Rust on the Razor

by Mark Richard Zubro

  In the waiting room his brother and sister clustered as far as they could away from Violet and me. Violet had confirmed that a few weeks ago Shannon had quit her job as a secretary for a local funeral parlor on the town square. I wondered if that had anything to do with Jasper saying she’d been acting odd. Shannon wore a long dress and a silk blouse with sleeves down to her wrists and buttons clasped shut to the neck. Nathan wore a sport coat, tie, and faded blue jeans. They glared at me as I walked over and asked who was supposed to relieve them. They said it was Hiram; he’d be there in half an hour. Their cousin Sally was the other Carpenter on duty in their father’s room.

  Violet and I walked up to the third floor and visited Dennis. We only got a glance in the room. He was asleep. Large swaths of bandages covered his face. It was long after regular visiting hours were over. A nurse walked by and gently moved us away. She told us he was doing okay, and they were fairly certain he would not lose his eye.

  Back on the second floor, Nathan and Shannon had left. While waiting for Hiram, I said to Violet, “One thing I don’t get about this town. If they’ve got all these secrets and everybody knows everybody else’s business, then how come everybody didn’t know all this information about the sheriff?”

  “Sometimes you know things and you shut your eyes. Or maybe it’s that lots of people know cheap, tawdry gossip, but not really awful secrets. You can know Uncle Felix’s great-aunt drank whiskey from a slop pail during the full moon, but it’s not really vital, cheap, tawdry gossip. Genealogy, background, and pettiness don’t add up to practical knowledge.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “Speaking of cheap, tawdry gossip, I can’t believe Magnolia is really boffing Al Holcomb. I can’t believe he wouldn’t be scared about people finding out. His Klan buddies would go nuts.”

  “Maybe old Al pushed one of his buddies over the edge. Maybe others had grudges against Peter Woodall. Al just encouraged them. Lit the spark.”

  “Could be. But if Hiram hates Scott, why kill the sheriff? You’ve got Jasper saying Hiram was doing something illegal, but you’ve got no proof. Sticking the body in the car could just have easily gotten Scott under suspicion, and why take a chance being seen? So, say all the sheriff wanted was political support. It’s blackmail, but it’s not the end of the world. You have to support somebody in an election.”

  “People’s emotions get involved,” I said. “It could be an election for dogcatcher, but if people are angry or desperate, you never know what could happen. I think the other major motivation for murder would be the sheriff getting his jollies from women he threatened to lock up.”

  “I can see a southern gentleman defending his own and his wife’s honor. Maybe the sheriff got hold of Hiram’s wife.”

  “I intend to ask Hiram a lot of questions, and I want to do it without Scott around.”

  Hiram walked in forty-five minutes later. He entered the lounge, saw us, and hesitated.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  He turned to leave.

  Violet glided to the door and blocked his exit.

  I stood up.

  “I’m going to talk to you, Hiram. We know you’re in the Klan.”

  “Violet, you get out of my way. I’m not going to hurt a lady, but you move out of my way or I’ll put you out of my way.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re done putting anybody anywhere. Or is that what you did with the sheriff?”

  He reached for Violet.

  In a flash his hand and arm were twisted up against his back.

  “What are you looking so stunned about?” Violet said to me. “You think I can’t protect myself?”

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  Hiram struggled.

  Violet wrenched his hand higher and tighter.

  “Ouch! Leggo!”

  “Stop moving around,” Violet ordered.

  He held still.

  “That old stereotype of the southern woman as soft and pliable and barefoot and pregnant and staying home and slopping the hogs is dead. We can take care of ourselves. You listen to Tom. You talk to him.”

  “Figures a faggot has to have a woman protect him.”

  “Hiram,” I said. “Why don’t you all just shut up and listen for all of a few minutes and you all can give us answers so we all can find out who all killed the sheriff and then I all can get out of you all’s town?”

  An elderly couple appeared in the doorway. Arm in arm, they supported each other. They gave us quizzical looks. Violet moved Hiram out of their way. The woman called into the CCU. She hung up and told her companion it would be a few minutes before they could go in.

  Hiram did not beg them to call for help. He struggled briefly, but complied with our request that we change our venue. We moved down the hall to the conference room where Dr. McLarty had talked to the family. Violet marched him into the room, let Hiram go, and said, “I’ll be outside the door if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I stood between Hiram and the door. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt and was sitting on the edge of a backless couch. He rubbed his hands together. “What?” he growled.

  “I know you hate me,” I said. “But why hate Scott? He’s your brother. He doesn’t think you’d ever do anything to hurt him.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you. Violet’s not here to beat me up.”

  “What is it with you? Do we need to mud-wrestle at midnight in a swamp? Beat each other up? Duel at fifty paces with sawed-off shotguns? You don’t get to hide behind bullying nonanswers. You’re in the Klan. I want to know where you went after your dad’s operation, the night the sheriff was killed. Jasper Williams told me you were doing something illegal on your farm, although he didn’t know what. We are going to have a little talk. If necessary, we’re going to have state and federal investigators down here. Our lawyer is already working on that. We aren’t going to trust to the local authorities. Maybe they’ll protect you some, but when the feds get down here, they’re going to want real answers. Because you’re Scott’s brother, I’d do some to try and protect you for his sake, but now I want some answers. Quiet and civilized or angry and rude, whichever way you prefer.”

  He began smacking one fist into the open palm of the other.

  “How come you’re a member of the Klan?”

  “I want to be.”

  “Why don’t you elaborate for me?”

  The fist moved faster. He said, “I believe in what they stand for. Racial purity. Superiority of whites. Keeping the godless out. Keepin’ faggots like you in your place.”

  “Don’t you love Scott?”

  He laughed but didn’t smile. “I’ve hated him since we were kids. He always got everything. I was always compared to him by everybody.”

  “That wasn’t his fault.”

  “Nothing was ever Scott’s fault! He never paid attention to anyone besides himself. The whole family figured he was our ticket out of this swamp. Well, I busted my ass. I got out of the swamp on my own. I may not be as rich as my brother, but I’ve got no reason to hang my head.”

  “Was there a Klan meeting the night the sheriff was killed?”

  “Yes. I drove Al to his place and then went home to bed. No, I don’t have a witness, but I didn’t kill the sheriff.”

  “What did Peter Woodall catch you doing on your farm that was illegal?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jasper didn’t think you were growing illegal drugs. I think he would have been able to tell that. What was it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have to get the federal marshals down there to see what this is all about. That’s the nice thing about Scott having tons of money. The rich are treated differently. We’ll have this place crawling with agents soon.”

  “Let’em crawl.” He stood up. “See, I didn’t kill the sheriff. No witnesses. No guilt. And I’m not going to have to put up with you for long. Good-bye.”

  He strode toward the door.
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  I grabbed his arm to stop him. “What do you mean, you’re not going to have to put up with me?”

  He laughed, then shoved me hard.

  I kept my grip on his arm and twisted it behind his back.

  He bellowed and squirmed. Violet threw open the door. Scott and Cody stood behind her. They saw me bending Hiram’s arm behind his back.

  “Let him go,” Scott said.

  Hiram wrenched himself away, straightened himself up, glared at all of us, walked into the hall, and turned around.

  The four of them looked at me.

  I said, “He says he didn’t kill the sheriff.”

  Cody said, “You’re under arrest.”

  10

  Hiram grinned. I began a protest. Scott looked furious. Cody simply twisted his head to the radio attached to his shoulder and said, “He’s here. I need backup to take him in.”

  Scott said to me, “Hiram wouldn’t kill anybody.” To Cody he said, “You can’t arrest Tom. He didn’t kill anybody.”

  Cody repeated, “You’re under arrest.”

  His backup arrived moments later. I didn’t struggle. Cody pulled handcuffs off the belt that surrounded his narrow hips. I wanted to throttle him. He was impervious to any questions we tried to ask. He patted me down for weapons, and I wound up with my hands cuffed behind my back, being hustled downstairs.

  At the exit Scott tried to hug me, but they yanked me away. Three cop cars waited in the parking lot. Two cops and I crossed the few feet between car and overhang through the rain. They opened the car door for me and I stooped down. Cody put his hand on top of my head so I wouldn’t bang it against the roof.

  Scott called, “I’ll get you out.”

  The door slammed and I was inside. I looked back and saw Violet rushing across the parking lot toward her car. I saw Scott waving his finger in his brother’s face. He seemed to be angrily berating him, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  Cody and an older cop I didn’t recognize sat in the front. I asked questions through the screen. The older cop told me to shut up. I did. I watched as Violet’s car pulled out behind us and followed.

  If I’d known any of the lyrics to “Marching Through Georgia,” I’d have sung them. If I’d known even the tune, I’d have hummed it. And probably would have been shot on the spot.

  Minutes later they led me into the lynching emporium they called a jail.

  The interior of the jail smelled of damp and mold, excrement and urine. No air-conditioning. The tiny slits that served as windows in the first room we entered were all open. I heard the rain rushing off the roof. Strips of masking tape above the desk stayed absolutely still. Not the slightest breeze. The tape was covered with black specks—ersatz flypaper.

  “I get a phone call,” I said.

  “No calls.”

  They brought me across a five-foot entryway to a large counter that stretched nine-tenths of the way across the room, blocking the way into the back. The last tenth was on the right: a barred doorway.

  A white woman with her gray hair tied back in a bun pulled out a large manila envelope from the top drawer of the desk she was sitting at. She didn’t wear a uniform. She brought the envelope to the counter and said, “Put his belongings in here.”

  They took my wallet, change, car keys, handkerchief, watch, and pen and placed them in the bag. Then they undid my belt, pulled it out, and shoved it in the envelope. Cody untied my shoelaces and placed them in the receptacle. On a sheet of paper the woman listed everything they placed inside. She opened my wallet and inventoried the contents on a different sheet of paper. When she was finished, she sealed the envelope and tossed it on top of a desk behind her.

  “Do I get to know the charge?” I asked quietly.

  Nobody answered.

  “No calls? No charge? I want my lawyer.”

  They didn’t yell, scream, or carry on. They mumbled a few simple commands but said nothing else. This frightened me.

  My shoes flapped on my feet as they led me through the barred doorway. The area behind the counter had three desks filled with the knickknacks, pictures of kids, and piles of papers you’d expect on a bureaucrat’s desk. The door we met was solid steel, with a three-by-five-inch sliding panel in it.

  Cody pressed a buzzer on the right. The panel slid open and two eyes looked out, moved from left to right, and disappeared. The panel closed and seconds later the door swung open. A step or two farther, a creak of a hinge as the door shut, and I was in. To the left was a desk with a lamp and an open newspaper spread out on top of it. An older African-American cop pulled out a large ring filled with keys. He selected a small silver one and unlocked another metal door, this one without a peephole.

  The cops exchanged minimal greetings, but I was not discussed in the least. It was as if I was expected, and they all knew their roles. I felt like an actor who’d walked into the wrong play.

  I didn’t try to yell, shout, scream, or fight. They had the upper hand. I knew it. They knew it. At this moment, fighting was useless.

  The next room was long and rectangular, and I guessed it must stretch the rest of the length of the jail. On the right where we stood, it was a broad hallway, eight feet across. The cells were on the left. We walked past eight empty ones before coming to a ninth. The old cop selected another key, unlocked the door, and swung it open. They unlocked the handcuffs. Cody placed a hand on my shoulder and directed me inside.

  No one had been violent. No one had been cruel. No one had yelled or tried to intimidate me. They had treated me like a thing, and that scared me.

  They left.

  Riveted to the wall of the cell was an iron toilet with no seat. The bed had a frame bolted to the floor. I looked under the eighth-inch-thick mattress. The slats were welded to the frame.

  I looked back the way I’d come. Nobody. There was one more cell in the row. Lack of X-ray vision prevented me from seeing through the gray cinderblock walls into the cells on either side.

  “Anybody there?” I called.

  Silence.

  None of the cells I’d seen had windows. Dim illumination shown from a fluorescent light over the door at the far end. Did they turn on more lights in the morning, or was it always eternally gloomy in here?

  I could hear the rain on the roof and nothing else. I lay back on the mattress. First, I decided to give my situation a good solid worry. Then I opted for a healthy bout of self-pity. If you can’t feel sorry for yourself, who’s going to do it for you? And frankly, who but yourself is better at feeling sorry for yourself?

  Then I worried about Scott and his dad. I knew Scott would be doing everything he could to get me out of here. I hoped for a visit from Beauregard Lee, the lawyer from Atlanta, or any other form of rescue. They’d have to give me some kind of hearing eventually. Scott, lawyers, press, somebody would be able to help me. I hoped Violet was outside now, doing what she could—although I doubted if all her southern charms would be enough to huff and puff and blow this house of bricks down.

  The heat was miserable. Damp clung to every inch of my body. I’d been in the middle of pouring rain and putrid humidity so long by now, I felt like I’d been immersed in a pool of peppered water. I couldn’t see any visible vermin on the mattress, but I didn’t take my clothes off to lie down. There was no pillow. I lay and sweated, then sweated some more. I tried standing. Gave pacing a shot. Took a whirl on bellowing angrily at the top of my lungs. The light stayed on, the rain fell, and nobody responded.

  Angry thoughts mixed with helplessness and rage as I lay back down. I tried thinking of all the nastiest tortures I would like to inflict on the dumber denizens of Brinard County. Finally, I fell asleep to the falling of the rain.

  I woke up to thunder some time later. I listened to it and felt somehow comforted. They could try and do any number of things to me, but nature would be stronger than any of us. I don’t know why this soothed me, but it did. I fell back to sleep almost immediately.

  At first I couldn’t tell w
hat woke me next. I blinked at the ceiling. The amount of light was the same. The cracks and lines hadn’t altered. I realized two things. First, the rain had stopped, or was falling too lightly to register on the roof. The second was more ominous. The place stunk worse than it had. I looked down. Water swirled on the floor. It had risen about two inches on the frame.

  I stood on the bed. “Hey!” I shouted. I couldn’t see where the water was coming from, but it was brown and unhealthy-looking. I bellowed loudly and angrily and continuously until my throat was raw. After I exhausted this useless option, I checked the water again. Four inches up the frame. I banged my hands on the wall and ceiling.

  I heard a brief phfft, a sizzle, and the lights winked out. Total darkness.

  A couple of thoughts struck me. They were trying to drown me, and turning out the lights was extra torture. What made me hesitate in this conclusion was that the lights hadn’t gone out as if someone was shutting them off. Plus, how could they flood ten feet of room floor-to-ceiling? Maybe I wasn’t being killed deliberately. Maybe I was being totally forgotten.

  A major panic seemed in order. I know I’m an ex-Marine, and I like to think I’m tough, but although it certainly isn’t macho, I was scared witless. I’m not proud of what I did for the next few minutes, but I’m not ashamed, either. It just happened.

  For an unknown amount of time, I lost all sense of proportion and my own humanity. Hammering until my fists were bloody and screaming on tortured vocal cords, I let loose with every ounce of rage in my body.

  No response.

  I knelt on the bed frame and drew deep breaths. I must have crouched there for some time or the water was rising swiftly, because dampness on my knees startled me. Rationality slowly returned.

  I stepped into the water. It came to just below my knees. I couldn’t think about the filth I was walking in. In the dark I felt behind me for the bed. Methodically I yanked at the frame and the slats. Stuck solid to wall and floor. Putting my hands in front of me, I moved to the bars, and on each one in turn I twisted, pounded, pulled, slapped, and yanked, but they moved not an inch. Darkness totally surrounded me. Not an outlet or way of saving myself came to mind.