Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  Crawford rubbed at his chin as he thought about it. “What about a deliberately set fire?”

  “No gas cans lying around, no smell of accelerants in the air, no visible pour patterns. Most arsons are usually easy to spot.”

  “And the body?”

  “Payton said he was burned to a crisp. More ash than skin. You won’t get much help out of that.”

  Crawford dismissed the fire chief, “Thanks, Arch.”

  The sheriff turned back to the smoldering foundation, stuck the unlit cigar back in his mouth and chewed its ragged end. The newspaper people said Watts had something to tell them, something that tied the Seven to Brooks. But now the potentially biggest break in the case was literally up in smoke.

  1:44 PM

  Norma entered Chan’s hospital room with a handful of daises and her best smile.

  “I get smashed by a burning house and you bring me flowers?”

  Norma laughed and put the flowers on the side of his hospital tray table which was occupied with his empty lunch dishes. “I was going to get you a lighter and pack of cigarettes but that seemed a little inappropriate.”

  Chan smiled. “Good call.” He waited until she sat next to him and then sincerely added, “Thanks.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Amazing actually. Who knew I would get addicted to codeine so quickly?”

  Norma smiled; she then went to her purse and pulled out her pen and notepad. “So, tell me what happened?”

  “Am I to be the story now?”

  “You’re a part of it. Darby thinks a personal perspective will add to the readers’ interest. Everybody loves a hero.”

  “Some hero. I didn’t get there in time, Norma. Watts burned up in his house and took the information with him.”

  Norma bit down on her pen. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. Awful strange for his house to go up after he puts in a call to you.”

  Chan nodded. “If someone is going through all the trouble to knock off the Macinaw Seven, then surely they wouldn’t be hesitant to take out their lawyer too.”

  “But only after he mentions a possible tie-in to Henry Brooks.”

  Chan shrugged his shoulder and winced slightly at his burn wound. “Could all be one big coincidence, Norma.”

  “I don’t believe in them, Chan,” she said. “And I know you don’t either.”

  4:32 PM

  Chan lay quietly on his bed contemplating the story and his second near-death experience. With Norma back at the paper and with Jean having finished her shift and gone home for the day, Chan was anxious to leave this place and get back to work. The unsolved murders haunted his dreams. So close to the story now, he felt a personal obligation to connect the dots, end the killings and finally reveal the truth.

  His medicine kicked in again and he began to drift off when another knock on the door jostled him awake.

  “Come,” Chan said.

  Bobby Haskit, in jeans and tee shirt, entered and stood at the foot of the bed. Chan noted the white bandages wrapped around his left hand.

  “Hey, man, thanks for dropping by,” Chan said with a smile.

  “Just come to check on you. You doing okay?”

  “Thanks to you. You don’t know how much I appreciate what you did, coming in after me like that.”

  Haskit shrugged, a bit embarrassed. “House went up quick, didn’t it? I’d say we both were lucky to get out of there.”

  “Tell me how it happened. I don’t remember much.”

  “I was just out on patrol—had the Lowcountry Highway for the evening. I was heading home when I saw it on the horizon—the flames reaching up to the sky. I called in my position and headed to the house. When I pulled in, I saw your car parked out front. As soon as I jumped out, I heard you inside calling out for Mr. Watts. I ran around the back, saw the open door to the kitchen and went inside. By the time I made it to the hallway, the upstairs caved in. The broken wall must have covered you kinda like a tent—protected you from the debris and fire. Both of your arms were sticking out in front of you. I reached in and grabbed them, and you popped out like a cork.” They both laughed. “Anyway, I managed to get us both out the kitchen before the whole thing came down.”

  “A true miracle. Thanks again,” Chan said smiling. “By the way, my car…”

  “We’ve got it down at the complex. Not a scratch on it.”

  Chan breathed another sigh of relief. “Good—a lot of paper routes as a kid and late night bartending at UGA bought me that sweet little ride.”

  “It’ll be waiting for you when you get out.”

  Chan’s smile faded a bit. “Any progress on the Grimes and Cheeseboro murders?”

  “We’re still processing it. Interviewing their families, checking for other witnesses, putting their timelines together, but I can honestly tell you nothing has come up yet. Weird as hell them being in town like that.”

  “They all know something, Deputy. The Seven had to have had something to do with Henry Brooks.”

  “I reckon so. But until they talk we’ll just be pissing in the wind with guesses.”

  Chan agreed and then said, “How old are you, Deputy?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “So, were you around during the Brooks era?”

  “No, I’m from over near Darlington. Never really heard much about Henry Brooks until I came down here. But the stories the people tell about him…”

  “He had quite the hold on them, didn’t he?”

  “He still does,” Haskit said.

  Chan paused as Haskit’s words sunk in. “I keep hearing people say that. But why? He’s been dead now for ten years.”

  Haskit deadpanned, “Sometimes death is not the end. If the presence is strong enough—good or bad—it can live on for much longer.”

  Chan laughed. “C’mon, Deputy Haskit, you’re starting to sound like some of the superstitious folk around here.”

  “There’s an old saying, Mr. Adams. If you believe it, then it’s so.”

  “Well, I don’t believe a dead murderer can come back to life and kill again,” Chan said adamantly.

  “But those that were killed might have believed it. And that’s all that matters.”

  6:25 PM

  Deputy Jimmy Evans sat in his squad car across from a 7-11 near downtown Macinaw. The FBI agent from Atlanta had assumed authority while Crawford was out of the office, and Evans didn’t care to be bossed around so he lied that he had patrol and took off.

  He had his windows rolled down and was sipping on a bag beer, waiting until he was officially off the clock at seven. An old red Ford truck pulled into the 7-11 and two men got out. Evans didn’t recognize either one. They were both white and both had beards and greasy, long hair. The taller of the two, Roland Wolfe, looked to be close to 300 pounds with meaty arms that he showed off with a black tank-top tee-shirt. The other one, Terrance Orton, was smaller, thinner, wore a leather headband, but had the same kind of look of trouble about him. As a lawman through the years, Evans had gotten good at sniffing out the troublemakers and his radar went off with Wolfe and Orton.

  He watched them enter the store, waited a minute, got out of his car, and followed them inside. Evans noticed the girl behind the counter: a petite, country-cute, young brunette. She stood with her arms crossed, a bit anxious. He shot her a smile and she smiled back, relaxing in his presence. The two men were in the back of the store near the beer cooler. Evans positioned himself near the magazine rack and thumbed through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated with Kansas City Royal’s George Brett’s smiling mug on the cover.

  Each of the men grabbed a case of Stroh’s Light and headed for the front. They noticed the deputy but didn’t seem to care. Evans got a whiff of marijuana as they passed.

  Orton threw his case of beer on the counter and eyed the girl at the cash register. “Say, darling, why don’t you join us for a little party back at our place?”

  “Gotta work,” she said quickly.

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nbsp; “Aw, man, c’mon. It’ll be wild. I promise you we know how to party.”

  The poor girl said nothing but glanced up and forced a quick smile.

  “Is that a yes?” He turned to Wolfe and laughed. He then turned back to the girl, his eyes taking her all in. “So what time do you get off, sweetheart?”

  “Late,” she said, this time with a little anger underneath.

  “Well, hell, I can wait.” He laughed again. The big man almost smiled.

  “Sorry, not interested.”

  “C’mon, babe. Don’t shut me out.”

  “She said she’s not interested,” Evans voiced from behind.

  Orton turned slowly, met the deputy’s eyes, then turned back to the girl and smiled. “So, what do you say? Want to come hangout with us?”

  The girl looked right past the man and pleaded with her eyes to Evans.

  “Listen, sport,” Evans said, leaning in. “The young lady said she’s not interested. So why don’t you pay for your beer and then get on outta here.”

  Orton and Wolfe turned to face Evans who gave them a blank stare.

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong. And I don’t see how this is any of your damn business,” Terrance Orton said.

  “I’m making it my business,” Evans said, tapping on his badge. “You both would be doing yourselves a big favor by paying for your stuff and getting the hell outta here like I said.”

  Orton inched forward and got in the deputy’s face. “Watcha gonna do about it if we don’t?”

  “Try me,” Evans said.

  Orton held his look of intimidation and then grinned slightly. He turned back to the counter. He threw his hands up like he was surrendering. “Sorry, babe, some other time.”

  Both men left their beer on the counter and walked out. Evans followed to the door and watched them until the truck pulled out of the lot.

  “Thank you so much,” the young girl said, breathless and smiling.

  Evans turned to her. “No, Ma’am. Thank you. You may have just given us the first lead in the biggest case we’ve got.”

  8:22 PM

  Evans drove out past Macinaw city limits to the small crossroads community of Snake Creek where Sheriff Crawford lived and pulled into the drive of the sheriff’s modest ranch-style home. He exited the squad car and came quickly to the front door.

  “Deputy Evans,” Crawford said. “Could this not wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, sir. You need to hear this now.”

  Crawford backed up. “Come in then.”

  As they entered a front parlor room, Evans asked, “How’s Miss Judy?”

  “She has her good days and bad. More bad days then good lately though. She’s been confined to her bed as of late.” Judy Crawford was the sheriff’s wife who had been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, the so-called Lou Gehrig’s disease, three years before. The once vibrant woman and mother of his two sons had been slowly wasting away. The doctors were unsure of how much time she had left. Crawford had become very protective of her and her privacy—to the point that only a few people knew the seriousness of her deteriorating condition.

  “Have a seat.” Crawford indicated the couch and Evans sat down. The sheriff took a chair opposite his deputy. “What’s this all about?”

  Evans explained the late afternoon events at the 7-11, walking the sheriff through every detail. Crawford was becoming a bit anxious until Evans got to the most important part: “And then he threw up his hands like he was giving up, and that’s when I saw them.”

  “What?”

  “Sigils, sir. On each forearm. A pentagram on his left and what looked like the beginning of Michael’s mark on his right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, definitely,” Evans said. “And I think the bigger guy had ’em too.”

  Crawford rubbed his hands together. “Did you get the plate numbers?”

  “Already ran ‘em through. Bobby is getting the info from Pebo now. He should be here shortly.”

  Crawford nodded. “What about the FBI man? Does he know about it?”

  “No, sir. He’s camped out in your office, plowing through the files. We thought it best to notify you first.”

  Crawford grinned. “Thanks, Jimmy. Good work so far.”

  Headlights soon careened through the parlor window. Both men jumped up and were quickly out the door. Deputy Haskit had arrived. He got out of his cruiser, still dressed in his civilian clothes. The three men met on the driveway in the glare of the car’s headlights.

  “Pebo tracked the vehicle, Sheriff,” Haskit said. “It belongs to Ryan Grubbs.”

  “I know Grubbs,” Crawford said. “He stays over in Eastland Heights.”

  “Yeah,” Evans added. “They call him, Rhino. He’s been busted a couple of times for possession and minor disturbances. Heard he’s running crystal meth now. The two at the store may be part of his supply line—they could’ve borrowed his truck.”

  “Maybe it’s time for another roundup at Eastland,” Haskit said. “A little search and seizure—see what turns up.”

  Haskit and Evans looked to the sheriff who nodded then said, “Tomorrow is the fourth. Good a time as any for some fireworks.”

  OCTOBER 3, 2016

  1:23 PM

  After a quick shower and change back at her motel, Tindal returned to pick up Chan and drove them back to the Brooks property. Black clouds had rolled in during the early afternoon giving the ill-fated land and farmhouse an even more surreal quality.

  Three of the Macinaw County Sheriff’s Department’s patrol cars remained parked behind the house guarding the cut road that led to the crime scene. The Macinaw sheriff himself, Tony Monroe, was among the group stationed out front so that SLED and the FBI could continue their investigation unimpeded.

  Monroe was the first African-American to hold the office of sheriff in Macinaw County since the post-Civil War Reconstruction days. A former Macinaw High football hero, Monroe played college ball for Buddy Pough at South Carolina State and then joined the military for six years before returning to work in law enforcement for his hometown. He moved up the ranks quickly and was overwhelmingly voted in as sheriff in the last election. Although physically intimidating, he had an easy-going way about him that made him popular with both the whites and blacks. He greeted Tindal and Chan as they approached.

  “Hey, folks. Out sight-seeing again?”

  Tindal laughed. “That’s the problem, Sheriff; there are no sights to see, unless you’re willing to let us take a stroll down the road.”

  “Nope, can’t do that,” he said with a smile. “I’ve had to turn around dozens of reporters today—major news outlets: NBC, CNN, FOX, several local television vans from Columbia, Charleston, Florence. I even had to shoo away two helicopters circling the place.”

  “Can you make an exception for an old friend?” Chan asked.

  “Sorry, Chan, the FBI and SLED would have my ass. They’re still down there—cranes, bulldozers, trucks—must be fifty people working the scene.”

  “Any word on what they’ve found?” Chan asked.

  “They’re taking it real slow. They’ve excavated the patrol car from the swamp but there is a ton of dirt and sludge inside and they don’t want to disrupt any possible evidence.” Monroe leaned up off the vehicle and whispered to the reporters, “I did hear they found signs of gun fire.”

  “Were all three in the squad car shot?” Chan followed.

  “Don’t know that for sure.”

  “How about a peek inside the Brooks’ house then?” Tindal asked.

  Monroe shook his head. “Still off-limits too. Not until the FBI clears it.” He noticed their sour looks. “I told you earlier, if and when I get the word, you guys will be the first to be notified. Okay?”

  Chan and Tindal thanked Monroe and headed back to the rental car. Tindal went to start the engine but turned to Chan instead.

  “So what now?”

  Chan looked over at the old house. The wind f
rom the approaching afternoon storm blew across the dead fields and rattled the rusted tin roof. A strange feeling came over him—guilt but something more. Chan could sense Henry Brooks. He was close—out in the fields—near that dilapidated barn—inside the house. He was there, all around them, laughing at them.

  “What’s the matter?” Tindal asked.

  “I stopped, Tindal. In 1976 I stopped. I didn’t finish the job. I was close, but I didn’t finish. I should have kept going, should have figured it out.”

  “No one blames you for not solving the case, Chan. You went through hell. And as you said, it was very complicated. There are so many parts to this.”

  Chan stroked his grey goatee. “But only one constant.”

  Tindal nodded. “Henry Brooks.”

  “Yes, Henry Brooks.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. “Okay,” Tindal said, “so what would you have done next? If Brooks is the key, what would have been your next move?”

  3:40 PM

  They arrived at the law offices of Crane and Campbell on the corner of Blanding Street and Main in Columbia. The rain storm had come and gone during the ride up from Macinaw leaving the capitol city wet and sticky.

  Chan and Tindal found a parking spot and hustled over to the old building that housed the law office. An empty hallway and an immediate rise of stairs greeted them as they came through the door. They stood just inside the hall and waited.

  A grey-haired woman smartly dressed in long blue business skirt and matching coat approached from down the dark hall, the wooden floor boards creaking beneath her.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “I’m Tindal Huddleston with the Reuters News Agency, and this is Chan Adams. I called earlier…”

  “Yes, you spoke with me. I’m Mrs. Helen Darwin. You had interest in speaking with one of our lawyers, correct?”

  “We’re not seeking legal advice,” Tindal said. “Just information.”

  “Oh, and what is this in reference to?”

  “We are looking for information on Henry Brooks,” Chan interjected. “We know Crane and Campbell represented Mr. Brooks at his trial in 1964.”

  “Henry Brooks? Well, my, that was indeed years ago.”