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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Fox in the Henhouse
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“Morning, Dag.” Said Sharpe.
She eyeballed him as she hung her coat over her chair. “Not anymore, it isn’t. The last two days you’ve said ‘good morning’ and it ended up being lousy. This isn’t a greeting- it’s an assignment. So out with it.” He smiled. “I hate to interrupt your own private X-Files marathon, but I’ve got something boring for you today. Fox Farms. They’re one of the state’s biggest corn subsidy recipients with close to $3 million, but a routine audit found that even though they’re operating the third largest growing area, their production wasn’t even in the top fifty. Maybe somebody dropped a decimal point or two, but we want you to go and check it out before the Washington Post decides to do another ‘I told you so’ investigative piece. It’s note like we want to do only parts of our job, but they keep increasing the size of our job and hacking back our budget and our workforce.” “Fox Farms, boss?” Dagney asked. Sharpe sighed and shook his head. She felt bad for him- though ranting didn’t do anything but raise his blood pressure. She patted his shoulder as she grabbed her coat. She was beginning to forget what the office coffee tasted like- which she realized was probably a blessing. Dagney had developed a lousy habit of reading over files while driving. Covering for Nelson meant she ended up with more work than time, and since most of her inspections were out in the boonies she usually had enough time on flat, straight country roads she could at least skim the import stuff. Fox Farms was run by Martin Fox, though it was incorporated, and woven into a web of partnerships and concerns, so nobody probably knew how much it was getting in subsidies, all told. Fox was a hermit. He built his house in the corner of his property, surrounded by mountains on the one side and acres of corn on the other. She rang the doorbell, but the bell didn’t ring. The house was dark, curtains drawn. She knocked, hard as she could. Phone number on file was dead, too. She sighed. It was really oddly quiet. That time in the morning, on a farm that size, there should have been at least a dozen workers, and some heavy machinery. But it was quiet, and still. She didn’t want to go back to the office empty-handed. So she tried the knob, and to her surprise the door opened. “Hello?” she called without stepping inside. “I’m from the Department of Agriculture. Is anyone-” She stopped speaking, because the smell hit her. She’d smelled it once before: death. And not just death, but old death. Undiscovered death. Her grandmother’s house smelled like it, when they got to her house for Thanksgiving. She’d been dead since sometime after her birthday in May. Dagney pushed the door open, hoping that the light streaming in the doorway would be enough to illuminate the front room, and completely aware that it couldn’t be. She sighed, and stepped in. This was insane. She knew this was insane. She knew Fox likely owned no less than four shotguns, at least one kept near his bed for self defense- a ballpark guesstimate based off her coal-mining father’s firearm ownership. But if the man so much as suspected she was a danger, that would be it for her. She was also certain that Fox was in no position to fire a gun. He was dead. What she really had to worry about was whoever was cashing his subsidy checks- and might be sleeping in his bed. But she smell largely ruled that out. Just a few steps in she could hardly breathe; no one lived here with the corpse of Martin Fox. She was almost relieved what she stepped on his foot, the brittle bones of one of his toes cracking under her shoe. “Shit,” she whispered, as the movement set the chair he was sitting in to rocking. She flipping open her phone, and used the light from the display to look at the remnants of Fox. He was mostly skin hanging from bones. A wet puddle of organs and fluids that ruptured from his torso had long since dried on the hard wood floor. Dagney took out the card she’d gotten from Marco the day before and dialed his office. A woman who spoke only in a monotone answered. “Could I have Officer, um, I only know his first name, Marco.” “I’ll put you through to his cell.” It rang briefly before being picked up. “Sheriff Department, Deputy Marco speaking.” “How does your jurisdiction work, exactly?” “So long as it’s in the county I can have a crack at it, why?” “I’m on a farm-” “Oh god,” he said jokingly. “I think a few acres of it spill over into your country, but the rest is north.” “I can come on up there- but I’ll probably have to liaise with the local sheriff. Who I sort of dated. So it would be awkward.” “Awkward as in look at the time you’ve got somewhere else to be, or awkward enough that you’ll do it but I’ll owe you at least another cup of coffee.” “And a slice of pie.” “I think, supposing that isn’t a euphemism, I could swing that.” “You know Martin Fox’s place?” “Been there once, on a domestic disturbance call- on a date.” “With the Sheriff?” “She wasn’t Sheriff at the time, but yup.” “So this is going to be real awkward.” “Pretty much.” “Cool. Then I’ll let you give her the heads up on your way in.” “Wait, no-” and she hung up on him before he finished his protest. Dagney smiled, then realized she was back to being alone with the dead guy. “So,” she said, “you’re a farmer. But who’s been cashing your subsidy checks?” The dead man didn’t make a noise, though he looked like he might have a grin stuck on what was left of his face. Dagney walked into the kitchen. There were a few bills on the table, and she picked up the electricity bill. It was over two years old. Of course, it didn’t come to Fox’s house- it had gone to a P.O. Box in the city. She called directory assistance and got connected to the post master. “Hi. I’m with the Department of Agriculture. I’m investigating potential fraud. You have security cameras? Excellent. I’m going to need footage from the last time anyone accessed P.O. Box 231, belongs to a Martin Fox.” The man on the other end of the phone was reluctant to even confirm that Fox owned that box. “I’m looking at our records, and it says that only the owner has access to the P.O. Box.” “How many keys does he have?” “Two.” “And you don’t card people coming to get the mail, right?” “No.” “Then I’ll need to see that tape.” “I’ll need you to bring your credentials,” he said, warily. “Wouldn’t be very reasonable of me to assume you’d just hand the tapes over to whoever showed up at your door. Thanks. I know this is a pain. But I really appreciate your cooperation, and I’ll be sure to get in a good word to whoever your supervisor is.” There was a pause, while the man on the other end evaluated whether or not his superior would appreciate cooperation, or be upset that he hadn’t demanded a warrant first. “That may not be necessary,” he hedged. Dagney noticed another envelope beneath the bills, pink and glittery, but slit open with a letter opener with the same care as the others. Inside was a business card, with the words “The Hen House” printed on it and an address. “Alyssa” was written in a flowy, feminine script on the back. Dagney slipped the card into her pocket. The Sheriff beat Marco by fifteen minutes. She was taller than Dagney, with long, wavy red hair and larger breasts. Dagney wasn’t sure if she should be intimidated or flattered. She pushed her way inside, then the smell hit her. “You really could have told me there was a toe tag before I got here. It’ll be an hour before the ME rolls his donut ass here.” “Sorry, it’s kind of my first corpse.” “Have you moved my body?” “I stepped on his toe- which made the chair rock. Other than that he’s just as I found him.” “He’s been dead awhile. Seems like I just saw him, but that would have been three years ago. I remember he supported my campaign for Sheriff- not with money, not an endorsement. He just shook my hand and said, ‘I support you.’ Which was something, actually. A lot of these farmers still think a woman’s place is in the kitchen- or the field- or subjected to a man, anyway. I do have a question, though; why is Agriculture going through another county’s Sheriff department to talk to me?” She eyed Dagney suspiciously, as if in the dim light she hadn’t recognized her as a woman until that moment. “Ah. Textbook Marco. You want my advice? Use a rubber. Oh, and just enjoy it for what it is. He’s not really the happily ever after type.” Dagney stared, dumbfounded. Marco arrived over a minute later, before she’d found anything resembling a response. “Ladies, I brought donuts, mostly because I know women can be cranky this early in the morn-” the smile dropped off his face and he nearly dropped the box. “You didn’t tell me there was a corpse.” Dagney fought back a grin. “Yeah; apparently that’s important.” Marco turned to the Sheriff as he set the donuts down on the back of a sofa. “It’s your boat, skipper. We swabbing the decks?” “If we were, you’d have jurisdiction over the poop deck- but no. I don’t want you or Agriculture fucking up my scene. I’ll wait for the ME to pronounce him.” “You have any lights in your truck? Spending all morning with two women and a corpse in a dark room is a bit too much like being in a frat again.” “Come on,” she said, and motioned very specifically for Marco to follow. “Should I-” Dagney asked, and before she finished the sentence the Sheriff cut her off. “No, you should stay here, make sure he doesn’t disturb the scene.” Dagney raised an eyebrow, and looked at the corpse, who didn’t seem to be in the mood to disturb his own festering. They came back a minute later, Marco hauling a small generator. The Sheriff set up a directional light and pointed it at the body. Dagney wished they’d kept the light off. Nobody touched the donuts. Well, no one until the ME finally showed up. He paid no attention to the corpse in the center of the light, but started sniffing at the air, as if he could smell anything over the stink of decay. He waddled toward the back of the dusty couch, halfway there dropping a bag of equipment and supplies as if he were suddenly home from a long day’s work. He tore open the box, and lifted a glazed donut to his lips with a speed that made it seem he feared being intercepted and told not to eat them. He chewed like a guinea pig, his teeth sharp and quick, and his head seemed to move with that same kind of speed and jerkiness. It was only after he’d finished the first donut that he paused to examine the box, and wonder if perhaps the donuts belonged to the dead man- but a casual glimpse at the corpse and its advanced decomposition told him the donuts were fresher than the body. He picked up another and waddled back to his bag, and took both over to Fox. He took out a camera and took several shots of the dead man, checking an LCD screen on the back to make sure the pictures came out. Then he stuffed the last of the donut into his mouth to free up his hand to take a pen out of his jacket pocket, along with a notepad. He yawned, and scrawled several observations before looking back over his shoulder. “I recognize the Jefferson County Sheriff’s vehicle outside, so the Deputy I can figure. The lady doesn’t have government plates, but I can practically smell Fed on her. Who is she, Sheriff?” “Agriculture, believe it or not. She’s the one who found the stiff.” “She a suspect?” he asked, licking his finger to turn the page on his pad, letting it linger a moment as he sucked the remaining glaze off it; Dagney was almost certain he’d touched the body’s eyelid with the finger not six seconds before. Dagney wasn’t sure she could keep her, well, she hadn’t eaten anything this morning, but her whatever might come up down if she stuck around. “Really, what I need to know is whether or not Farmer John has been dead more than two years,” she said. “I’d say so, yes. Why is that so important?” “The executors of his estate have two years to report a death and get the paperwork changed over. From there they have to put in an application under the new operator’s name, so anything beyond that is at least technically fraud.” Not that Agriculture ever really had the resources to go after a fraud case like that- and it usually amounted to no more than somebody not filling out some paperwork. But somebody’d also been forgetting to actually sell any corn, too, and was still cashing the checks. “Aren’t you the least bit curious on the cause of death?” “I assumed keeled over,” Dagney said before she realized she hadn’t thought about it. “Well, that’s true enough. Of course, the round rolling around in his skull might have caused the keeling.” “Shit,” she said at the same time as Marco, and while she didn’t hear it she was reasonably sure the Sheriff had muttered the same. “Suicide?” Dagney asked, trying to be hopeful. “Unless his gun decayed before his bones, I’d say no.” “And if anybody moved it after the fact, well, that’s as much reason for suspicion,” Marco said. The Sheriff turned to Marco. “You absolutely ruin my day every time you call.” “And see I thought we were having a pleasant time catching up.” “Catching up means coffee and trading STD war stories, not corpses and paperwork.” “It does the way I do it,” he said with a grin. “You think you’ll need us for anything else? I don’t want to leave you in a hump, but I gotta earn that paycheck, so if I’m not serving or protecting here-” The Sheriff had already pulled out her phone, and was waiting for it to ring through. “Just go. Whatever happened here’s going to require trained CSU- not Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Agriculture- though if we find reason to believe corn was somehow involved we’ll be sure to give you a call.” Dagney made a sour face as she walked out of Fox’s home. “Don’t let her put you off- she’s not as mean as she pretends to be.” Marco seemed to notice that Dagney wasn’t thrilled with the Sheriff as a conversation topic, and quickly changed gears. “So, you now owe me coffee and pie. Starting to sound more like a date than interagency cooperation.” Dagney smiled, but low, and in the background, she heard, “One-Adam Five,” on his radio, and recognized the dispatcher she’d spoken with earlier. “Shit,” he said. “I have to grab this. Go ahead.” “We have a disturbance at the Concord exit.” “On my way. Rain check-” he grimaced, “again?” She shrugged, trying to take it with humor. She knew she had to stop by the post office, anyway. The postmaster, in person, was a lot less skeptical. He was in his fifties, somewhere, and kept leaning his head forward to be sure he was looking at her through his slightly too small round spectacles. “I’m sorry for my incredulity, earlier. But you’d be surprised the kinds of people who try to exploit the post office. Angry ex boyfriends, identity thieves. Always fishing for information, anything they can use. So our policy is to deny everything. If somebody knows they own a box here then that’s about all they need to know. About the only question I can’t think of any malicious potential behind would be, ‘Is there any new mail in my box?’” “But I managed to find the last two times that Mr. Fox’s box was opened. I found the first, and on a hunch, I decided the check again, the same day, one month before that. Our server only holds forty days, after that the hard drives start recording over older recordings. But like clockwork, same gentleman, blond, in his mid-thirties- even same time in the morning. I don’t have Mr. Fox’s photo on file, but from what I remember this is a different man. I printed some glossy photos of him for you, and burnt the two instances onto disc.” “And I checked our payment records for the box. Up until thirty months ago the box was paid monthly by personal check from Mr. Fox. From that time it’s been paid every six months, by cash, and always on the 24th, the same day the blond gentleman came to access the box. I’ve written everything down, for you.” “This should really help. Thanks.” “Of course. And please, don’t mention it.” Back in her car, Dagney pulled the business card out of her coat pocket. She was just a few blocks up from the address on the card. She drove to an unassuming brick apartment building, only three stories. She knocked on the door, and an old sliding slot peephole opened. Hard eyes glared into her. “I’m here to see Alyssa. Martin Fox referred me.” A woman responded, her voice gruff and heavy, with a tobacco rattle. “Fox? Deadbeat hasn’t been here in over two years. Still hasn’t paid his tab.” “Well, you’re half-right. He’s dead. Over two years.” “Shit.” The door unbolted. “Sorry. I didn’t know.” The woman behind the door was older, early sixties, and the harshness was gone from her eyes. “You’re lucky. Alyssa isn’t here much, anymore. Wasn’t here, actually, until the economy slowed up, then she started taking shifts again.” Her eyes narrowed. “You a cop?” “No. Uh, I work in the Department of Agriculture; this is only a semi-official visit.” The woman eyed her suspiciously, then snorted and walked back behind the front desk. “Our contractors are paid consorts, so you gotta pay for her time. Expense it or eat it, I could give a shit. But she’s on the clock and so are you. Sixty for the first hour, one hour minimum.” Dagney rolled out three $20 bills and laid them flat on the counter. “204, second floor, second door on the left.” The woman sat back down in her seat and picked up a wrinkled copy of National Enquirer. Dagney walked up the stairs, and knocked on the door to 204. A woman younger than her opened it, then tried to close it again. Dagney held it open. “Alyssa?” “There’s been a mistake. I don’t do women. Talk to Diane downstairs, she’ll sort you out.” “I’m here about Martin Fox. He died.” “Shit.” Alyssa stopped trying to close the door on her. Dagney walked inside the apartment. “Could I ask how you met him?” “Here. He said I reminded him of his daughter.” “So he just paid you to talk, then.” “We fucked, too; but we did a lot of talking, before and after. He was a really sweet guy, insisted on telling me he’d make an honest woman out of me someday.” She wiped a tear away as it fell out of her eye. “Did he go peacefully? I mean, he was old, but did he suffer much?” Dagney didn’t want to answer, but her next question sort of did, anyway. “You don’t know any reason someone might want to hurt Martin, do you?” “What? No. He was,” she hesitated. “He wasn’t happy anymore. I guess he leased some of his land, and for a while he had more money, and was really pleased with himself- that’s really when he started becoming a regular. But then, must have been three years ago, he’d come in real depressive. He said I was the only thing keeping him going; I don’t think it was true, but it felt good, watching him leave better than when he got here.” “You don’t happen to know where his daughter is, do you?” “New York. With her mother. At least last I’d heard. By now she’s probably off in college, I guess. I don’t know. He didn’t like to talk about them. I think he felt like he was cheating on them; and I got the sense he felt like caring about them was cheating on me. I mean, I didn’t ever lead him on, like I would marry him, but it was sweet, all the same. He cared. And that meant something.” “Okay. Thanks for your time. If I get a chance, to speak to his family, uh, I’ll tell them he had people who cared.” “Thanks.” Dagney left without a word to Diane. It hadn’t been the best sixty bucks she’d ever spent, but at least her per diem for the last three days would cover it and the fast food she’d eaten. Of course, at home she had two new mouths to feed. Nelson was clanging around in the kitchen, and she was surprised when he came out to greet her. “Are you wearing my apron?” “I know it’s a girl’s apron, but it has the support I need,” he bounced his man-boob playfully in his palm. “Besides, I only have the one change of clothes, and I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me lounging about in my birthday suit if I ended up having to wash them both at the same time.” “Fair point,” she said. “What are you baking?” “A birthday cake.” Her eyes narrowed. She was a good enough partner to remember his birthday happened sometime between Mother’s and Father’s day, and hers wasn’t until November. He smiled. “Your cousin’s kid, Dagney? Green I coulda maybe believed, but the kid’s got clover for hair. She won’t eat, not anything, but she drinks like a camel and loves the sun. I’m a drunk, maybe a reprobate, but I ain’t entirely retarded. She came from Derek’s, didn’t she? I heard some of what happened there. It didn’t seem possible, but… that’s it, isn’t it?” Dagney couldn’t lie fast enough- so she nodded. “Don’t know if the little acorn will actually eat cake, but I thought we should celebrate, anyhow. It’s a cream cheese frosting, but I dumped a whole mess of food coloring in it, to make it green.” He lifted the cake tin towards her, so she could read the frosted lettering on the top. “Happy birthday, spud?” “Felt appropriate,” he said, and set the tray back down on the kitchen counter. |
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