Saving Cecil

by Lee Mims

  With trepidation, I said, “Hi, Will. What up?”

  “Well, for starters, I’m trying to run my business here and Henri has completely dropped her end when it comes to helping the event planner make decisions about the wedding. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

  Can you say Chris Bryant? “I’m in a meeting, right now,” I said. “Specifically what’s the problem?”

  “She won’t even answer her phone, Mom. I think she’s screening her calls and … ”

  “The problem,” I prompted again. “Tell me the problem.”

  “Seems one of the vendors, the sound and light people, went out of business and now we have to start all over and pick someone else. Before she stopped answering her phone, Henri said she didn’t have time to handle it and for me to get you to choose someone else.”

  Sound and light people? “What in the hell do sound and light people do and why do we need them at a wedding?”

  “Uh. Actually, I’m not exactly sure. I thought you’d know. It’s kind of a girly thing.”

  “As it happens, I’m a girly and I don’t know so here’s my quick answer: ask the event planner to pick one. That’s what she’s paid for. Then go with who she says. Gotta go now, sweetie.” I tapped him off and went back to my meeting. Sound and light people? A horrifying image involving those light beams used at grand openings on used car lots flashed before my eyes. It took a few seconds for the feeling that I might hurl to pass. I pushed all thoughts of the wedding from my mind. Right now, someone was paying me for my expertise in geologic matters. That I could do!

  Later that same day, while driving home, I’d had plenty of time to come up with a way to catch the hog hunters doing their thing. It was simple. To expose a trophy hunter, act like one.

  I didn’t know if the man in the Toyota truck knew who I was, but Luther did, so that let me out. When Bud was a young man, he used to be quite the hunter but there was no way in hell I’d let him anywhere near a bunch of hogs and crazy hunters. Chris, on the other hand, well, it was his job to catch the bad guys. I’d already told him how important it was to have a safe place for paleontologists to work. He’d seemed to understand. Besides, what I wanted him to do wouldn’t take much time.

  I pulled over at a Kangaroo station and tapped Chris’s number on my iPhone. “Hey,” I said when he picked up. “Got a minute?”

  “That’s about what I’ve got,” he said, “a minute. I was just finishing up a Coke break. What can I do for you?”

  “Remember when I told you about the green Toyota truck?”

  “Right,” he answered.

  “Well, I have a question.”

  “Let’s have it.” I could hear him shaking ice in a paper cup.

  “Okay. Since I guess I’m still considered a murder suspect, and since you and I are in agreement that a hunter is the most likely candidate as the murderer of Clinton Baker—being shot with an arrow and all—I’m wondering why you haven’t made a search for the green truck. I remember seeing a scoped rifle in a rear-window rack. If you found the truck and him, you might learn that he has a truckload of … oh, I don’t know … neon-green arrows.”

  “Who says I haven’t?” he interrupted.

  “You have?”

  “Yes. And, just to remind you, I’ve never considered you a suspect. The sheriff does.”

  “Speaking of him, has he said any more about arresting me? It’s been a couple of days since he said he was going to.”

  “Not a word. I put out a rumor that you thought he’d shot your tire and caused you to wreck your car and you might be looking into having him arrested. Could be that’s causing him to cool his jets for a while.”

  “Could be … ”

  “Back to the truck,” Chris said. “Soon as you told me about the hog operation and the truck, I put every available man scouting Sanford and the surrounding area. We caught a break at TTA, Sanford-Lee County Regional Airport. They reported a Toyota pickup parked in the long-term lot that matched your description. Manager said the guy who owns it is a hunter. He said he frequently flies his friends down in his plane and hunts somewhere in the area.”

  “He flies down here from where?” I asked, trying to keep the excitement from my voice.

  “Baltimore. And I only tell you because I’ve already run the tags, found the guy and even interviewed him. Matter of fact, I just got back this morning. This guy is a big real estate developer. Builds exclusive residential communities, most of them with some type of unique concept. You know, based on equestrian activities or lake fishing … ”

  Or hunting. “So what did he have to say?”

  “He has an alibi as to where he was the day Clinton was killed. He was in Snowshoe doing a little early season skiing on the artificial stuff.”

  “Uh,” I said, disappointed. “So did you ask him if he hunts with arrows or a gun?”

  “Not that it made any difference, but yes, I did. I found out those things prior to him telling me he had an alibi.”

  “So, was it boxers or briefs?”

  Chris chuckled. “Neither. He said he doesn’t hunt. Just takes friends and goes along with them because he likes the outdoorsman lifestyle.”

  “Well, that’s a little weird, because he had a scoped rifle in his rear window. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’ll have someone run out to the airport and check it out, but his alibi was pretty solid. I haven’t actually verified it, but at this point I don’t feel it’s necessary.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what was the guy’s name?”

  “Butcher,” Chris said. “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t hunt. Sounds rather brutal, don’t you think? A hunter named Butcher.”

  “So what now?” I asked. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t hunting going on out there. They’re still your best bet for finding the killer.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, that because of the arrow, a hunter is the most likely person to be the killer, except for one thing. Motive.”

  “Maybe you just don’t know the motive yet. If you’d expose these hunters, you might find someone with a motive.”

  “Maybe,” Chris said around another mouthful of ice. “But, meantime, I have found someone with a motive. Unadulterated hatred, in fact.”

  “Seriously? Who?”

  Ignoring my request for a name, he said, “One of our computer researchers has come up with quite a bit of back and forth between Clinton and one of the creationists you mentioned earlier. I’ve been going over it and believe me, this guy, the creationist, is a serious nut case. The discourse between the two started after Clinton blogged on their site, The One Truth. At their invitation, I might add. Following that, there were a multitude of very nasty emails from the site creator to Clinton and vice versa. Anyway, I feel very strongly that I need to look into this. And, remember. We’re shorthanded. We’ve been over this.”

  “Sure, I remember. If there’s anything I can do.”

  “There is,” he said. “And we’ve been over this too. Nothing. You can do nothing.”

  “Got it.”

  SEVENTEEN

  When I got home around six, I went straight to my kitchen computer. It didn’t take much research at home to discover that Butcher was in fact one Fredrick James Butcher of Fred J. Butcher Homes; Fred Butcher, Incorporated; Butcher Realty World; and several other companies under the umbrella of Butcher Enterprises, Incorporated.

  The Fred J. Butcher Homes site had a photo gallery featuring photos of Mr. Butcher shaking hands with happy customers in front of McMansion-style homes. No doubt about it. That was the man I saw get out of a green Toyota truck in the clearing beside the hog pens. I was staring at the screen when I heard Bud’s Porsche as he downshifted into the drive.

  “We building a new house?” he asked, kissing the back of my neck and looking at the screen.

 
“See this guy?” I said, pointing to Butcher. “He’s the one I saw at the hog pens. It was either him or Luther that chloroformed me, Bud. Had to be! And my money’s on him. Every interaction I’ve had with Luther since I’ve been on the farm has been to help me in one way or another.”

  Bud pulled my rolling chair back a few feet and spun it to where I faced him. “You said you fainted,” he said with forced calm. “Now you’re saying … ”

  Oops. “As I recall, our conversation was interrupted by Henri and Chris. Speaking of which, have you heard from Henri lately?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject!” he snapped as he moved to the refrigerator for a beer. “I remember the conversation, and yes, we were cut off so now’s a good time to finish it. Did you or did you not faint?”

  “Not,” I said. “I did not fain … ”

  “Cleo,” Bud said in exasperation. “This is serious … ”

  “Exactly! And why I need to insist on taking action now to expose these hunters before someone, namely me or one of the paleontologists, gets hurt. Seems to me these guys are fierce about protecting their little hunting club. Even to the point of lying to the police!”

  “What do you mean?”

  I brought Bud up to speed regarding what Chris had learned about Fred Butcher and how he learned it. “During his interview, Butcher told Chris he was snow skiing in Snowshoe, West Virginia the day Clinton Baker was killed. And that he doesn’t hunt. But I know for a fact that I saw a scoped rifle on a rack in his rear window!”

  “Okay, okay.” Bud said. “Calm down. I know you’ve got a plan brewing in your head to prove what you say is true … ”

  “No, I don’t,” I said glumly. “I was thinking of suggesting to Chris that we find someone to pose as a hunter. Provided you’re able to get the contact information on setting up a trophy hunt out there.”

  “That’s where Dr. Newsom came in?”

  “Right. Only now, Chris is off on another avenue of investigation, which could be a valid one, only I don’t think so. I mean, I just have this gut feeling. There’s more to all this than hogs and hunting … ” My iPhone buzzed on my desk. I scooted over and, after checking the screen, picked it up. “Hey, Jackie,” I said. “Everything okay?”

  “No. We’ve got a serious problem. I’ve already reported to Overmire, but it looks like we might be down for good on this hole.”

  I sprang up, knocking my stapler off my desk. “What in the hell happened?”

  “S’what I’d like to know. We had a small alignment problem with the threads on the directional bit so the boys and I were back at the machinist truck working on it and the rest of the crew was taking a break at the canteen tent.” He paused to suck in a giant gulp of air. The crunching sound of grit let me know he was pacing nervously.

  “When we came back,” he continued, “ready to mount the bit, well, I guess that’s where a guardian angel was looking down on us ‘cause someone noticed sneaker prints in the mud on the deck. Don’t none of us wear sneakers, so we got suspicious. We ran a camera line down the hole and sure enough there was something down there. We can’t tell for sure what it is.”

  “Can’t you just fish it out?” There’s an old saying about shit happening. Junk can end up stuck in a well any number of ways. The drill string can get wrung into, cement can break off the sides of the well. Tools, nuts, bolts, and pieces of pipe from the drill deck above can even fall in. The problem is so common that a name has been assigned to this type of junk. It’s called a fish. And, special equipment has been designed over the years to fish or lift a variety of odd-sized objects from the hole. “You’ve got a fishing operator out there. I remember talking to him. Name’s …” I snapped my fingers trying to recall.

  “Willie is the guy you’re talking about. He does a little bit of everything. In fact, he was the one who operated the camera. Thing is, he says it’s more complicated than just fishing it up. Like I told Overmire, we’ve already tried that several times. Each time, it drops off. Now, it’s jammed in sideways.”

  “Oh great,” I breathed. “Well, OSHA says everyone working out there, including me, wear steal-toed boots, so it sure looks like sabotage to me. What do you think?”

  “I’m afraid you might be right.”

  “Any idea how they got in? The gate was locked, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I checked it myself. Of course, that wouldn’t stop someone from walking in. They’d just have to climb a few fences and it’d be a helluva walk. We’re a long ways from any public road.”

  “You don’t think the damage could be irreparable, do you?”

  “Could be. That’s why I’m calling. You’re the liaison between Greenlite and the Lauderbachs. They need to know the shale bed we’re in now is very friable. Could collapse. If that happens, well, I’m just letting you know we may have to abandon this well. If we do, there’ll be weeks with reclamation, then new site prep. All of it may be more than the well owners can take financially. Know what I mean?”

  I knew exactly what he meant. Financially, the Lauderbachs were already pushed to the limits. They were counting on this well not so much for extra funds to make repairs and upgrades necessary to keep the dairy operating, but to pay off creditors. I’d gotten the feeling in my talks with them that bankruptcy was looming. It would take subsequent wells to provide income to bring the dairy up to par. My heart broke for them and for all the folks that would be out of work if the well collapsed.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’re waiting on Overmire’s orders. He’s going over the downhole images now.”

  “Where is the fish located in the well?”

  “All the way down. It ain’t like it hung up a few hundred feet down and we could just cement off that section and drill a dogleg to the good portion and go on from there.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll check in with you early tomorrow morning, before I speak with the Lauderbachs. Anything happens before then, call.”

  “Will do. Oh, and Ms. Cooper, the person who threw junk down the hole?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They wore New Balance tennis shoes. I found more prints in the soft dirt at the bottom of the stairs. The NB logo was very plain.”

  Deliberate sabotage of a well is a rare occurrence. And it’s a big deal if the perpetrator can be found. Jackie seemed positive that Lauderbach #1 had been sabotaged and so did I. “Do me a favor, Jackie,” I said. “Be sure to take good pictures of the sneaker prints.”

  “Already done it,” he said. “Greenlite is going to blame us for this and two things I know for sure: there ain’t no way we dropped anything down there and there damn sure ain’t no way any of us would be caught dead on the site wearing tennis shoes … aside from the fact that it’s against OSHA regs.”

  “I believe you,” I said, then, thinking aloud, I muttered, “What kind of nerd wears New Balance tennis shoes anyway … ”

  “The kind that throws junk down a wellhole,” Jackie growled before signing off.Or the kind who wants to end drilling on the Lauderbach farm.

  Bud set a glass of chilled white wine in front of me. “Bad news?”

  “The worst,” I said and relayed what Jackie had told me.

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Normally, the first inclination is to suspect environmental activism, and that could be the case here. It’s just I have a bad feeling that the person who did this knows that the Lauderbachs have one chance at this and one chance only. Question is: who wouldn’t want them to succeed in saving their farm and a family business that has helped support the community for generations? It doesn’t make sense.” I pulled at my bottom lip.

  “And I have a creepy feeling that this incident is connected in some way to the murder, I just don’t know how. But, more than that, the murder and the hog operation are tied together. I know it!” I banged my hand on my
desk. “Ouch!” I yelped. Bud gave me a calm-down look. “I’ve got to figure this out, Dammit! And when I do, I bet you the answer is very simple … ”

  “Drink your wine,” he said, moving it to the kitchen table and cracking open a beer for himself. “Relax a minute. We’ll work through this together.”

  We sat and sipped in silence, thinking. Tulip, who’d spent the day at home in her back yard kingdom, came in and curled up at my feet.

  Bud fiddled with his Bud Light bottle, turning it, defining segments of a circle. “Let’s go back to our conversation about the trophy hunters and Dr. Newsom. We were interrupted just as I was about to tell you that I was able to get up with him …”

  “You were?”

  “Of course. You asked me to didn’t you?” I gave him a lopsided smile. “Anyway, it was interesting to catch up on old news. He’s still quite the hunter, but he didn’t know much about hunting feral hogs. He said he’d never had much interest in them. When I told him I’d heard that this hunt is somewhat of a secret—a you’ve-got-to-know someone-who-knows-someone kind of thing—he got interested and said he’d call around.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “There’s more. He called back yesterday, all excited. He said he’d found a hunt that’s very hush-hush. Very expensive too. My ears really perked up when he said they hunt this aberrant strain of feral hogs. I got the feeling he wanted to call them Hogzillas but the term was just too redneck. Anyway, the story goes that these hogs are only found in this one area.”

  “Oh my gosh!” I whooped. “I knew it. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “He just got back to me a few hours ago.”

  “Did he give any particulars, like where the hunt is and who runs it?”

  “No. Unfortunately he didn’t have a name. He was going to find out and call back later.” I poured another glass of wine and started pacing. Bud cleared his throat and said, “Last time we talked about this, you said if I could find the contact person for the hunt, you were going to ask Chris to find someone to pretend to be a hunter and find out all the pertinent information to catch them. Now Chris is off on another scent so may I make a suggestion?”