Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  As he scanned the 1962 coroner’s analyses of several of the victims, he became intrigued by the language dealing with the “sharp force injuries” or stab wounds. Specifically, Chan learned that the “Abaddon” victim had small skin tags or abrasions on the left side of the penetrations and especially on the sigil. The “Michael” wounds had them on the right side. These minute, jagged cuts indicated direction of the entry into and away from the victims’ flesh. This led investigators to the theory of a right handed and left handed killer. It was no surprise then when they finally arrested Henry Brooks that he was ambidextrous. His divided mind had truly split him down the middle—the two angels vying for control—occupied his left and right side respectively.

  Chan picked up the phone in the bullpen and called the sheriff’s office. After several minutes of waiting and transfers, Deputy Jimmy Evans picked up.

  “What do you want, Adams? We’re busy down here,” Evans said.

  “Put me through to the sheriff, Deputy.”

  “He’s busy. What do you want?”

  Chan was a bit put off by Evans’ brusqueness, but he kept his focus. “Have you seen the coroner’s reports on James and Jennings?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “Have you looked at the details, Deputy Evans?”

  “I told you I’ve seen it, Adams.”

  “The cuts. The sigils. Did they have the same small abrasions, the same skin tags as the ones Henry Brooks left in his victims? The ones that indicated if he used his left hand or his right hand?”

  There was a brief pause on Evans part and then, “If I speak to you Adams, you keep my name out of this. You understand me?”

  “Yes, of course,” Chan readily agreed.

  “I mean it now. If I see my name in the paper, I’m gonna come over there and stomp your ass.”

  Chan rolled his eyes but kept the same tone in his voice. “It will be an undisclosed source. I promise.”

  “Well, okay then. It was the first thing we looked for after Luther was killed and marked with the Abaddon sigil. It had the left-sided abrasions whereas Tyrell’s marks had the right indicators. And one other thing, Adams, back in the day, they never found the knife that Brooks used on his victims. The wounds on these two colored boys look identical in shape and depth to those made in the early sixties.”

  “So, exactly the same as Henry Brooks’ knife?” Chan questioned.

  “That’s right. But again, you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

  Before Chan could thank him, Evans hung up. Chan lit another cigarette and then picked up an old photograph showing one of the past victims with the Michael sigil carved into his chest. He then picked up a photo of one with Abaddon’s mark and compared the two. He shook his head as the cigarette smoke wafted past the photos.

  “Exactly the same,” he said to himself.

  9:18 PM

  The Lakeside Motor Court on the east side of Macinaw County near Interstate 95 was curiously named as there wasn’t a lake within thirty miles of the place. It was a shabby, one level motel with only twenty-five units available. It had a twenty-two dollar a night rate, but one could finagle an hourly price if needed. It was next to an oily Shell station which saw heavy, constant traffic from I-95. And Dolly’s Dollies, a hole-in-the-wall strip club, was right down the road.

  Sheriff Crawford pulled his cruiser into the parking lot with his lights flashing and joined Deputies Haskit and Evans. An ambulance was also parked near the deputies’ squad car. Two paramedics waited outside the vehicle.

  “Two more of the Macinaw Seven?” Crawford asked Haskit.

  “I’m afraid so, Sheriff. Grimes and Cheeseboro. Both moved out of South Carolina years ago, but here they are in this place—dead as doornails.”

  “Who made the call?”

  Haskit pointed to a large woman in a floral moo-moo and tennis shoes who was leaning against the wall of the motor court’s office and sucking down a cigarette. “Miss Taylor, the manager,” Haskit said.

  “She witness anything?”

  Deputy Evans shook his head. “Just made the discovery. And there was only one other guest here at Lakeside and he didn’t hear or see anything either. He’s been ordered to stand-by.”

  “How long ago did this happen?” Crawford asked.

  Haskit shrugged his tired shoulders. “The medics think within the past few hours, but can’t be sure. You want to talk to ‘em?”

  “Not yet. Payton on his way?” Crawford asked, referencing Payton Medlin, the county coroner.

  “He’s been notified.”

  Crawford scanned the entire motor court, processing the scene. A thunderstorm had passed through there earlier in the afternoon leaving puddles and a muggy stillness to the air.

  Crawford finally focused in on the manager and made his way to her.

  “Evening, Miss Taylor,” Crawford said. “Sorry about all this.”

  The woman nodded her jowly face, her eyes still big as saucers. “Liked to freak me out, Sheriff. Saw it coming out from under the door yonder. Stepped right in it.” She lifted both of her feet and showed the blood stains on the rubber soles of her heel-worn shoes.

  “I’ll need to look at your records and ask you some follow-up questions after I check the scene. Okay?”

  Taylor threw down her cigarette butt. “I ain’t going nowheres.”

  Crawford walked back to his deputies and pointed at the unit with the open door.

  “Yep, number eleven,” Haskit said. “They’re in there.”

  “It’s not pretty,” Evans added.

  Crawford nodded. He stepped lightly around the stain and entered. Darius Grimes’ naked body was curled up behind the open door. Several savage stab wounds shown on his back and neck area. His blood had not only seeped under the door, but it also soaked the cheap blue carpet from where his body lay to the bed. The sigil of Abaddon had been carved into his back.

  Crawford carefully maneuvered around the body and continued to the bathroom. The door was not completely open, but Crawford could make out Brandon Cheeseboro’s torso hanging out of the tub. Michael’s long, flowing sigil had been carved into the inside of his left arm.

  “One good. One bad. Both dead,” Crawford whispered. He turned to Haskit who was watching from the door. “Bobby, get the camera from my car.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And while you’re at it, call the station and pull all the shifts. Let’s double the watch on the remaining three.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Bobby, also get Pebo to put in a call to sheriffs Vance Boone in Orangeburg and John Seigler in Colleton. They both said they would send us some of their deputies if we needed help.” He blew out a long sigh as he took in the blood-stained room. “It looks like we’ll need all the help we can get.”

  SEPTEMBER 12, 1963

  7:48 PM

  With her right leg freed from the lower rope, she delivered a hard kick to the man’s midsection. He dropped the long, serrated knife and doubled over in pain. In that same instant, she struggled to loosen herself from the other rope that crossed her chest. She leaned back against the stall door and felt it give a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to allow her to slip both hands to the inside of the restraint.

  The man came to his feet and grabbed the fallen knife. He growled in pain—appearing even less human than before. “God has forsaken you!” he bellowed. “You shall bear the mark of Abaddon! You shall burn as you await his beckoning!”

  She tore her shirt and the skin from her back as she frantically pushed the rope away from her chest and over her head while simultaneously sliding down against the rough wooden stall door. The skeletal man grabbed her arm but she broke free of his grasp and then lunged toward the barn exit.

  She stumbled and fell, twisting her knee as the door flung open. Adrenaline lifted her again and she hobbled across the barnyard toward her car. Breathless, frantic and with shaky hands, she opened the car door. But then as she looked inside, her
heart sank. Damn it! The keys! They were in her purse which was now sitting on a table inside the madman’s house. She looked up and saw him making his way toward her.

  In her wildest nightmare, Lee Hill Phillips would never have dreamed such a scenario. Hired by the Department of Health, Education and Welfare only two weeks before as a medical census taker, she had been charged by the agency to spot-check the health of the populace in rural South Carolina counties as part of President Kennedy’s Community Health Services Act. She had visited Allendale, Bamberg, and Orangeburg already and this was to be one of her first visits in Macinaw. She had crossed over the Edisto River on Watkins’ Bridge and followed the long, meandering dirt road through the dead corn fields until she came to a worn farmhouse. She was greeted by a sickly-looking man named Henry Brooks who had invited her in, eager to comply with the survey.

  He had been kind in his responses, sharing stories of his family’s health and whereabouts. He told her how his brother had died as an infant and how his parents had moved back to North Carolina to be with his dying grandmother. How he was all alone, but tried his best to take care of himself and the farm. When he indicated that his animals were due their afternoon feedings, he insisted that she come along with him so that they could continue the questioning. She knew he had to be a bit lonely out there by himself, so she had agreed to keep him company. With his appearance and home life, she had felt sorry for him.

  Now Lee felt nothing but fear. She breathed heavily. It was completely dark and she was bleeding. God, what do I do? He was coming, and he still had the knife. She looked around for something to use as a weapon, but there was nothing. He yelled at her as he neared, “You cannot escape! You have been chosen!”

  She panicked and ran into the field behind her. There was no plan. No other thoughts. Just run.

  The ground was uneven and rows of withered corn stalks shot up at different angles like tribal spears left over from an ancient war’s battlefield. She felt a painful jolt in her knee every time she put pressure on it. On the soft dirt, the knee gave way and she fell again, a broken stalk jabbed into her side. She gritted her teeth, jumped up and pushed on, running haphazardly through the field.

  She then remembered the highway. It was a good distance away, but that would be her goal. If only she could reach it, she might be able to flag someone down. Yet at this point, she couldn’t even be sure if she was running in the right direction.

  Lee kept on.

  After several minutes, she fell in exhaustion between two corn rows and hid. She pulled her legs up to her chest and tried to get her breathing under control. Her eyes focused on the path she had made, watching for any movement. She rocked back and forth, whimpering, wiping tears from her eyes, ready to spring to her feet if need be.

  She heard him again, somewhere in the distance. “There is no escape! The king of locusts seeks you! You will be found!” And then another menacing sound, the cold start of an engine. She saw the headlights shining into the field and heard the engine grind as he plowed toward her. She stood and saw the dried stalks fall away—wave after wave being crushed by the fast-approaching truck.

  Lee took off again, heading deeper into the field. She continued to run as fast as she could. Her lungs burned and her leg muscles screamed. She would periodically fall and lay there in her exhaustion until she heard the truck nearing again. This would continue for several minutes. Each time her resting period got shorter and shorter. He was gaining on her.

  She plodded on, her legs cramped, her knee beyond pain. The fields begin to spin as the engine noise grew.

  Dirt flew up on her as he wheeled the truck past her. He cut a hard right and the old truck slid until its headlights now faced her. He revved the engine as Lee went to her knees too exhausted to run anymore.

  “Please,” she barely uttered. “Please don’t do this…”

  She couldn’t see him at the wheel, but his window was down and she could hear. “It is your time. Tonight, you shall be marked for all eternity.”

  In her heart, she knew it was futile, but Lee would not give up. She yelled out at him in pain and frustration. She then stood, turned and ran as fast as she could. She heard the engine grow louder. She felt the white-hot headlights on her. She lost her balance and then felt the bone-crushing collision as the speeding two-ton truck punched her body, tossing her into the air.

  Lee flew several yards from the impact, breaking both her arms and her right leg as she landed on the hard pavement of the highway and rolled to a stop. She was barely conscious. She lifted her head slightly as the headlights came into view and then stopped two feet in front of her. She heard the truck door opening and then boots on the pavement.

  “No…” she whispered before passing out completely.

  OCTOBER 3, 2016

  7:22 AM

  Chan woke on his couch as he heard noise coming from his kitchen. He sat up and rubbed the sleep and the effects of last night’s whiskey binge from his face. He scanned the den. Papers of all kinds remained scattered on the floor and an empty bottle of Wild Turkey lay on its side on the coffee table.

  The morning was like the thousands of other mornings that had come before—complete with an achy head, blurred vision, little accomplished and hopes faded. For years, the Macinaw Seven case had become Chan’s cross to bear—a desperate measure to find answers. He became obsessed with it and it seeped into all aspects of his life. He had maintained his job at The Macinaw Republic during that time, but that’s all it was: a job. His journalism career took a slow, painful decline in the latter years until it came to a complete stop two years ago. And while his book about the case released in 1982 had found a modicum of success, he was often a no-show on his limited book tour, and the royalties and notoriety soon dried up.

  Tindal, holding a cup of coffee, walked in from the kitchen. She grinned at Chan’s condition. “Need a cup?” she asked.

  “More like the whole pot, please.”

  Tindal laughed and walked back into the kitchen and then returned with a second cup. She handed it to him as she joined him on the couch.

  “Thanks for letting me crash here last night,” she said. “Very chivalrous of you to give up your bed for little ol’ me.”

  Chan took a sip. “Chivalry aside, I probably would have ended up on the couch anyway. I sleep out here most nights.”

  Tindal smiled although she knew there was a great deal of pain behind the nonchalant comment. She studied his face—the age lines, the glassy red eyes, the sadness. She liked Chan and regretted his self-induced path to destruction.

  Chan stifled a yawn and tried to focus on his guest. He noted that although she was still wearing the same burgundy sweater from the day before, she had removed the leggings from underneath. She crisscrossed her legs and massaged her bare feet as she drank her coffee. He thought how nice it was to have someone like Tindal around. Although she was much too young and vibrant for an old man like him, he missed having a companion, especially one as pretty, strong-willed and intelligent as her.

  He stretched his arms. “So, where did we leave off last night?”

  “We were talking about Henry Brooks. You were telling me how they finally caught him.”

  Chan nodded. “Lee Hill Phillips. She was the young woman who escaped from his barn. He tried to run her down in his cornfield—chased her for several acres. Hit her with his truck, but she survived. Luke Williams, a black farmer who lived in the area, happened to be driving by when she was thrown onto the road. He scooped her up, put her in his truck and got her to the hospital in time. The next day, Acting Sheriff Justin Crawford, the deputies, the city cops and seemingly the whole county went out to the farm and threw the cuffs on Henry. They say Henry vehemently denied any wrong-doing, but Crawford searched the barn and discovered several decaying bodies. Then they drained a small pond out there on the farm and found four of the victims’ vehicles that he had hidden in there—including Sheriff Newton’s patrol car. The nightmare had come to an end.”


  Tindal leaned back into the couch; she propped up her feet on the coffee table. “But in 1976 the nightmare returned. And yet there never was a connection made between Henry Brooks and the Macinaw Seven.”

  “Oh, there was a connection. And the Seven knew all about it, but they wouldn’t or couldn’t admit to it. I have no doubt Luther was screaming Henry’s name the night he shot at me. And when they found Grimes and Cheeseboro at the Lakeside Motel, we all knew they were in on some secret connection to Henry, but they never told us or the police about it. They continued to deny it to the bitter end.”

  “Why? The police could have protected them, right?”

  “They must not have believed so.” Chan set his cup on the table. “Henry Brooks provoked fear in the people of the Lowcountry. His name alone became synonymous with the boogey-man in these parts. Even after his death it was powerful juju.”

  “Juju?”

  Chan smiled. “Objects, talismans even names can be juju. For casting spells—witchcraft.”

  “You think the Seven were under a spell?”

  “More or less. There is a subculture in this area that firmly believes in it. The Seven believed it, I have no doubt. They were coerced into believing that Henry Brooks would come after them, if.…” He stressed the word.

  “If what?”

  “That’s the part I’m not sure, but it has to have something to do with what they saw in that barn that day.”

  Tindal sat up too. “What they saw? As in, they did not kill Robert Dover, but maybe saw who did?”

  Chan nodded but shrugged a little as well. “A theory, Ms. Huddleston, only a theory.”

  Tindal thought about it for a moment. “And why were they there in the first place?”

  “Ellis Dover was the most prominent white man in Macinaw. And they were seven black kids, disillusioned and hostile. If I were looking to make a statement after the Orangeburg Massacre, I would go there. Destroy Dover’s barn—maybe burn it to the ground.”