Fair Justice

by Diane Capri

  Soon, people would be heading to church and opening their businesses, and he wanted to be back in his hotel room when they did, carefully studying his photos so he could figure out his next step. And he wanted to interview Cathy Bartow today, too.

  When he reached the wrought iron gates again, he glanced around one last time before ducking below the security postern and walking toward his car.

  From behind him, a chipper male voice called out, and Mike turned, careful to look just as friendly as the voice sounded as he dropped his phone into his oversized jacket pocket.

  “Hey buddy, you lost? Can I help you with something?” The man walking toward him was built like a snowman with a mustache. His tiny head sat perched on his rounded body without a neck to speak of, and when he waved a chubby hand, Mike was left with no option but to stop and reply.

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Visiting town and out for a hike.” Mike pointed to his hiking boots as proof.

  “Ah, well. I was thinking you might’ve come by looking for work,” the man said.

  Mike considered for a moment, weighing his options, but then he heard Annalisa’s voice in his head again, and he couldn’t ignore her warning to keep the reasons for his interest in the factory to himself. “Are they hiring?”

  “Just so happens, we are.” He stuck his hand out to Mike. “Bradley Fletcher, CEO of Fletcher Textiles.”

  “Wow, quite the honor.” Mike took his hand, pumping it twice before releasing him.

  Fletcher chuckled. “Now, you’re a flatterer.”

  “What brings the CEO here on a Sunday morning?” Mike asked, trying to keep his tone light.

  “I imagine most men with two-year-old twin boys would find themselves running to work whenever they can.” Fletcher chuckled again. “Easier job by far.”

  “Oh,” Mike nodded, then, more carefully, “Do you and your family live here in Peru?”

  Fletcher’s eyebrows shot up a fraction, but his easy smile returned in a quick moment. “Unfortunately, no. Easier for the wife to have a short commute to her office. Besides, I’m sure my employees are happier not running into the boss on their personal time.”

  Mike forced a smile. “I’m sure.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “Would you like a tour of the place? I have a bit of time before I need to get to work.”

  Mike shook his head. “I’d better get going.”

  Fletcher shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. “And hey, the offer stands. If you’re interested in a job, be sure to stop back during business hours, okay?”

  His jolly demeanor never faltered, but Mike felt he’d chosen his words carefully throughout the conversation.

  Business hours. Got it.

  Mike nodded and smiled and then jogged back to his car. Had Fletcher seen him taking pictures? Not likely. If he’d seen, he’d have said something, right?

  Bradley Fletcher was probably just like every other person on earth. He didn’t care about a damn thing unless he knew for a fact it directly affected him. Fletcher was probably there doing exactly what he’d said. Taking a break from his twin toddlers for a few hours.

  Mike hurried back to his hotel. So far, he had nothing solid to support a story. Nothing but creepy feelings and guesses. He needed to find proof before Madsen would okay the project. But what?

  After uploading the pictures to his laptop, he scrolled through each one, careful to take note of the strange coating on the surface of the pond when the light hit it the right way, the way even the dirt on the ground looked discolored, unnatural.

  He wrote a quick note to Madsen and selected the best of the images and pasted them into the email. He double checked the three images. A picture of the factory. A photo of the skeletal trees and bare ground. And an image of the iridescent film on the pond.

  The last image was the most striking of the images, and he looked at it a little longer before scrolling over to send the email.

  Which was when he saw it.

  At first, he thought it was a misshapen branch, something that had fallen into the pond along with the autumn leaves.

  He leaned closer, his heart pumping faster as he stretched the image to twice its size.

  No tree—not even the sickly ones he’d seen all over Peru—had coloring like this one. Almost gray, and withered. And no branch had such a thick trunk with such close, tiny twigs.

  Five of them.

  All reaching blindly for something Mike couldn’t see.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mike drove all the way into the city to find a printing shop. By four o’clock, he had everything he needed to visit the Peru Sheriff’s office.

  When he walked through the glass doors and into the little reception area, a middle-aged woman greeted him by holding up a finger and continuing her discussion with whoever was on the other end of her phone call.

  “No, Mama, I know that.” She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes as the phone buzzed against her ear. She hung up the receiver with a bang.

  “What can I do you for?” she drawled with a harried smile.

  “My name is Mike Caldwell. I sent an email earlier today and—”

  She held up her impatient finger again and flicked through a few papers on her desk. “So you did. It’s Sunday. If you could come back tomorrow—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that won’t work.” He shook his head. “I need to speak to the Sheriff today, while we still have daylight.”

  She pursed her lips, then picked up the phone again and punched in the number with practiced speed. “That reporter from Tampa, Caldwell, is here asking to see you.”

  A pause.

  “He says it’s important.”

  Another pause.

  She slammed down the phone, pushed away from her desk, and held the door open for him. “The office that says Sheriff on the door. Go right in.”

  Mike ignored the snap of the door closing behind him as he walked past a couple of bored-looking deputies scribbling on paperwork.

  When he reached the right office, he knocked before pushing the frosted glass open and stepping inside. An older man, looking as bored as his officers, but with that extra air of annoyance that made talking to him even less inviting, sat behind the desk. He ran a palm over his bristly salt-and-pepper goatee before gesturing to the hard seat in front of his desk.

  Mike sat down. “Thanks for seeing me, Sheriff—”

  “Danbury,” he added gruffly. “Walter Danbury. You’re Michael Caldwell. With EBC Network News, out of Tampa.”

  “Right.”

  “What was it you needed?” He glanced at the clock. “I haven’t been home on time for dinner in about two weeks, and I either make it home tonight or find myself a new wife. Mind you, it wouldn’t be a half-bad prospect if there was another woman on earth who could cook like she does.”

  Mike offered him a little smile. “In that case, I think I have bad news for you.”

  The Sheriff blew out a sigh and then, apparently catching his own rudeness, added, “Look, I’m sorry Mr. Caldwell, but I’ve had people barging through my door, banging on about that factory since the day it opened, so if you think you’re going to tell me something new—”

  “Let me show you.” Mike reached into his bag and slid the enlarged photograph of the pond across the worn desk between them.

  “What? The retention pond? It’s always a little murky. Same as near any other industrial factory.”

  Mike pointed to the photo. “This.”

  Sherriff Danbury blinked down at it for a fraction of a second. “Why, that’s just a branch.”

  “I believe that is a human hand,” Mike said quietly.

  Danbury looked, narrowing his eyes until he blanched. “I do see what you mean.” He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. He reached over to pick up the phone and dialed. “Before we get everybody all excited, let’s go out to the site. You can show me exactly where you were standing when you shot this picture.”

  Mike followed the Sherr
iff’s cruiser back to the factory, and two hours later, the eerie silence was filled with the eerier sound of a crane lifting what was left of a human body from the water.

  Sheriff Danbury said he could watch, but no video or still photos on the factory property were allowed. Mike argued and lost. Officials milled around, processing the scene, conferring with each other over cooling cups of coffee as Mike looked on, shocked.

  Although the corpse was in terrible condition, Chuck Bartow’s nametag was still visible on his shirt. According to what Mike could hear from his spot right behind the sawhorses and crime tape, Bartow’d been a heavy machine operator at the plant who had gone missing a few months before.

  As the drama unfolded, Mike stood back, careful not to get in the way of the investigators, no matter how much he wanted to shadow the Sheriff and hear exactly what was said.

  CEO Bradley Fletcher arrived with an older man at his side. Fletcher’s rosy cheeks turned ashen as he and the older man answered the Sheriff’s questions. He walked the pair closer to the pond. When they saw the body, the older man’s face twisted in despair and he let out a low wail.

  One of the deputies came close enough, and Mike called out quietly, “Any ideas what might’ve happened?

  “Off the record, but looks like a tragic accident. The shop foreman over with Mr. Fletcher said the deceased worked with heavy machinery. Probably his sleeve got caught and got dragged inside. Machines forced him through with the rest of the chemicals and debris, and he got pushed out with the biodegradable scrap.” The cop shook his head and walked away.

  But Mike wasn’t so sure this was a tragic accident. Why had no one heard Bartow’s screams? Or noticed that he hadn’t left work that day? His wife had surely called the factory. Didn’t anybody check?

  Pulling his phone from his pocket, Mike shot off a quick text to Madsen asking for background research about carpet mill machinery. He wasn’t familiar with the manufacturing process, but he didn’t remember reading anything about job fatalities while he was doing his research.

  While no one seemed to be watching him, he snapped a few pictures of the body and the responders. Just as the coroner’s marked SUV arrived, a beaten down station wagon pulled in front of the SUV. The station wagon skidded onto the dirt and screeched to a halt.

  “Shit,” Bradley Fletcher muttered loud enough for Mike to hear.

  The older man’s face fell. Tears that had finally ceased rolled again as he stepped toward the woman exiting the station wagon. Cathy Bartow.

  “Tell me, Larry. Just tell me!” She cried, panting, her eyes wild. She wore pajamas, and her hair sprang free of its messy ponytail.

  “Cathy, I’m so sorry,” the old man said, pulling her into his arms.

  She caved against him and wailed as two police officers walked toward them.

  “Mrs. Bartow, I’m so sorry. You don’t want to see him like this,” one officer soothed, urging the pair of them back toward her car.

  “I do, though,” she snarled as she pulled away from the man she’d called Larry and wheeled around to face Bradley Fletcher. “I need to see…I want to see exactly what you did to him.”

  The harsh edge in her voice dissolved into racking, heaving sobs and Mike watched as Fletcher stood stock still, his face impassive.

  The officer ushered Mrs. Bartow back to her car, and Mike watched as a deputy settled into the driver’s seat to take her home. Mike might have snapped a few quick photos of the station wagon and its license plate, but he already knew where Cathy Bartow lived.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mike waited until the next afternoon. He walked up the pathway toward the door, contemplating with every step whether or not he should turn back. But Madsen had told him to interview the widow. Try to find any angle other than an accident to explain her husband’s death. Otherwise, he’d been ordered to pack up and clear out. Chuck Bartow’s death was a police matter now, and Mike had found no hard evidence of any wrongdoing by Fletcher Textiles.

  He hated this part of the job. Imposing on grieving people. He always felt like a jackal feasting off the carcasses left in tragedy’s wake.

  Chuck Bartow may have died because of whatever Fletcher Textiles was trying to cover up. It was Mike’s job to find out, one way or another. He stepped over a broken bottle and onto the front stoop of the ramshackle old house.

  Before he had a chance to knock, the wind pulled the storm door out of his hand. It swung open and crashed against the crackling gray house paint, sending a shower of dry paint exploding into the air like a puff of smoke.

  A low, female voice called out, “Coming.”

  He wrestled the storm door into place and waited.

  When Cathy Bartow stepped into view, her tear-ravaged face a testament to her grief, he wished he’d thought to bring something. Flowers or a card. Instead, all he had was a half-baked conspiracy theory that would send her world into yet another tailspin.

  Real nice, Caldwell.

  “Look, I can’t afford to buy nothing right now, mister, so—”

  “I’m not here to sell you anything, Mrs. Bartow. You remember me? We met yesterday at Annalisa Fantz’s house? Mike Caldwell. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I was the one who, uh, discovered your husband’s body and I wanted to talk to you about Chuck.”

  She drew back and flicked a look over his shoulder, glancing up and down the empty street. She seemed too emotionally drained to bother arguing and waved him in with a defeated sigh. “Come out of the chill for a few minutes, then.”

  She led him to a small dining room littered with empty envelopes and pink paper slips. He’d been broke enough after college to recognize the past-due notices. Lots of them.

  Perched on the very top of the pile, sat a slick looking business card that stood out because of its sheer opulence in comparison to everything else in the shoddy little house. The embossed, black letters outlined in gold leaf spelled out Bradley S. Fletcher. CEO of Fletcher Textiles.

  Fletcher had paid Mrs. Bartow a visit recently. Strange, after the reception she’d given him at the factory yesterday. The hairs on the back of Mike’s neck rose as she gestured for him to have a seat.

  “Coffee or something?” she asked, almost reflexively.

  He shook his head, and she sat across from him, slumping in her chair like she was a marionette and someone had just cut her strings. “Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but I got a funeral to plan and—”

  “Maaa!” A child’s voice bellowed, and her eyes snapped shut like she’d reached the end of her rope.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes!” She took a moment to collect herself and then opened her eyes. “That’s my son, Charlie. He’s three. Now his daddy’s gone and—” Her voice broke, and she sucked back a sob. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without Chuck.”

  She stared at a spot over Mike’s shoulder as she collected herself. Then, sitting straighter, she held up both hands. “State your business so I can tend to my son, Mister…”

  “Mike Caldwell,” he said again, wishing he were anywhere but here, watching this woman’s private hell. “I don’t want to make things harder for you, ma’am, you’ve clearly suffered enough.” He leaned in to meet her gaze. “But I’m worried that your husband’s death wasn’t an accident. Did Chuck ever talk to you about the rumors? Did he believe Fletcher Textiles was dumping toxic chemicals?”

  She drummed her knobby fingers on the table as she considered his question for a long moment, keeping her eyes locked on a plate of mostly uneaten toast between them. “Everybody was talking about it a few years back.”

  “Maaa!”

  Her son’s screams sent her gaze behind her. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to—”

  He had precious little time. Beating around the bush wasn’t an option. “Is that why you moved away from Peru?”

  “Partly.” She stared at him, nodding slowly. “Houses are cheaper in Peru, so we had to downsize when we came here. Bu
t the schools are better, so…” she trailed off, but her fingers were tap-tap-tapping against her jeans, and he could tell he’d struck a nerve. “Seemed like the safest bet just in case. Mr. Fletcher hired a whole bunch of scientists to make sure those rumors were not true. I was upset out there at the factory. I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

  He’d hired scientists. Scientists kept records. “What kind of things shouldn’t you have said?”

  She shot a glance to the purse that was sitting next to the stack of bills and then shrugged. “Just looking for someone to blame, is all.”

  She wet her lips and looked away again.

  His instincts were blaring a red alert, but he knew desperation when he saw it. He had to tread lightly. “Mrs. Bartow, you know Annalisa Fantz and her son Dale.”

  She nodded slowly, pity and guilt written all over her face.

  “We were neighbors. In Peru. I was in school with her younger sister.”

  Mike pressed on. “Annalisa believes that Dale’s condition is due to toxic dumping by Fletcher.”

  The long silence that stretched between them was broken by another wail from the bedroom. “Maaa!”

  Cathy’s tension ratcheted up a notch, and her eyes went wild. “Look, I’m sure you feel like you’re doing the right thing here. But families rely on Fletcher to put a roof over their heads and food on their tables. Rumors—”

  He was losing her. He could feel it. So he made a choice. Took a risk. “But they’re not rumors, are they? Your husband knew the truth, and that’s why he’s dead now. So help me, Cathy.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s get justice for your husband.”

  Her fingers were cold and clammy, and she gripped his hand as if he was her only lifeline.

  “Fifty-thousand,” she whispered miserably. She reached for her purse and pulled out a check, laying it on the table between them. “Fletcher gave me fifty thousand dollars for a down payment on a new house in another state.”