“But once they got there, they witnessed something far worse, a suicide or murder,” Tindal said.
“Exactly.”
“But, Henry Brooks? How does he fit in?”
“No one knows. Well, Sonny Watts, their lawyer, might have, but we’ll never know now.”
“Tell me about that. What happened to Sonny Watts?”
Chan scratched at his head, retrieved his cup and took another sip of coffee. “It was three days after they found Grimes and Cheeseboro. The blacks were upset. The whites were too. Hell, everybody was. People were screaming for answers, but none were forthcoming. Norma and I were working late at The Republic when I got a call from Sonny.”
JULY 1, 1976
7:40 PM
Sonny Watts sat in his study reviewing a copy of an old deed to a parcel of land which had become part of a contentious lawsuit between his client and the client’s well-to-do family. The tract was only one acre, but it sat right dab in the middle of the most pristine stretch of Edisto Beach with a 7,500-square foot monstrosity of a beach house backing three waves of dunes, sea oats, white sand beach and a lovely view of the Atlantic.
As a third-generation member of the family and designated as benefactor in his grandfather’s will, Watts’ client felt the beach house was his due. But the family contended that his spending of his trust fund, which they said was quickly done like “shit through a goose,” had negated his claim to granddaddy’s favorite retreat—as he could not be trusted to handle such a pricey commodity.
Watts placed the copy of the deed back in the file and closed the folder for the night. This fight had little bearing on him now—he had much more pressing things on his mind. He looked over at the clock atop his bookcase. He fought the urge and then grabbed the phone.
“Yes, this is Sonny Watts. I’m trying to reach, Mr. Chan Adams, please.” He waited for the transfer and then, “Mr. Adams, Sonny Watts here.” He listened and then, “Yes, good to speak with you again as well. Listen, you asked me to call you if I remembered anything that might have to do with my former clients, the Macinaw Seven, and Henry Brooks. Yes, I think I may have something. Perhaps something major.” He listened again. “No, I think it would be in our best interests to speak about this privately.” He waited. “Yes, tonight would be fine. If you don’t mind, you could come here again.” He listened. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be waiting.”
Watts hung up the phone. He felt a twinge of nervousness and opened his case of Kreteks. He lit one, took a drag until it crackled and leaned back in his chair. He glanced again at the ticking clock.
8:01 PM
As the minute hand slipped past the hour, Watts stayed at his desk, flipping through journals and magazines that had piled up in his reading basket. He was just looking at the pictures; he didn’t have the focus for words. Sonny Watts was not shy when it came to taking a drink, but at this moment, he passed on it for the sake of staying clear-headed.
A rapid knock came to his front door. Watts looked up from his desk, brushing his hair from his eyes. He checked the clock one more time. He knew the young reporter would not be arriving for at least another twenty minutes. He began to feel a sickening knot develop in his gut. With a key from his pocket, he opened the locked middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a Colt Cobra .38 Special snub-nose revolver. It was loaded.
He stood and, with gun in hand, walked into his foyer. He slow-footed his approach to the door. He stopped, took a deep breath and then reached for the door handle.
8:27 PM
Chan drove down the magnolia-lined drive of Watts’ estate, anxious like never before. Had he heard Watts correctly? Did the man actually know of a connection between the Seven and Henry Brooks? Hopefully, this would be the news everyone had been waiting for. The missing piece.
After he relayed the astonishing news to Norma, they both raced to Darby’s office and informed him. The editor took all of three seconds to call the print production manager to put the next day’s edition of The Republic on hold and send his reporter out the door.
With the late hour, traffic had been light, but Watts lived at the southern end of Macinaw County and it still took Chan nearly thirty-five minutes to get there. He pushed the Torino to the max, emboldened by Darby’s words, “Get the scoop and to hell with the speed limit!”
Chan came off the gas however as he neared the end of the drive, his car rolling to a stop. He pulled up on the steering wheel and out of his seat to give himself a better view. He could make out the outline of Watts’ house against the night sky. An orange glow emanated from the roof—and it was growing. Chan floored the car again until coming to a sliding halt in front of the house. He jumped out quickly, his chest heaving with excited breath. His eyes darted back and forth between the front windows. He could see the flames eating the house from within.
Chan bound up the stairs and reached for the front door handle. He sensed the heat through the black double doors and he heard the fire popping and crackling beyond. Chan pounded on the doors. “Watts! Watts are you in there?!”
He backed back down the stairs and scanned the house again. Heated glass in the front palladium windows shattered and fell. Black smoke filtered out through every crack in the old structure. “Watts!!”
Chan took off around back of the house, keeping his eyes on the windows for any movement inside. He rounded the corner and saw a back entrance into the kitchen. He tried the door but it was locked. He then leaned into the door, pulled back and threw his shoulder against it, breaking the lock and forcing it open.
Chan ran through the kitchen, past a dining room then a sitting room until he reached the hallway that bisected the house. The smoke billowed toward the back and Chan crouched against the wall. “Watts!” he called again. “Are you in here?!” He heard no response and continued to inch down the hall to the front of the house. The heat became very intense. Chan could feel it on his face.
As Chan neared the foyer, a portion of the ceiling collapsed and he heard an increased crackling of fire gestating on wood. The old house was going up quickly.
Breathing became difficult for him, and he coughed the smoke from his lungs. He almost turned around, but figured he had a few more seconds to search. “Watts!!”
He reached the foyer. Fire had raced up the walls, engulfed all the trophy heads and extended high into the balcony and beyond. The smoke cleared for a moment, and Chan saw Watts’ body on the floor of his study. Before Chan could yell out again, a support beam fell and crashed on top of the body, engulfing it in flames. Chan spun and spat smoke. He went to all fours and began to crawl away.
He made it only a few feet when the whole house seemed to shift. The balcony toppled, fire and timber came crashing down. Chan put his arm up over his head to protect himself but fragments of the burning ceiling and upstairs flooring pelted him at all angles. He lunged forward. Heat and smoke plumed down the hallway. He struggled to one knee—blood oozed from gashes to his arms and neck. Falling ash burned down his back. He tried for a desperate gulp of air, but there was none to be had. Chan took one more blind, feeble step before the wall crumbled down on top of him.
Chan remembered intense heat, pain, suffocation and then nothing more.
JULY 2, 1976
8:11 AM
“Mr. Adams? Can you hear me? Mr. Adams…?”
Chan blinked his eyes with rapidity as he came around, trying to focus on the face before him. The young, light-skinned black man smiled at him.
“I’m Dr. Hawkins, Mr. Adams. You’re safe now. You’re at Macinaw General.”
Chan felt the bandages, the band around his wrist; saw the IV drip, bed rail, and the lime green paint on the walls. “Again?” he managed to say.
Hawkins laughed. “Yes sir. You’re lucky to be alive. Do you remember how you got here?”
“By the grace of God?”
The doctor laughed again. “Most definitely. But what exactly do you remember?”
“Fire. The Watts house collapsing on top
of me.”
“Considering that, it’s amazing you weren’t burned more than you were. And we still need to run another series of x-rays, but you apparently suffered no broken bones either. You’re very lucky indeed.”
Chan took a deep breath as a wave of pain came and went. “How did I get here, Doctor? Miracles aside.”
“One of Macinaw’s deputies, Haskit is his name, happened to be patrolling that side of the county and saw the flames. He arrived just in time.”
“What about Watts? He was in there too.”
Hawkins shook his head. “As far as I know, you were the only one he got out.”
“Damn,” Chan whispered. He closed his eyes and mulled all that was potentially lost.
“I’m sorry,” Hawkins said.
Chan opened his eyes. “Is Deputy Haskit here? I’d like to thank him for saving me.”
“We released him last night—sent him home. He had a few minor burns, but was okay otherwise. But I’m sure he’ll be by to see you later.”
“What about me?” Chan asked as he tried to sit up. “When can I get out of here?”
Hawkins gently put his hand on his chest to keep him from moving. “In a day or two. If all goes well. In the meantime, rest and get your strength back.”
“I don’t know,” he said lightly. “I’m not very good at lying around doing nothing.”
“Please try, Mr. Adams. I don’t want Nurse Reid here to have to restrain you.”
Chan looked immediately to the foot of the bed. Jean Reid had been standing there quietly—chart in hand—beautiful as he remembered. They shared a brief smile. “I won’t give her any problems, Doctor. I promise,” he said to Hawkins.
“Good,” Hawkins said and then stood. “I’ll be back to check on you later.” The doctor left the room.
“You know,” Jean said, a grin slowly developing, “if you really wanted to see me again, you could’ve just called.”
“Not my style,” Chan said. “I figure when I ask you to marry me, I’ll have to come into the emergency room with a harpoon in my chest.”
They both laughed.
Jean sat in the chair next to Chan. “So, tell me what happened.”
“I went out to see the lawyer, Sonny Watts. I think he had something very important to tell me about the Macinaw Seven—about the murders. By the time I got to his place, it was on fire. I went inside thinking I might be able to save him.”
“Do you think the fire was set on purpose?”
“I don’t know. At this point, nothing would surprise me.” He sighed and then, “I wish he had called me sooner.”
“This is getting so dangerous,” Jean said. “You know, I’ve been following your articles in the paper.”
“Oh? What do you think?”
“I’ve lived in Macinaw my whole life, Chan. I grew up with the stories of Henry Brooks. I know all about the Dovers, the Macinaw Seven, I was part of desegregation, I went to school with Luther Jennings’s little brother, Antwan. All of this is breaking Macinaw’s heart. Mine too. I just want this pain to end.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Chan didn’t know why he apologized, but it just felt right to do so.
“There’s too much madness in the world.”
Chan agreed but said nothing to that. He locked eyes with Jean—their connection was deepening. Jean caught herself and rose.
“Well, if you need anything, I’ll be out at the desk. Buzz me and I’ll be here.” She reached over and rubbed his hand.
Chan took a chance and blurted out, “How about after they let me out of here, we go out? You know, like on a real date?”
Jean smiled, put her hand over her heart and ramped-up her best southern belle voice. “Why, Mr. Adams, I never thought you’d ask.”
10:11 AM
With no fire department to speak of within several miles—not even a community volunteer unit—the eighty-year-old Watts house had incinerated in a matter of hours. Only the brick steps, columns and foundation remained.
Sheriff Justin Crawford paraded around the burnt ruins of the Watts estate like a high school coach on a Friday night sideline. He sweated in the early heat as he marched the perimeter, an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. He kept a sharp eye on the place as if his staring power alone could ascertain clues through the smoky, charred remains. His deputies waited near the swimming pool dig, not sure if their sheriff needed or even wanted their help.
A group of other men huddled by as well, among them was Archie Howe, Macinaw’s fire chief. The sixty-three-year-old chief had been summoned by Crawford to help determine the cause of the fire. With little left as evidence, determination had been problematic, yet Howe used his forty years of fire-fighting experience to garner a few insights. Waiting to be summoned by Crawford, the chief stood around joking with the others.
Another man, wearing a blue blazer and understated tie, also stood with the others. But he didn’t seem interested in small talk. His focus was on Crawford, watching his every move. After a few minutes, he emerged from the pack and approached the sheriff.
“Sheriff Crawford,” the man called. Crawford stopped marching and turned to face him. The man was of average height and build. Like Crawford, he was around fifty years of age. But unlike the sheriff, he had black rimmed glasses, sharp features and thinning hair that he wore slicked back. FBI, Crawford immediately thought. “Special Agent Mike Dunn, FBI, Atlanta office,” the man confirmed. He produced a badge and credentials from within his coat and then quickly replaced them.
Crawford put his cigar in his left hand and offered his right. “What took you so long?” he asked lightly.
“We’ve been watching this one closely, Sheriff. It looks like it could get outta hand.”
“It already has. I have four unexplained murders, a tragic house fire, a crazed killer back from the grave and a racially divided town ready to pounce on one another. I don’t see how it could get that much more outta hand.”
“We’re here to solve your problems. We have resources and abilities that neither your small department nor your state’s law enforcement division has.” Dunn meant it as condescending as it sounded and Crawford certainly took it that way. The special agent took a step closer. “You probably feel a bit in over your head, and who would blame you? We have a lot of experience in these kinds of cases—civil rights, serial killings and the like. My team just put in six weeks of work on the Bradford Bishop case in Bethesda, Maryland; you may have heard of that one.” He waited and when Crawford didn’t respond he stated, “We know how to approach cases like this, break them down and get to the core problem. And because the ramifications of this case are so enormous, Sheriff, we’d ask that you put this one in our hands. Let us handle it for you.”
“You and your resources are welcome, Agent Dunn. In fact, y’all can all stay in my little house while you’re here if you’d like. But this case is very personal to Macinaw—very personal to me. I know these people, their habits, their concerns. I have off-duty officers from three counties rotating in to help us. They report to me directly. I think it would be more upsetting at this point to bring in a new mother hen, so to speak.
“Sometimes outsiders can get done what insiders can’t,” Dunn quickly added in an offensive tone. “I’ll be taking over this case.”
“No, sir, that won’t be necessary.”
“Now don’t be obstinate, Sheriff Crawford. The FBI can supersede when times and circumstances call for it. I’m sure you know this.” Dunn pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket. “To begin, I’d like to see your files on all this: the Macinaw Seven, the Dover case, even Henry Brooks. Then I want to interview all the principals involved, one at a time. I’d also like our medical examiner, whom I brought from Atlanta, to consult with your coroner—check against his records. I’ll need you to give me his number.” He paused as he caught the sheriff’s eye. “These are not requests; you understand?”
Crawford grinned and held comment for a moment. He then looked over to his
stable of deputies. “Deputy Evans, would you come here, please sir.”
Once beside him, Crawford grabbed his deputy by the shoulder and turned him towards the agent. “Deputy Evans, this is Agent Dunn of the FBI. Would you escort Agent Dunn to Macinaw and take him to my office at the complex?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show him our files on the case—all of what we got.”
“Okay.”
“Make sure he’s given complete and total access.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dunn nodded pleased with the sheriff’s sudden change of heart.
Crawford continued, “And while in my office, would you show him the pictures I have on the wall. Especially the one near the middle, Deputy. You know the one.”
“The one of you and FBI Director Clarence Kelley, Sheriff? The one at the dove shoot from two years ago?” Evans asked, fully aware of Crawford’s intent.
“That’s the one, Deputy. Make sure he gets a good look at that one,” Crawford said.
“Yes, sir,” Evans then stated to Agent Dunn, “Right this way, sir.” Evans walked toward the parked patrol cars.
Dunn held back—his hands on his hips. “Keep playing your games, Sheriff Crawford. I don’t flinch that easily.” Dunn turned and stomped away.
Crawford shook his head as he watched him go. “Why do all the prima donnas end up at the Bureau?” Crawford then signaled for Fire Chief Howe who made the quick jaunt over to join him. “I need some good news, Arch. I know we don’t have much to work with, but give me your best guess.”
Howe looked again at the remains of the house. “This was Doc Haywood’s old house. The wiring had to be near a century old. Not an uncommon way for these old homes to go. It started up front, so we can eliminate any kitchen fire. They say that the Watts man was a smoker. Mighta been a tipped over ashtray.”
Carolina Cruel Page 11
