Convenient Disposal

Chapter Thirty

A pickup truck loaded with elm limbs towering precariously over the cab was parked on the scales in front of the landfill office, and the attendant leaned on the door, chatting with the driver. His clipboard was tucked under his arm, and when Estelle pulled into the landfill, he glanced back at her and then continued his conversation.

The undersheriff turned hard to the left and parked the county car with its nose to the chain-link fence, beside a flashy motorcycle and a dilapidated imported pickup truck. She got out and stretched. The landfill featured an impressive view, but she knew that its location had been one of Kevin Zeigler’s pet peeves. More than once at county meetings, she’d heard his comments about the location. To bury refuse above the village, even though the location was five miles out of town, made no sense to Zeigler.

An area in the bleak eastern prairie, out beyond the MacInernys’ gravel pit, had been offered to the county. To relocate the landfill, and perhaps to then hire a private contractor to manage it, were decisions toward which the county moved with the speed of an inchworm.

Off to the left, Estelle could see the dirt two-track that wound up the mesa from town, and she could imagine the three cyclists-one pushing his bike, heart pounding in his ears, sweat soaking his shirt.

“Help you?”

Estelle turned and smiled at Bart Kurtz. “I was sightseeing,” she said.

“Hey, no charge for that.” Kurtz turned and watched the loaded pickup waddle over the rough ground toward the edge of the current refuse pit. “They don’t always go where we tell ’em,” he observed soberly. Of medium height and beefy build, Kurtz was working on a potbelly that looked as if he were pregnant.

When the truck turned away from the pit and headed toward a large pile of limb wood and similar burnable trash far in the back of the open, graded area, Kurtz slapped the clipboard for some sort of emphasis, and turned to look at Estelle. “You just cruisin’?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Estelle said.

“Don ain’t here just yet,” Kurtz said as if he didn’t actually believe the undersheriff’s answer. He ambled over to the office door and hung the clipboard on a nail.

“That’s okay,” Estelle said. “Everything been quiet up here?”

Kurtz laughed. A dentist would have recoiled at the sight. “That’s the truth,” he said. He squinted into the sun, watching as the pickup backed up to the massive pile of branches. A man and small boy pulled the elm limbs off the truck, sailing them onto the edge of the pile.

“Is that your bike?” Estelle asked.

“Nah. That’s Don’s. That’s his toy.”

“Nice machine.”

He turned and looked at Estelle. “You ride, do you?”

“No.”

One of the village garbage trucks groaned off the county highway onto the dirt road to the landfill. “You might want to step over this way,” Kurtz said, and Estelle did so. The truck pulled onto the scale, the driver expertly centering the eight rear wheels on the plate. The driver looked as if he might have been one of Mauro Acosta’s classmates. He lifted a hand in salute, then lurched the truck forward when Kurtz signaled.

When the big diesel was far enough away that Estelle could make herself heard without shouting, she asked, “Everyone weighs?”

“Everyone. All the time. But if it don’t come up to five hundred pounds, we don’t charge. Like them over there.” He waved a hand at the pickup with its load of tree trimmings.

“I didn’t think so. I don’t ever remember paying. Did the county manager come by here earlier this week?”

Kurtz wiped his hands on his county-issue dark green work clothes, then groped a cigarette out of his breast pocket. He took his time, examining the little butane lighter before lighting it as if it were a complex operation requiring all his skill and attention. “You mean yesterday?”

“Whenever.”

“Didn’t see him yesterday. Nope.”

“How about Tuesday?”

“We aren’t open on Tuesdays, so I wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask Don.”

The large white sign on the chain-link gate, now pushed open against the fence, announced landfill hours for the public from 7 AM to 5 PM, Wednesday through Sunday. “The boss is here on Tuesdays?”

Kurtz sucked on the cigarette, inhaling deeply. “Well, sometimes he is,” he said, as if loath to give away too much information. “Paperwork and the like. He takes care of all of that.”

“Are you part-time, or…”

Kurtz shook his head. “Wish I was. No. I’m here, all the time.”

“Don, too?”

“Well, sure. He generally takes Saturday off, though. Makes up for coming in on Tuesdays, I guess.” He examined the cigarette, ticking off the ash with his little finger. “He don’t like to miss the flea market.”

“You’re talking about the one down in Pershing Park sometimes?”

“Oh, hell, no,” Kurtz said. “He goes on down to Cruces for that big one. Hits it every week.” He nodded at where the village truck was disgorging its load, like a giant insect expelling a large, compact dropping that crashed out onto the graded apron just short of the pit. “You wouldn’t believe the things that some people throw away.”

“Oh, I think I would,” Estelle said agreeably. “You said Don’s coming in today?”

“Oh, he’s already been here. We got a blown hydraulic hose on the Cat.” He stepped out from the building. “He just ran down to pick up a new one at Clark’s.”

“There’s always something, isn’t there,” Estelle said. The bulldozer was parked beside an amazing pile of junked appliances. Impressive as it was, the dozer was dwarfed by the collection of hot-water heaters, stoves, refrigerators, washers, and dryers. “I always supposed that with the number of appliances we see shot full of holes out on the mesa, there wouldn’t be many left for you guys,” Estelle said, and Kurtz grunted a derisive chuckle.

More traffic turned into the landfill road, this time a small station wagon followed by another pickup truck sagging under a load of old lumber.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Estelle said as Kurtz reached for his clipboard.

She walked out along the northern fence line, taking her time and paying attention to her footing. Bits of metal, wire, plastic, and rotten wood littered the ground, churned and mixed with the red soil by the constant working of the dozer and dump traffic, presenting a thousand ways to puncture a tire.

The appliance graveyard formed a white mountain, beside another mountain created by discarded tires, and Estelle headed for that. The village garbage truck pulled away from the pit, its fat tires churning up thick clouds of red dust.

Skirting the foot of the appliance mountain, she stopped to look at a stove that had either tumbled off like a loose rock after a rain, or had been set aside. The kitchen range was so new that the manufacturer’s stickers were still affixed to the enameled top, but the fancy stove was junk. Perhaps it had fallen from a truck, smashing its delicate glass face and circuit boards against the pavement.

The tire mountain was several times larger than the one at the county maintenance yard, the bulk of the collection from passenger cars and light trucks.

Estelle skirted the pile and stopped beside the dozer. Sitting in the hot sun, the mammoth machine exuded its own body odor of diesel and grease. The two great frost hooks were poised like stingers from the bulldozer’s rear end. A toolbox rested crosswise on the polished, raw steel of several track cleats, a selection of wrenches scattered around it.

The hose that had blown was small, no larger in diameter than a finger. The rich fluid, jetting out under pressure, had soaked a fan-shaped stain on the dozer’s yellow flank. She started to walk around the front of the machine, missed her footing, and managed to catch herself by slamming a hand against the top edge of the blade.

“Careful there,” a voice behind her called out. She turned, brushing off her hands, and saw Don Fulkerson walking toward her. He carried a length of black hose, the fittings on the end clean, bright brass. “You gotta watch where you’re putting your feet around this place,” he said, and winked.

“I got to looking at other things,” Estelle said. She extended a hand in greeting, and Fulkerson tossed the new hose into the toolbox, then shook hands. His grip was firm, his hands rough and work hardened. He had cultivated an impressive spade-shaped beard, just starting to turn white around the edges. Estelle could picture him leaning back on his rushing motorcycle, the wind cushioning his beard upward like a platter.

“You thinking of taking up diesel mechanics?” Fulkerson said, and winked again. He pulled at one of the wide suspenders that held up his Carhartts.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Bart said it blew a hose?”

“That’s what she did. No big deal, though. We’ll have her goin’ here in about ten minutes.” He patted the track affectionately.

Estelle stepped away from the dozer and watched an elderly man unload his Volvo station wagon, sailing one item at a time onto the pile. “I don’t think most people understand what a big operation this is,” she said.

Fulkerson leaned comfortably against the dozer’s left track, crossed his boots, and fished out first a pack of cigarettes, and then a bag of tobacco and sheaf of papers. He slipped the ready-mades back into his pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette. “Keeps us busy,” he said. “You want some coffee?” He nodded at the thermos, nestled in a jacket stuffed in a bed of hydraulic plumbing under the dozer’s seat.

“No thanks.”

“What’s with Zeigler?” Fulkerson asked. “I assume that’s who you’re looking for. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cop cars roamin’ around the county.”

“I don’t know what’s with him,” Estelle said. “I wish we did.”

“You think someone dumped him up here?” The crow’s-feet around his sparkling blue eyes crinkled, and he winked-an expression that appeared now to be more of a tic than amused conspiracy.

“We’re checking every place we can think of,” Estelle said pleasantly. “You wouldn’t believe some of the nooks and corners of this county that we’ve found in the past day or so.”

“You know what I think?” He lit the cigarette with a strike match, popped expertly with a thumbnail. “I think he’s in Mexico.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“What makes you think that, sir?”

“Well, you think of the opportunity,” he said, his round, ruddy face settling into an expression of satisfaction, pleased that he should know the answers. “You think of all the money that guy handles in the course of his job.” He inhaled deeply. “That’s a heck of a temptation, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it could be.”

“Damn right.” Fulkerson arose, stretched up, and brought down the thermos. He unscrewed the cup and cap and poured. “You sure?”

“No thanks, sir. I’m not much of a coffee drinker.” A light aroma other than coffee, creamer, and sugar drifted out to Estelle’s nostrils.

Fulkerson spun the thermos cap back on, tossed the container back into its bed, and settled back against the dozer. “So that’s what I figure. Cut and run.” He took a thoughtful sip. “Mexico’s just only over the hill, right? I guess you know all about that.”

“Somehow I can’t picture Kevin Zeigler down in old Mexico,” Estelle said.

Fulkerson shrugged. “You never know what someone like that is going to do.”

“I suppose not.”

“’Course, nobody asks me.” He sipped the coffee, looked appreciative, and winked at Estelle again. “I keep tellin’ the president, there, you know, ‘Before you go doing something stupid, you just ask old Don, here.’ He never does.”

Estelle touched the toe of her shoe to the bulldozer’s track. “Tell me, then. What do you think happened?”

Fulkerson relaxed back and took a longer pull of the coffee, exhaling smoke at the same time through his nose. “Well, you know…it’s hard to say. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he just up and skipped. Like I say, there’s lots of opportunity.”

“But there aren’t bags of loose currency just lying around the county building, sir. Everything is done with purchase orders and checks.”

He looked at Estelle with sympathy at her lack of understanding. “There’s always ways, little lady. There’s always ways.”

“Did you happen to see him in the past couple of days?”

“Sure.” Fulkerson ground out the cigarette against a steel track cleat. “He come up here Tuesday early. And after that, we were all at the county meeting, wasting the rest of the day.”

“Do you remember what time he was here that morning?”

“Just after I got here. It’d be about seven-ten or so.”

“But you’re closed on Tuesdays. Did he drive up here for any particular reason?”

“Well, Tuesday was the commission meeting. I was up here getting some paperwork ready. Miss Ziggy had requested some facts and figures, and I guess he thought I might forget to bring ’em along. So he stopped by.”

“Miss Ziggy?”

Fulkerson’s face lost some of its Santa Claus innocence, and he let his smirk explain the nickname.

“And then he left with the paperwork, and that was it?”

“Yup.”

“Huh,” Estelle said, and shook her head. “You didn’t see him at any other time after that, other than at the meeting?”

“Just at the county meeting. You were there.” He winked.

“Did the two of you meet back here over the noon hour?”

Fulkerson frowned, his face wrinkling as if to say, “What, are you nuts?” “If he showed up here, he had the place to himself,” he said. “I had better things to do.”

“I noticed that the commissioners dumped the agenda item about the landfill,” Estelle said. “That was Mr. Zeigler’s brainchild, wasn’t it?”

“You can say that again,” Fulkerson said fervently. “What a goddamn waste of money that little boondoggle would have been.”

“So you don’t agree with him, then.”

“Sheeeit,” Fulkerson said with considerable disgust. “That’s the last thing a little county like this one needs is some outsider company running the landfill. Ziggy’s a fan of consolidation, ” he said, emphasizing the word as if it were a whiff of sulfur dioxide. “Stream line everything. Like the village giving up its police department. Now he’s got his hands on that. You just watch, young lady.” He winked knowingly. “You be careful of that one.”

Estelle watched an old, battered dump truck wheeze across the soft earth toward the growing pile.

“Why don’t they just back up to the pit and dump it in?” she asked, and Fulkerson turned to follow her gaze.

He laughed. “You give a jackass a chance to do something stupid, and he will, young lady. If we let ’em back up to the pit, sure as hell someone’s going to go too far.” He shrugged at the inevitability of it all. “It’s just easier to doze the pile into the pit at the end of the day than have to chain someone’s ass out of there.”

“Ah-I didn’t think about that.”

“We keep a watch on ’em, just the same. You tell ten folks where to go and where to dump, and nine of ’em will do like you say.”

“And then there’s number ten,” Estelle said.

“You got that exactly right.” He winked.

“I’d better let you get back to work,” Estelle said. She handed Fulkerson one of her cards. “Just in case.”

“Best of luck to you,” he said. “You need anything else, you know where we are.”

Instead of returning to her car, Estelle walked the fifty yards to the north edge of the pit, taking her time across the deep ruts chewed by the dozer. She reached the edge and looked down. Ravens working the pile ignored her, talking to each other about their discoveries, occasionally flapping up and out to perch on the boundary fence or soar off toward the mesa.

The landfill was no place for a retired bulldozer with no muscle, she reflected. The pit appeared to be about a hundred feet wide and perhaps three or four hundred feet long. The dozer had bladed at least twenty feet deep, right down to bedrock. Dirt from the original excavation had been pushed up and out the opposite end into a respectable mountain that, when the trench was full of refuse, would be bladed back as fill and cover.

At the moment, the pit had swallowed a tiny fraction of its capacity. Maybe it would be months before Fulkerson had to gouge another trench parallel to this one. She knew that the county owned nearly a thousand acres, enough to bury trash for a long, long time.

Estelle thrust her hands in her pockets, paying attention to the edge of the pit. Far in the bottom where it had bounced clear was a baby carriage. From a distance, there appeared to be little wrong with it. Estelle wondered if it would appear on Fulkerson’s table at the Las Cruces flea market.

The aroma from the pile was moderate, but as the sun baked and fried, and by the time the dozer pushed a blanket of soil over the week’s offerings, the effluvia would pack a punch.

The sides of the trench were neatly cut and perfectly vertical. In two places, Estelle saw telltale gouges where someone-the one out of ten-had backed too close, crumbling the edge. Most of the refuse was bagged household trash, but Estelle could see where a few customers had managed to ignore directions. A handful of tires were mixed in with the rest, instead of making it to the recycling pile. An old refrigerator, facedown in the dirt, had been pitched in before either Bart or Don could direct it toward the appliance mountain. Twenty feet from the growing pile, a huge tree stump had crashed into the pit and rolled to a stop.

The driver of a fancy dually pickup truck paused after slamming the tailgate shut, and watched Estelle as she walked along the border of the pit toward the dump station.

“You lose something?” he called. A young man, he appeared dressed for a game of golf.

“No, thanks. Just checking for bodies.” She smiled at the man, and he started to reply when he noticed the sheriff’s badge on her belt. He looked uncertain, glancing back down into the pit.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, as if he’d caught the joke.

“You have a nice day,” Estelle said. By the time she’d reached her car, two more vehicles had entered, and the constant clouds of red dust settled in her hair and on her clothes.

“Find what you need?” Bart Kurtz asked.

“Thanks a lot,” she replied, then stopped suddenly in afterthought. “When do you guys cover the trash? You don’t wait until the trench is full, do you?”

“Every Sunday night, Sheriff.”

“Just kind of a thin layer, then?”

“Enough to keep things from blowin’,” Kurtz said. “Maybe six inches or a foot. Pack ’er down, cover it up.”

“And every Sunday you do that?”

“Yup. Sunday after we close. Lots of folks come out on weekends, you know. Come Sunday afternoon, we push the day’s drop-off pile into the trench, then we cover it all up.”

“Pretty simple. But you push the drop-off pile into the pit every day?”

“Sure enough we do. Otherwise it’d blow all over hell and gone.”

“I would think so.”

“Yeah, it don’t take no rocket scientist.” He looked off toward where Don Fulkerson still worked on his thermos of coffee and the bulldozer.

“Thanks again,” Estelle said. Back in her car, she sat for a moment, looking out the side window at Fulkerson’s pickup truck, an ’80s-vintage four-wheel-drive Chevy C20. A black headache rack, the kind favored by plumbers who need to haul lengths of pipe, reached out over the cab. Fulkerson had parked between a trio of fifty-five-gallon drums labeled WASTE OIL PRODUCTS and a trailer loaded with what appeared to be used concrete blocks and paving bricks.

She turned the county car’s ignition key. In the distance she heard the staccato bellow as the landfill’s bulldozer surged into life, almost as if the one key had connected both machines.