Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  Mack leaned back from the door and looked toward a side room and then back to the reporters. “Well, he is up now—sitting on the sun-porch. But I don’t know…”

  “Please, Ma’am, we won’t take up much of his time. This is very important and there are only certain questions he can answer.”

  Mack debated the reasonable request against her protective nature and eventually civility won out. “Okay, but only for a few minutes.” She opened the door wider and led them in. “He’s a former smoker, on oxygen now, so he wears down easily.”

  “I know how he feels,” Chan said, rubbing his hand over his chest.

  They entered the sun-porch, a room of deep windows and green plants. Medlin was in a wheelchair next to one of the windows. A nebulizer and oxygen tank were by his side. “Mistah Payton, you got two visitors,” Mack announced. The thin, grey man with tubes running from under his nose turned in their direction. He furled his brow at their appearance.

  Chan got on one knee in front of his chair like a knight before his king. “Dr. Medlin, I’m Chan Adams. I used to write for The Republic.”

  Medlin took only a few seconds. “The Macinaw Seven story,” he said weakly.

  Chan was taken aback by Medlin’s clarity and smiled. “Yes, sir. Hard one to forget, isn’t it?”

  “Lord knows I’ve tried,” Medlin said with his own smile. The smile faded and then, “What is it you all want?”

  “They found Crawford’s patrol car in the swamp. Back behind Henry Brooks’ old place.”

  “I heard.” Medlin pointed to a table loaded with newspapers. “I keep up with my friends. Dead or alive.”

  Chan indicated Tindal. “We are working the story. Some things have come up that may tie in to the Robert Dover murder in 1969.” Medlin didn’t respond but he maintained a look of interest. “I need to ask you some questions about your autopsy of Robert. Is that okay?” Medlin’s look changed to one of discomfort but again he said nothing. “In your report, you stated that Robert showed signs of asphyxia, but there was no evidence that the rope allegedly used was the method of strangulation, correct?”

  Medlin bobbed his head. “Yes, I found no other evidence that the rope submitted in court had been used to end Robert’s life.”

  “But he was strangled with something, right?”

  “Strangled, yes, I believe so. But I do not think he was hung with that rope. The surrounding tissues showed a lack of blood infiltration.” He paused, took a deep breath and coughed. “There was no coagulated blood in the wounds.”

  “And there were no other surface marks, or bruises, correct? No fingernail marks. What, in your opinion, could have been used to strangle him?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing else was brought in as evidence if I recall.”

  “Could it have been cloth? A piece of clothing maybe?”

  “Speculation, Adams. I don’t deal in guesses. Never have.”

  “But could it have been a cloth material? To do that kind of damage and not leave any signature?”

  The old man almost smiled. “Theoretically, it could have been almost anything.”

  Chan knew he was on the right track but let it go, he was just thankful the old man was still so coherent. “Dr. Medlin, one more thing. In your autopsy report, a paragraph had been taken out for the court proceedings. Do you know anything about that?” Chan turned to Tindal and signaled for the copy. She quickly pulled it from her handbag and showed it to the doctor.

  “Right here, Dr. Medlin,” Tindal said. “This paragraph has been redacted. We need to know why. Please, sir.”

  Medlin took the document in his frail hands and stared at it for a few moments. He looked back up. “Sensitive information of a delicate matter. They didn’t want it to come out in court.”

  “Who didn’t?” Tindal asked.

  “The lawyers…and the Dover family.”

  Tindal caught Chan’s eye before asking, “Can you tell us, sir? What was black-lined here?”

  Medlin closed his eyes momentarily as if praying and then opened them and looked directly at Chan. “I’m an old man. I was sworn to secrecy those many years ago, but I don’t wish to go to the grave with secrets hanging over me.”

  “Then tell us,” Chan said, almost demanding it.

  “When they brought Ellis Dover’s boy to me, I did a thorough autopsy as I would in any situation like that. In addition to the effects of the obvious strangulation, Robert also suffered abrasions. Anal abrasions.”

  “He was sodomized?” Tindal asked.

  “Yes, and done so vigorously, I may add.”

  JULY 10, 1976

  11:23 AM

  Chan held the back of the canoe in his left hand and a small, white Styrofoam cooler in his right. He trailed Jean who was carrying the front of the canoe and leading them down an overgrown trail. They were both dressed in tank tops, shorts and flip-flops but their exposed skin was liberally lathered down in Off! Mosquito Repellent.

  “How much longer?” Chan hollered out.

  “We’re almost there. You can feel the temperature dropping quickly now.”

  Jean was right. The closer they got to the Edisto, the cooler the temperature became. The hundred degree Lowcountry heat could not reach them under the dark canopy of the river forest. And now away from the intense glare of the summer sun, Chan could see just how dense, green and richly varied the environment was into which they had stepped. It was truly like coming into another world. Giant oaks draped in Spanish moss stood watch over black willows, long-leaf pine, dogwood and oddly shaped maple trees. Under the trees, ferns and alligator grass mixed with fading wildflowers, and orange trumpet vine and wild kudzu, which seemingly sprung from everywhere, weaved it all into one natural tapestry.

  The forest floor eventually opened up a bit giving them greater visibility. They had to step over centuries’ old fallen timbers and cypress knees as they neared the soft riverbank. They laid the canoe down so that only the bow touched the swirling black water.

  Jean turned to face him. “Well?”

  “Great so far,” Chan said. “Are we going up river or down?”

  “Let’s go up and try for Watkins Bridge. That way when we burn out we can ride the current back down.”

  “Good thinking, Captain.”

  They were quickly underway with Jean again up front and Chan in the back. After a few missteps, they soon became synchronized in their paddling and were making lengthy strides up river.

  They had only passed the first bend in the river, which was marked by a fallen gum tree, when Jean spotted their first snake. “Look there,” she said, indicating with the tip of her paddle. The reptile slithered off the end of the gum and into the safety of the water.

  “Moccasin?” Chan asked.

  “Brown water snake. They’re harmless.”

  “Hope you’re right.”

  Jean laughed. “Now wait a minute, I know the man who stared down the barrel of a shotgun and ran through a burning house isn’t afraid of a little snake.”

  “Let’s just say I have a healthy respect for them and plan on keeping my distance.”

  “I think that’s how the snakes feel about us as well, so we shouldn’t have any trouble today.”

  Chan paddled a little more. “You seem very comfortable out here on the river.”

  Jean turned slightly, her blond hair resting on her brown shoulder. “My dad loved the Edisto. He used to take my sister and me out on it all the time. We’d fish or swim or sometimes just ride and look. I never tire of it.”

  “It is beautiful,” Chan said, taking it in. “It beats work that’s for sure.”

  Jean nodded her agreement. “Speaking of…how did work go this week? Any progress on Ja’Len’s murder?”

  “No. The police aren’t giving details; they’re making it hard to get a good read on things. But I get the feeling this thing is headed for a conclusion soon—one way or the other.”

  “What about the new angle you were working on? Any luck there?
”

  “No, but I’ve gotta keep trying.” Chan couldn’t go into the details with her, but nothing much had turned up on the Henry Brooks Disciples. Chan had spent a lot of the past week hanging out at Ricky’s and monitoring Ryan Grubbs’ trailer but to no avail. If they had something to do with knocking off the Macinaw Seven, he hadn’t made that connection yet. “Hopefully we’ll know more by next week.”

  “I hope so. For Macinaw’s sake…and yours…and mine. For everyone’s sake.”

  Chan could feel the weight of the story on them again and decided to change the subject. “So, what did you bring in the cooler?”

  Jean turned again and smiled. “Open it and see.”

  Chan lifted the lid and pulled a can from the ice. “Old Milwaukee?”

  “Tastes as great as its name,” Jean said with a laugh. “Left over from our dinner you missed the other night.”

  Chan popped the top. “I’ll help myself now if that’s okay. You want one?”

  Jean turned and crawled to the middle of the canoe and reached for hers. She sat on the middle bar and opened the beer. “What should we drink to?”

  “How about to no more missed dinners?”

  She squinted her eyes at him. “With you? Mr. busy reporter? Doubtful, but here’s hoping.”

  They clicked cans, took a couple of quick sips and then just as quickly continued their way up river.

  11:52 AM

  The Reverend Daniel Howard sat in a chair next to Deonte Johnson in Crawford’s office. The two black men were surrounded by sheriff’s deputies, South Carolina Law Enforcement Division agents and FBI—all of whom were white. Crawford leaned forward in his chair with his forearms resting on his desk.

  “Deonte, this could all be over in a matter of minutes,” Crawford said. “You tell us what you know—who has really been behind all this—and I can guarantee you your safety.” Deonte remained mute; his hands folded in his lap. Crawford waited and then, “Otherwise we can’t do anything to help you. Five of your friends are dead. Now is the time to come clean.”

  Howard waited for Johnson, and when he did not respond, he leaned in. “I’m no lawyer, Sheriff Crawford, but I do know that these episodes have traumatized Mr. Johnson and Reverend Anderson beyond a reasonable measure. They have shut down, completely—to me, their wives, families, to everyone. I do not think, sir, that these gentlemen are in any position to help the authorities.” He leaned back. “However, that does not negate your responsibility to protect these citizens in this matter. And I want your guarantee that they will be protected this time.”

  “You need not lecture me, Reverend Howard. We have gone to great lengths to protect these men.”

  “Pardon me, Sheriff, but all evidence stands to the contrary.”

  “We have a job to do here. And to do that, we must have cooperation from all involved.”

  “We have cooperated, Sheriff. And where has that gotten us? The majority of our people must live with your unjust and biased laws—civil rights, employment opportunities, potential for growth—all have been negated in this climate.”

  “I’m not talking about those realities. I leave all that pontificating to the poets and the politicians. I’m talking about catching a killer here.”

  “And you have failed on that count five times.”

  “Take a look around this room, Reverend. These men represent the finest in law enforcement from the county, the state and the nation. They are not here for their health. They are dedicated to the cause.”

  “And what cause is that, Sheriff? To watch young, black men in this town die? Isn’t it enough that we must endure the injustices of a racist society? Must we also watch our people suffer like this?”

  “I resent the implication, Reverend. We serve and protect everyone.”

  “Bull. Don’t you think we know by now how it works? This isn’t anything new.” Howard stood and leaned on the desk. “We are the cannon fodder in this war. You shine your badges with big money from the deep-pocket folks and spit-polish it with the blood from the rest of us. It has been the way of this country for beyond two-hundred years, Sheriff. And some things never change.” Howard turned to go. “Let’s go, Deonte.”

  Johnson stood and the two men walked out. The door closed and everyone in the room looked to Crawford who leaned back in his chair. He paused, took a deep breath and said, “Well? How was my performance?”

  Dunn moved from the wall and took the chair vacated by Howard. “It will have to do. The blacks and everyone else must believe that you’re getting tired of the blame game.”

  “Believe me, I am. But do you think it will be enough?”

  “We’ll see,” said Dunn. “We need them to believe that you’re pissed enough to no longer care about protecting them. Hopefully when you start pulling the watchers from Johnson’s and Anderson’s houses, it will draw the killer in. And that’s when we’ll nab him.” He looked over at Deputy Haskit. “What stands the presence there now?”

  “Chief Stodges has two of his criminal investigators on the street and one in the home. And we have patrols going by there every thirty minutes,” Haskit said.

  Dunn turned back to Crawford. “We’ll need to lose the parade. Eventually, we need to whittle it down to one undercover.”

  “What about Reverend Howard and his muscle?” Deputy Evans asked. “They’re with him day and night also.”

  “Leave Howard to me,” Dunn said. “I’ll make a phone call and have him his crew out of South Carolina by tomorrow.” Crawford could tell the rest of the team was impressed with Dunn’s tough talk although the sheriff just saw it as more evidence of his arrogance.

  Crawford then stood and looked at the group. “I think that will be all gentlemen. You’ll have your orders soon.” Everyone except for Dunn exited the office. The FBI man just sat there, folding his hands in a pensive manner. Crawford stared at him. “Did I forget something, Special Agent Dunn?”

  Dunn went to his coat pocket and pulled out several photos. He tossed them on the desk. “Look at these, Sheriff. My men have spotted this man on several occasions outside Grubbs’ trailer and at that bar he hangs out at. Do you recognize him?”

  Crawford thumbed through the dark and grainy photographs. He nodded. “Name’s Adams. He’s a reporter for The Macinaw Republic. He’s probably staking out Grubbs too.” Crawford tossed the photographs back. “He’s harmless.”

  “Point is, Sheriff, he knows about Grubbs. He knows there’s a possible connection. How does a small-time reporter know about such an important suspect?”

  Crawford frowned and shook his head. “Don’t know. Word must have got out.”

  “And that’s what bothers me, Sheriff. Do you trust everyone on your team?”

  “Come again?”

  “Do you trust them? Our plan to catch this guy will only work if everyone’s on board.”

  “Yes, of course I trust them. Most have been with me for years.”

  “We can’t have a slip up with this or it could be a disaster. We can’t have our plan, as you put it, getting out.”

  “We’re a small town, Agent Dunn. Word travels fast. Hell, half the old women in this town have police scanners just to keep up with the latest gossip. But with this…count on it being air-tight. There’ll be no slip ups.”

  1:23 PM

  Shirtless, buzzed and more than just a little tired, Chan laid out on the sandbar like an old river gator after a big meal. He and Jean had finished the six pack of beer and devoured the pimento cheese sandwiches and apple slices she had tucked away in the cooler. After circling under Watkins Bridge with arms raised in victory, they coasted back to the sandbar—only a short float away—for a well-deserved lunch and rest.

  “This feels great,” Chan said. “I may never want to leave.”

  “I hear you,” Jean said, who was lying beside him. “I can’t think of a time when I was more relaxed.”

  Chan threw his arm over his eyes to block the rays that had managed to slip through the
umbrella of trees. He could feel beads of sweat inching down his chest. “It’s still hot though. Wish we had brought our bathing suits.”

  Jean sat up. “You really are a river rookie, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jean stood and grabbed his hand. “Stand up.” He slowly and begrudgingly got to his feet, dusting the sand from his back. “Now, turn around,” she instructed. Chan turned toward the canoe, which was beached right next to him.

  “What now?” Chan asked. He jumped a little when Jean’s tank top flew past his shoulder and into the bow of the canoe. But then a big smile drew across his face. Her jean shorts were next, followed quickly by her bra and underwear. Her splash into the river was his cue to turn back around.

  Jean surfaced and slicked back her hair. “Okay, Georgia boy, your turn.”

  “And your time to turn around,” he said with a laugh. Jean pretended to be put out as she turned to the far bank of the river.

  Chan faced the canoe, unbuttoned his shorts, slid them past his ankles and then did the same with his boxers. A loud wolf-whistle followed. Chan jumped in and surfaced. “Hey, no fair peeking like that.”

  “Aw, c’mon, when you were in the hospital I peeked lots of times,” Jean said with a smile.

  Chan laughed and swam toward her. “How are you maintaining your position like that? The current is so strong here.”

  “Come closer. There’s a fallen tree about four feet under that stretches to the sandbar. You can grab hold and hang on.”

  He made it to the submerged tree and put his feet down. Jean reached out and grabbed his hand to steady him. Being naked with the cold river water rushing over his body was exhilarating enough, but being so close to her now was almost too much for Chan to handle. He inched closer until they were face to face. With her hair slicked back, her eyes seemed even bluer than before. She was so beautiful.

  There were no words as they embraced. His hands moved up and down every inch of her body—smooth, silky—finding their way. They kissed more deeply than ever before. He felt her legs wrap around him and he pulled her in tighter.