Campbell Farm and the Migrant Murders

Campbell Farm was the biggest peach shipping industry in the South. The days of summer were filled with machines humming, and baskets swinging with peaches and vegetables. The packing plant in June was hot and stuffy, but the shipments at Campbell Farm had to go out.

At twelve o’clock, the machines hummed to a halt, and the packers grabbed their lunches. Cody could hardly wait to sink his teeth into a piece of Mrs. Diaz’s fried chicken. She had been a life saver for a bachelor without parents. Her husband, Lewis, worked as a truck driver, and her son, Pedro, worked in the field and the plant.

Cody had to go to town for supplies and Pedro rushed through dinner to get back to the plant. Before he got to the loading ramp, a loud blast stalled his feet. He turned to see the man dart around the truck and run toward the fence surrounding the warehouses.

Pedro ran to the loading ramp and saw his daddy lying on the ground next to his truck. He knelt next to his daddy’s side and cried “Who shot you, Papa? Talk to me.” As he held tightly to his Papa’s hand, he cried and said repeatedly, “Papa, please do not die.”

Cody pulled up to the ramp and saw Pedro hovering over his daddy’s body. “Oh my God help us!” Cody said as he knelt next to Pedro. Mr. Diaz’s head was lying in a puddle of blood that streamed from his temple and dripped from his ear lobes. Grabbing his hand, he tried to shake words from him. “Who shot you, Mr. Diaz?” Mr. Diaz did not murmur a sound. His hands felt like a rough pineapple, and his limp, cold, stillness made Cody cringe with fear. Cody pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to Mr. Diaz’s wound. Mr. Diaz’s dark hair fell around his rough bloody face. The blood had run down his neck and soaked his collar.

Minutes later, an ambulance screamed to a halt before the ramp, and Cody pulled Pedro to a stand. They moved back as the paramedics checked Mr. Diaz’s vital signs before they lifted him onto the stretcher and shoved him into the ambulance.

Pedro answered the cops’ questions with a shaky voice. “The man asked my daddy what had happened to his shipment, and he said my daddy owed him $10,000.00.”

Cody interrupted the questioning, “Those shipments of fruit belong to me."

The Criminal Investigation Department checked the warehouses and packing plants all that evening and the next day. They seemed to think the shipment the killer wanted was still in the warehouse.

Mrs. Diaz nervously moved around the stove and talked as she turned the frying chicken.“The man who killed my Lewis lives right here in Sunny Dale, and he knew my Lewis well. Others must know who the killer is, but they will not talk for fear of their lives. The law will never know who killed my Lewis.