by David Achord
“Did you know about this so-called underground fight he went to back in February?”
“The one in Manchester, right?” he asked. I nodded. “Yeah, I’d heard about it, but I’ve never liked them.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“They aren’t sanctioned, which means no drug tests, refs that may or may not know what they’re doing and prone to taking a bribe, no medical personnel on hand, cheating, the list goes on. You get the idea. I told Jason all of this, but he wanted to go see it. I guess it’s the allure of something taboo that makes kids want to do it even more.”
I nodded thoughtfully and after a moment, I came to a decision. “What I’m about to say isn’t public knowledge and I’d like for you to keep it under your hat.”
His focus, which was already sharp, became even more so. “Of course.”
“The cause of his death was a crushed throat. It wasn’t a compression injury, like a choke hold, but blunt force trauma. And, Jason did not have any other injuries which would have been consistent with a fight. No skinned knuckles, nothing like that. What are your thoughts of how someone could do that to him?”
Sensei Sousa crossed his arms and one of his hands found his chin. He rubbed it thoughtfully before responding.
“Alright, it could have been a sucker punch, but Jason had good reflexes and he didn’t do any kind of drugs or alcohol. So, if it was a sucker punch, whoever did it had to be damn fast, and it had to be one hell of a punch. Or kick.”
“That’d have to be a mighty fast kick, wouldn’t it?” I asked.
Sensei Sousa gave a slight smile, looked around, and called out. “Shelly, come here a minute, would you?”
A teenage girl in pigtails and braces came bounding over and looked at Sensei Sousa expectantly.
“This is Shelly,” he said and led the three of us over to some striking dummies.
“Show these two your best spinning back kick,” he said and pointed to one of the dummies.
Shelly grinned, squared off, spun, and landed her heel squarely on the striking dummy’s chin. It struck with a loud thud and the dummy was knocked backward several feet. For a little girl, she was damn fast.
“Wow,” Anna said in amazement.
I agreed. Shelly grinned again and curtsied before skipping back to her workout buddies. Sensei Sousa had a smug grin of his own.
“She’s my niece,” he said and then gestured to the dummy. “In answer to your question, someone fast, like Shelly, could’ve surprised Jason and landed a strike like a spinning back kick and crushed his throat. If he was not suspecting it, that is. If Jason knew he was going to be attacked, he was good enough to prevent it from happening, unless his opponent was extremely skilled.”
I nodded. “Something tells me you have that level of skill.”
He acknowledged the compliment and pointed to the far side of the dojo where there was a wall adorned with fight pictures and awards. Even from where we were standing, I could see a lot of the pictures were of Sensei Sousa raising his arms in victory.
“Yeah, I was pretty good, back in the day, but that was before a motorcycle wreck busted up my legs. Now, I train other people and run a janitorial service to pay the bills.”
“What about Benny Newton or Charlie Thomas? Are they members here?” I asked.
“They are, or they were. Both of them are behind on their dues, and I know what you’re about to ask next. Neither one of them is skilled enough to take Jason in a fight. If one of them did it, it’d have to have been a lucky punch. A very lucky punch.” He shook his head. “Nope, I don’t see it happening, not with those two. Not even if they ganged up on him.”
“That girl is good,” Anna said after we’d left.
“Yes, she is,” I agreed.
“Did Mister Sousa help you any?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Jason’s manner of death is an important clue. I’m fairly certain it eliminates several people who might otherwise be considered suspects.”
“Like his two friends,” Anna surmised.
“Yeah, but I’m still stuck. I still don’t know if there are any eyewitnesses and there is virtually no physical evidence.” I emitted a long sigh. “Okay, let’s get on your case. Where to?”
“New Zion Baptist Church in Franklin. I’ve got the directions on my phone,” she said. “Oh, and can I drive?” she asked sweetly.
I grunted. She had encouraged me to take the Mustang this morning and now I knew why. I handed her the keys and got in the passenger side. She put it in gear and took off. Soon, we were in Williamson County and whatever navigator app she had led us to a smaller, but pleasant-looking church on Mack Hatcher Parkway.
Reverend Cornelius Hollinsworth greeted us at the front of the apse like he was greeting new members of his congregation. He was a bald, heavyset man in his sixties with an amiable smile and wearing a white suit with padding in the shoulders to offset his abundant waistline.
“Welcome to the New Zion Baptist Church,” he greeted.
We made our introductions, and much to my delight, he offered us fresh coffee.
“So, you’re researching your ancestry,” he said to Anna while making no attempt to be subtle at staring at her breasts. In all fairness to the good reverend, Anna was wearing a light blue V-neck shirt which was showing off her cleavage. It’s not like she was well endowed, but they were definitely perky and often received a lot of attention.
“Not mine personally,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ve been hired to research a client’s ancestors.”
“Ah, I see. Well then, let’s get started,” Reverend Hollinsworth said with a broad smile. He led the two of us to the back of the church, down a set of stairs, and into a basement that looked more like a small library than the basement of a country church. The walls were neatly lined with shelves of ledgers and old books, and the far wall contained several file cabinets.
“The first white settlers moved into Williamson County about 1798 or so. The white folks had slaves, of course, so the community had its share of African Americans. Eventually, the black folks were allowed to worship the Lord. This is the oldest surviving African-American church around these parts.” He waved a hand at all of the shelves.
“We have ledgers from other old churches that are now defunct. Baptismal records, family Bibles, you name it. So, where do we start, young lady?”
Anna retrieved an A4 pad out of her knapsack and turned to the appropriate page. “The Carmike family,” she said. “Herman Carmike is supposed to be one of the first settlers in Franklin in 1800. The family eventually created a plantation on Columbia Pike.”
Reverend Hollinsworth cupped his chin with a hand, deep in thought. He slowly moved his eyes from shelf to shelf before absently pointing.
“Could be, could be,” he mumbled as he walked to the shelf and began scanning the books. After a moment, he tapped a ledger. Pulling it out, he walked over to the conference table and sat. Opening the ledger, he thumbed through several pages, and then motioned for us to sit with him.
“This is a ledger written by Reverend Hezekiah Smith,” he stated. “He was the pastor of the Hebron Baptist Church for over fifty years, between 1812 until shortly after the war broke out. He was killed in 1862.”
“Killed?” Anna asked
“Murdered,” Reverend Hollinsworth said matter-of-factly. “I have a copy of the newspaper article around here somewhere. It speculates the reverend was killed because he was too friendly with the slave population and he was a Yankee sympathizer.”
“Was anybody ever arrested?” I asked.
Reverend Hollinsworth gave a thoughtful frown. “Not that I am aware of. Anyway, Reverend Smith kept good records, and as you can see, his penmanship is eloquent. People just don’t write that way anymore. He kept a yearly list of the members of his congregation, along with a record of all of the marriages and baptisms he performed.”
The sound of a ringing doorbell interrupted him. “That’s somebody upstairs,” he sa
id. “You folks help yourselves; I’ll be back down in a few.”
“I better get started,” Anna said. She sat at the table with lithesome ease, arranged her notepad, and started reading from the ledger. I browsed the shelves of books. I spotted a ledger dated 1862 and saw it was a collection of old newspaper clippings. Curious, I pulled it out and sat across from Anna.
There were a few articles about local events, events in Nashville, and the state of the war. The local events gave a little bit of an insight of the community of that era, which was interesting. I read for several minutes before one particular article caught my eye.
“Hey, I found the article Hollinsworth was talking about,” I said to Anna. She looked up.
“What, the one about that old preacher getting murdered?”
“Yep, Hezekiah Smith,” I replied and began reading.
The article was dated October 13th, 1862. It described how the reverend was found the evening of the 12th, behind the pulpit of his church with his head stove-in by an unknown blunt object. The newspaper’s journalist noted that although the reverend was colored, he was nevertheless beloved in the community. He speculated the murderer was an outsider, possibly an inebriated idler. It then went on to describe the reverend’s life. He was one of thirteen children, all of whom had died off of childhood diseases. He was the slave of Joseph Smith, who owned a plantation in North Carolina. Upon the death of Joseph, the widow Smith granted all of her slaves their freedom. Somehow, Hezekiah made it to Franklin, Tennessee and became a preacher.
“The man overcame a lot of adversity during his life,” I commented.
“Yes, he did, up until somebody bashed his head in,” Reverend Hollinsworth said. He had come back downstairs and had quietly taken a seat at the table. “But that’s okay, he was a good man and he’s with Jesus now.”
“Why do you think he was murdered?” I asked him.
“I’m glad you asked,” he replied and stood. He walked over to the far end of the room and retrieved a plain cardboard box off of a shelf and walked it back to the table. Sitting, he opened the top and gingerly pulled out an old, well-worn leather book.
“What do you have there?” I asked.
Reverend Hollinsworth smiled broadly. “This is one of my most treasured possessions. It is my great-great grandmother’s diary. Back when she was alive, the notion of an African-American woman being able to read, write, and work her numbers was unheard of. When she was a child, the mistress of the house where she was a slave took a liking to her and taught her. Later in life, she worked as a clerk for a businessman who was also her lover.” He patted the book tenderly.
“Now, I’m reluctant to open it up because the pages are very brittle, but I’ve read it almost as many times as I’ve read my Bible. As you might assume, the colored community of Franklin was quite close and they knew everything about each other, and, they knew about the goings on of the affluent whites in the community. She wrote a passage about Reverend Smith’s murder and said everyone knew he was killed because he married two white kids. And, even more important, the teenage white girl had a bastard child.”
Anna’s jaw dropped open. “You’re kidding.”
Reverend Hollinsworth continued smiling. “I kid you not. Apparently, the father of the child had gone off to war and came home to marry her. She wrote a couple of paragraphs about it.”
I cleared my throat. “Reverend, would it be possible to take some photographs of those paragraphs?”
It took some cajoling, but he finally agreed. Unfortunately, the reverend was right; the paper and fading ink caused the writing to become almost illegible.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said and hustled out to my car. Returning with my camera kit, I set up a tripod and then pulled out a couple of alternative light sources, along with the corresponding lens filters.
“What in the world are you doing?” Reverend Hollinsworth asked.
“With an old document like this, you have to manipulate the light source in order to bring out the writing. I’m going to start with infrared light and a contrasting color lens filter. That should do the trick, but if it doesn’t, I’ve got an ultraviolet light as well.”
“Interesting,” Reverend Hollinsworth said. “Will the lighting damage the paper?”
“Short-term exposure will not,” I said.
He watched attentively as I manipulated the f-stops and shutter speeds until I obtained some fairly clear photographs of the two pages in question. We took turns looking at my work on the camera’s view screen.
“Man, that’s good stuff,” the reverend said and then I could see a gleam in his eye. “Would you mind doing this with the entire book? I could probably pay you, if you don’t charge too much.”
I thought about it for a moment. It would be a kind gesture, and I’d have a copy of the diary, which was a nice piece of history.
“I believe I can. I’m already set up and dialed in to get good pictures. If you help Anna with her research, I think I can get the entire diary photographed in a couple of hours. And, I wouldn’t think of charging you.”
The reverend’s grin became a full-fledged beaming smile. “You’ve got a deal, Mister Ironcutter.”
After leaving the church, we ate lunch at an overpriced bistro near downtown Franklin before heading over to the Williamson County Archives, which was located in a government brick building on West Main Street, which coincidentally was also Route 31, but closer into downtown Franklin.
Anna and I walked to the front counter and waited while an elderly lady engaged in a telephone conversation with someone who was decidedly a relative. We could not help but overhear her talking about a food recipe and an upcoming birthday party. The conversation lasted five agonizingly long minutes before she finally hung up. She pointedly looked at some papers on her desk, and only after a long ten seconds she looked up and acknowledged our presence with undisguised irritation.
“Yes?”
“Good morning,” I said. “We are conducting some research and we’ll need to review records from 1840 until 1865.”
“All of them?” she asked with a frown.
“Great question, no. We’ll be researching deeds and tax records only for the property on the eastern side of Columbia Highway, specifically between Henpeck Lane and Snowbird Hollow Road.”
“They are not organized in that fashion,” she said with a huff.
“Well then, we’ll need to take a look at all of them. We’ll also need to research wills and marriage licenses for the same time period.”
She scowled at us over the top of her bifocals before turning her back on us and disappearing through a doorway. Anna looked at me.
“Where did she go? Did she leave?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. Let’s wait and find out.”
That’s what we did. Wait. Anna was antsy but I reminded her that a good PI had patience. She rolled her eyes. At the ten-minute mark, a lady walked in the door, said hello, and looked around in puzzlement.
“Is Ms. Welchance here?” she asked.
“She stepped out,” I said, assuming Ms. Welchance was the sourpuss who waited on us. “I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
The lady was confused, but as soon as I said it, Ms. Welchance walked back in carrying several old ledger books. They looked cumbersome and heavy, and she made a point of loudly dropping them onto the Formica counter. Dust exploded from them like they were spewing out pollen.
“These are not to leave this office, nor are you to tear out any pages. If you do that, I’ll have you arrested.”
“You won’t have to worry about that, ma’am,” I said.
She eyed me over her bifocals a moment and then continued. “When you’re finished with these, I’ll get the rest of the ledgers. If you need copies, they will be a dollar a page. Checks are not accepted.”
She did not wait for a response and turned her attention to the woman who had walked in. I shrugged at Anna and handed her one of the ledgers.
“L
et’s get started,” I said.
It took us the rest of the day. When we found something, one of us would snap a picture with our phone and then make notes. It was tedious, but we found a stopping point shortly before closing time.
“We’re all finished here,” I said.
She looked up from her word search puzzle, stood, and walked over.
“Thank you for your help,” I added.
She had not done much of anything, but it didn’t hurt to be nice. After all, one or both of us might need to do some more research here one day.
She looked over the ledgers, and then looked at our notepads, possibly searching for ripped out ledger pages.
“Don’t you need any copies?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, we took pictures of everything we need.”
I didn’t bother telling her there was an app that could convert a photograph into a portable document file. I doubt she would have understood. Instead, she silently grabbed a couple of the ledgers, and began walking them back to the file room, or wherever they were stored.
“Have a nice day,” I said as we walked out. Anna snickered.
Chapter 16
The afternoon sun was pleasant. I pointed to a decorative wrought iron picnic table.
“Let’s sit for a few and go over what we have,” I suggested. Anna was agreeable and led the way. She opened up her notepad and started.
“Alright. Penelope Carmike was born in Williamson County in March of 1849. It appears she lived on the family homestead on Columbia Highway all of her life. She had three siblings, all brothers. All of them died during the Civil War. Only one of them was married, but none of them had children that survived into adulthood.” She frowned. “Was that common back then?”
“I’m afraid so. Childhood diseases and other factors caused the mortality rate to be rather high back in those times,” I said.
Anna frowned in thought a moment before continuing. “So, Ms. Braxton’s family lineage comes directly from Penelope and Chester’s child,” she said.
I reached for her spiral notebook and turned a couple of pages. “So, the child’s name was Claire Carmike. She grew up in Williamson County, married, and had a passel of children.”
