Hidden Heritage Read Free Page B

notes.”
    I had become the unofficial CSI person for the sheriff’s office. Keith’s powers of observation were second to none, but both men accepted my intuition and my ability to sense that something was “not quite right.” From time to time Keith would grumble that it was like living with a witch, but I knew what came into play was my training as a historian. I accepted the importance of documentation, but so often documents were wrong. Facts—black and white—could lead to a false conclusion.
    My twin sister, Josie, a clinical psychologist and part-time professor at Kansas State University, had said last spring that personalities as high in intuition as mine were rare. She is more logical. More cynical. Together, our separate academic disciplines equaled a regular science team.
    Neither of us, however, could hold a candle to Josie’s spoiled little shih tzu, Tosca, whose judgment was infallible. If Tosca didn’t like someone, there was something rotten in Denmark. Thankfully, she found most people neutral.
    â€œThis won’t take long,” Sam told Dwayne. “All we need are a few soil samples.”
    â€œWhy are you doing this? Going over an empty cattle pen?”
    â€œThis is just standard procedure.” Sam didn’t blink.
    But it wasn’t standard. Keith and I exchanged looks.
    â€œTell me what happens when a load of cattle come in.”
    Dwayne went through the routine beginning with a load logged in, the cattle unloaded and sent through chutes one at a time, inspected, ear-tagged with the pen number, and moved to their base pen where they remain until they are sent to market. When he finished explaining the process, ending with the trucks backing up to the shit pit and getting rinsed out, Sam held up his hand, palm out turned like a traffic cop.
    â€œNot tonight. They have to wash out somewhere else. You can unload, but you can’t wash out here.”
    Sam cut off Dwayne’s furious protest.
    â€œI don’t want that pit touched until we’ve had a chance to analyze it, too.”
    Now I was certain that Sam had seen something. Inwardly, I groaned. We were looking at holding pens of thousands of cattle and a lake of wine-rich manure teaming with excrement and bacteria. It was an impossible situation.
    Then I understood. The unoccupied pens would serve as a control. Pen fifty-one had been empty.
    â€œSince you’ve said Victor wasn’t supposed to be here, we want to do things right from the beginning,” Sam said. “Just in case.”
    â€œJust in case,” had become the sheriff department’s motto by now. Nevermind the serve and protect bit. We automatically assumed that no matter how innocent a situation seemed on the surface, whatever could go wrong usually did.
    â€œI won’t know what might have been dumped in that lagoon until the boys from KBI have taken a look,” Sam continued.
    My skin crawled. Keith was silent. The KBI from the very beginning. No doubt now that Sam had seen something.
    The whole feedyard was being treated as a crime scene.
    â€œLottie, Keith, after you process that pen, I want you to take soil samples of every tenth unoccupied pen.” He turned back to Dwayne. “Send your trucks to a commercial washout. There’s one in Dunkirk.”
    It was an order, not a request. Sam has a commanding voice that goes with his military bearing. Only a fool challenges the general.
    â€œAll right,” Dwayne said reluctantly. “I’ll tell the men to unload and then go to Dunkirk and wash out. But we need to go to Victor’s wife right away. I can’t take a chance that someone else will tell her—if they haven’t already.”
    â€œDoes Diaz have other family here?” Keith asked.
    â€œHis great-grandmother. A sister. And I think George Perez is his cousin. He’s a welder for a heating and air-conditioning company over in Dunkirk.”
    â€œNo