Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [4]
“Is it too late in the season to use it now?”
“I’d say.”
“Do you have any ideas about who did this?”
“I’d hate to say off the top of my head.” Sorenson kept his eyes on the road. The cooperative building was coming right up. He was wondering who was working today. He tried not to think about Ray, his seventeen-year-old son. He had been getting in trouble lately. What made Sorenson nervous was that he didn’t know where the kid had been last night. He hoped Ray was just hanging out with his friends. Although that could be what was getting him in trouble—his friends. He wanted to talk to his son before he accused him of anything.
The truck bumped over the ruts in the dirt parking lot. He pulled right up to the building, trying to park the vehicle as close to the wall as possible and as far out of the sun. If he planned it right, he wouldn’t need to turn the air-conditioning on when he drove the deputy back to the sheriff’s office.
“The cooperative is open today?” she asked.
“Yeah, this is a busy time for us right now. Farmers working nonstop in the fields. We cut hours way back in the winter.”
He hopped out of the truck. Before he could walk around to open the door for the deputy she had climbed down. He guessed he should treat her like a cop and not like a woman. She followed him into the store.
At the entrance, she stopped and looked around the warehouse. He looked around it too, trying to see it the way she might. Nothing fancy about the place. They had opened the back sliding door and a nice breeze was moving through the space. Riding lawn mowers were lined up face-out from along the far side of the warehouse. They were having a sale on picnic tables and there were a couple set up near the cash register. A sweet dusty smell, a mixture of birdseed and various ground meal products, filled the air.
He glanced over at the register. Tim was ringing up a pile of items for Kate Thompson and her bevy of six kids. He remembered that his son wasn’t working today.
Watkins turned and looked at him. “Where are the pesticides kept?”
“We keep them locked in the back.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“A precaution that didn’t exactly work.”
“Have you ever had anything stolen before?” she asked.
“The occasional item, like any retailer. Small hand tools such as wire cutters or hammers, things that fit into pockets. A few years back, some guy tried to walk off with a lawn mower. We caught him halfway down the next block, pushing the thing as fast as he could go. That’s about it.”
“Would it be possible to resell these pesticides?”
“Maybe. I don’t know who’d buy them. It’s not like there’s a black market for pesticides. But it’s possible.”
“So do you think someone stole them for use on a farm?”
“More likely, but it’s an odd time of year to use either one. Not so much the Caridon, but certainly the Parazone.”
“How did the burglar get into the warehouse?”
“I think he must have had a key. There was no sign of forced entry into the building.”
He walked her back to the storage area. “However, he didn’t have a key to the storage area, so he pounded the lock right off the door.” He pointed at the fastener hanging by its hinges, the door bashed in like it had been hammered on. A chair was pushed up to the door to keep it closed. He pulled the chair away.
“How did he do that?”
“One of our mauls. We found it lying right on the floor by the door. Don’t worry. We didn’t touch it. I put it in a big bag and set it in my office.”
“Who all has a key to the warehouse?”
“Petey and I. Our manager, Cliff Snowden. Any one of our past employees might have a key. Who knows how many are floating around.” He stopped for a moment and then added, “And the two young guys who sometimes open up. Tim Loch and Ray Sorenson.”
“Is Ray any relation?