Wiped his forehead.
“We started pressure tracing this morning.”
He pointed south.
“County supply enters at forty-eight to fifty-two PSI.”
Then north.
“Drops normally through the first two junctions.”
He pointed toward the trench.
“Then rises thirteen pounds between stations seven and eight.”
Harold spoke.
“So?”
Perez looked at him.
“That means water is entering the system.”
“From where?”
Perez stared.
“We followed it.”
He walked to the truck.
Gripped the muddy black pipe.
Dragged the cut section toward the group.
Then dropped it beside the main valve.
Heavy plastic struck dirt.
Nobody spoke.
Harold looked down.
“What is that?”
Perez removed a rag from his pocket.
“The bypass line.”
Harold’s eyes narrowed.
“Whose?”
Perez pointed toward the trench.
“Runs west under this road.”
“Then turns north.”
“Crosses approximately four hundred yards.”
He looked toward Harold’s land.
“Ends at a private reservoir.”
All eyes turned.
Beyond Harold’s cornfield, a windbreak partially concealed the Mercer reservoir.
Harold laughed once.
“That line has been there forever.”
Perez looked at him.
“Not forever.”
“Twenty years, maybe.”
“Less.”
Harold stepped forward.
“You don't know that.”
Perez crouched beside the pipe.
Wiped mud from the side.
Faded white markings appeared.
Manufacturer.
Diameter.
Pressure rating.
Then serial sequence.
The sheriff walked closer.
“What are we looking at?”
Perez stood.
“Pipe lot number.”
Harold said:
“So?”
Perez opened a folder.
“County found old installation invoices during record search.”
“Private contractors had to register any line crossing irrigation easements after 2009.”
Harold’s expression changed slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Emily did.
Perez turned the pipe.
“Serial prefix here identifies production lot.”
He pointed toward paperwork.
“Same lot listed on an installation invoice.”
Harold looked toward the other farmers.
Then back.
“That doesn't prove anything.”
Sheriff Reeves held out his hand.
Perez gave him the record.
The sheriff compared numbers.
First three digits.
Then next four.
Then full sequence.
He looked up.
“Exact match?”
Perez nodded.
Harold spoke quickly.
“Could be any section from that lot.”
Perez pulled another page.
“Contractor recorded individual roll numbers.”
Harold stopped.
The wind moved dry corn leaves behind him.
Emily could hear them scraping against one another.
The sheriff looked at the document.
Then toward Harold.
“Customer name.”
Harold did not move.
Walter asked:
“Whose?”
The sheriff looked again.
Then slowly lowered the page.
“Harold Mercer.”
Nobody spoke.