“Everything okay down there?” Jeannie called from the kitchen.
Kent cringed. He knew he’d neglected his wife and kids lately. But if he didn’t find a solution to his crippled financial situation soon, he would have let them down in an even bigger way. No matter how he juggled the figures, Kent couldn’t make his family’s budget balance.
Evans was a thirty-six year old, self-employed veterinary pharmacist. He and his wife Jeannie had moved to this 1950s rambler on Harriet Street in Ames, Iowa more than ten years ago. At one time, when business was good, they had actually owned the house free and clear. But like so many others, the Evanses had fallen victim to a souring world economy and plummeting real estate values, two developments they’d failed to see coming until after they had refinanced the house and Kent’s pharmaceutical sales receipts had dwindled.
Purchases of bovine antibiotics, vaccines, and hi-tech feed supplements had driven the majority of Kent’s former income. With the decline of disposable cash in the late part of the past decade, consumers had stretched their food dollars by scrimping on beef purchases. The dip in retail demand for beef had squeezed producer profit margins to the point where prices “at the gate” barely covered the cost of raising the herds.
Cattle producers couldn’t stop feeding their animals, but they could reduce their costs in other ways. Some farmers cut back on preventive veterinary care – vaccines, in particular. Others refused to pay, or were unable to pay, their veterinarians for services rendered. Those bad account losses in turn caused vet clinics to pull back firmly on advance orders of medicines and specialty supplies, leading ultimately to Kent Evans’ dilemma.
The cascade of economic crap in the beef industry didn’t differ greatly from the chain of events faced by many other businesses. It just happened to be the struggles of the beef industry that had brought Kent Evans to his knees.
Still, he was determined to insulate Jeannie and the kids from the family’s financial distress.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he called back. His tone carried a forced cheerfulness. “I just deleted a file I should have kept. No worries. I’ve got a backup.”
Jeannie poked her head down the staircase.
“Okay,” she said. “Will you be joining the family for dinner tonight? It would be nice to share a meal . . . you know, with all of us at one table.”
He rotated his chair toward Jeannie.
“I’m sorry, Hon. I’ve got to fill these orders for a rush delivery tomorrow. I’ll make sure to come up at bedtime to say goodnight.” He offered a helpless smile.
“Okay.” There was a hint of sadness in her voice. “I’ll put some meatloaf on a plate for you to eat later.”
“Thanks, Hon. Tell the kids I’m sorry. Will you?”
He heard her sigh as she headed back up the stairs.
“Not much to say to them, really, is there.” It wasn’t a question.
He had deserved that. Kent’s stomach churned. If there was something more to be said, he would have said it. Sadly, words weren’t going to help anything right now. He needed a plan, a plan to earn more money, or find more money . . . or steal more money?
Kent gave his head a shake as if to banish the thought.
No. It hadn’t come to that. At least not yet.
He pulled his chair back under the desk and retrieved the laptop. Punching up an Excel spreadsheet, he stared at the screen, its contents confirming the poorly performing endeavor his business had become.
As he paged down the rows of dates, names, and numbers, an idea began to form in his head. There just might be a way he could influence sales after all. A way he hadn’t tried yet. A course of action that could bump receipts dramatically, without actually stealing from anyone. It was a long shot, and he needed to think this idea through before proceeding. After all, it wouldn’t technically be legal. But at least this plan offered . . . what? . . . a chance – a glimmer of hope he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.
Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures.
CHAPTER 3
Red Wing, Minnesota.
“Radio says Rodney Holton’s got a show in the works,” I said as Beth entered our kitchen. I couldn’t reveal client confidences, but if he was going to advertise . . . well, that was something different entirely.
It was 7:30 a.m. and Beth had just returned from her morning run. I turned from reading the Minneapolis Tribune and smiled at her.
“I just finished brewing a fresh pot of dark roast. May I fetch you an official James Becker Attorney-at-Law mug?”
Beth wore her usual warm-weather jogging attire – a white sleeveless top over a jog bra and black spandex shorts. She was perspiring the perfect amount such that her physical exertion was evident, but her feminine appeal remained intact.
“I appreciate your offer, Babe. But I think I’ll try cold water first.” She smiled.
Even after twenty-six years of marriage, I still loved that smile.
“Right,” I said, watching as Beth retrieved an athlete’s plastic water bottle from the fridge and squirted cold water into her mouth. I abandoned the newspaper and stepped directly in front of Beth, placing one hand on either side of her waist, and planted a peck in the center of her dewy forehead.
“Rodney puts on a good show,” Beth said, lifting her water bottle up under my chin. I backed away far enough to let her drink. She swallowed. “What’s his angle?”
“He claims he got hit by a meteor. Well . . . not Rodney himself. I guess it’s on his lawn.” He must have decided showing off the meteor while it was still in his corn field would ruin even more of his crop.
“How convenient,” Beth said. “I wonder whether he mowed the grass right before it hit.” She smiled.
“Yeah, convenient,” I said, returning her smile. “Anyway, I’m sure Rodney will arrange for meteor pictures in the paper as soon as he can get a reporter out there. But we can see it right now if you’re up for the drive out to his place.”
Beth moved to the sink, splashed water on her face, and patted it down with a clean terrycloth hand towel.
“It is a beautiful August morning out there,” she said, turning to me. “I’ll grab a quick shower. Then let’s go see what Rodney’s got cooking.” Beth started for the stairs.
“Remember to wash behind your ears,” I said.
Beth must have been expecting me to say something because the towel was already balled up when she fired it at my face.
“Never mind,” I said.
* * *
It was about a fifteen minute drive to Rodney’s farm. Even though the weather would have been perfect for Beth’s Spyder convertible, we’d be traveling on gravelled back roads and neither of us cared for the dust. So we took my grey Honda Pilot.
In Ottawa County, most folks either knew someone Rodney had scammed, or had fallen victim to one of his shady schemes themselves. But Rodney had the magical appeal of a carnival sideshow operator. You knew you were going to get cheated somehow. You just wanted to see how he would do it.
As we crept up Rodney’s dirt driveway, we met another vehicle on its way out. The car held a mom and a dad with three screaming kids in the back seat. Dad was driving and he didn’t look happy. Beth and I exchanged glances.
As we got close to the farmstead, we could see what we suspected was the reason for the bawling kids. Rodney was charging twenty bucks a head to view “Ottawa County’s Only Outer-Space Meteor.” I guessed Dad had declined to pony up a C-note for his family of five to enjoy this “Otherworldly Phenomenon,” as Rodney’s ubiquitous signage advertised.
Parking space at Rodney’s was plentiful, so I swung the Honda onto a grassy patch near a barn-red wooden outbuilding and we both hopped out.
Rodney approached us with a big smile.
“Once in a lifetime chance to see Ottawa County’s very own phenomenon of nature. Just twenty bucks.” He winked at me and patted his shirt pocket.
Confidentiality. I nodded knowingly.
“Sorry. Cash only.” Rodney was all smiles.
Naturally.
While I dug for my money, Rodney was appreciating his view of Beth in her sun glasses, safari shirt, and tan pleated shorts. His was more than a casual look, and I could tell Beth noticed.
“Here you go,” I said, drawing his attention as I handed him a twenty.
“Each,” he said, still smiling, and now focusing on Beth’s tanned legs.
I was about to comment when Beth beat me to the punch.
“Lose something?” she asked him, placing a hand on her hip.
Rodney spluttered and straightened up while I stifled a laugh.
Slipping another bill from my money clip, I passed it his way.
“Do we get stamped or something?” I asked.
Rodney looked at me to see if I was serious. I did my best to look grave.
Rodney reestablished a broad grin. “Naw. Not necessary. We operate on the honor system here.”
“Gotcha,” I said, trying not to choke. “So where’s the show?”
Rodney turned halfway as he started off, motioning for us to follow. “Right this way Mr. . . . ?”
He was going all out on the lawyer-client privilege thing.
“Becker,” I said. “This is the missus. She’s not on exhibit today.”
Rodney smiled sheepishly at Beth.
“I carry a gun,” I added.
His smile disappeared.
“I do, too,” Beth said, without missing a beat.
We followed a now-silent Rodney toward his house. As we rounded the corner, Rodney’s exhibit came into view.
He’d arranged a dozen or more orange rubber road cones around what he must have judged to be the appropriate perimeter. Protruding from the cone tops were wooden yardsticks to which Rodney had affixed a circle of yellow “Caution” tape that encompassed the entire “Strike Zone.” In the center of it all, resting in what looked for all the world to be a pterodactyl nest made from freshly dug and carefully toasted dirt, was a large black lump I presumed to be the meteor. A suspiciously uniform circular area of black and crispy-looking grass surrounded the nest. I tried to envision how heat or fire could have originated at the center and burned outward in the pattern depicted in the exhibit. I couldn’t.
“You will notice the indentation in the ground beneath the meteor,” Rodney said, gesturing toward the nest. “That feature is what’s commonly known as an impact crater.” He waited for a reaction.
“Aren’t you worried about radiation?” Beth asked. “I noticed you’re not wearing a dosimeter, and you didn’t offer them to us either.”
“I’m glad you asked that, Mrs. Becker.” He produced a small electronic device from his front jeans pocket. “This right here is a digital Geiger counter and dosimeter combination. I got one yesterday.”
“I thought his thing just landed Sunday,” I said, matter-of-factly.
“Express delivery, my good man.” He beamed another smile, undaunted.
“I see,” I said. “Have the news crews been out here yet? I bet they’d love a good ‘man finds meteor in side yard’ story.”
Rodney sensed my sarcasm.
“As a matter of fact, the press have been here. And for your further edification, I didn’t find this meteor. I was right here when it hit.” He looked toward Beth. I guess he figured I had already heard the story.
“Wow. What did it look like coming in?” I said with a grin.
Rodney grinned back.
“To be honest,” he said, “it came in faster than the human eye can see. The first thing I did was hear it. A second later I turned and it was right there.” He pointed at the black object and paused to check my reaction.
“Right there?” I asked. “Not out in some field or something?”
“Nope,” he said flashing a glare my way and patting his shirt pocket feverishly. “That’s where she hit. Can’t you see the crater?” He smiled at Beth.
“Right in your yard,” I said. “Helluva thing. What did it look like the moment you found it?” I might as well get the updated version of the meteor tale. I had forked over forty bucks after all.
Rodney scrambled to fill in the details.
“Of course it was glowing and steaming and the heat was something fierce. You can see where it burned the grass all around.” Again, he gestured into the exhibit area. “It took a couple hours for the thing to cool down to a point where I could actually touch it.”
The scene on Rodney Holton’s lawn had obviously been staged. But had this . . . this black lump . . . actually fallen from the sky? And had Rodney been present when it hit, as he had told me yesterday? If so, this might not be a meteor, but it might still be interesting.
“Of course, you’ve had an assayer perform tests to prove it’s a meteor and not something else,” I said. “Right?”
Rodney raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t think I need any tests to show it’s a meteor. Like I said, I was right here when the damn thing hit! Besides, what else do you think it is? A scud missile? A big chunk of acid rain?” Rodney was heating up.
“I’m not doubting you, Rodney. I’m just saying . . . if you want skeptics to believe you when you tell them a meteor just landed in your yard, you might want to have some science to back you up.” I paused while Rodney cooled off. “I’m just saying . . .”
“You got your twenty bucks’ worth yet?” he asked. He wasn’t tapping his foot, but he might as well have been.
I turned toward Beth. She raised her sun glasses and returned my look.
“Okay. Thanks, Rodney.” I said. “Nice exhibit.”
Rodney tended the “Caution” tape as Beth and I returned to the Pilot.
“Quite a character . . . isn’t he?” Beth said after the engine was running and the AC turned up.
“That he is, my dear. That he is.”
CHAPTER 4
Ames, Iowa.
In the days following his financial epiphany, veterinary pharmaceutical salesman, Kent Evans, worked diligently to formulate a plan of action that would bring his hopes of increased income to fruition.
Kent’s part time position as adjunct faculty at the Iowa State University College of Veterinary Medicine provided him with ample opportunity to pick the brains of fellow faculty members. Among the numerous veterinary medicine specialists in residence there, he found the microbiology researchers most helpful. Spending long hours in the university labs, these hardworking DVMs, PhDs, and MDs, together with their doctoral candidate assistants, stood at the cutting edge of animal disease and treatment research.
If there was a way for Kent to affect demand for his veterinary products, these people would know what it was. But he couldn’t exactly come out and ask them how best to infect farm animals to drive demand for medicines, now could he?
So he asked questions like: What kind of vaccines are you working with this week? Are animal antibiotics keeping up with new superbugs? Are farmers using the best medicinal practices these days, or are they taking unnecessary risks with animal health? What’s the livestock disease du jour?
He distributed his questions among various researchers and clinicians to avoid suspicion.
Kent had been hanging around the labs for a couple weeks, observing experiments and cleaning up work spaces after the experimenting was done, when he attracted the unwanted attention of the Microbiology Chair. One evening, as Kent was wiping down a vacuum enclosure, Professor Alan Wittmann, PhD, appeared over Kent’s shoulder.
“Mr. Evans.”
Startled by the sound of his name, Kent nearly knocked over the flask containing the cleaning solution.
“Doctor Wittmann. What brings you to the lab at this hour?” Kent would have offered to shake hands, but that would be bad form in rubber gloves.
“I suppose I could ask you the same thing, Evans. It has come to my attention that you have taken a serious interest in lab work re
cently. Commendable. Commendable, indeed. But may I ask . . . is there motive to your newfound zeal? Is there an endgame in this effort?” Dr. Wittmann raised his bushy eyebrows and dipped his head just a bit forward.
Kent had long ago prepared an answer for this question. Nevertheless, he now found himself worrying whether his explanation would suffice.
“Ha. Yes. My newfound zeal.” Stop muttering! “Er. As you know, Doctor Wittmann, times have been tough with my day job lately.”
Wittmann showed no sign of comprehension.
“Veterinary sales?” Kent offered.
“Ah, yes. The economy. Utterly intolerable.”
The irony of Wittmann’s commiseration with the private sector on the issue of diminished earnings wasn’t lost on Kent.
“Yes. It is. Utterly intolerable.” Stop repeating him and get to the point. “Anyway, I’m here looking for an edge . . . something that will give my income a boost, you know.” That was true, of course.
“You’re looking for full time work at the University then?”
Kent hadn’t expected that.
“Umm. Are you hiring, Doctor?” A regular paycheck with no legal infractions would solve his economic problems, too.
“No. We aren’t.”
“Well . . . that’s okay because, as much as it would be an honor to work here – full time, I mean – I’m really just looking for insights that will help me in my current job. Some extra knowledge of livestock health or emerging standards of treatment that might give me a leg up on the competition.” There was a pause. “To sell more medicine and vaccines than the other guy. To help keep my boat afloat during this economic drought, if you will.”
“I see,” Dr. Wittmann said, stroking his chin and nodding. “Well, we appreciate your volunteer help around the lab . . . and your teaching as well, of course. I just wanted to be clear that we aren’t seeking paid researchers at the moment.”
Relief washed over Kent.
“That’s not a problem, Doctor. Not at all. Like I said, I’m happy to help out. No charge. I appreciate you guys letting me hang around.”
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