If you don't shoot that monster by midnight, Arthur, I'll clear out your pension and fire you on the spot, my boss, Richard Callahan, barked across the estate desk.
The veterinary records were a crucial piece, a solid alibi for Barnaby. But Richard’s lie was bigger than just blaming an animal. He’d fabricated the entire event to claim $4.5 million. And Caleb Myers, his enforcer, was involved.
My next stop was an old contact. A retired clinic clerk, Agnes, who used to work at the county hospital emergency room. She still kept her ear to the ground for local gossip, especially about the Callahan family. She might remember something.
I found Agnes at the local diner, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee. She looked tired, but her eyes brightened when she saw me.
“Arthur! Haven’t seen you since Martha’s husband passed,” she said, her voice raspy.
We exchanged pleasantries, and then I got to the point. “Agnes, I’m looking for something very specific. Three nights ago. Around 3 AM. Were there any unusual ER admissions from the Callahan Estate?”
Her brow furrowed in thought. She tapped her chin. “Hmm. Three nights ago… that was the night of that big storm, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Oh! I remember now,” she suddenly brightened. “Not exactly from the estate itself, but a Callahan employee. One of their security boys. Big fella, always looked like he was spoiling for a fight. Myers, I think his name was.”
My heart leaped. “Caleb Myers?”
“That’s the one!” she nodded vigorously. “Came in with some nasty burns. Complaining about ‘blue stuff’ all over his arms. Said it was hydraulic fluid. Poor nurse had a time cleaning it out.”
“Hydraulic fluid burns?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. “What time was he admitted?”
Agnes leaned in conspiratorially. “Let me see… I remember it was late. Very late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. About 3:15 AM, I believe. Yes, Intake Log 402. Nasty business, those chemical burns.”
I felt a chill run down my spine, despite the warm diner air. 3:15 AM. Three nights ago. The exact time the harvester was supposedly attacked by a “vicious beast.”
Caleb Myers. Hydraulic fluid burns. These were injuries identical to what occurs when cutting active tractor lines under pressure.
“Thank you, Agnes,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea how much this helps.”
I left the diner, the ER intake details burning in my mind. The veterinary records proved Barnaby’s innocence. The hospital records proved Caleb’s direct involvement in the sabotage.
Richard hadn’t just faked an animal attack. He’d hired an enforcer to damage his own machinery, creating injuries consistent with the crime, all while an innocent animal was sedated miles away. The layers of deceit were unraveling, one by one.
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