Hidden Heritage (7 page)

Or was it a stranger? If the warning had been delivered to me instead of Josie, would I have known who it was?

Chapter Nine

Wednesday evening I walked into the crowded gathering in the commissioner's room. Keith and Sam were already there and the room was filled with law enforcement personnel from around the region.

Agent Dimon had driven out especially to conduct the meeting. There were four men from Topeka present besides himself and my favorite agent, Nancy Brooks, and Jim Gilderhaus, our regional agent.

I glanced at Keith, who was sitting with arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Sam stood to one side at the front of the room. Since the meeting was in Carlton County, he felt like he should be an unofficial host and “introduce the bastard” he'd said earlier.

When everyone quieted, he walked over to a podium. “Guess you wonder why we're all here tonight. Matter of fact, I'm kinda wondering that myself. But we're about to find out. This here is Frank Dimon who wants to have a few words with us. He's from the KBI and so are all the other strangers sitting around tonight. Frank, I'll turn this over to you.”

“Gentlemen,” Dimon began, “I don't need to tell you that the death rate in this area is beginning to attract attention.”

I wished he hadn't worn a suit.

“The number of murders per capita is extraordinary.”

I had to keep myself from leaping to my feet to contradict him. Crime statistics for sparse populations could distort reality.

“The state KBI has concluded that we have to work out law enforcement arrangements for Western Kansas that will consolidate resources and employ the strategic use of manpower.” A fly buzzed around Dimon's head. The window air-conditioning unit kicked on and his papers scattered. He bent to retrieve them. By himself. Not a soul offered to help. Keith and I included.

“Now then,” he said awkwardly, after aligning his material again, “of course we have to square this legally. There are processes we need to follow to put this in place, but for now, our temporary arrangement will allow a great deal of latitude to determine what will actually work.”

We waited. Something was coming down, and I suspected we wouldn't like it.

Dimon switched on a projector and walked to the screen centered on the north wall. “Here's what we have devised. I might add that a presentation this sophisticated was not whipped up as a result of the incidents occurring this past week.”

The first screen of his slide show came into view. “As you can see, we've been working on these ideas for several months.”

I gaped at the words, with a perky voiceover reading them to us in case none of us had the ability. “Northwest Kansas Regional Law Enforcement: A Triumph in Effectiveness and Responsibility.”

A fully equipped sheriff appeared on the screen and earnestly informed us that small counties were poorly equipped to cope with challenges in changing populations. By the time the fifth slide appeared, showing men around a conference table discussing problems, I was aghast.

It concluded with an architect showing a finished sketch of a regional jail and a criminalist lab to process information.

By that time, I was seething. Dimon finished to thunderous silence. “We are quite proud of this. Our system is being considered as a prototype for instituting a regional law-enforcement center in sparsely populated regions all over the country. Are there any questions?”

I glanced at Nancy who sat with a lowered head pinching the bridge of her nose. She didn't look up.

“Yes, I have a question.” I reached for a glass of water and took a sip before I continued. “Who was that first man? The sheriff in the first slide? I didn't recognize him as a Western Kansas law enforcement officer.”

“Well, no. Actually, he was a professional actor. Naturally, we want to have the most effective video possible.”

“And all the others? They, too, were actors?”

“Yes.”

“All the discussions were fake? You didn't film a real meeting?”

“No,” he said, his voice crisp.

“I have a question.” Everyone looks at Keith when he speaks. He carries natural authority. Not only because of his size and the timbre of his voice, but by his inherent wisdom. “Did you consult with any single person who actually lives out here?”

“No, we didn't.”

His stark admission didn't surprise me. I had come to appreciate Dimon's honesty and dedication—if not his humorless ways.

A deputy from Copeland County spoke up. “Why the hell not?”

“Frankly, we wanted people who were more objective and detached to devise the best possible plan that is realistically obtainable in today's economy. We intended and still intend to discuss it with the general population later and make any necessary adjustments it might take to get it up and running.”

“Good luck with that,” I mumbled. It would be impolite, self-defeating, stupid actually, to laugh out loud.

Last spring, the construction and dedication of Saint Helena's, our tiny little Episcopal church shared by four counties, had nearly revived the old range wars. Half of the counties in Kansas had had county-seat fights, many of them ending in bloodshed. In the early 1920s Goodland had hired a rainmaker and then sued the neighboring town of Colby when it rained there instead of the expected area.

And this man actually expected the people in any given county to give up their sheriff? Their jail? For a regional system?

“Any discussion?” Dimon asked.

“I thought we were coming here today for a briefing about the murder in our feedyard,” Keith said. “The murder, remember?”

Dimon's lips thinned. “No questions? No discussion about the regional center? All right. I understand that. I understand you, too, Keith. We have a murder to solve. Maybe connected to something bigger than just local. I know that's why you came here. But hear this,” he pointed to the last slide again. “This regional center is coming. It's going to happen and there's nothing you can do to stop it.”

Maybe. Other things, other developments had come whether we liked it or not. School consolidation, county consolidation, medical facility consolidation. Consolidation had been as unstoppable as the railroads pushing across the plains. Iron pushing through thousands of acres of sod. Iron pushing the buffalo ahead of it. Iron pushing Indians away, away.

Consolidation as relentless and unstoppable as the wind farms dotting the prairies with their sleek towering structures dwarfing the aging old wooden structures. Corporate giants racing across the plains. The prairie was helpless to stop the onslaught.

I looked at Keith sitting there, faking impassivity, and smiled. I knew what that look meant even if Dimon didn't.

“The murder,” Keith said. “Carlton County called in the KBI to figure out who murdered Victor Diaz. Have you made any progress yet? Do you think there is a problem that reaches beyond Carlton County?”

Dimon frowned. He wasn't through with his lecture yet. He gazed steadily at Keith. His mouth lipped into a little gesture that passed as a smile for him. Then laying one finger aside his lips, the others cradling his chin, he studied my husband as though he were a scientist peering at a new species.

“Actually, we don't have any evidence to support that. But, yes, we think so. The murder was too simply too suspicious to dismiss it all as happenstance.”

“Drugs?”

I recognized the speaker as the undersheriff of Copeland County. He was supposed to be the interim sheriff after the death of Sheriff Irwin Deal whose death had been viewed as a blessing by most of the county.

“There's no evidence of drug activity here.”

“They wouldn't dare in Sam's county,” someone said from the back of the room. There was a murmur of appreciation. Sam brushed the brim of his hat and smiled.

“I do admit Sheriff Abbot has been quite efficient at handling problems in the past, whenever they came up. But times are changing. Methods have to change with the times.” There were enough nuances in Dimon's voice to script a Shakespearian plot.

I had told Keith about the proxy marriage debacle. He stared at Dimon. If he had had any doubts before that the agent intended to get rid of Sam, he didn't now.

“Do you mean to tell me that we come over here tonight to have you tell us you hope you will agree to getting rid of our jobs?”

Oh boy. I swiveled to look at the speaker. Justin Harold is a tall, slim man whose big sunburned ears jutting from the side of his head make him look like a giant mouse. He was part-time law enforcement as were most of the men in the room. Part-time and overworked.

Harold was the sole support of his aging mother and desperate to keep up his land payments. A fair man, he employed several Mexicans every year to help with the wheat harvest. Years ago, his uncle had married a Mexican woman, but nationality wouldn't have mattered to Justin's family. The question was—could they work? Ability to work was the biggest issue. Probably the most prized trait in Western Kansas.

“And you're telling us that you think the murder of a fine man should take second place to bringing in some Hollywood sheriffs to take the place of men who know what they are doing? We give people jobs out here. Real work.”

“Gentlemen, it's not like we aren't doing anything at all about the Diaz murder. It's just that, right now, we're coming out here too often. This has involved a special task force, which we don't usually form unless there's organized crime involved. Like illegal drugs. Illegal immigration. Border crossing. That sort of thing.”

“Well now ain't that a shame?” Harold said softly. “We're not bad enough.”

Condemnation of the government was so thick you could feel judgment flap into the room like an attacking falcon. A massive force of condemnation. I could feel it, taste it. Dimon had aroused the whacky Kansas sense of unity against outsiders. The zeal for justice.

We were the state that had the strongest network of underground railroad organizations that helped runaway slaves make it to Canada before the Civil War. We were the state that later attracted African American immigrants and offered them free land through the Homestead Act. We were the state that just purely admired women like Carry Nation who smashed saloons with an axe. We didn't hold with people who drank. Unless it was us.

I stared at Dimon with wonderment. He had achieved a miracle. United the room against him in just a few sentences. He knew that. He was no dummy. That didn't mean they all agreed with one another, of course. The simply didn't like him.

Justin put his hands on his hips and addressed the room. “This man has already said there's no drug gangs here in this county. He's not interested in a little murder unless drug lords are involved. And there's no border to cross into Kansas. He just wants to take away our jobs.”

“Ah Christ, Justin, ain't no drug lords out here anyway. That's in Eye-rack and Afghanistan. A few gangs back in Eastern Kansas, maybe.”

“Point is, we do a pretty good job of solving our own problems out here.”

“Like, hell.” I didn't recognize the speaker. “The KBI wouldn't have been called in if we didn't need extra help.”

“So you think maybe we should form a little committee to help this little operation along? A welcome wagon maybe, with homemade cookies and free tickets to the movie when Topeka sends out men hellbent on telling us what to do?”

“It's time to vote,” Harold said. “Who is in favor of Dimon's bullshit?”

“Starting a regional crime center is not subject to a vote.” Dimon finally lost his temper. He managed to keep his voice under control, but his face flushed. “This is a legislative decision. It's not up to you.”

All hell broke loose. I knew how these “come let us reason together” meetings could go, but Dimon didn't. He clearly could not think of how to regain control.

Keith rose, glanced at the agent with something akin to pity and strode to the front of the room. He glanced at me, and with a tiny movement of his head made a silent apology to Sam for taking the place that he probably should have assumed. But Sam gave a slight shrug and there was an amused glint in his eye over the hole Dimon had dug himself into.

I sat with my arms crossed. It was certainly not my place to ride herd over this makeshift mob.

“Stop it, right now,” Keith said. “This is a bunch of crap. In case any of you have forgotten, a man was murdered right here in this county. An ugly death.”

Dimon looked like a drowning man who had just been thrown a life saver.

“Now, Agent Dimon, do you have anything more you would like us to know? Something you want to ask us?”

Dimon nodded at Keith who then walked back to his seat.

“Gentlemen, although I appreciate your sense of justice and willingness to stand by your neighboring counties, the fact remains there's been a serious crime here. And none of you have the skill or resources to solve it.” The room fell silent.

I glanced at Sam. One of the shrewdest men I knew. Too smart to start a public brawl. But I knew that look. It was the same one on his face when he was studying how to break a prisoner. Dimon would regret slamming this man's skill.

Dimon braced his hands on the podium. “And I'll guarantee you that someone is making money out of it somehow, because they for damn sure didn't do it for love. It's hard to imagine that there is any power to be gained by being king of the feedyard. I'm going to delay further discussion about the regional crime lab until you've had time to consider the advantages. I apologize if this has been too much, too fast. It's a lot to take in.”

Deeper and deeper. We were too dumb to think very fast. Too dumb to understand when we did think.

“Instead, I want you all to ask around in your own communities and let us know if you can learn anything about the murder of Victor Diaz.”

“And that's it?” Keith asked. “That's all you are going to do? Have us ask around?”

“It's all we can do, Keith. We've processed all of the forensic evidence with zero results.”