Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  After a final series of jolts, it was done. Henry Brooks, killer of thirty-eight people, lay slumped over in the electric chair. After taking a few moments to gather himself, Dr. Nate Carlson entered the execution room to check the body. He pulled a stethoscope from his bag, first holding the diaphragm to the killer’s chest and then the bell. He listened for over a minute.

  Haldwell became anxious and pressed the call button. “Well?”

  Carlson turned and nodded. “He’s dead. It’s over.”

  There was a sense of relief from all who had gathered, their shoulders relaxed, they breathed easier, and nodded their satisfaction.

  All except for Watts who remained standing alone in the back. He stared at the dead body of Henry Brooks and then whispered to himself, “No, it’s not over. There will be a time for such unqualified madness again.”

  JULY 16, 1976

  1:23 AM

  Dixie Love stepped out through the curtain of beads, under the glare of the multi-colored spotlights and into the gaze of ten lonely truckers who sat around the stage waiting for Dixie to do her thing. She wore white cowboy boots and little else—a red, white and blue G-string with tiny silver stars over the ends of her ample breasts. Her makeup was caked on and covered an aging face—once pretty but beaten down after dancing in too many smoky dives like this one. Her body, however, was still firm yet lissome. And she knew how to work it, much to the delight of the patrons. She had become the star attraction at Dolly’s Dollies as most of the other dancers had neither her looks nor charisma. She gave them a glimpse and a smile every night even when it took all she had just to get out there. Like many of those who survived in this business, Dixie had learned to cover the scars and bruises of her life well.

  Chan watched her from the bar area. He had been to the strip joint the week before, but it had been a slow night and he could find no one from whom to solicit information on Ryan Grubbs or the Henry Brooks Disciples. But he had been impressed with Dixie that night and he didn’t exactly mind that he had to take in her performance again. He did feel a bit sleazy being in place like this, especially since Jean had now become such a big part of his life, but he rationalized it was his job and the story demanded his presence.

  The strange techno music coming from the jukebox that accompanied her routine came to an end, and she delighted in the calls, whistles and dollar bills that were thrown her way. As the next dancer appeared on stage, Dixie slid the bills into her g-string and headed for the bar. Once there, she motioned to the bartender. “Jim, get me a gin and tonic.”

  Chan, leaning against the bar, raised his beer bottle to her and smiled. “Nice job out there.”

  Her eyes were on him for only a second. “Money talks, sweetheart, bullshit walks.”

  Chan threw a twenty on the bar. “How much talking will that give me?”

  Dixie leaned over and grabbed the twenty before answering. “Another twenty and we can have us a private dance.” She then turned up the femininity in her voice, looked his way and smiled. “You think you’d like that, big man?”

  Chan nodded and threw another twenty on the bar. “Lead the way.”

  Dixie grabbed the money, her drink and Chan’s hand in one swoop motion. She led him across the room, in front of the stage and to a little private room beyond the juke box. Once inside, she closed the door, sat Chan down in a cushioned chair and pushed play on an eight-track tape deck which was built into a side wall. Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze came through the private speakers and Dixie went immediately into her moves.

  Chan watched for a moment and then stood. He pressed the pause button on the player.

  “What the hell you doing, cowboy?” Dixie asked.

  Chan grabbed Dixie by the wrists and gently sat her down in the chair. “My forty bucks, my dance,” he said.

  Dixie’s puzzled look turned to concern, and she shook her head. “No, no, we aren’t allowed to do that in this place. The manager will….”

  “Relax. I just want to talk with you.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yeah. I figure I bought about five minutes of your time and I want to use it the best way I see fit.”

  Dixie leaned back in the chair, snapped her G-string against her hip and looked blankly at the stranger. “Okay. So, what do you want to talk about?”

  “Dixie Love,” he said. “Nice name. Is that your real name?”

  “Are you kidding me? If we’re gonna talk names, then I’m outta here.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “To be honest, I’m looking…to score some meth, and I hear a train runs through here every now and then.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “People.”

  She eyed him cautiously. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  Chan kind of shrugged. “Thought maybe you might help a fellow out.”

  “Listen, sweetheart, I ain’t getting involved in this.” She stood up but Chan blocked her from leaving.

  “Well, then tell me somebody who can help me with this,” Chan demanded.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know nobody.”

  “What about Grubbs?”

  Dixie furled her brow. “Grubbs? How do you know Grubbs?”

  He gave her another shrug. “People.”

  “Same people, huh? Damn this is getting weird.” She tried to get passed him but again he stopped her by grabbing her arm.

  “A friend of mind. He’s a Disciple. You know, a Henry Brooks Disciple.”

  Dixie’s look of concern morphed into fear, and she shook loose from his hold. “Man, you don’t know who you’re fucking with.” Dixie bolted past him and left the private dancing room.

  Chan eased out the room as well. There was another stripper on the stage and everyone’s attention seemed to be on her. Chan went back to the bar and stayed for another forty-five minutes, but for the rest of the night, there was no more sign of Dixie Love.

  8:33 AM

  Justin Crawford sat at his desk and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, ignoring the paperwork in front of him. Deputy Haskit was across from him in a guest chair reading The Macinaw Republic. The deputy eased the paper down on his boss’s desk and looked up.

  “Norma quotes the state head of the NAACP as saying you’ve turned your back on the blacks in this county.”

  Crawford shrugged. “I know. I read it earlier. After we catch this bastard, I’ve got a lot of fence mending to do.”

  Haskit scratched his chin. “What about hiring a black deputy? You know ol’ Red Tie, Sheriff’Seigler, did it down in Colleton recently. Maybe that would be a good move for us.”

  Crawford laughed. “Can you imagine? Ellis Dover would have my head in a vice if I did that.” He paused and lost the smile. “But maybe the world is going that way. The South is sure different from when we were kids.”

  “No doubt,” Haskit said. “In ten years, we’ll probably have us a black sheriff too.”

  Crawford raised his hand in a stopping gesture. “Bite your tongue, Deputy.” They both laughed at that.

  The phone rang and Crawford picked up. “sheriff’s Office. Crawford speaking.”

  It was Agent Dunn on the line. “Sheriff, Grubbs is on the move. He’s in his truck and headed out of Eastland.”

  Crawford covered the receiver and snapped his fingers at his deputy, “Who’s on watch now?”

  “Deputy Evans is covering Johnson and Chief Stodges has one of his investigators on Anderson,” Haskit said.

  Crawford nodded and went back to the phone. “Which way is he going?”

  “He’s on Medway—heading east towards town.”

  “You on him now?” Crawford asked.

  “We’re four cars back, but yeah we got him marked.”

  “Sheriff,” another deputy urgently called from the office’s open door.

  Crawford looked up. “What is it?”

  “Fire downtown. Looks like it could be a big one,” the deputy said.

  “Shit. Where?”

  “The Piggly W
iggly. The fire chief says he may need some help.”

  “Alright. Tell him I’m on the way.” Crawford held the phone—anguish spreading throughout his face.

  Haskit jumped to his feet but waited on the sheriff to make his move.

  Crawford put the phone to his ear again as he stood. “Dunn, we’ve got a fire I’ve got to get to. Stay on Grubbs and let me know through radio.” He didn’t wait for Dunn’s reply and slammed down the receiver.

  “Of all the rotten luck…” Crawford said as he made his way toward the door.

  “When it rains, it pours,” Haskit added as he followed Crawford out.

  9:23 AM

  Chief Archie Howe directed his two ladder teams as they brought the blaze under control at the popular grocery store. Hoses ran everywhere and the parking lot was covered in an inch of water. EMT’s moved in and out of the fire zone making sure all emergency personnel were safe. The city police and sheriff’s deputies had the area cordoned off and helped with traffic and crowd control.

  Crawford sat in his patrol car with the door opened—his left foot on the lot’s pavement as Haskit walked up to him. “Looks fairly well contained. Chief Howe said they may be able to enter the building in a few minutes.”

  Crawford blew out a breath. “That’s good. Thank God no one was hurt.”

  “Any word on our boy, Grubbs?”

  “Dunn reported that he pulled into a red dot and has been inside for the past thirty minutes.”

  Haskit checked his watch. “Fairly early to be getting your drunk on, but we are talking about Rhino here.”

  Before Crawford could add anything else, the radio crackled with Dunn’s voice. “Target on the move. He’s back heading east on Medway. Past the Shell station now and taking Highway 54.”

  “He’s gonna cross the tracks into the colored section of town,” Haskit offered.

  Crawford nodded and waited for Dunn’s next report.

  Within a few minutes, it came: “He’s picking up speed. Taking a right onto Montgomery now.”

  “Montgomery?” Crawford asked rhetorically.

  “That’s the Nance Subdivision,” Haskit confirmed. “He’s headed for Anderson’s house.”

  “Come on,” Crawford yelled as he cranked his patrol car. Haskit slid in on the passenger’s side and they peeled out of the parking lot—the wheels grinding and the engine humming.

  Crawford reached for the radio mike. “Dunn, he’s headed for Anderson’s. Time to call in the cavalry.”

  “They’re on the way,” Dunn shot back.

  9:32 AM

  Ryan Grubbs pulled over on the corner of Montgomery and Whitman Street. He hesitated for a moment, checking all the mirrors on his truck to be sure. He reached across the seat, grabbed a brown bag and then exited the vehicle.

  He walked slowly—like a predator—his eyes scanning in every direction. He cut across Whitman Street and then made his way down the sidewalk. A few more steps and he would be there.

  He turned and leaned against the fence of the small brown house—the house of William Anderson. It was dark and there was no activity, but Grubbs knew Anderson was inside. Probably on his knees praying. He played it cool and waited knowing this would be his big moment.

  “Freeze right there, asshole!” a voice came from behind him.

  Grubbs did as he was told. He froze like a statue. Anderson’s watcher, Lieutenant Lucas Webster of the Macinaw Police, kept his .38 trained on the back of Grubbs’ head.

  Within seconds, Whitman Street was filled with blaring sirens and unmarked cop cars sliding to a stop. Agent Dunn came hustling out of one, passed the lieutenant and stuck his pistol in Grubbs’ back. “Easy does it now. Hand over the bag.”

  Grubbs handed him the bag without a word. As Dunn backed away, Webster patted Grubbs down.

  Dunn opened the bag. He remained motionless for a moment and then reached inside and pulled out a bottle. “What the hell is this?”

  Grubbs finally turned and faced Dunn. “It’s a bottle of scotch. Good stuff so I hear.”

  Dunn ignored him and shot a look at Lt. Webster. The cop shook his head. “He’s clean, sir. He’s got nothing on him.”

  Sheriff Crawford and Deputy Haskit arrived and ran up as the interrogation continued.

  “What are you doing here, Grubbs?” Dunn asked, pissed as hell.

  “Making a delivery. Every so often, I deliver for Pete’s Red Dot on Medway. Pick up some extra cash.”

  “Reverend Anderson ordered a bottle of scotch?” Crawford asked.

  Grubbs grinned. “Nope. A Mr. Ron Harrington did.” He pointed in the direction with a tip of his head. “I believe his house is three more doors down.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Dunn yelled, much to Grubb’s amusement.

  Crawford was shaking his head when it dawned on him. “Wait a minute,” he said with urgency. “The fire this morning and now all this…” He trailed off as he grabbed his walkie-talkie from his belt. “Deputy Evans, come in please. This is Sheriff Crawford—over.” He waited and then, “Deputy Evans, do you copy?” The return silence on the radio was deafening. Crawford started backing up towards his patrol car. He pointed at Lt. Webster. “Take him to the law complex for questioning and hold him there.”

  “Hey, man, I didn’t do nothing,” Grubbs said.

  Crawford ignored Grubbs as he and Haskit jumped back into their patrol car and took off.

  Dunn took a quick glance at Grubbs and said through gritted teeth, “For your sake, you better hope that Johnson is still alive.” Dunn and his men then drove away as well.

  Two uniformed policeman joined Webster and ushered Grubbs to a waiting police car. The Disciple put up no resistance and even smiled as they forced him into the backseat. Brilliant move, Henry Brooks. Absolutely brilliant.

  9:55 AM

  With weapons drawn, Crawford and Haskit bounded through Deonte Johnson’s front door. “Deonte?!” Crawford yelled. They continued down the hallway. “Deonte?!”

  Haskit signaled Crawford to stop and be quiet, and when he did, the sheriff heard it too. Crying was coming from a room down the hall. The two lawmen crept down the rest of the way to the room, Deonte’s bedroom. Crawford could feel it in his gut even before he entered.

  Deonte’s wife, Sophia was on her knees next to Deonte’s body at the foot of the bed. The Michael sigil had been savagely cut into the man’s chest. Sophia turned and looked up at Crawford with a blank expression. “I just went out for a moment. Had to go to the laundry mat.” She sucked back tears. “He said he’d be fine—promised to keep all the doors locked.”

  Crawford’s shoulders sank like a deflated balloon. He holstered his gun, moved to Sophia and dropped to his knees beside her. He put a hand on her back. “I’m so sorry, Sophia.”

  She looked at him through watery eyes. “You said you wouldn’t let this happen. You said you’d stop this killer. You promised, Sheriff. You promised.”

  Crawford could say nothing—she was right.

  “Sheriff,” Haskit said to get his attention. “I’ll go check on Jimmy.”

  Crawford only nodded, knowing what Haskit would probably find.

  11:22 AM

  “They found a gas can in a dumpster behind the Pig,” Chan told his editor. “Chief Howe is 99 percent sure it was arson.”

  Darby sat on the edge of his desk listening to Chan’s report. “Did you get any art for us?”

  Chan nodded. “I took a couple of shots. The best one is from the side. You can see the char of the burn run the entire brick wall.”

  “Okay, get them to the processing lab and get started on your draft. We’ll lead with the fire in tomorrow’s edition.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chan said as he stood. He turned for the door but froze when Norma appeared. She seemed drugged—drained of emotion.

  “Norma? Are you alright?” Darby asked.

  Chan grabbed her by the hand and led her to the office chair. “What is it, Norma?”

  Norma slowly sat. “De
onte Johnson is dead.” “What?” both men asked.

  “He was murdered this morning. While the fire was happening downtown.”

  “How can that be?” Darby followed. “Did the police pull back entirely?”

  Norma looked at her boss and then to Chan. “Deputy Evans was on watch. They found him in his car across the street. He had a stab wound to his throat. He’s dead too.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Darby said. “Do they have anyone in custody?”

  Norma shook her head. “It’s like all the others. No leads. No witnesses. Nothing.”

  Darby put his hands on his hips as he thought it through. “Okay, okay. Chan, I want you down at the law complex, pronto. See what else you can find out.”

  Chan nodded but still stood by Norma holding her hand.

  “Norma, are you good to go on this? Or should I get someone else…”

  “No,” she said. “I’m good. It’s just…” She looked at Chan. “He’s not going to stop, is he? Not until the last one is dead.”

  “They’ll stop him, Norma, somehow,” Chan said giving her hand a squeeze.

  “I pray that they will.” She squeezed his hand back. “But I have a bad feeling they won’t.”

  OCTOBER 4, 2016

  3:46 PM

  The Davis, Davis and Milton Law Firm was headquartered behind the Macinaw Courthouse on Beasley Street. The beautiful brick building once housed Fenster’s, a five and dime store that saw its heyday back in the ’40s and ’50s. The onslaught of superstores eventually killed the family-run business and the three-story building sat unused for nearly six years.

  Louis Gaines Davis, a Macinaw native, purchased the address along with law partner, Alex Milton in 1967. Refurbished through the years with hardwood floors, multiple conference rooms, a chandeliered reception hall, a well-equipped exercise room and plenty of office space overlooking the courthouse, the landmark building became the desired workplace of every lawyer in town. The firm became quite successful covering all types of law from civil disputes to divorce cases to real estate. And in 1968 they brought in a young attorney named Sonny Watts.

  Chan and Tindal sat in the office of Louis Davis Jr. who, through sheer nepotism, advanced quickly to partner after joining the firm in 1988. He was a large, doughy man who wore ill-fitting clothes and had a penchant for leering at his female guests as Tindal was now uncomfortably aware.