‘Police?’
‘Perhaps once. Not now.’
‘So why not just say that? Why let us lock him in a cell?’
‘Because he didn’t seem to care what we did,’ said Griffin. ‘Whatever he was looking for down here, Jackson and Hartley weren’t it. Still, I want to know more about him before we give him back his liberty, not to mention restoring his access to those guns. Now I’m going to talk to Tilon over there, see what he has to say for himself. I want you to wake Billie’ – Wilhelmina Brinton, or just plain Billie to everyone who knew her, took care of secretarial duties for the department – ‘and tell her to get to her desk as soon as she can. I’m good for the extra hours. She can free up Kevin to join us, because we’re going to need extra pairs of hands and eyes.’
Billie Brinton was no pushover, and knew how to handle a weapon, and herself. Griffin wasn’t anticipating any trouble from Parker, but you never knew. He was on his way to speak with Ward when Knight spoke again.
‘This one is going to be different, right?’ said Knight.
But Griffin did not reply.
11
Tilon Ward was in his mid-thirties, but like so many of those born in this impoverished place, he could have added another ten years to his age and no one would have blinked. As far as Griffin could tell, Ward subsisted on one square meal a day, if that, supplemented by coffee, cigarettes, and the occasional Coors Light. If he was involved in the production of methamphetamine, he was smart enough not to use it himself.
‘Tilon.’
‘Evan.’
‘You okay there?’
Ward nodded, but looked as though he wanted to throw up. He’d already done so once, according to Knight, although he’d had the good sense to puke far from the dead girl.
‘Never seen a body before,’ he said, ‘or not one like that.’
‘You want to tell me how you came to find her?’
‘Like I told Kel, I was on my way to check my traps. I smelled something bad, went to investigate, and there she was.’
‘You always go after bad smells? Might have been a dead animal.’
‘I know how dead animals smell. This was different.’
He had a point, Griffin knew. There was something distinctive about the emanations from human mortality.
‘Did you touch anything?’
‘Nothing. I saw her, retraced my steps, and made the call.’
His cell phone stuck out of the side pocket of his jacket. Coverage was scratchy out here, and Ward had been forced to drive a ways back toward town before he picked up a signal.
‘Traps, huh?’
‘That’s right. Coon traps.’
Ward met the chief’s gaze. If Griffin wanted to make an accusation, the look said, he’d better have the evidence to back it up, because Ward wasn’t about to admit to anything unless he had to.
‘How often do you inspect them?’
‘Every couple of days.’
‘You take the same route each time?’
‘Mostly.’
‘When did you last come through?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Could the girl have been here then?’
Regardless of what Knight had said about the rain and the trees, Griffin wasn’t entirely dismissing the possibility that the girl might have been killed elsewhere a day or two earlier, with the body subsequently being moved.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? From the looks of her, she’s been dead for two days at least.’
‘Because almost as soon as I smelled her, I saw her. I got good eyes. Didn’t have to take more than a couple of steps to make her out.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I’d have noticed if she’d been there yesterday, even without the smell. Like I said, I got good eyes.’
‘Even in the dark?’
‘It’s not dark. It’s just a different light.’
And he was right about that as well. It was all a matter of texture. This was a fairly remote stretch of road, for now, but the girl’s remains hadn’t just been dumped; she’d been laid carefully on the ground, and the branches had probably been put inside her once she was in position. It would be hard to transport a body with two branches wedged inside, and that was before carrying it down a slope and arranging it just so among the trees.
‘Can you think of anyone else who comes this way into the woods?’ said Griffin.
‘I’ve seen people around, but not many.’
That was set to change, though. Almost within sight of where they stood was a fenced off area of land, partially cleared: a Cade property, waiting for construction to commence. Two metal poles had recently been erected beside the gates, and word was that a banner was ready to be hoisted, trumpeting a new start for the county.
‘And there are easier ways into the Ouachita, since—’
Ward bit his tongue. He’d almost made a mistake. The reason most folk chose not to explore certain parts of the woods was because they might stumble across a meth lab or those involved with it. Encountering Tilon Ward was one thing, but dealing with some of his associates was another. All this Griffin surmised from Ward’s hesitation. Ward’s truck contained a big lockbox in its bed, and Griffin wondered what he might find inside if he searched. But to do so he’d need a warrant, and Judge Hawkins would require a semblance of probable cause before signing off on Tilon Ward.
But Griffin wasn’t about to fight that battle now. It was coming down the line, and then he and Ward would have a reckoning, whatever their history, but the pressing issue was dead black girls.
‘And who might those folks be?’ said Griffin.
Ward gave him a few names, but reluctantly. This was a small town, and just as nobody wanted the police knocking on the door asking about murders, so too did no one wish to point a finger at others. It was a surefire way to have one’s tires slashed, or worse. But none of the men identified by Ward struck Griffin as the murderous type, or at least not the kind to kill a young woman. He could see a couple of them falling back on a gun or their fists owing to an inherently hostile disposition and a paucity of patience and common sense, but not engaging in this level of sadism and defilement.
‘If I was you, Tilon,’ said Griffin, ‘I’d stay out of the woods for a while.’
Ward did not appear particularly enamored of this suggestion. Griffin figured the meth wasn’t going to make itself, and the meth addict customer base was not noted for its loyalty. Also, while Ward might have been involved in the cook, Griffin didn’t have him pegged as the guiding force behind the operation, although he had his theories about that as well.
‘What about my traps?’ said Ward.
‘You catch a coon in one of them, it’s not going anywhere.’
Griffin knew that Ward, like most of those in the county who hunted raccoons, used live traps rather than foot ones, if only to stop the animals gnawing off a limb to escape. The raccoons might lose some weight before Ward came to kill them, but that was about the worst he could anticipate, assuming any of this was about traps to begin with.
‘I’ll take it under advisement,’ said Ward.
‘Do you even know what that means?’
‘It means I don’t plan to stay out of the woods. It’s a free country.’
‘It hasn’t been a free country since the Mayflower landed, and this particular expanse of it is about to get a whole lot less free.’
Ward lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. He almost threw away the dead soldier before spotting the look on Griffin’s face, and instead stored it in one of his pockets once he’d snuffed out the last of the burning tobacco. Griffin was immediately reminded of Kevin Naylor, who had performed the same action the night before, and under similar pressure. It sometimes felt to Griffin that he was destined to spend much of his life attempting to inculcate better habits of behavior in the young.
‘Less free because of … her?’ said Ward.
Griffin picked up on the pause, but didn
’t ascribe any significance to it.
‘Among other reasons.’
‘It won’t matter, not if Jurel Cade has his way.’
‘You see Jurel here?’ said Griffin.
‘Not yet, but I will if I stick around long enough.’
‘Then you’d best be about your business, unless you have an urge to discuss your activities with him.’
Ward didn’t. The only reason the forces of law and order in Burdon County hadn’t moved en masse into the Ouachita to investigate reports of meth production was because there were too many trees and not enough police, but that situation remained fluid, and change was coming.
Ward jangled the keys to his truck as a prelude to departing, and Griffin said, ‘Tilon.’
‘Yes?’
‘I appreciate your making the call to us first.’
Ward glanced over at the body.
‘You ought to have a woman officer out here,’ he said. ‘It’s wrong to leave her like that, surrounded only by men.’
‘You’re right, but we can’t do anything until the scene has been photographed. We’ll cover her up soon as we can, and Lorrie Colson will be back before long.’
Ward nodded.
‘I guess I’ll be hearing from Jurel about all this,’ he said, ‘whether I stay around or not.’
‘Most likely.’
‘Better be worth the vexation.’
He got in his truck and drove toward town, leaving Griffin to reflect on the strange forms that goodness and morality sometimes assumed. He’d do his best to remember this moment, and another from the past, when the time came to take down Tilon Ward.
A white 1981 Pontiac Phoenix SJ coupe rattled down the road toward Griffin, slowing as it came. Loyd Holt, the coroner, might not have been the only man in Arkansas still driving the ’81 Phoenix, but he was certainly the only one to give every impression of continuing to enjoy the experience. He had added blue racing stripes to his vehicle, and whitewall tires, which was like putting lipstick on a pig – a pig, that is, with an eighty-four horsepower engine. Griffin could almost have understood someone holding on to the ’82 Phoenix, which could outaccelerate a Trans Am in its day, but not the ’81. Even relative poverty didn’t excuse it, and it was even more unbecoming as a mode of transportation for a coroner.
Holt brought the Phoenix to a halt, which took some time. He’d probably learned many years before not to slam on the brakes, as this caused the rear wheels to lock. Even if he’d had the problem seen to, Griffin thought, the memory of the experience would undoubtedly have remained with him.
Holt was a small, rotund man in his forties, his avoirdupois being a product of his insomnia, which caused him to eat at odd times of the day and night, and made him unsuited to most forms of physical exercise. He was single, and had never been married, although it was not for want of asking. Griffin doubted that there existed a single, divorced, or widowed woman in Burdon County between the ages of twenty-five and fifty who had not, at some point, found herself the object of Loyd Holt’s attentions, but he was never unpleasant or untoward, and moved on once it became clear that his feelings were unlikely to be reciprocated. He was just lonely, with a hint of desperation to him. Someday he might find a fellow insomniac to keep him company, and his life would be happier as a consequence. He was an unlikely occupant of the highest-ranking law enforcement position in the county, even if only nominally, but thus had the Arkansas constitution been framed.
‘Where’s the body?’ Holt asked, once he’d emerged from the Phoenix.
‘Over by that dwarf sumac.’
Griffin led the way to the scene, Kel Knight watching. Holt knew only that a body had been discovered, but he had not been informed of the precise nature of that discovery. As he looked down at the dead girl, a weight appeared to descend on him.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Has Jurel been informed?’
‘He will be,’ Griffin replied, ‘just not right now. Tucker’s on his way. Once he’s documented everything, I’ll make the call. Are we clear, Loyd? I’ll make the call.’
The implication was beyond misunderstanding: if Holt went running behind Griffin’s back to Jurel Cade, Griffin would do his utmost to ensure that Holt’s already problematic existence descended into outright misery.
‘He’s not going to like it.’
‘Frankly, Loyd,’ said Griffin, ‘I couldn’t give a damn what Jurel likes or doesn’t like.’
But even as he spoke, he heard his own bluster, and Holt heard it too.
‘It’s on your head,’ he said.
‘If these girls keep dying, it’ll be on all our heads,’ said Griffin. ‘And Jurel’s will roll just as easy as yours or mine.’
12
The woman named Billie hadn’t introduced herself to Parker, but he’d heard the younger officer, Naylor, use her name before he left. She appeared at the bars with a cup of coffee shortly after 6.30 a.m., and placed it on the floor for him to take, being careful to instruct him to remain where he was until she’d stepped away. He wondered if someone had tried to throw hot coffee on her in the past. If so, it wouldn’t have ended well for the prisoner involved, given that Billie was built on substantial foundations and wore a holstered gun on her belt. It behooved a man to mind his manners in such company.
‘You mind if I ask what’s happening?’ he asked.
‘They found a girl’s body, just out of town.’
‘Like Patricia Hartley?’
Billie squinted at him. She’d been told nothing about the prisoner beyond the fact that he’d mouthed off to the chief, and she should keep her distance until they found out more about him. But if she’d come across him in a bar, she thought she might have spoken with him. He didn’t raise her hackles or give her the creeps, not like some of the men she’d encountered during her years with the department. He just seemed sad – and angry, because the two often went together.
‘It’s a body. That’s all I know. Breakfast may take awhile, because it’s just you and me here for now.’
‘I’m in no hurry to eat, but thank you anyway.’
‘You didn’t kill her, did you?’
‘No.’
‘I guess you would say that, though, even if you had killed her.’
‘I guess so.’
‘But if you’ve done something bad, I’ll be disappointed in you.’
A flicker on the man’s face: a smile attempting to construct itself from underused muscles.
‘I wouldn’t want that,’ he said.
‘No, you wouldn’t. You need anything else?’
‘I have a book to read, but it’s kind of you to ask.’
‘I’ll be back to you later with that food.’
‘Thanks.’
Billie left him, increasing her pace as she heard the phone begin to ring. She picked up and listened as the caller identified himself. She wrote the name CHARLIE PARKER in block capitals across the top of a fresh page, and began taking notes.
Christ, she thought, as the lines began to fill with her handwriting, Kel and the chief need to get back here, and fast. They need to let this man out of his cage before he has a mind to break out of it himself.
Tucker McKenzie was everything that Loyd Holt was not: tall where Holt was short, slim where he was fat, confident where he was not. McKenzie also slept like a baby, and had given up asking women to marry him after the first one said yes. He was now carefully walking the scene, camera in hand, his equipment bag hanging from his shoulder. Griffin and the others left him to it, not wishing to obstruct or distract him while he was getting his bearings. Once he was done, he joined Griffin, Knight, and Holt.
‘What do you think?’ Griffin asked.
McKenzie gave him a look before proceeding, and Griffin gathered that two conversations would be required between them, the first public and the second more private.
‘It looks clean, at first glance. She was set down after the rain stopped, so we might luck out on boot or shoe prints, but I wouldn’t get my h
opes up. I saw some smears in the dirt beside the body, so whoever left her there may have been smart enough to obscure any tracks. When the light improves, I’ll take a closer look at those branches, see if anything might have snagged on them. What I can tell you now, you already know: she wasn’t killed where she lies, and there’s evidence of torture.’
‘Torture?’ said Griffin.
‘Some of those wounds are shallow. I reckon whoever did this tormented her for kicks before he got around to killing her. Also, those branches inside her didn’t originate here. They’re black hickory, and I don’t see any of that nearby. We’ll need to figure out where they might have come from and search those areas. Until the branches are removed, I won’t be able to tell for certain if they were scavenged or cut for purpose. As for the cause of death, I wouldn’t like to speculate, but if you forced me, I’d say that one or more of those stab wounds might have been sufficient to put an end to her.’
‘All right,’ said Griffin. ‘Soonest started.’
McKenzie began checking his camera. ‘You have a name for her yet?’
‘No. We got a couple of missing persons, including two colored women, but the ages don’t match. We’re going to consult Reverend Pettle, see if he can’t help us identify her.’
‘Uh-huh.’ McKenzie clicked off a shot and rolled the film on. ‘Loyd, can you give us a minute?’
Holt made an effort to object, if only for form’s sake. ‘I’m the coroner. Whatever you got to say, I should hear.’
‘Loyd,’ said Griffin, ‘how badly do you want to have to lie to Jurel Cade when he arrives?’
‘I don’t want to have to lie to Jurel at all.’
‘Then perhaps you ought to take a walk.’
Holt didn’t bother to protest. In fact, to Griffin’s eyes, he appeared pleased to be asked to absent himself from proceedings, which was worrying.
Burdon County, Griffin thought, was about ready for a new coroner.
13
Kel Knight kept an eye on Loyd Holt while Griffin and McKenzie conversed out of earshot. Like the rest of the department, Knight now owned one of those cursed cell phone gadgets, although he sorely wished it were not the case, Kel Knight being of the view that if he wanted to be contactable at all hours of the day and night, he’d pitch a tent outside Ferdy’s Dunk-N-Go, and leave a light on so folks could find him in the dark. Admittedly, one couldn’t travel far from the heart of town without losing coverage, but it was scant succor for someone who valued his privacy the way Knight did.
The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020) Page 6
