Still Life With Crows (22 page)

Beyond, the loading dock opened into a large receiving room. A man wearing thick rubber gloves was yanking the turkey cages off the bed of the semi and popping them open. A conveyor belt ran overhead, steel hooks dangling from its underside. Three other men were grabbing turkeys out of the open cages and hanging them, feet first, from the steel hooks. Already so filthy from their ride as to be barely recognizable as birds, the turkeys squawked and struggled feebly as they hung head downward, pecking at empty air, shitting themselves in terror. The belt went clanking off, very slowly, disappearing through a narrow opening in the far wall of the loading dock. The place was air-conditioned down to polar levels and it stank. God, it stank.

“Sir?” A teenage security guard came hustling over. “Sir?”

Pendergast turned toward him. “FBI,” he said over the noise, flapping his identification wallet in the youth’s face.

“Right, sir. But no one is allowed in the plant without authorization. At least, that’s what they told me. It’s the rules—” He broke off fearfully.

Of course,” said Pendergast, slipping the wallet back into his suit. “I’m here to interview Mr. James Breen.”

“Jimmy? He used to take the graveyard shift but after the, the killing, he asked for a transfer to days.”

“So I’ve been told. Where does he work?”

“On the line. Look, you have to put on a hardhat and coat, and I have to tell the boss—”

“The line?”

“The line.” The youth looked confused. “You know, the belt.” He pointed upward at the row of dangling, writhing turkeys.

“In that case, we’ll simply follow the line until we reach him.”

“But, sir, it isn’t allowed—” He glanced at Corrie as if beseeching her for help. Corrie knew him: Bart Bledsoe. Dingleberry Bart. Graduated high school last year, D average, and here he was. A real Medicine Creek success story.

Pendergast set off across the slick cement floor, his suit coat flapping behind him. Bledsoe followed, still protesting, and together they disappeared through a small doorway in the far wall. Corrie ducked quickly in behind them, holding her nose, careful to avoid the turkey shit that was dropping like rain from the conveyor belt overhead.

The room beyond was small, and housed only a long, shallow trough of water. Several yellow signs were placed above it, warning of electrical hazard. The turkeys moved slowly through a fine spray until they reached the trough. Corrie watched from a safe distance as their heads slid helplessly below the level of the water. There was a buzz, then a brief crackling sound. The turkeys stopped struggling, and emerged limp from the water.

“Stunned, I see,” Pendergast said. “Humane. Very humane.”

Corrie swallowed again. She could guess what came next.

The line now proceeded through a narrow port in the far wall, flanked by two thick windows. Pendergast approached one of these windows and peered in. Corrie walked up to the other and gazed through it with trepidation.

The chamber beyond was large and circular. As the now-motionless turkeys moved slowly across it, a machine came forward and precisely nicked their necks with a small blade. Immediately, jets of blood shot out in pulsing streams, spraying the walls, which angled down toward what looked to Corrie like a lake of blood. A man with a machete-like weapon sat to one side, ready to administer the coup de grâce to any turkey the machine missed. She looked away.

“What is the name of this chamber?” Pendergast asked.

“The Blood Room,” Bledsoe replied. He had stopped protesting, and his shoulders hung with a defeated air.

“Appropriate. What happens to the blood?”

“Gets siphoned off into tanks. Trucks take it away, I don’t know where.”

“To be converted into blood meal, no doubt. That blood on the floor looks rather deep.”

“Two feet deep, maybe, this time of day. It gets backed up some as the shift goes on.”

Corrie winced. This was almost as bad as Stott in the cornfield.

And where do the turkeys go next?”

“To the Scalder.”

“Ah. And what’s your name?”

“Bart Bledsoe, sir.”

Pendergast patted the bewildered youth on the back. “Very well, Mr. Bledsoe. Lead on, if you please.”

They took a catwalk around the Blood Room—the smell of fresh blood was sickening—and went through a partition. All of a sudden, the building opened up around them and Corrie found herself in a cavernous space, a single enormous room with the conveyor belt and its hanging turkeys going this way and that, up and down, disappearing in and out of oversized steel boxes. It resembled some infernal Rube Goldberg contraption. The noise was unbearable, and the humidity was beyond saturation: Corrie felt droplets condensing on her arms, her nose, her chin. The place smelled of wet turkey feathers, shit, and something even less pleasant she couldn’t identify. She began to wish she had waited in the car.

The dead, drained birds emerged from the far end of the Blood Room, disappearing again into a huge stainless steel box from which issued a tremendous hissing noise.

“What happens there?” Pendergast asked above the roar, pointing at the steel box.

“That’s the Scalder. The birds get blasted with steam.”

At the far end of the Scalder the endless conveyor belt reemerged, now hung with steaming, dripping birds that were clean and white and partly defeathered.

“And from there?” Pendergast asked.

“They go to the Plucker.”

“Naturally. The Plucker.”

Bledsoe hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “Wait here, sir, please.” And he was gone.

But Pendergast did not wait. He hurried on, Corrie following, and they passed through a partition that surrounded the Plucker, which was actually four machines in series, each sporting dozens of bizarrely shaped rubber fingers that whirred maniacally, plucking feathers off their appointed portions of the birds. Naked, pink-yellow corpses emerged dangling at the far end. From there, the conveyor belt rose up and turned a corner, disappearing out of sight. So far, everything had been automated; except for the man in the Blood Room, the only workers appeared to be people monitoring the machines.

Pendergast walked over to a woman who was watching some dials on the plucking console. “May I interrupt you?” he asked.

As she glanced at him, Corrie recognized Doris Wilson, a no-bullshit bleach-blonde in her fifties, heavy, red-scrubbed face, smoker’s hack, who lived alone in the same trailer park she did, Wyndham Parke Estates.

“You’re the FBI man?”

“And you are?”

“Doris Wilson.”

“May I ask you a few questions, Ms. Wilson?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you know Willie Stott?”

“He was the night cleaning foreman.”

“Did he get along well here?”

“He was a good enough worker.”

“I understood he drank.”

“He was a nipper. Never interfered with his job.”

“He was from away?”

“Alaska.”

“What did he do up there?”

Doris paused to adjust some levers. “Fish cannery.”

“Any idea why he left?”

“Woman trouble, I heard.”

“And why did he stay in Medicine Creek?”

Doris suddenly grinned, exposing a rack of brown, crooked teeth. “The very question we all ask ourselves. In Willie’s case, he found a friend.”

“Who?”

“Swede Cahill. Swede is best friends with everyone who drinks in his bar.”

“Thank you. And now, can you tell me where I can find James Breen?”

Her lips pointed down the conveyor line of turkeys. “Evisceration Area. It’s up there, just before the Deboning Station. Fat guy, black hair, glasses. Loudmouth.”

“Thanks again.”

“No problem.” Doris nodded to Corrie.

Pendergast moved up a metal staircase. Corrie followed. Ascending beside them, the conveyor line of dangling carcasses rumbled toward a high platform that was, finally, manned by people and not machines. Dressed in white, with white caps, they were expertly slicing open the turkeys and sucking out organs with oversized vacuum nozzles. The turkeys then jerked along toward another station, where they were blasted clean with high-pressure hoses. Farther down the line, Corrie could see two men lopping off the heads of the birds and dropping them into a big chute.

Thanksgiving will never be the same,
she thought.

There was one black-haired fat man on the line, and he was talking loudly, relating a story at high volume. Corrie caught the word “Stott,” then “last to see him alive.” She glanced at Pendergast.

He smiled briefly in return. “I believe that is our man.”

As they walked down the platform toward Breen, Corrie saw Bart returning, his hair mussed, practically running. And ahead of him was Art Ridder, the plant manager. He was charging across the concrete floor on stumpy legs.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me the FBI was here!” he was shouting to no one in particular. His face was even redder than usual, and Corrie could see a wet turkey feather stuck to the crown of his blow-dried helmet of hair. “This is an off-limits area!”

“Sorry, sir.” Bart was all in a panic. “He just walked in. He’s investigating—”

“I know very well what he’s investigating.” Ridder climbed the ladder and turned to Pendergast, breathing hard, working to bring his trademark smile back onto his face. “How are you, Agent Pendergast?” He held out his hand. “Art Ridder. I remember seeing you at the Sociable.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Pendergast replied, taking the proffered hand.

Ridder turned back to Bart, his face losing its smile. “You go back to the dock. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turned to Corrie. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m—” She glanced at Pendergast, waiting for him to say something, but he remained silent.

“I’m with him,” she said.

Ridder cast a querying glance at Pendergast, but the agent was now absorbed in examining a variety of strange equipment that hung from the ceiling.

“I’m his assistant,” said Corrie finally.

Ridder exhaled loudly. Pendergast turned and strolled over to where Jimmy Breen was working—he had shut up when the boss arrived—and began to watch him work.

Ridder spoke, his voice calmer. “Mr. Pendergast, may I invite you to my office, where you’ll find it much more comfortable?”

“I have a few questions for Mr. Breen here.”

“I’ll send Jimmy right over. Bart will show you the way.”

“There is no need to interrupt his work.”

“It’ll be much quieter in the office—”

But Pendergast was already talking to Jimmy. The man continued to work, sticking a nozzle into a turkey and sucking out the guts with a great
schloock!
while he talked. He glanced at Ridder and then at Pendergast.

“Mr. Breen, I understand you were the last one to see Willie Stott alive.”

“I was, I was,” Jimmy began. “The poor guy. It was that car of his. I hate to say this, but the money he should’ve spent getting that crap-mobile fixed up he spent down at Swede’s instead. That hunk of junk was always breaking down—”

Corrie glanced at Art Ridder, who was standing behind Jimmy now, the ghastly smile once again fixed on his face.

“Jimmy,” Ridder interrupted, “the nozzle goes
all the way up,
not like that. Excuse me, Mr. Pendergast, but it’s his first day on this job.”

“Yes, Mr. Ridder,” said Jimmy.

“
Up,
like that. Up and in, as deep as it’ll go.” He shoved the hose in and out of the carcass a few times to demonstrate, then handed it back to Jimmy. “You following me?” Then he turned to Pendergast with a smile. “I started right here, Mr. Pendergast, in the Evisceration Area. Worked my way to the top. I like to see things done right.” There was a note of pride in his voice that Corrie found creepy.

“Sure thing, Mr. Ridder,” Jimmy said.

“As you were saying?” Pendergast kept his eyes on Breen.

“Right. Only last month Willie’s car broke down and I had to drive him to and from work. I’ll bet it broke down again and he tried to hoof it to Swede’s. And got nailed. Jesus. I requested a transfer the very morning he was found, didn’t I, Mr. Ridder?”

“You did.”

“I’d rather be sucking gibs out of a turkey than ending up gibs in a field myself.” Jimmy’s lips spread in a wet grin.

“No doubt,” said Pendergast. “Tell me about your previous job.”

“I was the night watchman. I was in the plant from midnight to seven
A
.
M
., when the pre-shift arrives.”

“What does the pre-shift do?”

“Makes sure all the equipment is working so’s when the first truck arrives the birds can be processed right away. Can’t leave birds in a hot truck that ain’t moving while you fix something, otherwise you got a fine old truckload of dead turkeys.”

“Does that happen very often?”

Corrie noticed Jimmy Breen shoot a nervous glance at Ridder.

“Almost never,” said Ridder quickly.

“When you were driving to the plant that night,” Pendergast asked, “did you see anything or anyone on the road?”

“Why d’you think I asked for the day shift? At the time, I thought it was a cow loose in the corn. Something big and bent over—”

“Where exactly was this?”

“Midway. About two miles from the plant, two miles from town. On the left-hand side of the road. Waiting, like. It seemed to dart into the corn as my headlights came around the bend. Almost scuttling, like on all fours. I wasn’t sure, really. It might’ve been a shadow. But if so, it was a
big
shadow.”

Pendergast nodded. He turned to Corrie. “Do you have any questions?”

Corrie was seized with panic. Questions? She found Ridder looking at her, his eyes red and narrow.

“Sure. Yeah. I do.”

There was a pause.

“If that was the killer, what was he doing, waiting there? I mean, he couldn’t have
expected
Stott’s car to break down, could he? Might he have been interested in the plant, perhaps?”

There was a silence and she realized Pendergast was smiling, ever so faintly.

“Well, hell, I don’t know,” said Jimmy, pausing. “That’s a good one.”

“Jimmy, damn it,” Ridder suddenly broke in. “You’ve let that turkey get past you.” He shoved forward and grabbed a turkey as it was trundling away. With one great sweep, he reached inside and ripped out the guts by hand, flinging them into the vacuum container, where they were immediately swallowed with a horrible gurgling. Ridder turned back, shaking gore from his fingers with a savage snap of his wrist. He smiled broadly.