by Terry Shames
Chapter 5
Tilley is back at headquarters after his shower. Normally, as head of the volunteer fire department, Tilley would have stayed at the site of the fire, but with bodies involved, the Bobtail fire chief is in charge. It is his responsibility to get state forensic fire examiners out here, though who knows how long it will take?
Tilley says he had lunch at Town Café and the whole place is buzzing about the fire, wondering exactly what happened. He’s leaning back in his chair, his hands crossed over his bulging belly.
“You didn’t tell them the girl was shot, did you?” I ask.
He gets a peeved look on his face, and his chins wobble as he replies. “I believe I did mention it. I didn’t see any reason to keep it a secret.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” For some reason, I want to protect everybody from knowing that something so terrible happened.
He tilts forward in his chair. “Craddock, there’s no way to keep something like that quiet. People are going to find out.”
“But there’s no need for a cop to be passing out the information before we’ve had a chance to digest it ourselves.”
Tilley shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his eyes are narrowed.
“I’m going back out there to take another look,” I say.
“Be my guest.”
When I step outside the station, I find that the temperature has dropped about thirty degrees. That’s what happens when a norther comes in. It’s like a wall of cold air. It may only last a day or two, since it isn’t fall yet, but for now it feels downright wintry.
I rummage around behind the seat of the pickup and pull out a jacket that hasn’t seen action since March. I shake it out and put it on. Even if it looks and smells like something a bum would wear, I’m glad I have it.
Darktown has an air of desertion. I expected to see people outside, standing in clusters, talking to one another about what happened, but I don’t see a soul. It gives me an uneasy feeling. When I get close to the scene of the fire, I find out where everybody is. There must be thirty, forty people, mostly black, gathered on the side of the road near the path through the woods that leads to the burned-out house. I recognize a few of them, but most are strangers. I don’t know what has drawn them here. In the past few years, there have been TV images of black protests in cities, so I’m used to the idea of protest. But I don’t know why these people would be protesting. It isn’t as if white citizens are to blame here—or, if they are, at least it’s too early to tell.
I park next to a highway patrol car that is probably Sutherland’s. There are several other cars parked haphazardly along the road as if people rushed up to the scene, slowed their cars to a stop, and jumped out in a hurry.
I climb out of my pickup, nodding to the Pearl brothers, who are standing at the edge of the crowd. They put up the fence for my pasture last month. Frank looks down at the ground, and his younger brother, Erland, gives me a stone-cold stare. I consider asking them what’s going on, but there’ll be time for that when I’ve had a look around.
When I arrive at the burned-out house, Sutherland and his partner are standing with Bobtail Fire Chief Koontz. Not only that, but a pack of reporters and photographers are spread out, taking pictures from every possible angle. I’m sorry they’re here. If I had thought about it, I should have known they would be, but this is my first experience of such a big crime. Reporters and highway patrolmen don’t show up when somebody is arrested for being drunk and disorderly.
“Anything new?” I ask.
“Looks like you got what you wanted,” Sutherland says with a smirk.
“And what would that be?”
“All your fine, upstanding citizens gathered around near the road back there could use a little policing.”
“Have they done something wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Does this hick town have a law that they have to have a permit to assemble?”
It’s pretty clear Sutherland is making fun of me. I’m trying to keep my cool, but I have an edge to my voice when I say, “Isn’t there some way to keep these news hounds from trampling the crime scene?”
“They aren’t going to do any more damage than has already been done by the firemen,” Koontz says. He’s looking off into the distance, trying to ignore our exchange.
Suddenly the newsmen all surge in our direction. Sutherland and Koontz look at something over my shoulder, and I turn to see a stocky man with a bristly mustache and hair that looks like porcupine quills charging up to us. It’s Roland Newberry, who has been the county sheriff for a long time. He’s wearing his uniform and badge, which is unusual. He’s usually dressed in civilian clothes. I’m glad to see him. Newberry has been cordial to me since I became chief, and early on he offered to help without being condescending to me.
As county sheriff, he is in a tricky position. He doesn’t have any authority to investigate, but he needs to make sure the investigators can do their jobs. He is a liaison between police chiefs of small towns and the THP and the Texas Rangers, and he provides whatever logistical support he can to the investigators.
“Hey, are you the county sheriff?” One of the newspeople hollers.
Newberry strides toward them. “I’m not wearing this uniform and badge to play-act,” he says. “I’m the sheriff and I’ll thank you all to move back away from the building. This is an active crime scene.”
“Nobody said we couldn’t take a closer look,” says a skinny guy wearing a hat that makes him look like a reporter out of a 1940s movie.
“Can’t you read? That yellow tape says ‘Crime Scene’ all over it.”
The reporters pepper him with questions. “Who first spotted the fire? This land is part of Cato Woods, isn’t it? Who owns the house? Did they know somebody was living out here? Was this part of a drug deal? Who’s investigating? Will that be the Texas Rangers?”
Newberry waves his hands in the air. “All right, goddammit, settle down. You’re like a pack of hyenas.”
“What can you tell us?” one of them shouts.
“Not a damn thing. As you can plainly see, I just got here.”
“What are you going to do with that mob out there on the road?”
“Nothing, as long as they stay orderly. They’re not hurting anybody as far as I can see.”
“Yeah, but you get your niggers all riled up, and next thing you know they’re going to be burning people’s houses down.”
“What’s your name and where are you from?” Newberry barks the question.
“Pete Wallace out of Houston. I’m from the Chronicle.”
“Well Pete, just because you all can’t keep things under control in Houston doesn’t mean we can’t keep everything in order here. Now, if you’ll give me a while to get caught up, I’ll have a statement for you. I’ll be holding a press conference at the courthouse in Bobtail.”
There are a few groans.
“I’m sorry if that doesn’t suit you, but I’m the boss here and I get to make the rules. Matter of fact, that may give you an indication of how I plan to keep order. Now I suggest you get in your cars and head back to Bobtail and wait for me. I’m done talking to you.”
He turns his back on them. “Hi, fellas. Chief Craddock.” He nods all around. “If you all ignore them, they’ll lose interest and get on out of here.” He offers his ham hock of a hand to Sutherland, “I don’t believe we’re acquainted. I’m Roland Newberry, County Sheriff.”
Everybody introduces themselves.
“Koontz, have you been able to do any preliminary investigation on this fire?” Newberry asks.
“It’s still too hot, though this norther is going to cool it off fast. But I can tell you right now the fire was set to cover the murders of the kids in this house.”
“Was it all kids that was killed?”
Koontz winces. “Hard to tell. One of ’em was big enough to be a grownup, but you know how that goes.”
“Some of these black kids can be as big as me by the ti
me they’re twelve,” Sutherland offers.
“How do you know it was set?” Newberry asks.
“Whoever did it didn’t try to cover it up,” Koontz says. “There were gas cans all over, and you can smell the gas strong back there.”
“Hmph. Somebody sending a message of some kind, if we can manage to decipher it.”
“You leave that to me,” Sutherland says.
“You mean the highway patrol is going to be in charge?” Newberry sounds startled. “You aren’t calling on the Rangers to investigate?”
“That’s right,” Sutherland says, resting his hand on his gun. “I don’t think it’s necessary to get Rangers involved. The THP ought to be able to clear this up.”
“Well, that’s between you and Wills.” Newberry’s expression is unreadable, but his response lacked enthusiasm, and I can’t help thinking he doesn’t much like Sutherland. “Anybody talked to those people milling around on the road to find out what they’re up to?”
It strikes me that I can extricate myself from Sutherland’s presence and at the same time put myself in charge of something. “I’m going out there right now to have a talk with them,” I say.
Newberry nods. “Let us know if you need any help.”
Sutherland snorts. “Good luck with that. Those people will close up ranks. You’ll be lucky to get the time of day.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, addressing Newberry, but the truth is I have no idea what I’m going to do. I just know I have to put my stamp on this somehow.
The trick is to find somebody in the crowd who knows me. When I approach, everyone is facing the same direction, toward where somebody is speaking in a voice loud enough that it could be coming from a megaphone. I scan the crowd for Truly Bennett. I know him better than any other black man in town. But I don’t see him. I do see his daddy, though, a big man who hunches over as if he’s got back trouble, even though he can’t be more than midforties. Some of the people have come out without coats, which means they got here before the norther blew in. Must be something important that keeps those people here huddled against the cold.
Skirting the group, I walk toward the commanding voice, surprised to see a few white faces. As I get close, I hear what the speaker is saying. “They’re not going to do a thing to catch whoever did this. We’re going to have to protest and stay after them to see to it that justice is done.”
The crowd murmurs, and I get an uneasy feeling. I see situations like this on TV news, where people get riled up and nothing good comes of it. But if you told me it could happen here, I wouldn’t have believed it. And then I remember Truly Bennett’s cold shoulder this morning.
Until now, I thought I had everything buttoned down with regard to law enforcement. Since I took the job, I’ve had to arrest only a couple of dozen people for one thing or another—most of which involved a night in jail. I had to haul a couple of men up to Bobtail for serious charges when I found out they were selling lots they didn’t own. But mostly it’s been men drinking too much and getting rowdy. Even the drug problem seems to have settled down, or at least no one has complained.
Confronted with what might turn into a mob, I stay quiet and listen, wondering if I ought to get Sheriff Newberry to come over and say a few words. But I’ve lived here all my life. If I don’t have the guts to confront this situation, I should turn in my badge.
I listen a few more minutes, edging closer to the speaker. I realize I’ve seen him somewhere before, most likely on TV. I wonder where he’s from and what brought him here so fast. He’s whip thin and as tall as me, about six feet, and he’s so black his skin is almost purple. His eyes are fiery, and even though I don’t like what he saying, I feel the power of his personality.
It’s now or never. I step up closer and then into the space that has cleared around him. “Excuse me, if I could interrupt for a minute.”
The look he sends my way is calculating. I don’t want to give him the chance to use me, so before he speaks I say, “I’m Samuel Craddock, chief of police here in Jarrett Creek.”
He looks me up and down, and again I am aware of my youth. He’s no older than me, but he exudes self-confidence. “Are you asking us to disperse?” he asks, challenging.
“Doesn’t look to me like that’s necessary,” I say. “I didn’t catch your name.”
A couple of young men in the crowd snicker, which leads me to believe that the man is well-known among them. “I’m Albert Lamond.”
“From Houston,” I say, recognizing the man that the Chronicle calls “abrasive and obnoxious.”
He nods.
“Mr. Lamond, I’d like to say a couple of words to these folks, if you don’t mind.”
Of course he minds. I’ve seen him on TV strutting and preening for the cameras. “You have every right to interrupt me, if you think anybody will listen.” A tic at his mouth signals that he’s annoyed, but he opens one arm wide to invite me to stand next to him. “The police chief wants to talk to you folks,” he says loudly. His voice couldn’t be more condescending. I’m glad it’s chilly because it keeps my cheeks from turning red. I’m not good at handling being mocked.
“I don’t know a lot of y’all,” I say. “All I want to say is that I intend to do everything I can to make sure the authorities find out who did this horrible crime. That’s my pledge.”
“That ain’t sayin’ much,” somebody mutters loud enough for me to hear.
I swallow. “I can’t do it alone,” I say. “I need anybody who knows anything about this to talk to me. Call me, come by headquarters, or . . .” I hesitate, thinking of how Jeanne will react. “Come by my house. Everybody knows where I live. The Texas Highway Patrol will be in charge of the investigation, but I’ll see to it that they get any information that might help.” I step back a couple of feet and say, “Thank you,” to Lamond.
And that’s when I see a man with a camera taking one photo after another, and a man standing next to him taking notes. I take my eyes off them when Lamond comes up close and says, “Talk is cheap. I’m going to keep an eye on this town.”
I suddenly think that Lamond might be useful to me in a pinch. “How can I get in touch with you?”
“My man Juno will give you a phone number.” He beckons to one of his black-suited aides, who hurries over. “Juno, give this lawman a card.”
Juno makes a big show of pulling a silver card case out of his pocket and handing me a card like it’s pure gold. “You can reach me with this, and I’ll pass a message along to Mr. Lamond.”
I tuck the card in my shirt pocket and walk away, skirting the crowd. When I arrive at my truck, I notice that a few people are walking back toward the road.
The two reporters who were taking snapshots hustle over to me. “You know who that was?” the man taking notes asks.
“You a reporter?” I ask.
“Niles Morgenstern, Dallas Morning News. You know who that was?”
Despite the cool, I break out in a sweat. In the police training I had, they told us always to be wary of reporters, that they could make you look like a fool. I laughed at the idea, thinking I’d never be in a position to worry about that kind of thing.
“I do know. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“You know he can fire up people and make life hell for you.”
“I’ll have to take care of that if it happens,” I say. “Now if you want to know anything more, Sheriff Newberry will be giving a press conference at the courthouse later today. You’d be better off talking to him.”
Morgenstern smiles. He’s got kind eyes. “Newberry isn’t the one who just confronted Albert Lamond. I’d like to interview you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have any more to say. My encounter with Mr. Lamond was not a confrontation. I just wanted to say a few words. I’m sure you’re aware I don’t have any authority over how this investigation goes, so I’d best keep my two cents’ worth out of it.”
Morgenstern laughs. “Okay, we’ll leave you alone for now. But
a word to the wise. You’ve put yourself in it, whether you like it or not.” He flips me his card, motions to the photographer, and they leave.
Chapter 6
After the episode with Lamond, I’m so rattled that I figure I might as well face my mamma and get all the unpleasantness over in one day. I pull up to her apartment and sit for a few minutes, trying to decide whether to go in. I’d rather face that crowd again than face my mamma, but Jeanne will keep after me until I make good on my promise to go see her. Besides, I’m already here.
The apartment building is only a few years old, but the construction is so shoddy that it’s already falling apart. I’ve tried every way to get Mamma to move to a better place nearer the middle of town so she won’t have so much trouble getting groceries, but she stays here because my brother, Horace, has one of the other apartments. It’s a step up from the trailer they used to live in when they were first married. I don’t know why it matters to her to be close to Horace. They don’t get along, and she treats Horace’s wife, Donna, two degrees worse than she treats everybody else. As far as I know, Jeanne is the only person who gets along with her. Jeanne brings her groceries once a week and makes sure she has everything she needs.
The reason Horace lives here is it’s close to the liquor store.
I sigh and get out of the truck. Horace’s beaten-up old Ford Falcon is not out front. Maybe Mamma has gone somewhere with him. I can always hope. Then, if she complains that I didn’t come to see her, I can tell her I did but that she was not home. That’s not likely. She hardly ever leaves her apartment.
When I knock on the pressed-board door, she calls out, “Hold your horses!” I hear her shuffling toward the door and I steel myself.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” she says. She’s wearing a gray-and-yellow striped housedress that hangs on her, and a frayed pink sweater. “Coming by to see if I’m dead yet?”
The mere act of opening the door has let out a pent-up cloud of cigarette smoke. She has been a chain smoker my whole life. I don’t know which is worse, the liquor that eventually killed my daddy or her cigarettes.
