Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  “Twelve people, Henry. Twelve have been murdered over the past year and a half. All lived on this side of the river—except them girls—and their car broke down near here. You must know or have heard something about it.”

  “I don’t know nothing,” Henry said. He bent over and fiddled with something in the dark. “But…but I might know someone who does.”

  Newton perked up. “You do? Who, Henry? Tell me.”

  Henry Brooks moved to the center post between the stalls directly across from the sheriff. Two hand cranks were attached to either side of the post. He grabbed both handles and turned them in opposite ways.

  “Now if you really know something….” Newton stopped mid-thought as he heard something drag across the floor. “What’s that? What’re you doing there, Henry?”

  But Henry said nothing and turned the cranks even faster. Sheriff Newton felt something whip against his lower legs and heard the pulleys squeak above him. “What the hell?”

  The rope ends reeled into two collection wheels in the rafters and stretched the ropes tight, pinning Sheriff Newton. Before he knew it, the sheriff was caught against the empty stall’s door—unable to move his arms or legs.

  “Jesus, Henry! I’m trapped! Stop this! Stop this now!”

  Henry spun the spools with frantic energy. The sheriff cried out in pain as the rope tightened around his midsection—his hat tumbled to the barn floor. The bindings dug into the exposed skin on his arms until they ripped and bled—the pressure continued to build until one of his ribs cracked.

  “For God’s sake, Henry! I can’t breathe! Cut me loose!” He struggled with all the strength he had left but to no avail. He spat blood. “Henry!”

  Moments from passing out, Newton could make out Henry’s outline in the dark. The madman had pulled an eight-inch knife from the pocket of his baggy jeans. He passed the knife back and forth between his hands, mumbling to himself. He then stood face to face with Newton.

  “Wherefore the seal of God upon your head, Sheriff? You claim authority of the people and much righteousness, but you betray the cross when no one watches. A sinful heart hides not in one’s chest but is a banner for all the world to see.” He leaned over and whispered in Newton’s ear. “The king of locusts awaits you. Abaddon calls you to the fiery pits of hell—to lead his charge.” Henry raised the knife with his left hand and placed it at Newton’s throat.

  “Henry, no! Don’t…!”

  Sheriff Marion Newton’s life came to a sudden end, not in the joyous Florida sun as he had hoped and dreamed, but in a foul-smelling barn, tied to an old stall door, under the cold hand of the angel of destruction.

  OCTOBER 2, 2016

  8:07 AM

  October arrived with a noticeable seasonal shift in the Carolina morning. The summer’s heat had finally released its grip, and the sky seemed to stretch forever in the early light—kissed with the golds and purples of the autumn to come.

  Chan stood in front of the old Brooks house with his hands in his pockets. He still had on the same jeans from the day before but had changed from yesterday’s t-shirt to a fresh, white button-down.

  He eyed the old place as if he half-expected it to break free from its foundation and chase him down in the fields behind him. It amazed him that whoever owned the property now had not taken the eye-sore down. Every single pane of glass in the windows was either cracked or missing. Full blown brush and weeds of enormous height had popped through the front porch, snarled around the broken floorboards and blocked the front door. Holes in the rusty roof were large enough to encourage nesting birds and the side brick chimney seemed to teeter under its own weight.

  He heard Tindal’s rental car coming down the dirt road behind the house and he walked in that direction. The car pulled to a stop in front of him and Tindal hopped out. She had on black boots, dark leggings and an oversized cowl-necked burgundy sweater that reached down to mid-thigh. Chan figured no matter what the young woman wore, she would look like she just stepped out of the pages of some fashion magazine.

  “Good morning, Chan. Thanks for meeting me here.”

  “How goes it down the road?” Chan asked.

  “Still heavily blocked. Looks like all manners of law enforcement have made their way to Macinaw—SLED, ATF, FBI.”

  “Still no reporters allowed?”

  Tindal smiled. “No, but your Sheriff Monroe promised me I would get access the moment he got the word.”

  “That’s good,” Chan said. “Have they extracted the body yet?”

  “Bodies,” She said. “And no not yet. Evidently, they have forensic teams and engineers down there trying to decide how to get to them out without disturbing evidence. I also hear they may be bringing a crane down later to pull the patrol car out.”

  “I understand it’s quite a drop from the old farm road to the swamp.”

  “Monroe said the patrol car may have tumbled fifty yards or so down the embankment before it wound up in the kudzu. The river is but a short distance away from the crash site.”

  “Did he say anything else? You said bodies. Did they find three in the car?”

  She nodded in the affirmative. “Does that add up with what you remember from that night?”

  Chan put his hands on his hips and looked down the farm road as if he was watching the 1976 patrol car drive past. “Yeah, three were seen driving through Macinaw that night. It was raining hard as hell as I recall.” Chan took a quick glance back at the old house. “But why come out here? This has to be more than some on-the-nose coincidence.”

  Tindal only shrugged and then pulled out folded documents from her satchel. “I was able to track the land’s ownership last night,” she said as she flipped through the pages. “Brooks had no one to leave his farm to and owed the bank quite a bit so the title passed to Macinaw National after his death. The property remained idle as the hometown bank changed hands the next few years. In 1982 the land was sold by auction to Searson-Thompson, a real-estate investment firm based in Connecticut. It’s been listed in their catalogue for the last thirty years.”

  “No-man’s land,” Chan said.

  “Exactly.”

  “So, the worthless property of a dead madman. What was Crawford doing here? What was he looking for?” He paused and then, “What could have happened to them?”

  Tindal again had no guess. She turned and looked beyond the house to a pile of grey, rotten lumber peeking out from tall grass. “Was that the old barn area?”

  “That’s it,” Chan said. “Henry Brooks’ little shop of horrors. After they caught him, they found twenty more bodies buried in the stalls inside. They figured by the time they sent the electricity through his skull in ’66, he had killed at least thirty-eight people.”

  “And yet he wasn’t done, was he?”

  Chan looked to Tindal. “Apparently, you can’t keep a bad man down.”

  JUNE 26, 1976

  6:45 AM

  Chan sat alone at the coffee table in the bullpen, plunking sugar packs across the table top. He had been told to wait there by Darby while the rest of the staff got their assignments. It was his first day back at the paper since he had been shot by Luther Jennings and he was itching to get started.

  Darby walked back in, took a long look at Chan, wiped his hand over his bald head, and with a sigh, plopped down on the break room’s couch. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

  “Give me an assignment. Let me do a follow-up to the Tyrell James story. I’m ready.”

  Darby wanted to laugh but mirth went against his personality. “Ready? You almost got killed on your first day out there. I would hardly say you were ready. Maybe I can let you empty the waste baskets or clean the toilets today.”

  Chan drew a Marlboro Light from his shirt pocket and fired it up. He took a deep drag, blew the blue smoke to the ceiling and finally leaned in his chair toward the editor. “Look. I know you think I’m some dumb-ass hick from Georgia who doesn’t know the first thing about journalism, but the
truth of the matter is I’m invested in the story now.”

  “Invested?”

  “Damn straight. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.” He circled the wounds on his face with his cigarette hand.

  Darby shook his head. “No…”

  Chan moved to the couch and sat beside him. “Tyrell James. Luther Jennings. Henry Brooks even. There’s a lot at play here, Mr. Darby. It’s gotta be worth looking into.”

  “Agreed, but you don’t know anything about those cases, those people. Besides, you’re just out of the womb in this business.”

  “Norma has been filling me in. I spent the last few days in the hospital reading all about the Macinaw Seven and their acquittal. And my God, seemingly half of Macinaw wanted those black men dead. This is all anyone in this town is talking about.”

  “Exactly. And I’m not gonna just hand a prime story like this to some rookie. There’s a lot of history involved.”

  “I know,” Chan said. “And I’m the only one around here not prejudiced by that history. I can give you a fresh perspective on the whole thing.” He paused. “Let Norma and I work the angles on this together. She has the knowledge, the background and an ear to the people.”

  “And what do you have beside a broken nose and an ass full of birdshot?”

  Chan grinned. “Isn’t that enough?”

  Darby sighed again, this time deeper and more prolonged. “I’d be lying to you, Adams, if I didn’t say those were the exact sentiments Norma used to try and convince me to give you a shot at this as well. If nothing else, you seemed to have made an impression on her.” He leaned his heavy frame back into the couch and then looked at Chan. “Are you sure about the name Luther called you? Are you sure it was Henry Brooks?”

  “Like I told Sheriff Crawford, it sure sounded like it. But what would Henry Brooks have to do with Luther or the Macinaw Seven anyway?”

  Darby smoothed out his thick mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Lord knows. It’s not like we’re known for a lot of positives in Macinaw. But Henry Brooks…” His voice trailed off.

  “He was a monster. I know that. A mass murderer who killed thirty-eight people. What else can you tell me?”

  “You believe in the devil, Adams?”

  “Not pitch forks and flames, but I know evil exists in our world.”

  “Yeah, well, he was evil personified. A crazed killer with no conscience, no morals, no guilt.”

  “How did he get away with it for so long?”

  “The devil wore grey flannel, I suppose, or maybe I should say blue overalls. No one suspected him. No one knew that side of him. He was a poor, dirt farmer. He lived alone out there on his daddy’s farm, trying to make a go of it. Most people who knew him felt sorry for him, but he was just crazy, you know? The worst case of Carolina cruel I ever saw.”

  “Carolina cruel?”

  Darby mused on the question. “Poverty. Racism. Abuse. Ignorance. Carolina cruel is our state’s local affliction—the palmetto psychosis. You see it in people’s eyes when they’ve fallen too far—reached rock bottom. Anybody can get it. The destitute woman with a trailer full of kids—no husband, no paycheck, no hope. The businessman mortgaged to the eyeballs, his wife screwing the neighbor, government after his land. Those subjugated to the cruel often turn to booze or pills or some other vice—keeps the fire burning inside of them until it finally fries their brains. That’s when they do their greatest harm.” He looked over at Chan. “It can be anything that sets them off: the heat, the humidity, buzzing mosquitoes. Henry Brooks’ brain was certainly fried, blurring reality and the world he lived in. Too much time looking at dead fields. Too much plow dust up his nose. He tortured and killed his victims in the most savage way. I have a dossier on him in my office—you should take a look sometime.”

  “Does that mean I can work on the story?” Chan asked tentatively.

  “Listen, the Macinaw Seven and Henry Brooks were two of the biggest stories to ever come out of the Lowcountry, tragic as they were. Everybody and their brother have an opinion on what happened so of course we’re gonna follow this up. But Norma gets the lead. You can help out, just don’t dare step over your bounds or it’s your ass, got it?”

  Chan squashed his cigarette in the ash tray and hopped off the couch. “Thanks, boss.” He headed out the door. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Dennis Darby remained on the couch and shook his head. “I already do,” he sighed.

  9:38 AM

  Norma sat across the table from Chan in the Palm Leaf Café in downtown Macinaw. The Leaf was a typical small town greasy spoon—easy on the wallet, a little harder on the digestive system. The breakfast menu offered the basics with a few specialties including the local favorite of grits and gravy over egg and sausage patties in cheese biscuits. For Norma and Chan, the café had the sole benefit of being next door to the offices of The Republic. Other customers that morning continued to come and go, but the two reporters seemed not to notice as they were deep into their planning.

  Norma pushed an open folder across the orange Formica table top so that Chan could see. “This is the file I kept on the Dovers. Ellis Dover is the one on the left.” She tapped her finger on Dover’s face in the Polaroid.

  Chan took a hard look at the snapshot. It was a family picture; Dover hovering behind his progeny on the expansive steps of what Chan figured to be the Dover home. Ellis Dover was a handsome man in many ways with a thick head of auburn hair, piercing blue eyes and radiant smile. But he also had age lines and weathered skin that tempered his good looks. Chan had known many farmers growing up in rural Georgia and knew how working under the sun for a living could change a man in more ways than one. “Which one is Robert?” Chan asked.

  “Far left. The one looking away from the camera.”

  Chan focused on the youngest of the Dover clan. He was handsome like his father, thinner, a bit less dynamic in his appearance. It seemed strange to Chan that Robert, who was close to Chan’s age at the time of the picture, was dead and had been for some six years. “Who are the others?” Chan asked.

  “That’s Phil, Chris and Kevin,” Norma said as she traced her finger down the line. “Robert’s older brothers.” Handsome athletic types all.

  “Where’s the mother?”

  “She died years before the picture was taken—car accident. She and her sister, Andrea, were killed coming back from their beach home in Litchfield.”

  Chan looked up at Norma. “So, I get the Dovers?”

  “See if you can get an interview with Mr. Dover. We need to know his reaction to Tyrell’s death.”

  “Thought you already tried him?”

  “He wouldn’t take my calls. You might do better with a face to face.”

  “Because I’m white?”

  “If we’re going to get anywhere with this, Chan, we’re going to have to take advantage where we can.”

  “Understood. What’s my approach?”

  Norma picked up her coffee cup and rubbed the side as if conjuring a genie from the lamp. “Politics. Ever since Governor Russell appointed him to fill the commissioner of agriculture’s term in ’63, Dover has thought himself God’s gift to the political arena. He has thrown his weight behind candidates from local to state to national and most all with positive results.”

  “Republican or Democrat?”

  “Like most politicians, he can talk out of both sides of his mouth when he needs to—liberal and free-wheeling in some circles, conservative Bible-thumper to the home crowd. But he’s a true Dixiecrat at heart. He counts Senators Thurmond and Hollings among his friends. Presently he’s backing newcomer Trey Richards, a friend of the family, who’s running for one of Macinaw’s state senate seats. You can start with questions about that.”

  “How deep is Dover’s influence?”

  Norma took another sip. “He was the agricultural king around here for many years. He has more money than God, a grand home for formal parties, tons of land for political outings—dove shoo
ts, barbeques, et cetera. The old saying is the road to Washington goes through Ellis Dover’s backyard.”

  “Okay, So I start off with some bullshit questions about the next election and then try to steer him towards Tyrell James?”

  “Just gauge his reaction. Even a no comment can be very telling.”

  Chan rubbed his hands together. “Okay. And what’s on your plate for the day?”

  “Luther’s out on bail, waiting for his evidentiary hearing. Crawford thinks he may end up doing a little time since having a weapon is a probation no-no, much less firing it at someone. I’ll go pay him a visit and see if I can’t crack his wall of silence.”

  Chan nodded as he hopped up from the table. “Sounds about right. I’ll contact you this afternoon. Hopefully I’ll have something for you by then.” He threw a dollar on the table for his coffee as he headed out.

  “I’ll be sure to give Luther your regards,” Norma called out.

  Chan smiled as he threw on his shades. “Yeah, tell him I think about him every time I pull up a chair.”

  12:09 PM

  “Ellis Dover?” Chan asked.

  The man was seated comfortably in a barber chair. He had a striped smock covering most of his dark blue business suit. Expensive-looking cowboy boots shot out on the footrest. Buddy, the silver-headed proprietor and head barber, who was standing behind him, had momentarily stopped with the clippers when Chan entered.

  Dover had his eyes closed but batted them open upon hearing his name. “Yes, sir. I’m Ellis Dover. Can I help you with something?”

  Chan smiled. “You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Dover. I’m Chan Adams with The Macinaw Republic.”

  Dover wrinkled a concerned brow but kept his eyes on Chan.

  “I’d just like a moment of your time, sir. I have a few questions….”

  Dover cut his eyes left and right. Besides Buddy and one man who sat in a corner chair reading the paper, he and Chan were alone.