The Covert Element (28 page)

Within fifteen minutes, everyone had left. The office was
locked. And the overhead doors to the Elevator’s interior had been
lowered and sealed. The once-bright lighting surrounding the plant
was reduced to a single yard light illuminating the parking area and
the wooden business sign: "Bellechester Organic Elevator and
Creamery."

Fuentes waited a further half hour before leaving his vehicle.
The plant that had only an hour earlier bustled with activity . . .
sounds, lights, smells, workers . . . sat eerily dim and silent. Now
and then a creak of protest could be heard from steel bins
expanding or contracting.

The abandoned grain trucks lined up around the parking lot
seemed to portend an apocalypse. Where life had once flourished,
emptiness and desolation remained – the bounty of the harvest so
close to being realized, now loaded upon these mechanical
monstrosities for eternity.

How different this place will look in two days time!

Fuentes strode across the gravel. He would inspect his target
more closely now. There was no one, not even the prying eye of a
security camera, to warn of what he was about to do . . . of the great
work he would soon complete.

He retrieved a small camera from his denim jacket pocket and
began clicking photos of his victim-to-be.

* * *

The figure in the shadows had been watching the Mexican in
the parking lot since shortly after his arrival at the plant. He did not
intervene. But he observed with the eyes of a warrior. He could see
what Fuentes was doing . . . knew what he had in mind. The only
question was, when would Fuentes strike?

And then another question. Should he allow it to happen?
There would be some advantages to allowing Fuentes his success. It
was a matter for further consideration.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

After meeting with Gunner, I had become convinced there was
a decent possibility that the Bellechester Elevator was the drug
factory we sought. I was far from certain. But it felt right in my gut.

Still at the office, I checked to see if the Elevator had a website.
Bingo.
And a very nice website, indeed. I checked their listing of
products and services. They offered to spread bonemeal for the
organic farmers and spray ammonia for the traditional farming folk.
Of course, they sold iodine, as well as many other farm supplies. I
didn’t expect to find a listing for lithium batteries.

The site also had a page boasting of the company’s broad
distribution network. Dairy products to the Twin Cities. Cornmeal
in bulk and retail packages to several regional markets, including
some as far away as Milwaukee and Chicago. I noted that
Bellechester Organic had not elected to become part of any
cooperative marketing organizations. It seemed to me that sharing
distribution channels with other boutique organics firms would
have been a way to save money reaching smaller markets. Perhaps
they did well enough in the large cities and didn’t need to share
costs of shipping products to outlying consumers.

The president and CEO of Bellechester Organic was Walter
Marsden, just as Gunner had recalled. The site contained a short
bio for Mr. Marsden, together with a head and shoulders shot of
him wearing a chambray shirt, open at the collar. It appeared as
though he’d made the transition from Cargill’s corporate towers to
Bellechester’s grain bins quite successfully. From the picture, he
might have been just any farmer accepting an award from the FFA.
Farmers like to do business with farm types. They generally find
suits and ties to be off-putting.

According to the site, the company had restored and added to
the defunct Bellechester Farmers Elevator Co-op’s infrastructure.
Buildings had been restored and revitalized. They’d added a small
dairy operation with onsite sales of cheese curds and fresh milk.
They also sold bulk milk for packaging and distribution under the
Land O’ Lakes Organics brand.

Interesting. They had chosen to co-distribute their dairy
products through a larger dairy consolidator, yet hadn’t done so
with the corn meal or other grain products. Maybe they didn’t sell
enough milk to make the refrigerated, just-in-time distribution
required for dairy products feasible? I would file this thought for
later consideration.

Another page showed "scientists" at a large vat of milk adding
enzymes "to naturally promote growth of yogurt cultures." Other
workers in white coats injected liquids containing "all natural
vitamins and minerals to add vitality and punch to nature’s perfect
food."

I was no expert, but the laboratories looked like they’d work
just fine for cooking meth, too.

On the final page of the site appeared the standard statement
that "Bellechester Organic Elevator and Creamery is an Equal
Opportunity Employer." Most of the employees depicted on the
website were Hispanic. Maybe "affirmative action" would better
describe the company’s employment practices. I certainly have
nothing against Latinos. I’ve served with many. Honorable men,
every one of them. But the prevalence of Hispanic employees at this
location, and specter of Mexican cartel activities occurring in just
such a facility, was a coincidence not to be ignored.

It had only been a little more than an hour since Gunner left
my office. I called him anyway.

"Chief Deputy Gunderson."

"Don’t you guys have caller ID yet? Could save yourself a bunch
of unwanted interruptions."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. So what’s new in the last hour?"

"I’ve been researching Bellechester Organic and I think a visit
may be in order."

"I’ve just finished my survey of Hispanic employment at farm
elevators in Ottawa County. Turns out the other three don’t actually
employ any Hispanics at all. Maybe there’s a bit of prejudice in agri-business that needs some lookin’ into."

"We can save that for another day, Gunner. I say we take a
quick drive out to Bellechester . . . maybe drop in for a surprise visit
with Mr. Marsden."

"As unusual as this may sound, I agree. Can you meet me here
in ten?"

"On my way."

* * *

When I pulled into the parking lot at the LEC, Gunner was
already outside and heading for his cruiser. I joined him and
hopped in the passenger side front. A few seconds later, we were on
the road to Bellechester.

"How shall we handle this interrogation, Chief Deputy? Maybe
I’ll be the good cop and you can be the bad cop."

Gunner laughed.

"It’s not an interrogation. And you’re not any kind of cop. So
you can mostly just stand there and let me talk."

I’m pretty sure Gunner knew that his plan was a nonstarter.
But why argue?

Twenty minutes later we pulled into the gravel parking area at
the Elevator. It was late afternoon. Had it not been grain harvest
season, the place would probably have been deserted. As it was,
operations were in full swing.

I could see Marsden watching us through his picture window
as we approached. When Gunner reached for the Office doorknob,
it turned automatically in his hand. Marsden welcomed us from
inside his office without inviting us to join him in the air
conditioning.

"How’s it going today, gentlemen?"

"Going well, Mr. Marsden," Gunner said. "Just stopping by for
a friendly visit. Mind if we come in out of the heat and noise?"

"No. No problem. My apologies. It’s been a busy couple weeks.
Lotsa stuff going on in my head."

He waved us inside and offered chairs at the conference table.

"Coffee?"

"That’d be great, Mr. Marsden." As promised, Gunner was
taking the lead in this conversation.

"Black okay?"

We both indicated our approval.

Marsden served us coffee in white ceramic cafeteria cups, then
took a seat at the table.

"So how can I help you fellas out?" He took a sip from his cup.

"First of all, I suppose introductions are in order. You and I
met briefly at the Kiwanis lunch a couple months ago. I wouldn’t
expect you to remember. I’m Chief Sheriff’s Deputy, Doug
Gunderson." Gunner extended his hand across the table.

"And this is my associate, James Becker."

"Call me ‘Beck’."

Another handshake.

"Okay. Beck. Chief Deputy. How can I help you out?"

"Honestly," Gunner said, "this is just a courtesy call. There’ve
been a few minor thefts from farms between here and Goodhue. We
suspect it’s probably just kids lookin’ for a way to get their kicks.
But with the big investment you folks have got here . . ." Gunner
waved an arm at the plant and properties outside the room . . . "I
thought you’d maybe appreciate a heads up."

Marsden’s posture suddenly relaxed. He hadn’t seemed tense
before. But the difference was now noticeable.

"And there’ve also been some reports of drug dealing," I said, ".
. . specifically methamphetamine . . . in the Bellechester area."

Gunner kicked me under the table.

Tension returned to Marsden’s appearance.

"Some people are sayin’ there’s a drug lab somewhere right
under the noses of the cops . . . maybe right here in your little
town."

Another kick from the Chief Deputy.

Marsden stood, turning his back to us as he refilled his coffee . .
. which didn’t really need refilling yet.

While Marsden was facing away, Gunner rolled his eyes at me
and mouthed, "Shut up."

I pointed a finger at my chest.
Who? Me?

Before Marsden was ready to return to the table with his coffee,
I noticed him take a deep breath.

Now his face beamed and his speech went into "aw shucks"
mode.

"Kids stealing stuff has always been a problem for farmers. It’s
never been a law enforcement priority before. Mainly, folks just get
a dog or buy better locks.

"But drugs? That’s a whole nother matter. Over the past couple
years, I’ve gotten to know most of the folks around here pretty well.
Their kids, too. Farming’s a family business, you know. I can’t
imagine anybody I’ve met running a drug lab."

He checked both of our eyes to see if he could tell what we were
thinking. I don’t know what Gunner’s said, but mine said,
You’re
lying through your teeth.

"Beck’s got a pretty active imagination. It’s not so much reports
that we’ve heard as rumors." Gunner was trying for damage control.

"But the rumors say it’s a pretty big meth lab. Right, Gunner?
Maybe even a Mexican drug connection."

Gunner choked on his coffee. Marsden’s upper lip started
sweating.

"As I said, Beck here has an amazingly active imagination,"
Gunner tried. "I don’t know why he’s even botherin’ you with this
talk about drug labs. You don’t have to worry ‘bout being robbed by
a drug lab. And it’s not like anybody’s running a drug lab right here
at your plant or anything. People just talk sometimes."

Marsden felt the need to speak.

"Quite a few of my employees are Hispanic. Some folks aren’t
so open-minded about other cultures. That’s probably the source of
your Mexican drug talk."

He checked to see if we were buying what he was selling.