by Ron Fisher
“It didn’t come back this way?”
“Naw, I guess it went on into Landrum. What was that colored boy doing out here at that time of night, anyway? He could of gotten himself shot.”
“Walking home,” I said.
I looked at the man a moment longer and we got back in the car, backed out of his driveway, and headed down the road. The dog bolted out from underneath the porch and saw us on our way.
Around the bend, the road was a desolate stretch. There were no houses along it, no traffic, and thick stands of trees bordered both sides. I parked along the shoulder and turned to Alvin. “It’s a long shot,” I said, “but let’s take a walk. Maybe we’ll find something.”
Alvin nodded and got out of the car. “I’ll take one side, you take the other,” he said and walked across the road.
I started down the right side, looking for anything: refuse, trampled grass, weeds, tire tracks on the shoulder, broken glass—whatever looked suspicious or out of place.
We went about fifty yards without talking, or seeing anything out of the ordinary, or noticing anything that suggested Jamal passed this way. I began to pick up a foul odor ahead as I walked, and it got stronger with every step.
I looked at Alvin across the road. “You smell that?” I asked.
He did. “What is it?” he said, wrinkling up his nose. “Roadkill?”
“If it is, then somebody’s hit an elephant,” I said. It was stronger and more repugnant than any dead animal I’d ever encountered. The odor was stifling and seemed to come from somewhere back in the trees to the right. I stepped across a shallow roadside ditch and walked into the woods through a thick undergrowth of weeds. Alvin walked across the road and followed me in.
A buzzard took flight from back in the bushes somewhere and startled us both. I took another step and stopped abruptly. Alvin almost walked up my back. He looked around me at the putrefying body that lay half-buried in a shallow ditch, ravaged by carrion birds and woodland animals. Just enough was left of the face and arms to see the black skin of a young man. We’d found Jamal Johnson.
I turned and looked at Alvin and watched his face go from shock to grief to the most intense anger I’ve ever seen. No words could have more clearly conveyed what he would do if he found the person who did this to Jamal.
I pulled out my phone and called nine-one-one.
CHAPTER FORTY
Alvin and I waited by the side of the road until the police came. It was two Spartanburg County Sheriff’s cruisers, one deputy in each car. They got out of their cars and approached us apprehensively. One introduced himself as Deputy Brownell, the other Deputy Lewis. I told them who we were, pointed to where they would find the body, and told them who I thought it was. Lewis stayed with us like he thought we were going to flee the scene, as Brownell went into the bushes.
Deputy Brownell came back out a minute later looking a little green around the gills. I knew the feeling. I was still on the verge of tossing the sausage biscuits from breakfast.
“Young black guy,” Brownell said to Deputy Lewis. “Probably the missing kid we’ve been looking for. It looks like murder to me, somebody trying to bury the body like that. I’ve called it in, and there’s talk of getting the Greenville County Sheriff’s office involved, too. It’s our jurisdiction, but it may be their case.”
Brownell looked at us. “I need to see some I.D.”
We got out our wallets and gave him our drivers licenses. He spoke to someone into the microphone clipped to his shoulder, reading out our names and driver’s license numbers.
Alvin had yet to say a word. I noticed they were eyeing him with more interest than me. Something told me he was accustomed to that experience.
When Deputy Brownell got off the phone, he asked me how we found the body.
“You got homicide detectives coming?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Probably from both Spartanburg and Greenville Counties, along with a CSI team.”
“I’ll wait and talk to the detectives,” I said.
He didn’t seem too happy about that; I guessed he thought I was disrespecting him.
“What about you?” he said to Alvin.
“I’ll wait,” he said.
“Okay, if that’s your wish,” Brownell said, rather gruffly, “but I’m going to have to place both of you in our cars until they get here.”
He took my arm and led me to his car, had me put my hands on the roof and spread my legs. He frisked me, taking away my cell phone. Then he placed me in the back seat, shut the door and walked away. They did the same thing to Alvin, putting him in the back seat of the other car. I guess they didn’t want us talking together.
At least the air smelled better in the car. The motor was running, and the air conditioning on. I watched as the two deputies talked to each other, and to others on their radios. Deputy Lewis then went into the bushes to see Jamal for himself. He came back out quickly, looking like he was sorry he did it. Deputy Brownell was getting orange traffic cones out of the cruiser’s trunk and placing them ahead and behind us on the road.
When he’d finished, he came over and opened my door.
“Whose Jeep is that parked up the road there?”
“Mine,” I said.
“Is there anyone in it?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Do I have your permission to look inside?” he said.
“No problem,” I said, and watched him as he walked up the road toward my car. He went into the front seat, and I could see him searching through the Jeep’s console and glove compartment. I suddenly realized that my Glock nine was in there. While I had a concealed carry permit for Georgia, South Carolina was one of the few states that didn’t share a reciprocal agreement. I didn’t know how that would affect having a gun in my car. I could see him looking in the back seat, and then he got out, opened the hatchback, looked in it briefly, closed it, and came walking back. He had my Glock in his hand.
He walked up and opened my door. “You got a permit for this gun?”
“Concealed carry, but for Georgia,” I said. “Is that a problem here?”
“You’re to keep the weapon in your glove compartment,” he said. “Don’t go carrying it around on your person up here. South Carolina doesn’t honor a Georgia CC.”
“I’m going to hang on to it,” he added. If it turns out the victim was shot, we’ll want make sure this wasn’t the gun that did it. We’ll return it to you as soon as we can if it clears.”
“It will clear,” I said.
He chewed his lip for a second, looking at me, then said, “You said you were trying to help the family find this kid. I guess you did that, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry to say.”
“The other guy the kid’s family?” he asked.
“A cousin,” I said, and looked at Alvin in the back seat of the other squad car. Alvin didn’t look happy, but for him, looking unhappy wasn't anything out of the ordinary.
“He has an interesting background,” Deputy Brownell said.
I didn’t comment. He’d obviously run a check on Alvin too.
Another Sheriff’s cruiser pulled in and parked on the opposite shoulder. This one bore the insignia of Greenville County, and Deputy Waldrop, whom I’d talked to the other morning, got out and came over. Deputy Brownell closed the door on me again and met him halfway. They talked for a minute, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Finally, they came over and opened my door and peered in. I nodded at Deputy Waldrop, and he nodded back.
“Deputy Waldrop says he knows you,” Brownell said. “You want to talk to him, or do you still want to wait for the homicide detectives?”
“I meant no disrespect, Deputy Brownell,” I said. “I was just trying to keep from having to tell my story twice. Deputy Waldrop already knows how I feel. Too many people say too many good things about Jamal Johnson for him to be guilty of shooting any horse. He was a good kid. And that guy that accused him? I don’t believe
him. He’s an asshole and a crook.”
“A man named Wilson Kroll,” Deputy Waldrop said to Brownell. “I took his statement when his horse was shot. We first thought he might be the shooter, especially after we heard how much insurance he had on the animal. But Mr. Kroll had a solid alibi, and the evidence did point to the kid—Kroll said the boy held a grudge against him and had threatened him. And we found the rifle used to shoot the horse at the kid’s house.”
“Do you still believe that?” I asked Deputy Waldrop. “That the kid shot the horse?”
He looked at me like he wanted to say something.
“Something new has come up that has us rethinking the case,” he finally said.
“The vet’s confession,” I offered.
“How the hell do you know about that?” Waldrop said, surprised. “I just heard about it myself.”
“I’ve been working with Brandon Wise, the insurance investigator looking into Kroll’s horse’s death,” I said. “You gave me his card. I also know that Sam Squires, Wilson Kroll’s vet, committed suicide last night. Or at least, that’s what you guys think.”
“Are you saying it wasn’t a suicide?” Waldrop said, another look of surprise on his face.
“I’m saying that all of this is connected, including what we’ve found here today. That’s why I wanted to wait for the homicide detectives. To tell all of you why I think that.”
“Well, you won’t have to wait any longer, they’re here,” Waldrop said.
An unmarked, official-looking dark blue sedan had arrived and pulled up behind the deputy’s unit. Two guys in short-sleeved white shirts and neckties got out. They looked like twins; both middle aged, both with expanding waistlines and square jaws. The only differences were the color and patterns of their neckties, and their hair; one had it, the other one didn’t. Naturally bald or shaved, I couldn’t tell.
Deputy Waldrop and Deputy Brownell went to meet them. They spoke, just out of earshot. They kept casting looks at both me and Alvin while they talked. Finally, they walked over and opened my door. They introduced themselves as Detectives Lusk and Scanlon with the Greenville County Sheriff’s Department Homicide Unit.
“We’ll be taking the lead on this,” Detective Lusk said. “We’ll have some questions for you, so sit tight until we can look at the body and get some idea of the situation.”
“Where would I go?” I said, raising my eyebrows and nodding to the door of the squad car, which only opened from the outside.
“We’ll be back,” he said.
As he said that, a large van I assumed was the crime scene investigation unit pulled up. Lusk looked at them and said, “These guys will probably want a word with you, too, to find out how much of their crime scene you’ve fucked up.”
I was about to say I just walked in and came right back out without touching anything, but Lusk shut my door and joined the CSI people spilling out of the van. With Deputy Brownell leading the way, they took a circuitous route to the body, evidently to avoid fouling the crime scene themselves.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I sat trapped in the backseat of Deputy Brownell’s car and watched one of the crime scene investigators examine the shoulder of the road, the surface of the tarmac, and the disarranged weeds that showed the path to the body. The guy stooped to look at something, too small to see from where I was sitting, then stood up and moved on to another spot and repeated the process.
Finally, the two homicide detectives along with Deputy Waldrop and Deputy Brownell came out from behind the trees. They made their way over to me and let me out of the car. Deputy Lewis went and got Alvin out of the other car and brought him over to us.
“I was beginning to think I was busted for bein' black at the scene of a crime," Alvin said.
“Sorry,” Deputy Lewis said. “Just making sure you stayed put.”
“My people are used to it,” Alvin said.
“It is Jamal Johnson,” Lusk said. “CSI moved the body enough to get at his wallet.” Neither Alvin nor I needed to hear that to know who it was. How many dead black kids were we likely to find on a Dark Corner country road? Alvin stared at the ground, slowly shaking his head.
“Take off your shoes,” Lusk said. “Both of you.”
The tech guy came over, took our shoes from us and placed them soles up on the pavement. He pulled a tape measure out of his bag, extended it about two feet and lined it up beside my shoes, and took a straight-on photograph of each of them. He did the same with Alvin’s shoes.
“That’s to eliminate any of your footprints we find at the scene,” Lusk said as we watched the tech put his camera away and go back to combing the side of the road.
Alvin and I put our shoes back on.
“I hear you two have been actively trying to find the boy,” Lusk said and looked at me. “Deputy Waldrop says you’re a sports writer up here doing a story on yesterday’s steeplechase race. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m also an old friend of the family.”
“Can I ask how you came to this little county road and went straight to the kid’s body, which you can’t see from the road without X-ray vision?”
“We’re wondering how you knew to look here, in this exact spot,” Scanlon chipped in as if I didn’t understand what Lusk was asking.
It was the first words I’d heard Scanlon say since he arrived. His voice was surprisingly high for his size, and not what I’d expected. Both men stood and watched me closely, waiting for my explanation.
“Well, in the first place, we didn’t see him,” I said. “We smelled him. And if you guys want to talk to us further, we either need to go somewhere else, or at least get in a car and turn the air conditioning on high. Or is your olfaction on the fritz?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Scanlon said, wrinkling his nose. “Let’s get in the car, Bobby.”
Alvin and I followed them. Scanlon got behind the wheel and started the engine and turned on the air. Lusk took the passenger seat; Alvin and I got in the backseat. Outside, the Deputies cordoned off the area with yellow police tape.
Lusk and Scanlon turned in their seats to face us, and Lusk said, “You were telling us how you found the body. Please continue.”
“The night Jamal went missing, he worked at a dinner party up on Hunting Country Road waiting tables,” I said, “and afterward, his ride went off and left him. Evidently, none of the guests offered him a ride, so he set out walking. I found the most likely route he would have taken home, and I checked it out. I drove it a couple of times, and both times a big ugly dog at a house around the bend ran out at me. If he chases every slow-moving car that comes along in the daylight, he’s bound to chase someone walking by in the middle of the night. So, Alvin and I stopped and talked to the dog’s owner. I was right. The dog ran out barking when Jamal walked by that night, and the man remembers it quite well.”
“The man don’t get that many African Americans walking by his house at midnight,” Alvin added. “It was a memorable occasion for him. Like a Big Foot sighting.”
After glancing at Alvin like they didn’t know what to make of him, Lusk and Scanlon’s shot each other looks like this was something the Sheriff’s Department didn’t think to do—or go to the trouble to do.
“The dog owner said a dark SUV came along just after the boy went around the bend,” I continued, “and he heard it stop around there and race the engine.”
The two shot each other looks again.
“Did the man see the driver or anyone else in the car?” Lusk asked.
“He told me he didn’t, but maybe his memory will improve if you talk to him.”
“Oh, we plan to do that,” Scanlon said, irritated, either because I was giving him advice, or because his people had been negligent following the same path of investigation that Alvin and I took.
“It does look like a car hit the boy. Maybe this was it,” Lusk said. “All of his injuries but one point to an automobile. Human hands couldn’t have done this kind
of damage. But according to the CSI folks, one blow to his head is raising some questions. This one came from a different angle than the others, is a sharper wound, and more to the side and back of his head. Maybe he bounced off a tree or something. What makes that important is this looks like the blow that officially killed him.”
Or maybe it was a deliberate blow to the head to finish him off, I thought.
“The M.E. will be able to tell us more when we get him on the table. My guess is someone came down the road, maybe this car the guy up the road saw, didn’t see the boy walking in the dark and hit him. Then he—or she—probably with a few drinks in them, panicked and tried to hide the body to avoid a DUI and a vehicular homicide charge. Maybe wanted time to repair whatever damage the accident did to the vehicle. Dumb move, but then, the driver was probably too inebriated to think straight.”
“Have you seen the confession of the veterinarian for the horse Jamal Johnson was supposed to have shot?” I asked Lusk. “Deputy Waldrop has.”
“Haven’t read it. But Deputy Waldrop just told me about it. I understand it clears the boy of the shooting and accuses the owner. Did it for the insurance, it says.”
“There’s something in it that relates to this,” I said, nodding toward the woods and Jamal’s body. The horse’s owner didn’t kill the horse himself; he had someone else do it. The confession implies that a man named Teddy Crane was the shooter, and I believe he may have killed Jamal Johnson, too.”
“So you aren’t buying the drunk driver thing,” Lusk said.
“It’s possible, I suppose, but no, I’m not buying it.”
“You have any proof to go along with that belief?”
“I have proof that Crane does odd jobs for the horse’s owner,” I said, “some of them illegal. “And I have proof he’s capable of killing.” I pointed to the stitches in my head. “He gave me this for sticking my nose in his business. And I know the kid had information the horse’s owner didn’t want him telling anyone—information that the horse had become infertile. The confession now proves it, but at the time Jamal was enough of a threat to the owner that he might have had him killed.”
