Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  She was stepping into another room when she heard Chan attempting to get in the window. She returned to find him with his head and one of his shoulders partially in. He looked up at her, struggling. “I was not a level ten gymnast.”

  She smiled and grabbed the back of his shirt and helped pull him the rest of the way in. He got to his feet and then he too pulled a flashlight out to look around. They donned latex gloves and spread out—determined to find a link to Watts.

  They dug through everything: drawers, cabinets, closets, mattresses, chairs, couches and rugs. A singular patrol from the sheriff’s office passed through the yard at one point and streamed his flashlight through the house, but Chan and Tindal laid low and easily evaded detection.

  As it neared midnight, in an old desk in a back bedroom, Tindal found several newspaper clippings that covered the years of Brooks’ first wave of murders, but nothing to tie in to Watts. Frustration and exhaustion were starting to set in when she heard Chan call from up front. “Tindal, come here.”

  Tindal made her way to the parlor room, a small sitting area with a couch and two chairs. Chan was standing in front of a cabinet. “See this?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I checked it earlier. I didn’t see anything. Pictures and little knick-knacks.”

  Chan grabbed the cabinet and tried to shake it. “It’s the only piece of furniture in the house that’s bolted to the wall.”

  Tindal scanned it with her flashlight. “It’s a nice piece—probably the nicest piece in the house. Looks handmade.”

  Chan nodded and smiled as he remembered Jean’s story about her father’s work in the house. “I wonder…” He opened the cabinet doors and felt around the lining of the shelves. “Put your light under here,” he directed.

  Tindal leaned into the cabinet and shone the light under the first shelf. She noted Chan’s reaction. “What is it?”

  “A latch of some kind.” He slid the latch and the faux back panel of the cabinet fell forward. Chan pulled the panel out and sat it on the floor. Tindal then focused the light into the recessed area of the wall.

  “Oh, my God,” Tindal said. “There—in the back.”

  Chan reached in and with the deliberate care of a surgeon removed an eight-inch boar knife. He held the knife up in Tindal’s light and marveled at it as if it were a priceless piece of art. “It’s the knife. Henry Brooks’ knife.”

  Tindal became anxious. “What else? What else is in there?”

  Chan blinked his eyes in rapidity like he was waking up from a dream. He handed the knife to Tindal and dug back in the compartment. He felt around until he pulled out a small metal case. Tindal showed her light on it as Chan placed the case on the cabinet lip and opened it. He pulled out a funny-looking cigarette, sniffed it and held it to the light. “It’s a Kretek. Christ, the son of a bitch was here.”

  “A what?”

  “A Kretek—a clove cigarette from Indonesia. It was Watts’ favorite type. The Devil’s smoke.”

  Tindal said nothing at first—her eyes wide with excitement. She swallowed her incredulity and said, “I can’t believe this. That’s it then. We were right about Watts. We can go to the police now. We’ve got the connecting evidence. They’ll be able to test for his prints or even his DNA on the case or the cigarette.”

  Chan nodded but then found and pulled a folded piece of paper from within the back of the case. “Wait a minute. Jesus, look at this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A letter, handwritten.”

  “What does it say?”

  Chan scanned it at first and then read it aloud, “I remember what you did. I was there. I saw what you did to that man. You want to keep it quiet. I want money. I want 50,000 dollars or I will tell everyone what you did.” Chan looked to Tindal. “This is it. The motivation—the reason why Henry Brooks returned to Macinaw that summer—a blackmail letter.”

  Tindal moved closer to see it as well. “What else does the letter say?”

  Chan looked back to the letter and read: “Put cash in a bag and put it under the dead soldier’s foot. I’ll be watching. You have three days or everyone is going to know.” Chan looked up and flipped the letter to the back and then the front again. “That’s the end of it. Not addressed. No signature. Nothing else.”

  “Dead soldier’s foot?” Tindal asked.

  “The Confederate memorial in the square downtown. There’s a statue of a soldier on top. His foot is raised like he’s marching off to war.”

  “So, one of the Macinaw Seven was blackmailing Robert Dover’s killer.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense.” Chan stepped away for a moment as he thought it through. “If you’re one of the Seven, you’ve been forewarned by Sonny Watts not to speak a word about what you saw. And then six years later, you suddenly do this? You send a threatening letter when you know it will bring the wrath of Henry Brooks or worse? What am I missing here?”

  “Could one of the seven have leaked the word and someone else blackmailed Dover’s killer?”

  “Not likely. Telling someone what happened would have been just as taboo as blackmailing him yourself.”

  “Well then…perhaps you were either so desperate as not to care or you didn’t believe in Watts’ ability to raise the dead.” She paused and then, “Or maybe you weren’t given the warning like the rest of the seven were.”

  Chan slowly nodded. “Right. Maybe you saw what happened to Robert Dover, but Sonny Watts didn’t get the chance to warn you.” Chan hesitated again and then snapped his fingers. “The trial. In the Macinaw Seven trial, the prosecutor’s prime witness claimed she saw eight young black males running away from the barn. It was a piece of testimony that Watts used to help acquit the Seven.”

  “Eight instead of seven. So, if that’s true, one got away. But who?”

  Chan hesitated and then, “I’m not positive, but I’ve got a pretty damn good idea.”

  JULY 29, 1976

  3:22 AM

  Chan sat on a bench in the emergency room’s waiting area at Macinaw General—alone. He rode with the ambulance to the hospital but refused to be checked himself until after the doctors had finished with Jean. He knew she was dead. He knew there was nothing they could do, but he was already deep into a state of denial and he wouldn’t let it go. He just sat there, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, red-eyed, wishing it were him instead of her.

  The emergency room doors opened and Norma came running through. She ran to the check-in desk, but saw Chan sitting there before she spoke to anyone else. She took a seat next to him.

  “Chan? Are you okay?”

  Chan simply shook his head that he was not.

  “Chan, I am so sorry.”

  “I can’t…I can’t stop shaking,” Chan said.

  Norma held out her arms as to embrace him. She hesitated for a moment and then leaned in and put her arms around him. The cigarette fell from his lips; tears resurfaced and streaked down his cheeks.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen, Norma. She wasn’t supposed to die.”

  “I know, honey. I am so, so sorry.”

  Chan suffered through the anger, bitterness and torment as Norma held on to him. She pulled him close, allowing him his moment, protecting his dignity, sheltering him from this cruelest of realities.

  11:22 AM

  Deputy Haskit rode shotgun to give directions to Agent Dunn, who was driving his Crown Victoria—the standard auto of the FBI. Sheriff Crawford rode in the back. They had turned off the main highway and were heading down the dirt road to Haskit’s cabin.

  “So, you have the Disciples rounded up at this point?” Agent Dunn asked.

  “Orton is in the hospital with multiple fractures,” Crawford said. “And Wolfe turned himself in last night. We still don’t know the whereabouts of Grubbs, but we’ve got everybody out looking for him.”

  “And who was this young girl that was killed?”

  “Friend of Adams, the reporter. She was a nurse at Macinaw General, right Deputy
?”

  Haskit nodded. “Yes, sir. Pretty little blonde. Remember Dan Reid with Reid’s Construction? It was his little girl.”

  “Well, at least that should take care of the Disciples for a while,” Dunn said. “You’ve got ‘em on manslaughter if not a whole lot more.”

  Crawford agreed but then added, “Certainly sounds like they planned it as an attack, but why go after Adams?”

  “Maybe he discovered something on them—something that connects to the Macinaw Seven,” Dunn said. “We’ll need to have another talk with the reporter.”

  They continued down the dirt road. The forest became thick in all directions and grabbed Dunn’s attention. “Good hunting grounds out here, Deputy?” Dunn asked.

  “Yes, sir. Some of the state’s best deer hunting is right here in Macinaw. You’ll have to come back one day and give it a shot.”

  Dunn grinned. “Sounds good to me. I think once we relocate Anderson to a sanctioned safe house and get this killer behind bars, I’m going to take a little time off—maybe do some hunting or fishing.”

  As they arrived at the cabin, all three men immediately noticed the open front door. “What the hell?” Dunn asked as he pulled the car to a stop.

  “I told him to keep that door shut and locked at all times,” Haskit said as he emerged from the car.

  With the cabin’s security breached, the lawmen drew their weapons and eased their way onto the porch. They crossed to the entrance—the floorboards creaking away. The cabin was dark and there was no noise coming from inside. Crawford took position on the left side of the door, Haskit on the right and Dunn stood back, covering both.

  The sheriff took a quick look inside. His lowered weapon and slumping shoulders said it all. Haskit and Dunn followed him into the cabin. On the floor in a puddle of blood was Reverend William Anderson—his shirt was cut down the middle and the pentagram sigil of Abaddon was carved into his chest.

  “It can’t be…” Haskit said, turning to the others. “There’s no fucking way!”

  Dunn gnashed his teeth. “Damn it! Not again!” Dunn made a quick turn and went for the radio in his car.

  Haskit looked to Crawford. “How can this be, Sheriff? Nobody knew he was here. Nobody.”

  Crawford took a hard look at his deputy and then back to Anderson. “I don’t know, Bobby. This killer has a way of always being three steps ahead of us. And Lord only knows what direction he’ll be stepping now.”

  OCTOBER 5, 2016

  10:43 AM

  Chan and Tindal marched up the first flight of stairs at the Hilldebrand-Dunwoody Apartments, a government housing project in the black section of Macinaw. It was three separate apartment buildings—three floor levels each—with a central community rec-room and row after row of clothesline substituting as the project’s backyard. Although constructed in the 1990s, the apartments had been neglected by the owners and government management alike, and the living conditions were sub-par at best—over the years many of the units had become home to filth, roaches, drug deals and desperation.

  “You never did tell me what happened to Norma through all this,” Tindal said as she rounded the paint-chipped metal stairs.

  “She eventually burned out and retired from the newspaper game in 1980—took a teaching position in Orangeburg. I saw her once or twice after, but she eventually moved on with her life. In 1998 I got a call from her daughter Rene that Norma had cancer. I saw her for the final time that September—six months later she was gone,” Chan said blankly.

  “I’m sorry. I know she was your friend. That must have been difficult.”

  Chan nodded. “It was. She taught me everything about being a reporter and especially about being a reporter in a small town like this. More importantly, she taught me how to be a better human being. If you’re lucky, Tindal, you’ll run across special people like that in your life. Get to know them—it’s well worth your time.” He paused as he thought about it. “I think her greatest regret was that we failed to stop the Macinaw Seven killer. She was so sure we would figure it out.”

  Tindal attempted a smile. “I’m sure she’s proud of what you’ve figured out these past few days.”

  “I hope that she and many others can rest easy very soon.”

  They made it to the third level and came to apartment 301B. Tindal knocked on the door. A black woman in her mid-twenties holding a three-year-old on her hip answered. “Yes?”

  “Is Antwan Jennings here?” Tindal asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “We’re reporters. We need to ask Mr. Jennings a few questions.”

  “What about?” she asked abruptly.

  Tindal and Chan shared a tired look. A man’s voice came from the back of the apartment. “Who is it, Asia?”

  The woman, Asia, turned from the door and yelled, “Reporters, Daddy, they want to talk to you.”

  There was some noise from the back and finally Antwan appeared behind his daughter. He was over sixty like Chan and also sported a grey-peppered beard. “What y’all want with me?” he asked.

  “Antwan Jennings?” Tindal asked for confirmation. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Robert Dover.”

  Antwan stared at Chan and Tindal like they were creatures from another planet. He looked at his daughter and then back to the reporters. “Hold on just a minute.” He then closed the door on them.

  After a little while, the door re-opened and Antwan signaled for them to follow him. They silently went back down the stairs, behind the apartment building and stood between two bed sheets hanging on the clotheslines. He gathered the reporters in with his eyes and then said, “Don’t come around my place saying that name. Not in front of my family like that. Now what is it you two want?”

  “You were there, weren’t you, Antwan?” Chan started. “You went to the Dover barn with your brother and his friends.”

  “You saw what happened,” Tindal added. “You saw who killed Robert Dover, didn’t you?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Antwan fired back.

  “You were there, Antwan,” Chan said. “You saw the whole thing. But you missed out on the warning the other seven received. Six years later you sent Dover’s killer a letter asking for money.”

  “Man, you’re crazy. I don’t know nothing about no letter.”

  “We do,” Tindal said. “We saw the letter. It was handwritten, Mr. Jennings. The FBI will soon see it as well—they have experts who will be able to tell it’s written in your hand.”

  Antwan rubbed his forehead and cast his eyes on the ground between them.

  “Norma Wiles saw you coming from William Anderson’s house on the day he was killed,” Chan continued. “She told me so herself. You came to Anderson because you knew that the letter you had sent the killer was causing all those deaths that summer—your brother and the rest of the Macinaw Seven. You went to warn him about what you had done, but he wasn’t there.”

  “No…” he said with anger.

  “You asked for fifty thousand dollars. To be placed under the soldier’s foot at the Confederate memorial,” Chan said. “In the summer of ’76, Antwan, you bused tables at the Palm Leaf Café. You would have been able to keep an eye out for the money drop from there.” Chan took a step closer and forced eye contact again. “You were a kid, Antwan. And you saw an opportunity for easy money. But the truth is you had no idea that that action would raise Henry Brooks from the dead. You had no idea that would unleash the killer who took the life of your brother and his friends.”

  “Jesus Christ…no!” Antwan blurted out. He slowly went to his knees overcome with grief, holding back tears. He held his silence for over a minute and then spoke—his voice shaky. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to happen…”

  Chan went to his knee as well. “I know, Antwan. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill your brother. You didn’t kill the Macinaw Seven. You are not responsible.”

  Tindal crouched down as well. “Mr. Jennings, it’s time to com
e clean. We are here for you to set the record straight. Tell us what happened that day. Tell us what you saw.”

  Antwan rocked back on his haunches and covered his face with his hands. After a few moments, he put his hands on his knees and looked at them directly. “I was sixteen-years-old at the time. We got word that the white patrolmen were not gonna be held responsible for the deaths of Smith, Hammond and Middleton. We went crazy—blew up—we were ready to set the goddamn town on fire. Tyrell came up with the idea of spray painting their names on the Dover barn—it sounds foolish now, but at the time we felt it was the best way to express how we felt. The seven met at my momma’s house and planned it all out. I insisted they take me with them. Luther told me no, but I convinced the others I could hang. I rode in Ja’Len Wells’ car. We parked at the bottom of the Dover hill. Luther told me to stay back—you know, to watch the cars, be on guard. But I didn’t want to miss the action. I waited a few minutes and then followed up the hill. They were all crowded around the barn door, watching. I found a loose board on the side of the barn and watched from there.”

  “What did you see?” Tindal asked.

  Antwan shrugged a bit. “I saw them. They were going at it. The Dover boy had a tie around his neck.” He hesitated for a moment as if the embarrassing details might be too much for Tindal. Her look back to him demanded he continue. “They were trying to get-off at the same time, but it got too rough…Dover suffocated and…died.”

  “Did you run then?” Chan asked.

  “No. I wasn’t sure what had happened. I thought he had just passed out. The other boys didn’t run, so I hung around too. We saw the cover-up—the fake suicide—the fake hanging. It was after that when one of the barn doors got pushed open—must have been opened by accident. That’s when we ran. And we ran like hell. All the way back down the hill.”