbach, daughter of Arthur and Annette. I excused myself and went to the door to greet her.

  “Sara,” I said. “Have you come for that tour I promised you?”

  “If you’re sure you have time and I won’t get in your way,” she said. “Dad would skin me if he thought I’d caused so much as a one-second delay out here. He’s told me umpteen times how much money this well is costing.”

  What luck! When I wasn’t able to find any information on Clinton at UNC, I’d considered calling Sara. After all, she and Clinton had grown up together. If I was a detective, she’d be one of the first people I’d talk to. And since I’d just been informed that very morning that I was the prime suspect in a murder, I needed to do all in my power to find out the identity of the real killer while I could.

  I wouldn’t put it past Stuckey, being the lunatic he was, to try to throw me in jail. I wouldn’t be the first innocent person in my family he’d done that to. Never mind that it made no sense for me to kill a person I didn’t even know to keep him from protesting a well that I had no financial stake in.

  “You’re not holding up a thing,” I said. “Come on in. We’ll start with the office. We call it the doghouse, which has nothing whatever to do with Miss Tulip,” I said, pointing to her prone body on the cot, “and then we’ll move out to the drilling pad.” I showed her the lab, how I analyze samples and some of the different types of maps I use when prospecting or testing property. After fitting her with a hard hat, we moved outside where Jackie joined us. Tulip, never one to miss anything, followed along.

  Jackie briefly explained to Sara how the drill works and the differences between horizontal and vertical drilling, besides the obvious. When we moved over to the pits, she asked him, “How can we be sure none of these toxic chemicals leak into the soil and spoil the groundwater?”

  “If you look here,” Jackie told her, directing her attention to the lining extending over the edge of the pit, “you’ll see the pits are all double lined with an industrial-grade plastic lining. And remember, those chemicals comprise one half of one percent of the fracking fluid. Ninety percent is water and about 9.5 percent is sand. The chemicals are added for a variety of reasons, but primarily to increase the viscosity of the fluid, prevent bacterial growth and corrosion of the equipment, as well as minimize friction between the pipe and the fluid.”

  “Are the chemicals you guys put in the fluid really toxic?”

  “It depends on how you use them. Many are found around your home. For instance, ethylene glycol is present in some household cleaners. Guar gum is used in ice cream to make it creamy. Isopropanol is present in most deodorants. Borate salts are found in cosmetics. And most detergents contain sodium/potassium carbonate. If you added up all of those chemicals that go down household drains and in landfills every day and compared that number to the amount used in fracking, which happens over a two-to-five-day period during the 40-year life of a well, you might be surprised.”

  “I see,” Sara said as the sound of someone banging on a metal pipe intensified. Jackie looked in the direction of the drill crew. “Gotta go. The natives are getting restless. Always do around this time of day, when it’s quitting time for most folks.”

  Just in case she didn’t know, I said to Sara. “Once the crew and the rig are on station, work continues 24/7 until the well comes in. They work in shifts, but the pace is grueling nonetheless.”

  “I figured as much,” she said. “One night about a month ago, it was late and Clint and I drove
by the site on the way to the calf barn—we had a sick calf—and it was a regular beehive of activity.”

  “Speaking of Clinton,” I said. “I haven’t had the opportunity to personally offer you my condolences. I believe it was Ruby who said you two were childhood friends. Did you go to school together as well?”

  “Thank you for that,” she said. “And, yes, Clint went to UNC too. We applied together, attended orientation together and, even had some of the same classes. We’re both seniors this year.”

  “Aw, I know you must miss him terribly,” I said, sincerely. “He was like a brother, I guess.”

  “Oh, he was much nicer than my bratty little brothers. I’ve got three younger ones and one who’s older than I. Sometimes I think Mom had me so I could help her take care of them!” She laughed pleasantly, then like the sun going behind a cloud, her face crumpled. She was clearly in deep emotional pain. I stood quietly beside her until she regained control and gave me a weak smile. “No,” she said wistfully, “he wasn’t like a brother, he was my best friend.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again, guiding her back to the doghouse. I didn’t know her well enough to give her a hug, but she needed one. Instead, I did the next best thing and offered her a Coke. I had so many questions for her, but I didn’t want to overwhelm her or scare her away. Cracking open two canned Cokes from the mini fridge, I handed her one and said, “I never asked you what you’re majoring in.”

  “Journalism,” she said, joining Tulip on the cot and daintily sipping her soda. “I know it sounds corny, but I want to be a reporter. Only I want to be a different kind of reporter than those in the mainstream today. I want to be a reporter who tells the truth, gives the facts, and leaves out all the PC and the touchy-feely stuff.”