The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  “Do you think he might know something?” I asked her.

  “I think he will tell you if he does. He’s a sweet, honest boy, who has a hard life. I feel sorry for him and his mama,” she said. Ronnie’s daddy is no account. He won’t work, he drinks, and I know he beats them. I’ve seen bruises on both of them. I don’t think they get enough to eat, either. Ronnie and his mama are both skinny as rails. Ronnie’s been over here at dinner time, and I try to get him to eat with us. Once in a while he will, but most of the time he just says thank you, ma’am, and says his Mama’s probably got supper ready and he leaves. But the few times he has stayed for dinner he eats like a starved puppy. He wolfs his food down hardly even chewing.”

  I looked over at Natasha. The story of Ronnie Dill got to her, and she wore a sympathetic look. She’d probably never known a kid like that in her whole life.

  “I take food over to them sometimes,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I’ll cook for four and take the two extra plates over to Ronnie and his mama. But, I won’t do it if Mr. Dill is there. I learned my lesson on that. I thought he was gone one time because his old truck wasn’t out front, but I found him sitting at the kitchen table, an almost empty whiskey bottle in front of him. He was drunk. His truck was out back where he was doing some work on it, and I hadn’t seen it.

  “When he saw what I brought, he got up and grabbed the plates and threw the food into the back yard. He said he wasn’t taking charity from a gosh-darned nigger, but he didn’t say gosh darned. I came home as fast as I could and didn’t even collect my plates.”

  Ronnie and his family were white, I realized.

  “Ronnie brought them to me the next day and apologized for his daddy. He tried to make excuses for him, saying he was just upset his truck broke down, and didn’t have the money to fix it. I noticed Ronnie had a fresh bruise on his cheek, and I asked him about it. He said he stepped on a hoe and the handle flew up and hit him. That boy just breaks my heart.”

  “How do they live, if Mr. Dill doesn’t work?” Natasha asked.

  I found that question weird coming from a woman who’d never worked a day in her life, but I couldn’t think of an appropriate simile for it.

  “Mrs. Dill does part-time house cleaning when somebody’s maid is sick,” Mrs. Johnson said. “And she takes in laundry and ironing, but people don’t hardly need that anymore. She also works picking peaches in season. They get food stamps, but Jamal said Mr. Dill takes them and trades them for beer somewhere. He’s just an awful man, but Mrs. Dill is so beaten down she won’t leave him.”

  I happened to look over at Alvin. Natasha wasn’t the only one showing a reaction to the story of the Dills, but he didn’t look sad. He looked angry. There was a fire coming from his eyes that was unnerving to see. He looked like he was about to go find Mr. Dill and beat him to a pulp. The strange thing was, I found myself liking him for it. He had a sense of righting wrongs in him that even Grandfather would have liked.

  “Mr. Dill works when he needs to buy liquor and keep that old truck of his running,” Millie Johnson went on. “I understand he’s a fair shade-tree mechanic when he will work at it. He rebuilt an old motorbike he got somewhere and gave it to Ronnie last Christmas. I heard Ronnie tell Jamal it was the only Christmas present his daddy ever gave him. I don’t know if the Christmas spirit got to the man, or he just drank too much over the holidays last year.”

  Mrs. Johnson turned around and looked at me.

  “Oh, J.D., here I am going on and on about something you didn’t come here to learn. I’m sorry, my nerves are just shot, worrying about my boy. I wouldn’t be surprised if you just got up and left, to get away from this woman who runs her mouth so.”

  I stood up and put my arms around her. “Mrs. Johnson, with what you’re going through on top of what you’ve been through, most people would be out of their minds by now. I can’t promise I can find Jamal, but I’m going to do everything I can.”

  I kissed her on the top of her head and turned around to see Alvin watching me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but the fire was gone from his eyes.

  “You said this Ronnie Dill lives next door?” I asked Mrs. Johnson.

  “Well, it’s the country kind of next door,” she answered. “It’s a quarter-mile down the road, but the Dills are our nearest neighbors in that direction.”

  I smiled at that. “I grew up in the country, too, so I’m familiar with measuring rural distances. That’s probably where the term ‘country mile’ originates. Is there anyone else you think we need to talk to?”

  “Monique Watkins,” she said. “They go to school together, and she lives in Landrum and works at the Pack n’ Sack at the edge of town. I’ve seen her there in the afternoons. Like I said, the police talked to her and said she didn’t have anything of use to tell them, but you know kids. They don’t always tell older people or authorities everything they know.”

  I wrote down Monique Watkins’s name and the words ‘Pack n’ Sack,’ along with Ronnie Dill’s name, in my smartphone notebook. I included Willie Tee Harmon’s name just in case I decided to try to talk to him. For Willie’s sake, I’d make sure “Big Hurt” wasn’t with me.

  “Can I get the address of the dinner party from you?” I asked Natasha.

  She spent a moment on her smartphone looking up the exact street number and sent it to my cell phone. The first chance I got I wanted to check Google maps to try to determine the most likely route Jamal would take if he were walking home from there. It was a super long-shot I’d find anything related to Jamal, but I wanted to drive it and look it over, anyway.

  I turned back to Mrs. Johnson. “So what came first? You telling the police Jamal was missing, or this man Wilson Kroll accusing Jamal of shooting his horse?”

  “I called the police late Sunday after I got back from my sister’s in Charlotte,” she said. “An officer came out, and he was polite, but I could see that a black teenager gone missing just for a day wasn’t a priority for him. Monday, that policeman came back with another one and told me about Mr. Kroll’s horse getting shot and Mr. Kroll accusing Jamal of it. He’d told them Jamal had held a grudge against him for firing him, and threatened to get even. They asked if they could look around and I let them. I didn’t think there was anything to hide. I just wanted them to find my boy. Then they found the rifle in the shed. I told them it wasn’t his, but they didn’t believe me. They tried to get me to say Jamal run off to keep from getting caught, and there wasn’t anything I could say to change their minds. I finally asked them to leave. I was upset, and worried sick.”

  “This was Greenville County Sheriff’s deputies who came out?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “One the first time, two the second.”

  “Did you get their names?”

  “The first one left a card. I don’t remember the name of the one who came with him the second time. He didn’t leave a card.”

  She got the card and gave it to me. It was the Deputy Waldrop I’d talked to earlier. I said I had his number and left the card with her.

  “So, Jamal worked for Mr. Kroll as a stable hand, and Kroll let him go?” I asked her.

  “Yes, but Jamal didn’t threaten Mr. Kroll like Mr. Kroll said. That man is lying. Jamal said Mr. Kroll told him he was letting him go because he’s got several full-time stable hands, and just didn’t need Jamal anymore. Jamal wasn’t happy about it, but he understood. He wasn’t mad at Mr. Kroll, and never said anything about getting into an argument with him, or being fired for doing a bad job. In fact, he came home thinking if a part-time job ever came open again, Mr. Kroll would consider him for it. He said Mr. Kroll even told him that. So, somebody is lying, and I know in my heart it wasn’t Jamal.”

  She began to cry again, and reached over and placed her hands on my wrists, her grip surprisingly strong. “Find my boy for me, J.D.,” she said, her eyes pleading with me as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ve got to know what happened to him, even if it’s something bad.”


  I wish I could have promised her that, but I wasn’t going to lie to this woman. “I’ll try my best,” is all I said.

  Natasha and I said our goodbyes to Mrs. Johnson, and she followed us to the door. I noticed Alvin was right behind her.

  “I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Johnson,” I said. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

  She managed a weak smile and nodded.

  Alvin followed us out on the porch, grabbed my sleeve and held me back as Natasha walked on to her car.

  He leaned in and spoke into my ear in a quiet voice. “Look, Bragg, I know you don’t want my help, but I made a promise to Taylor just like you did, and I’m going to keep it just like you will. I’ve seen that in you already. So, you can show some common sense, and let me help you, or you can be a dumb-ass and try to go it alone. But you know as well as I do we ain’t looking for no missing person anymore. We’re looking for Jamal’s body, and the mother-fucker that killed him. I don’t care how capable you think you are, I got a particular skill set you ain’t got, but one you might need.”

  He took his arm off me and smiled. He still looked scary.

  “You think about it,” he said, “I'll be waiting for you to call.”

  He turned and went back into the house without looking back.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What was that all about?” Natasha asked when I joined her in her car.

  “Big Hurt and I were just getting better acquainted,” I said.

  “Big Hurt?” she said, her eyebrows crawling up her pretty forehead.

  “That’s his nickname. Alvin ‘Big Hurt’ Brown. Taylor Johnson told me about him.”

  “I keep forgetting you’re Taylor’s friend. What was Mr. Brown saying to you?”

  “I guess he’s signed on to help find Jamal, whether I like it or not. He promised Taylor he’d help, and he’s going to try, with or without my say so.”

  “He’s a tough looking man,” she said.

  “It’s more than just a look. He’s an ex-Chicago gang banger who teaches martial arts. He could probably kill us both with his index finger.”

  “So, what are you going to do about him?”

  “Find something for him to do,” I said. “There’s an old saying that goes, ‘it’s better to have him inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in.’”

  “Who’s old saying is that?” she asked.

  “Another Johnson. Lyndon B.”

  “Why don't we get Alvin to grab Wilson Kroll and beat the truth out of him?” From the intensity in her voice, she didn’t sound like she was kidding.

  She turned the car around, and we sat at the end of the driveway, looking out at Belue Mill Road.

  “Where to now, boyfriend?” Natasha asked.

  “Let’s go talk to the neighbor kid. Ronnie Dill.”

  “Which way?” she asked. “I heard Millie say the Dill house was a quarter of a mile away, but I didn’t hear her say in which direction.”

  “Take a right,” I said.

  “How do you know? I didn’t hear that.”

  “You aren’t from the south,” I said. “She said it was down the road. “To a southerner, unless it’s actually up a hill, which it isn’t because the road is pretty level along here, down means south.”

  “Jesus,” she said, “I’ve been here since I was a girl and I still need a special dictionary to understand you people.”

  As we headed down to see Ronnie Dill, I said, “You realize the best news might be that Jamal did shoot the horse and took off? And he’s too ashamed to tell his mama?”

  She gave me an inquisitive look.

  “You mean if Jamal isn’t on the run, then the reason for his disappearance is that something has happened to him?

  “That's what his mother believes, and I suspect it’s true. But, there’s still a chance that the boy knew he was being set up for it and got the hell out of Dodge. I can’t think of a reason why he wouldn’t get in touch with his mom, but maybe there is one.”

  “I like that explanation better,’ she said.

  “But he would have had to hear about it somewhere. Were people talking about the horse shooting at the dinner party? It just happened the night before.”

  “If anyone was, I didn’t hear them,” she said. “Something like that would have spread across the dinner party like a brush fire.”

  “When did you find out?

  “Monday, I think. But we’re having lunch tomorrow with a couple of people who were at the dinner party, too. Maybe they heard something.”

  We came to a rusty mailbox with a faded “Dill” painted on it, which put a stop to our conversation regarding Kroll’s horse shooting. Ronnie Dill’s house was similar to Mrs. Johnson’s in size, but shabby around the edges with peeling paint and a weedy, overgrown yard. Natasha drove in and parked.

  Out back, a shirtless teenager was speedily navigating a half acre’s worth of homemade dirt track through sharp turns and over big mounds in a rusted yellow, loud dirt-bike. He wore goggles, but no helmet. His long blond stringy hair flew straight out behind him like speed marks on a comic book character.

  He saw us coming around the corner of the house, left the track at full speed and raced over, skidding to a stop, two feet in front of us. With his legs spread on the ground to keep his balance, he took off the mud splattered goggles, hung them on his handlebars, and gave us a suspicious look. Ronnie Dill was reed thin, his ribs prominent to the point that I could count every one of them.

  “My daddy ain’t here,” he said. “You’ll have to come back later.”

  “Cut the bike off, Bud,” I said. “I want to talk to you a minute.”

  “You the law?” he asked, begrudgingly turning the ignition off.

  It was suddenly peaceful and quiet, a welcome change from the loud sputtering of the bike. “That thing can’t be street legal as loud as it is,” I said.

  “I don’t ride it on the road. It ain’t even got lights. You the highway patrol?”

  He was trying to act tough but wasn’t quite pulling it off. I was getting off on the wrong foot with this kid, and it wasn’t what I wanted to do. I needed his cooperation.

  “I’m not a cop. We’re just trying to help find Jamal.”

  “Jamal?” he said. “Then who are you?”

  “I’m John David Bragg, but you can call me J.D. This is Natasha Ladd. We’re friends of Millie Johnson, and I’m a friend of Jamal’s brother, Taylor. Mrs. Johnson told us you were Jamal’s best friend. She knows we’re here. We’d like to ask you some questions about him.”

  The kid’s whole demeanor changed, and he dropped the thug act.

  “All I know is he didn’t kill that horse, and he didn’t have no rifle. If anybody knew he had a gun, it would be me.”

  I had a disappointing feeling this kid didn’t know anything about Jamal’s disappearance. If he did, I believed he would have already told someone. But I had to ask.

  “Was Jamal worried about anything, or afraid of someone before he disappeared?”

  “Not that I know of. He was just being Jamal. He didn’t seem scared or worried, or anything like that.”

  “He never said anything that made you think something was up?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, nothing. He didn’t say a word about taking off like that, either.”

  “Or anything about Wilson Kroll or his horse?”

  He was still shaking his head. ‘No,” he said again. “I mean, he told me about losing his job, but he didn’t seem upset about it.”

  “When did you see him last?” Natasha asked.

  “The Friday before he went missing, on the bus coming home from school. He was clowning around like he always does and was cracking everybody up. He’s the funniest guy I know,” he added and smiled at the thought.

  From the genuineness in the boy’s face I could see just how much he liked Jamal. These guys were best friends, and Ronnie Dill couldn’t hide it.

  “Jamal told me his mama wa
s going to visit her sister in Charlotte and he’d have the house to himself all weekend,” Ronnie went on. “I asked him if he wanted to do something Saturday. He said maybe Sunday; he had a job at somebody’s stable on Saturday morning, then he was waiting tables somewhere on Saturday night. Since he’d lost the job at Mr. Kroll’s stable, he was picking up any work he could find. I asked him if they needed anybody else at either job, but he said no.”

  I couldn’t think of any other questions to ask him. “Well if you think of something, Ronnie, will you call and tell me?”

  He said yes, and took my card.

  “You a sports writer from Atlanta?” he asked, staring at my card. “You know Julio Jones?”

  “I’ve spoken to him,” I said, and turned to go.

  “Cool.” He smiled for the first time, then just as quickly went somber again.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said.

  I stopped and gave him my full attention. Something in his voice deserved it.

  “You think Jamal is coming back?” he said as if he didn’t really want to hear the answer.

  This was not a kid that deserved a lie. He was searching for the truth, not some false hope or a stranger’s consoling bullshit.

  Ronnie Dill suddenly became the kid Mrs. Johnson told us about; a young man trapped in a hardscrabble life where there was little hope of escape or a future that was any better than the past. Looking at his thin face and sad eyes, I realized Jamal Johnson was not only his friend; he was probably the only bright spot in the boy’s cheerless life.

  “No,” I finally said. “I don’t. But I hope I’m wrong.”

  He nodded his head slowly, his eyes locked on an inner thought. Good news would be an unaccustomed experience for this kid, and he had resigned himself to it. He already knew Jamal wasn’t coming back.

  He started the bike, put on the goggles, and roared off back to his track. I watched him as he rode with a reckless abandon that gave the impression he didn’t care if he lived or died. I turned and saw Natasha watching him, too. She seemed to have the same thoughts.