A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  The two women slipped in after opening the big doors a crack.

  “What have you done?” Jeep spoke to King when she saw the large pile tossed all over.

  Baxter’s modest efforts didn’t provoke comment.

  Both dogs stood by the small colored bone squares.

  Jeep and Mags walked over. Jeep noticed that King did not drop his ears or look chastised. Having lived with dogs all her life she had mastered their basic communication methods, although the more refined ones escaped her. But then, they did most everyone.

  King barked again. “Look! More bones!”

  At first, neither woman spotted the object of King’s excitement.

  Mags bent over, then dropped onto one knee. She plucked out a tiny red square, handing it up to Jeep. Then she began smoothing over the dirt, picking out a blue one, a white one, then a cracked one.

  Jeep, with the small squares in her hand, whistled, “I’ll be damned.”

  Mags stood up to peer into her great-aunt’s palm. “They’re cut in almost perfect squares.”

  “They aren’t glass, either.” Jeep took her right glove off and stuffed it in her coat pocket, then nudged one. “Tiny, little cut bones for decoration.” She looked up at Mags. “Guess those college kids didn’t sift the earth as carefully as they should have. Well, lifting out our Russian with minimal damage was more important, I reckon. These were in there with him.”

  “Could have been there before he was buried.”

  “Hmm.” Jeep touched the squares again. “Delicate work making something like this.”

  “Told you she’d know something.” King sat next to Baxter.

  Jeep, hearing the comment, looked at her beloved dog. “King, good dog.”

  “He certainly was excited. Tearing apart the pile took a lot of effort.” Mags laughed.

  “Yes, it did.” Jeep held one square up between her thumb and forefinger to see the small hole pierced in it. “These were woven into something.”

  “A necklace?”

  “Could be, or some kind of talisman. What intrigues me, apart from the fact they were in our Russian’s grave, is they are genuine—not glass beads, which a lot of Indians used once they had access to them. These were carved, then colored. They had great meaning for whoever created them and probably for whoever received them.”

  “Our Russian?”

  “You know he didn’t make them and I find it quite a coincidence that something like this could have been in the soil. Our man was held in high esteem by someone,” Jeep mused.

  “Aunt Jeep, I’m going to get Carlotta’s flour sifter. I’ll go through these other piles.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Jeep then cast her eyes down at the packed floor. “And I think I’d better get Enrique to use the ditch witch to dig down two feet on both stall sides, then have the boys do the last foot by hand. It’s a lot of work, but I think he planned on doing it later anyway. We haven’t had time to discuss this. Who knows what else is down there.”

  Mags shivered slightly. “Nothing, I hope.”

  “I do, too, but then I never expected our Russian.”

  After having to promise Carlotta she would go to town and buy her a new flour sifter tomorrow, Mags carefully sifted the earth. She found six more colored bones and one faded cracked one. After replacing the piles, she walked back to the house, Baxter at her heels. King stayed at the house with Jeep.

  Mags dropped the six colored objects into Jeep’s hand.

  “Two white, three blue, and one red.” Jeep then put the three she had with Mags’s six.

  “You’re wearing his ring.” Mags sat down at the kitchen table. “I’d like to wear these.”

  Jeep smiled. “You, too?”

  Mags nodded. “I don’t know why.”

  “Me, neither, but I can’t resist the urge.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  One wall of George W. Ball’s office was covered with U.S. Geological Survey maps, the topographical lines showing elevation. While the information could be pulled up on computer, George wanted Washoe County in front of him at a glance. Also spread out were maps of the eastern part of Sierra County, California, and the western part of Churchill County, Nevada. On the adjoining wall were some topo maps of down south toward Lake Tahoe.

  He’d marked with colored red pins where each of the Silver State Resource Management pumps were. Those pins had small flags with the pump number as well as a code for the type of pump. They were long pins, too.

  Shorter pins with blue heads identified privately owned aquifers. Those owned by SSRM had a yellow flag.

  At a glance, George W. could see Reno’s present and possibly its future water supply. Wings Ranch sprouted blue pins everywhere—not that George concentrated on them.

  With a blue marker he’d drawn wavy lines on these maps where creeks ran aboveground. A dotted line indicated an underground creek. There was actually a lot of water flowing under those arid acres. Of course, the trick was getting it up and out.

  The weather report announced Washoe County was under a winter storm watch. Some snow would fall beginning in the mid-afternoon but it wasn’t projected to be a storm like the monster that had hit earlier in the month.

  It was Monday, the winter solstice. He’d just walked into his office after having taken his secretary, Christina, to a Christmas lunch.

  She buzzed him. “Mr. Ball, you need to take this.”

  Christina’s voice told him it was urgent. He clicked on his multiline phone. “George W. Ball.”

  “Pump Twenty-two,” said Twinkie. “Boss, someone blew it. Sheriff’s Department couldn’t find you so they found me.”

  “Dammit,” George said softly. “Okay. I’ll get down there. I’ll get there as fast as I can.” He paused. “Has anyone seen the damage yet?”

  “No. The sheriff said a nearby resident reported the explosion, saw the smoke, and drove to see where it was but he didn’t know what he was looking at.”

  “Better take a new pump and pipe. I’ll get extra support. You got Bunny along?”

  “Yep.”

  “All right, then. Will take me about forty minutes. Traffic is a goddamned mess. This is a goddamned mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Given that Pete Meadows and Lonnie Parrish had been at the scene of the Pump 19 explosion, the Sheriff’s Department wisely ordered them to the crime scene.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When the two officers pulled into the parking area for Pump 22, the wasted water spread over the area, a small jet shooting straight up from what remained of the machinery. The temperature hung at a relatively balmy 36°F, melting snow still filled crevices, but most had already seeped into the ground thanks to a few days in the mid-forties. The nights remained bitter. Although the day was better than the conditions that had greeted them when Pump 19 was blown, they weren’t great. An exploded pump still meant bone-chilling cold water.

  Pete and Lonnie arrived at the site first. Again it resembled a pale blue flower, jagged edges curling outward. Pete motioned for Lonnie to walk to the right. He’d search to the left.

  A scrap of paper fluttered by in a slight breeze. Pete stomped on it and picked it up. Again, indecipherable writing. A bit of red caught his eye. Twenty paces away he recovered a small piece of red ripstop fabric. Placing the paper and fabric in a plastic baggie, he rejoined Lonnie. “Looks like another shopping list.” Lonnie pointed to “Tide” written on one of the paper scraps he’d found.

  “What does this guy do? Stop at the supermarket for a six-pack of Coke on his way to his bombings?” Pete opened the plastic bag for Lonnie to drop in his paper fragments.

  The two men scanned the surrounding area. Anything of a bright color stood out against the palette of sand and beige, light gray rock outcroppings. The sagebrush added brown to the mix but there was nothing remotely bright to it.

  Pete folded over the top of the baggie, putting it in his pocket before the two men returned to the damaged pump.

 
; “How many people are serviced by this pump, I wonder?” Lonnie looked down for loose fragments. “Hey.” He pointed to a blasted piece of one-inch pipe lodged in one of the outward metal petals of the pump. Water fell back on it from the jet, but the piece of pipe was quite visible. The recessed pump housing was filling with water. So far, there were perhaps six inches on the floor.

  “Looks very much the same as last time but best not to jump to any conclusions.” Pete got down on his hands and knees, oblivious to the frigid water falling on him from above. “Looks welded or wedged in there. Don’t think we can pull it out.” He stood up and shook himself.

  “Same M.O.?”

  “Sure looks like it. I wish we had Mindy here.”

  The part-time explosives expert was only called to a location if a bomb threat came in. She’d accompany the team to the site, they’d try to locate the device, then she’d defuse it. However, the only bomb threats the sheriff’s office had received in the last few years were fake. Each of the various high schools throughout the school year spawned some clown who thought this an excellent strategy to get out of class. It was, too, until someone squealed or the prankster couldn’t resist bragging. The media wallowed in irresponsible youth stories, angry comments from teachers, fellow students, and the usual bewildered mother denying any wrongdoing by her darling son, it was always a son. Occasionally, some other news angle would be inflicted on the television news. Perhaps during the bomb scare a cafeteria worker dropped a large bowl of peas, slipped on them, and broke her hip. And, of course, Mommy’s angelic son would never get good recommendations to college unless he crawled on his belly to perform endless community service.

  Pete had answered enough of these sort of calls to find some slender amusement in them, as long as no hips were broken. This business of attacking folks’ water supply, however, was not amusing. The south side of Reno toward Lake Tahoe contained some of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the county. This particular service disruption would create much more of a furor than Red Rock had. Whoever was doing this had upped the ante.

  Pete kept these thoughts to himself. Sooner or later the department would feel the public’s wrath along with the loud complaint from Silver State Resource Management. As this was Pete’s case, he could expect full helpings of the same.

  Lonnie knew this, too. “Pete, we need to pick up a map of all the pump sites from SSRM.”

  Pete nodded. “Right.”

  The low rumble of the big diesel engine told them Twinkie and Bunny would soon make the turn. With the land flatter here it wouldn’t present as many difficulties as Red Rock. Also as the pump wasn’t on high ground, maneuvering the replacement equipment on the big rig would be somewhat easier.

  At the wheel, Twinkie, ever-present plastic straw clamped between his teeth, barreled down the service road, swung that big sucker around, and put the rig’s bed right alongside the blown pump.

  Twinkie and Bunny scrambled from the cab. As much as this worried Pete and Lonnie, it worried them more. They both had many years in water management under their belts. Hostilities over water rights happened at public hearings, not at the equipment sites. This was new. It was not only an attack on SSRM, it was an attack on people’s basic need: water.

  Twinkie waved at Pete as he surveyed the mess.

  Bunny, alongside Twinkie, shook his head. “Shit.”

  “Might find some of that there, too.” Twinkie half-joked.

  Pete said, “Be washed away now.”

  As if on cue, Oliver Hitchens’s white company car came into sight.

  “Our very own company turd. Old Faithful couldn’t wash him away.” Bunny laughed derisively. “All right, Twink, where’s my slicker?”

  “Behind the seat. Grab mine, too,” Twinkie called.

  “Twinkie, there’s a piece of one-inch pipe wedged down there.” Pete pointed. “When you cut the water, if you can dislodge it, give it to me for our explosives expert.”

  “Sure enough.”

  Bunny urged, “Let’s get down in there before Shithead can issue his orders.”

  Twinkie dropped into the recessed area, careful with his feet. Sharp pieces of metal might be hidden by the water rising from the concrete floor.

  A jagged piece of metal could cut through most soles, even good work boots. Twinkie tapped his toe every few inches as he moved toward the pump.

  Thanks to the lessons learned at Pump 19, the two had come prepared. A new pump, chained to the flatbed, along with sections of pipe, bore evidence to that. They carried wrenches and heavy tools as a matter of course, but this time had two small propane torches, too.

  Both reached the wide horizontal wheel. Since the temperature was above freezing, it was only cold, not frozen, and with effort they managed to cut the water flow.

  Oliver got out of his parked car and slammed the door, angrily acknowledging the two officers with a curt nod. He hurried to the pump and looked down at the two men in the pit. “You should have waited for me.”

  “Mr. Hitchens, there’s only three and a half hours of light left. It’s easier to work in natural light and I think we can fix this,” Twinkie replied honestly.

  Oliver stared down. “How bad is it?”

  “About the same as Pump Nineteen.”

  Oliver ran his hand through his thick hair. “ETA?”

  “Five hours. Part of the pipe is damaged. We have to seal it, cut it out, replace it. Didn’t have to do that up in Red Rock. So we’re going to need artificial lights.”

  “How long before the lights get here?”

  “An hour at the most.”

  Oliver turned his head at the crunch of approaching tires.

  George W. Ball pulled his car right next to the pump. Getting out of another company Tahoe, he approached with a grim expression. “Officers, thank you for being here.”

  “George W.,” Twinkie looked up. “Pump’s ruined.”

  “Figured.” George W. turned to Oliver. “Glad you made it here so quickly.”

  “I can handle this, George W. I know you have a lot on your plate.”

  “Nothing more important than this. I called Darryl. There will be an emergency meeting of department vice presidents tonight at seven. One blown pump was bad. Two is a trend.” Ball reached out his hand to Pete, whom he perceived to be the senior officer. “George W. Ball, easiest way to describe me is head of equipment.”

  “Deputy Peter Meadows and this is Officer Lonnie Parrish. We responded to the first blown pump.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “It appears to be the same M.O.” Pete pulled out his clear plastic bag. “Bits of paper, a red sliver of ripstop fabric, and there’s a section of one-inch pipe wedged down there in your pump.” He paused. “The department has an excellent explosives expert. She was in demolition in Desert Storm.”

  George W.’s eyebrows raised. “Pipe bombs are easy to make.”

  “Yes, sir, they are. The first one contained high-grade explosives. That’s why I want that section down there. I’m hoping there’s some residue left,” Pete said.

  “Ah, that is just terrible.” George looked down at Twinkie and Bunny checking the damaged pipe.

  “Bunny, what’s the floor like?” George W. asked.

  The water had stabilized at seven inches once the wheel shut off the flow.

  “Wet.” Bunny smiled up at him.

  “Metal shards?” George W. asked.

  Twinkie glanced up. “I pushed some to the side with my boot. If you’re coming down, it’s safe around the pump and the pipe.”

  Without hesitation, George W. lowered himself into the cold water, heedless of his fancy wingtip shoes and tailored trousers. The people who worked for George W. loved him at moments like this. He was right in there with you.

  “Three’s better than two.” George sloshed over to the pipe. “Hey, Bun, you’ve got gloves on, see if you can wiggle this out.” He pointed at the pipe fragment. Looking up at Oliver, “Go get the propane torches and a channel lock wrenc
h.”

  Hoping he wouldn’t have to get down in the water, Oliver fairly sprinted away.

  “Got it!” Bunny triumphantly held up two inches of pipe fragment.

  “Give it to Deputy Meadows,” George W. ordered.

  “Thanks, Bunny.” Pete placed the pipe in another bag and handed it to Lonnie, indicating he should put it in the cab of the squad car. “If you find anything once the water recedes, let me know,” Pete asked.

  “Will do.” George, examining the damaged pipe, a little water spritzing up in his face, replied, “Boys, you cut off the valve. This is what’s left. I think we can section it out now.”

  “Could put in a new pipe,” Oliver said.

  “We will in the spring,” George W. replied without looking at Oliver, his attention riveted on the pipe. “Have to dig out a twelve-foot length. If we can make a clean cut here, measure and cut a refit, use our rubber seals. We might have some leakage, but it won’t be too bad. There’s no way we can take the day needed to lay a new length of outtake pipe.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.” Oliver saw a mobile television news unit make the turn. “Oh, no.”

  Lonnie nudged Pete. “Vamoose.”

  “Why, you don’t have on your makeup?” Pete’s desire to talk to the TV news was low, but they’d pass the mobile unit on the way out. They were trapped.

  Last thing the department needed was officers appearing to be uncooperative with the media.

  Oliver informed the three men down in the pump enclosure that the TV news would arrive in approximately three minutes.

  George called out, “Deputy Meadows.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ball.” Pete walked over.

  “Any ideas who is doing this?”

  “All I know is it’s someone intelligent and motivated. While we’re working hard, sir, we don’t have enough evidence yet to have a suspect or even a person of interest.”

  George W. grimaced. “Chances are this isn’t the last we hear from this idiot.”

  “Let me ask you something, sir. Has there been equipment damage before, something less serious that you didn’t report?”