Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  “Wow, that was a nice one,” Jean said poking a subdued Chan in the side.

  Chan drew down the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Very impressive.”

  Jean laughed. “Well, you’re not exactly enthusiastic about this, are you? I thought everybody loved fireworks.”

  “Oh, I do. It’s just…”

  “The story?” Jean asked. “You know you’re allowed to forget about it for a little while.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Jean. Don’t get me wrong. I love this. I love being here with you. It’s just it feels strange to be sitting here enjoying myself while others…aren’t. Norma said something to me today. She said that Henry Brooks and the Dover murder are like stains that never come clean. I can feel that now too. It creeps into everything I do even while I’m trying to enjoy myself.”

  “We all feel it, Chan. Every one of us. But I’ve learned, like a lot of people, to put it aside, to suppress it when I must. It’s necessary for sanity sake.”

  “I just feel so helpless. I wish there was more that I could do.”

  Jean reached out and gently angled his face towards her. “You will, Chan. I’ve got a good feeling about you. You’re gonna be the one to break this story wide open. You’re gonna solve this before it’s too late.” She smiled. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.”

  In the night sky the fireworks raced to a mad dash finale popping fervently and stridently, showering colorful light everywhere as the music reached its thrilling crescendo. Below, oblivious to the several hundred cheering folks around them, Chan and Jean shared a kiss that lasted long after the final spark fell.

  OCTOBER 3, 2016

  9:15 PM

  Chan and Tindal sat in silence as they raced down I-26 toward Macinaw. The discovery had been a revelation, but one that again led to more questions than answers. Sonny Watts had been granted access to Henry Brooks at the State Mental Hospital on more than one occasion and had lied about his knowledge of and time with the notorious murderer. Therefore, the number one question had to be: Why?

  Immediately after seeing his name on the hospital permission form, Chan and Tindal had raced back upstairs and demanded to see the employment records of the firm. Sonny Watts had clerked for the Crane and Campbell during his years in law school but was never hired on once he passed the bar. There were no reasons given, he had simply become employed elsewhere. They did find an old picture of Watts in a file which allowed Chan to confirm that he was indeed the same man he met in 1976.

  “So, what do we do with this?” Tindal asked as the headlights on the westbound lane flared across the windshield. “Do we go to the police?”

  Chan rubbed at his forehead, a splitting headache on top of the news. “I don’t know, Tindal. Eventually this is going to be your call. But I’d like to make a few inquiries first. Things that need to be verified anyway.”

  Tindal nodded, drove in silence for a few moments more, and then, “Chan, are you sure you saw Sonny Watts burn up in that house fire?”

  Chan looked over at her. “I’ve been asking myself the same damn thing. It was dark, smoky, the house was falling apart and I was expecting him to be there, you know? There was a body but I…I couldn’t swear to it one way or the other.” He glanced out the window and then, “And there’s something more, Tindal.”

  “What?”

  “Watts employed several illegals to work around his place. He had them camp in the fields behind his home. There are no records of these people so it would have been easy for him to lure one inside, knock him out or kill him, and then use the man’s body as his double.” Tindal clicked the roof of her mouth with her tongue at the mere thought. “On July fourth, the day I was let out of the hospital, and once I got my car back, I drove down to Watts’ estate. I searched the fields behind the burned down house, but they were gone.”

  “Did you tell Crawford?”

  “No, at the time I truly believed it was Watts who burned in the fire. And I was more worried that the immigrants would get into trouble for being in the country illegally. I understood their disappearing, and I didn’t pursue it.”

  “He used you,” Tindal said. “He called you and knew you would come to his house. You would witness his house burn. You would report that he died.”

  Chan bit down on his lip, a sudden rush of hatred and guilt overcoming him.

  “But why?” Tindal continued. “Why fake his death? What did he have to gain by going through all of that trouble? He couldn’t be behind the Macinaw Seven killings, could he? He was their defense counsel for God’s sake.”

  Chan pinched the bridge of his nose. “He sought them out quickly. He was the lawyer for the Seven before they even arrived at the jailhouse. He claimed to be a righteous defender, but what if Sonny had met with them urgently just to get inside their heads.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He brings them a warning. A warning not to say anything about what they saw in the Dover barn.”

  “And if they do talk, then somehow Henry Brooks would come after them. Hunt them down and kill them.” Tindal grinned. “Holy shit, Chan, you may be on to something.”

  “We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, but let’s assume for a moment all that’s true. Then the Seven must’ve threatened to reveal the truth—whatever that truth is—back in ’76.” Chan tapped his finger along the glass of the passenger window as he thought it through. “Perhaps the answer lies with Robert Dover. When we get back, I want us to go through Dover’s murder trial again. There’s something we’re missing there.”

  “Agreed. And we should also take a closer look at the paper trail for Watts. Surely he had a will. Who benefitted from his death—who got his insurance money, bank accounts, et cetera?”

  “Good idea,” Chan said. He looked over to Tindal in the glow of the dashboard and smiled. He then indicated the speedometer. “Push it, girl. We’ve got work to do.”

  JULY 5, 1976

  12:45 AM

  Sheriff Crawford whipped his cruiser around the fire truck and the ambulance which were partially blocking oncoming traffic and pulled off on the bank of the dark road. Five sheriff deputies’ patrol cars, two from Macinaw, two from Orangeburg and one from Colleton were also there. Crawford hopped out and trudged down the eight-foot embankment to meet with the others.

  “What we got?” he asked Deputy Haskit.

  “Ja’Len Wells’ car, Sheriff. It’s his Mercury.”

  “And Wells?”

  “He’s in there,” Haskit said. “At the wheel. Dead. Puncture wounds to his throat. The Michael sigil carved into his chest.”

  “Jesus…how in God’s name is that possible, Deputy? Didn’t we have this man under surveillance?”

  “Yes, sir, but he got away from our tail. He apparently left the Northfork Chapel where the black folks were having their meeting well before it was over. Our man looked for him for hours. It was just happenstance that he backtracked down this road and saw Wells’ car down this embankment.”

  Crawford blew out another sigh. Per his usual lawman’s habit, he then took a few moments to walk away from the direct scene and survey the area around him. River frogs and crickets were making their nightly racket and a swarm of fireflies were punctuating the swampy darkness with their own fireworks show. He sensed something beyond the fireflies, beyond the dark tree line—a presence—as if someone was out there—watching. Crawford shook his head, chalking up the paranoia to exhaustion and returned to his deputy. “Any prints leading away from the car?”

  “Not that we can find. We’ll dust the car too, but you know how careful this killer has been.”

  Crawford nodded. “Post up here ‘til morning. Widen the grid once you get a little daylight. Check both sides of the road.” He paused before adding softly, “Do all you can, Bobby.”

  “Sheriff Crawford?” The call came from the road above. Crawford turned, saw Agent Dunn at the top of the embankment and then climbed his way up to meet him.

  Once at the top Crawford
said, “Well, here we are again, Agent Dunn.”

  “Another one of the Seven?”

  “Ja’Len Wells. He’s been tagged with the Michael sigil.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Coroner’s on his way, but it looks like sometime late this afternoon.”

  “Might eliminate your boy, Grubbs.”

  “No, I’m not eliminating anyone at this point.”

  Dunn nodded. “Down to two of the seven now. You’re running out of potential bait, Sheriff.”

  “Agreed. We need to set up our trap and soon.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “A couple,” Crawford said. “We can meet in my office later and discuss it.”

  “Okay, but you’ve got more problems than that. The blacks in Macinaw are staging a march and rally later today in your town. I had one of our agents sit in on the meeting and had him report back to me. There’s a sentiment in the black community that if these victims were white more would have been done. They claim you’re not moving fast enough to defend them.”

  Crawford took a quick glance back at Ja’Len’s car and then back at the FBI man. “You know something, Agent Dunn? They’re absolutely right.”

  6:35 AM

  As soon as Chan entered The Republic’s newsroom, he knew something was wrong. All the employees were standing around with despondent looks, including his boss. All the good feelings he had developed in his limited time last night with Jean, all the positive vibes, quickly evaporated.

  “What’s up?” Chan asked.

  “It’s Ja’Len Wells,” Darby said. “The sheriff’s department is reporting that he was murdered yesterday. They found him in his car with the angel marks on his chest.”

  “My God,” Chan said. He leaned over a desk chair like he had been punched in the gut, but then quickly straightened. “You want me there?”

  “I already sent Norma. She’ll handle it.” Darby pointed to his office. “But come with me please.”

  Chan followed him into his office and stood while Darby sat behind his desk. “Shut the door and have a seat.” Chan did as he was told.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Adams, I’m not sure how to ask you this.” Chan smiled apprehensively. “Thing is, this situation with the Macinaw Seven has gotten very dangerous as of late. In a manner of speaking, it’s out of control.”

  “You’re not pulling me off the story, are you?”

  Darby raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “No, no, to be honest I didn’t think you’d stop even if I ordered you to.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Good. Because what I’m going to suggest may put you in more peril than before.”

  “I’m all ears, boss.”

  Darby rubbed his hands. “Pebo Clark, the information director at the sheriff’s office, is my cousin—I didn’t know if you knew that. He’s been an especially good contact for us over the years as you might imagine.” Chan nodded. “Anyway, Pebo told me last night that there’s a new motorcycle gang that’s using Henry Brooks as its primary symbol. They call themselves Henry Brooks’ Disciples. They have the Abaddon and Michael sigils tattooed on their arms in some warped sense of allegiance to that dead bastard.”

  “Are they in Macinaw?”

  “Yes. Ryan Grubbs, a local crystal meth dealer, is one of the members. And there are others involved.”

  “Do the police believe they are connected to the murders?”

  “They have them under surveillance, so we have to assume so.”

  Chan leaned back in his chair. “But why? What would they have to gain by knocking off the Seven?”

  “We don’t know. Pebo seemed to think they may have been hired by someone to do the job. Killers for hire sort of thing.”

  Chan’s thoughts went immediately to Ellis Dover, but he kept it to himself. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you in there. I want you to pick up on any information from Grubbs and company. Find out if they had anything to do with this.”

  Chan thought for a second. “Despite what you may think, I’m not much of a crystal meth user.”

  Darby laughed. “You don’t have to go that far, but you can hang out where they hang out. You can put your ear to the wall. They’ll smell a cop within twenty feet, but they don’t know you—they won’t suspect you.”

  “Okay. Where do I start?”

  “Grubbs lives in Eastland Heights. It’s a trailer park outside of town. He hangs out a lot at Ricky’s, a bar near Eastland, and at Dolly’s Dollies, a strip club out near I-95.”

  Chan grinned. “Sounds like my kind of people.”

  “Don’t take this or him lightly, Adams. Grubbs has a serious track record. And if things start to get ugly, I want you to get the hell outta there.”

  Chan stood. “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best. I’ll get started right away.” He headed for the door but stopped. “And Mr. Darby, thank you for trusting me on this.”

  Darby looked him directly in the eyes. “You’ve earned that trust, Adams.” He then soured the sentiment with, “Just don’t screw it up.”

  10:36 AM

  The offices at City Hall in Macinaw sat directly across the square from the County Courthouse and were adjacent to the First Baptist Church of Macinaw as well as the local post office. It was comparable to Charleston’s intersection of Meeting and Broad streets which also comprised its four corners with local, state, federal and ecclesiastical law. But with The Republic offices only one door down, Macinaw citizens often bragged of having their square under the watchful eye of the press, thereby keeping their laws “honest.”

  The mayor’s office was at the top of City Hall. A grand picture window behind the mayor’s desk looked out over the square. Mayor Stone stood next to the window with his hands behind his back. He was getting an earful from Ellis Dover who had demanded an audience with his Honor.

  “You let these outside colored folks have their march in our town and we’ll be the laughing stock of the whole South. They’ll make a mockery of justice,” Dover said. He looked over to Police Chief Stodges who was sitting in front of the mayor’s desk and was appearing more annoyed than anything else. “You’ll have to bring in a wall of police. You’ll have to keep the blacks from looting and raising hell. The fire department might have to blast the streets clean of them with their water cannons. Do you really want another Orangeburg uprising on your hands? This cannot happen.”

  “Take it easy, Ellis. They petitioned for the right to march. They’ve submitted the proper forms. What the hell was I supposed to do?” Stone asked.

  “Deny them. Deny their requests. They denied me the life of my son, remember? Where was the outrage then? Where were the protests? It is only criminals being killed out there now—the same criminals who killed my son. Hell, we should be throwing a parade for the son of a bitch who’s been knocking them off!”

  “Ellis, please, you’re being ridiculous,” Stone said.

  “Am I, Mr. Mayor? Am I? Well, we’ll see who’s being ridiculous after they march through your town, burning businesses, starting riots. And when they do, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned for the door, shaking his finger at the two men. “You need to be on your knees, gentlemen, praying to the good Lord, that you never know the tragedy that befell my family. That you never know that pain—the hell they put my son through.” Dover exited and slammed the door behind him.

  Mayor Stone lifted his glasses and wiped the stress from his face. He then looked to Stodges. “Contingencies, Chief?”

  Stodges shrugged. “Well, I don’t think we’ll need a wall of police, but we will have plenty on hand. Highway patrol will help with traffic. Crawford’s men will be on the ready if needed. We should be fine.”

  Stone glanced back out the window and then back to the chief. “I don’t want to put any more emphasis on this than we have to. The less visible our forces are, the greater the chance this will go smoothly. I talked at length with the Reverend Howard. He’s expecting a larg
e but peaceful crowd.”

  “It’s not the police you have to worry about, Mayor. And it’s not the colored folk. It’s Dover and his cronies. If they stay away, all will be fine. But mix the gas with the fire…”

  “I hear you,” Stone said. “Stay on top of it, Chief. Let me know if this office can further assist you.”

  Stodges nodded, hopped up from his seat and left the office. Stone turned back to the window and watched the traffic come and go. He shook his head in disbelief. “Henry Brooks, what the hell have you done to this town?”

  4:32 PM

  Still in her nurse’s uniform, Jean Reid grabbed the bags of groceries from the back seat of her car and with her right foot slammed the car door. She made it half-way to her house when she saw Chan sitting on the front porch waving.

  “Hey there,” Jean said. “I wasn’t expecting you here so soon.”

  Chan stood, put out his cigarette, and leaned against the porch railing. “Quick drop-by, I’m afraid. I’m gonna have to cancel tonight. I’ve gotta work.”

  Jean made a pouty face. “Aww. And I was going to make you my grandmother’s world famous spaghetti tonight.” She held up the bags in her hands.

  Chan leaped the railing, went to her and grabbed one of the bags. “I’m sorry. I really hate missing it. Rain check?”

  Jean smiled. “Sure. Come on in. You can help me put these away.”

  Chan followed her into the kitchen entrance of her small wood-framed home. She placed the bag on the kitchen counter and then flipped on the lights.

  “Just put it there,” she said indicating a spot on the counter. She started transferring groceries to the fridge.

  Chan took a quick look around. “Love your place. Sure beats the heck outta my little apartment.”

  “It’s a rental. The rooms are small, but it does have a nice backyard. My roommate Rachel and I have been here for two years now. She’s a nurse too, did you know?” Chan shook his head that he did not. “She works on two-west with the mommas and the babies. I never see her though. We usually work opposite shifts.”