Hidden Heritage by Charlotte Hinger Page B

you?”
    â€œI wondered if I could have a copy of your duty schedule going back six weeks.”
    â€œSure.” He pressed the intercom and yelled at the office manager and told him what he wanted. We discussed the cattle market while we waited for him to bring the information.
    Minutes later, Bart Hummel came in with a printout. Bart wore the pearl-buttoned western shirts and jeans that seemed to be the unwritten dress code for bull haulers and feedyard cowboys. Rumor had it that he was one of the best paid men in town, which could have been true, but it wasn’t saying much because the town’s wage scale was a disgrace. For that matter, his title of “office manager” was an understatement. He was Dwayne’s go-to person and jack-of-all-trades. Tall, thin, he was as pale as a prisoner with the sleek rounded head of an eel.
    The thing that impressed me the most about Bart was that his hands didn’t shake.
    On the few occasions when I had been around dispatchers for trucking companies, it was evident they were all a couple of days away from a nervous breakdown. Even police dispatchers earned the public’s gratitude after a 911 call that ended well. But trucking dispatchers had to put up with irate customers, drivers, drivers’ wives, mad farmers, and cattle buyers. Some of this I’d learned from observation and the rest I’d put together from Keith’s comments when he was called to feedyards.
    Wives were mad when husbands were late getting home from trips. Farmers and cattle buyers went ballistic if cattle were delayed from reaching the packing plant. Every hour caused shrinkage and affected profit. Some cattle went to kosher packing plants and were slaughtered in accordance with ancient rituals that affected the availability of empty pens for unloading. Lease drivers kept a skeptical eye on employed drivers to make sure they were getting their fair share of loads. Wives were mad if their paychecks were short because their husbands had drawn too many advances. Ex-wives were mad if the men hadn’t written advances. To them. And they all took it out on the dispatcher.
    Sam, Keith, and I had made a number of trips to this feedyard to serve garnishment papers on drivers’ wages to collect alimony.
    But when I did, Bart always simply said, “Good morning, Lottie,” glanced at the papers, signed the receipt form, got up, went to the right driver’s cubby hole, tucked the garnishment in, and went back to his work. Knowing he would see it through to the end, I usually just tipped the brim of my hat and left.
    This poker-faced nerveless man was the hub of this feedyard. Dwayne employed two full-time dispatchers and two bookkeepers and then they could hardly keep up. Second in command, after Dwayne, Bart controlled the whole operation.
    I made a mental note to suggest to Agent Dimon that he call in the A team if they questioned Bart. I suspected he could pass any lie detector test because he would anticipate every question in advance and then work out answers that were plenty truthful enough. With just enough information to make law enforcement people go away so he could go back to work.
    Silently, Bart handed me the monthly calendar for people working at the feedyard, wheeled around, and walked off to his office, which had a huge window facing the cattle pens. He thrummed his pencil on his desk, glanced at a piece of paper and start entering data. He hadn’t allowed himself more than five minutes away from his desk.
    â€œThanks, Dwayne. Time for me to get on home.” I rose, turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “I guess you know you haven’t seen the end of this. We’ll be back to question the employees and so will agents for the KBI.”
    â€œOh, Jesus. Why the KBI?”
    â€œBecause we had to call them in. That’s our prerogative and our county doesn’t have great investigative resources.
    â€œChrist, this is all I