Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  “Y’all have done a fantastic job with it,” Chan said. “Amazing how clean it is.”

  Jean laughed. “How about a coke?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a few minutes.”

  Jean dug through the back of the refrigerator and found a can. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have a seat,” she said indicating the den area. “Give me a sec to change and I’ll be right out.” She reached behind her and having a little difficulty turned her back to him. “Sorry, but do you mind?” Chan felt for the zipper and pulled it half-way down. “Thanks,” she said as she headed for her room.

  Chan took a seat on the couch. He made a quick survey of the place noting the simple but elegant tastes of Jean and her roommate. In less than a minute, Jean returned. She was looking relaxed now out of the uniform, bare-footed and in a pair of blue running shorts with an orange Clemson University tee-shirt. She sat next to him and drew her leg up on the couch.

  “So, work, huh? Does it involve the story?” Jean asked.

  “Possibly. It’s a different angle to it.”

  “I heard about Ja’Len. It doesn’t have anything to do with him, does it?”

  “No. Like I said there’s something new on the horizon they want me to investigate.”

  “It’s not dangerous though, is it? I don’t want to have you as a patient again anytime soon.” They both laughed.

  “I hope not. But it may be very involving. It might be for a few days.”

  Jean leaned her head against a couch pillow and smiled. “How about next weekend? I’m off on Saturday.”

  “That could work,” Chan said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Leave it to me,” she said with a wink. “It’ll be a surprise.”

  The way she said surprise made Chan momentarily weak in the knees. And the fact that she was so beautiful on top of it. In his mind this girl was perfect.

  He leaned forward and put the soda can on the coffee table. “Sounds great. I can’t wait. But unfortunately, I really do have to go now.”

  He rose and she stood with him. She grabbed him by the shoulders. “You be careful now, Chan.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Jean leaned up on her toes, closed her eyes and lightly kissed him, a moment more and the kiss became much deeper. He felt it throughout his whole body; the fireworks from the night before had returned. He pressed against her; his arms wrapping around her waist.

  He had only known her for a few short days, but he knew it now more than ever—this was the girl he was meant to be with—the one he would make his life with—Jean Reid was to be the one.

  5:45 PM

  Just the day before, the square in Macinaw had been the site of a joyous, flag-waving parade celebrating the freedoms that Americans share. Today the same locale was being used to exercise one of those freedoms: the right to assemble, but the tone of the event was a far different affair.

  Reverend Howard had led the march down Main Street, two-hundred-plus African-Americans in tow. They locked arms and walked slowly, singing hymns, chanting together, seeking change, seeking justice. White Macinaw stood idly by, lining the sidewalks, arms crossed over their chests. There was no cheering as the day before. No happy faces.

  Stodges had his men at crucial points along the route—eyes wide open, keeping in constant contact. The chief himself was stationed in the square with signals ready to defend, swarm or stand-down. He, like many other law officers in the state, had learned from the painful lessons of the Orangeburg Massacre: bend, don’t break; defer but protect at all costs.

  The marchers filled the grass inlay of the square, occupying nearly every inch. Norma was among them. She noticed that the remaining two of the Macinaw Seven, William Anderson and Deonte Johnson were nowhere around. She was told they were in their respective houses on lockdown, black armed security guards protecting them. She had talked with many of the marchers and found them all hesitant and scared for their future. There was such mistrust of law enforcement. History was not on their side and it skewed every reasonable tangent of conversation. Blacks and whites would never be able to see eye to eye on this or any subject, Norma reasoned. Not in my lifetime.

  Reverend Howard broke from the front line and made his way onto the back of a flatbed truck that was to be used as the forum’s stage. “Today was to be a day of reckoning,” Howard began. “A day of healing and justice. But I fear I must report first of yet another tragic loss. Just last night we lost Mr. Ja’Len Wells to this madman who has already done the same to four of our brothers. Despised for who he was and murdered by that same hatred, Ja’Len has gone to a far better place. As such, I weep not for him, but for what he leaves behind: a world divided, bitter and inconsolable.”

  Ellis Dover, flanked by his three sons and family friend, Trey Richards, stood atop the stairs of the county courthouse and looked on as Howard continued. “Listen to him talk. What the hell does that darkie know about being inconsolable?” Dover asked. “He doesn’t know a damn thing. I should sue the hell outta him for defaming the memory of my son.”

  “Let them have their day, Mr. Dover,” Richards said, speaking like the lawyer he was. “Seems to me they’re getting what they deserve anyway.”

  10:15 PM

  Ricky’s Pool Hall was housed in a singular, cinderblock structure that sat at the end of Plant Road next to Olsen Tools, which employed nearly three hundred Macinaw locals. Home to the labor-intensive nine-to-fivers, bikers and the Macinaw fringe element, Ricky’s saw good weekday business and even better on the weekends. Calls to the police for drunk and disorderly patrons or outright bar fights were not uncommon.

  Chan entered Ricky’s with Thin Lizzy’s The Boys Are Back in Town pumping from the corner jukebox. It was a typical, smoky bar, not unlike Allen’s Bar and Grill, where he used to tend bar in Athens, Georgia. Small round tables fronted the place with an L-shaped bar on the back wall. A mirror behind the bar made the front room seem a little larger. Bathrooms and storage were to the immediate left, and on the right side, there was a room containing five regulation pool tables with rectangular Budweiser lights over the tables’ green-clothed beds.

  Chan took a seat at the bar with two regulars and plopped his smokes on the beer-sticky counter. The bartender, a thin, pony-tailed man of fifty with sunken brown eyes, approached. “Whataya have?”

  “Budweiser,” Chan said. “In a bottle.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna get it in a fucking soup bowl,” he said which garnered a laugh from the two regulars. He opened the bar cooler and slid him the beer.

  “Thanks,” Chan said. He packed down his Marlboro Lights, drew one and then brought it to life with his lighter. He blew smoke to the ceiling and then nodded at the bar men who were eyeing him warily. “How’s it going?” he finally asked.

  The men seemed surprised he was talking to them. They nodded and muddled their response then turned back to their mugs.

  “New in town?” the bartender asked.

  “About three weeks now,” Chan said. “I’m from Villa Rica, Georgia. Ever hear of it?”

  “No, but I’m surprised whenever anybody moves here to Macinaw.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The bartender chuckled. “I’ll give you three more weeks to figure it out.”

  Chan smiled and drank his beer. The bartender diverted his attention elsewhere leaving Chan to watch the TV at the end of the bar. ABC was telecasting Monday Night Baseball, a game between the Phillies and the Dodgers. The reception was poor, but Chan had little else to do.

  Thirty minutes later and his luck changed. A pool player saddled in next to him and slipped a five dollar bill onto the bar. He rapped his knuckles on the top to garner the bartender’s attention. “Need some quarters,” the man said. As the exchange was being made, Chan noticed the pentagram on the man’s left forearm. Chan glanced up at him quickly. He was of medium height, had an unkempt beard and long hair with a leather band around his head.

&nb
sp; “Play for money?” Chan asked.

  “Twenty a game,” Terrance Orton said. “You want a shot?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, come on then. I’m tired of taking other people’s money—might as well take yours.”

  Chan straightened, gathered up his pack of cigarettes and followed him to the pool room. He noticed the man was walking with a slight limp. A huge man with the same tattoos was sitting on a barstool near the open table. Chan felt Roland Wolfe’s eyes intently on him like an intense watch dog. As Orton passed Wolfe, Chan heard him laugh about “fresh meat.”

  Orton pulled a twenty from his front pocket and put it on table and Chan did the same. “What’s the game?” Chan asked.

  “Eight ball,” Orton said as he slipped a quarter into the table’s slot. The balls released, crashed into the return tray and Chan racked them. “And since it’s my quarter, I get to break.”

  11:53 PM

  The table was clear, save the eight ball which was flush to the middle of the table’s head rail in the area pool players call “the kitchen.” Chan and Orton had split the two prior games and they decided to throw a hundred dollars on the rubber match. In addition to Wolfe, the game drew a few of the other late-nighters—most of whom were pulling for Orton and took every chance to let Chan know it.

  During the second game, Chan managed to sneak in a question about the tattoos to Wolfe, but the big man just barely grunted a response. And a follow-up question was met with a terse “fuck off.”

  Chan was up. The cue ball was resting near the foot of the table and Chan leaned over to eye it. Orton stood directly behind him, bouncing his pool stick handle on the floor. It was at times like these that Chan was glad to have spent so much of his college days in the bar scene. “Corner pocket,” Chan said, slapping his hand in the pocket opening next to his right. He drew back his pool stick and rammed it home. The cue ball shot out and smashed the eight ball which caromed off the rail and flew straight like a bat out of hell into the called pocket. The cue ball then followed, rolled an inch from the pocket on the opposite side and came to a dead stop. Chan held his position. He knew any kind of celebration might get the wrong reaction from the two Disciples. He slowly stood and tossed his pool stick on the table. He turned to face them.

  “You some kinda hustler?” Orton asked.

  Here it comes. “No way, man, just got lucky,” Chan said.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t paying no hundred bucks for luck, you got me?”

  “Okay. Let’s call it even then.”

  “No, what I was thinking was another game. You know, this time, winner take all.” It was the way Orton said it, Chan knew he didn’t really have much of a choice.

  Before Chan could respond, another man walked into the room. He was physically impressive and he too sported the sigils. Chan figured this must be the ring-leader, Ryan Grubbs. Grubbs didn’t say anything, but Orton and Wolfe knew that they were to follow.

  “Some other time,” Orton said, flashing Chan a grin from hell.

  The throng of watchers broke apart as Orton and Wolfe headed out the front. Grubbs hung back taking a long look at Chan. He too then turned and disappeared out front.

  Chan flipped another cigarette into his mouth and relaxed his shoulders. Round one was over, and at best, this one felt like a tie.

  OCTOBER 4, 2016

  7:37 AM

  Chan sat at the little table in his kitchen, bleary-eyed, his mind scrambled. He and Tindal had spent the entire night piecing the case together. Every square inch of countertop, kitchen cabinets, appliance surfaces as well as the breakfast table had some document, article or photograph taped on it. They had joked that when they finished wallpapering the kitchen they’d tackle the den next.

  Chan was focused on a court document from the Dover trial when he heard Tindal return. She threw her handbag on the couch and came into the kitchen. “Any luck?”

  Chan continued to read and grunted a no comment.

  “Here,” Tindal said as she dropped a white paper bag next to the document. “I found a little store that had some whole-wheat bagels.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you make the coffee yet?”

  “Forgot.”

  Tindal smirked as she began the coffee maker. She then sat next to him at the table and dug into the bag. She tore a bagel in half and handed it to him. “Eat something before you fall over.”

  Chan looked up at her, ignoring the bagel. “Robert Dover’s death was caused by hanging, yes?”

  “Yes, the police report clearly states fatal neck injury from suspension.”

  “But look at the coroner’s report,” Chan said as he dug through the papers. He found it and then read: “Dover exhibited signs of hypoxia, a bluish complexion, pinpoint burst of blood vessels in the face and upper neck, and distended lungs.”

  “Right. All signs of a lack of oxygen. What’s your point?”

  “He used a rope.” Chan scrambled to find the photo evidence and showed it to Tindal. “This rope.”

  “Okay, so…” she said with a mouthful of bagel.

  “But go back to Payton Medlin’s notes and testimony. Nowhere does he mention that the rope marks on the neck have that inflamed edge of vital reaction that happens in most hangings.”

  “What’s vital reaction?”

  “In a suicide or homicide by rope hanging, the ligature marks on the victim are usually raised to match the twists on the rope. They are ‘vital’ in that they happen because the victim is alive when the rope is put around his neck. Sometimes they’re faint, and then later after the victim dies, they turn to a reddish, brown color.”

  “Rope burns.”

  “Essentially, post-mortem rope burns, but yeah. And one thing more.” Tindal raised both eyebrows waiting for more. “Medlin states there were no rope fibers in Robert’s hands or on his body. Strange, isn’t it? How do you hang yourself without ever touching the rope?”

  “So what you’re saying is that Robert may have been killed prior and then the killer or killers used the rope to make it look like a hanging.”

  “Maybe.” Chan said with a twinge of doubt. “After all he did show signs of asphyxia. But his hyoid bone was not broken and there were no other signs of strangulation.” Chan put his own hands around his neck. “No bruises, hand prints, fingernail marks. Nothing to let you know that he had been strangled.”

  “So, was this even murder?”

  “Did you read all of the coroner’s report?”

  Tindal rubbed her eyes. “God, Chan, at this point, I don’t remember.” Chan went back to the file and flipped through the papers. He pulled one and slid it over so Tindal could see. “What’s this?”

  “The end of his report. From the complete autopsy of Dover’s body. The one used in court.”

  Tindal scanned it with a confused look. “Do you want me to re-read all of the gory details.”

  “Just the second to last paragraph.”

  “I can’t,” Tindal said. “It’s been black-lined. Redacted.”

  “Exactly my point. Out of the entire report on Robert Dover’s autopsy, one small paragraph has been redacted. Remember, this is the official document used in the Macinaw Seven trial. My question is: Why?”

  “Maybe they didn’t want to bring it up in the court proceedings. Maybe it was embarrassing to Dover or to his family.”

  “I think you may be more correct than you know.”

  “But both sides, defense and prosecution, would have known what was redacted. It would have been agreed upon in the judge’s chambers.”

  “Yes, that’s true. So, if it was something that might have eliminated the belief that Robert had committed suicide or anything that didn’t follow the official police report of him being strung up by the accused, the prosecution would have certainly wanted it out.”

  “But the defense wouldn’t have, would they?” Tindal asked.

  “Yes, they might, if Sonny Watts was the attorney and if he wanted to keep that
information out of the courtroom too.”

  “Chan, what are you getting at?”

  “The secret. The reason why Sonny Watts threatened the Macinaw Seven, his own clients. The reason why Henry Brooks made his appearance during that summer of ’76. Don’t you see, Tindal? This could be the key to everything.”

  “All of that revealed in a redacted paragraph of an autopsy?”

  “I’ll bet you anything that it is.”

  “But it’s all a moot point anyway. We’ll never know why Medlin’s report was black-lined. That was so long ago.” Tindal noticed the grin on Chan’s face. “What?”

  “He’s alive. Payton Medlin is close to ninety years old, but he’s still out there kicking.”

  “Around here?”

  “In Palmetto Acres. About eight miles north, near the Orangeburg County line.”

  “Jesus, Chan, I don’t know. I’m still not convinced about Watts, and now this? Talk about your wild goose chases.”

  “It’s a thread, Tindal, I’ll grant you that. But it’s all we’ve got, and right now I’m hanging on to it for dear life.”

  11:09 AM

  Showered, dressed and fully caffeinated, Tindal and Chan drove the eight miles to Palmetto Acres. It was a subdivision that was created during the housing boom of the early nineties.

  Cookie cutter houses of brick, stucco and faux dormers lined the paved, symmetrical streets of the middle to upper class neighborhood. A few well-placed phone calls helped Chan snag the former coroner’s address, and Tindal drove straight to it with no problem.

  They stood together on the front porch as Chan rang the doorbell. A black woman in her early sixties answered the door. This was Medlin’s caregiver, Annie Mae Mack.

  “Yes, may I help you?” Mack asked with a doubtful look at the strangers.

  “I’m Chan Adams and this is Tindal Huddleston,” Chan said. “We’re reporters doing a story on an old case, and we were wondering if Dr. Medlin wouldn’t mind speaking to us for a few minutes.”