by Jeremy Tyler
John continued to subtly scan the gathering crowd. Somewhere in there was a killer, and not a particularly clever one. In theory, this was where he made his short list of suspects. He was looking for the face in the crowd that was showing too much grief, or not enough, or just plain indifference. He was looking for bad acting, a twinkle in the eye, a smirk that someone accidentally let slip. For the most part, he had no names to go with faces, but there was one exception. Arthur Stovall. He didn’t like it, but there it was. Arthur Stovall had every reason to hate the Rivers family, and he was certainly big enough to overpower a man. His expression was blank, today, like a man with a straight flush who’s desperate not to give it all away.
John had seen that particular look a lot in his line of work, the facial equivalent of ‘name, rank, and serial number.’ It almost always meant the same thing. Guilt.
The close of the sermon gave John the pretext he needed to meet and greet those other faces. He made his way through the crowd with relative ease. It helped that, being in a small town, everyone already knew who he was. One by one, he came up to those who had struck his interest. Some he could dismiss immediately, others he took special note of. Hank Groves, who owned the only liquor store in the county, and was in danger of losing his business if a referendum passed to make Coweta a dry county. Reverend Carl Rivers, who was heading up the committee, would never see that happen, now. Clorace Ann Ruthers, who had repeatedly tried to gain the attention of Carl Rivers, despite his insistence that he was a confirmed bachelor. It wouldn’t be the first time John had seen infatuations end this way.
There were others, too. John made his way through, listening and asking the right questions. It still amazed him how much information people were just willing to throw out there for you. He remembered an old saying his captain always quoted, “the best way to get a confession is not to ask any questions at all, just get the guy into a decent conversation, and let him tell you everything.”
It worked. As he talked to people, one on one, he found out more about his uncle’s everyday life in Sales City than he would have ever known otherwise. It was an interesting revelation, in many cases. The last person he was going to talk with, however, was Arthur Stovall. He couldn’t completely understand why, but he wanted to put all his energies into that conversation, as though he needed to prove that he was innocent or guilty before he could do anything else.
He never quite made it to Mr. Stovall, however. Just as he was finishing up with James Finney, who’s wife had recently insisted he quit the local lodge because of the things she had heard went on there—things he stoutly believed that Reverend Rivers had told her—a latecomer had arrived. He did not walk up to the grave, or mingle amongst the gathered mourners, but kept a respectful distance. That is, until he saw Detective Webb. When he locked his ancient eyes on John, he marched purposefully forward.
John’s expression grew dangerously dark as Sam Posey walked up to him. He closed the distance, as though refusing the man access to the others gathered together in memory of his dear uncle.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you pack up whatever crystal ball or tarot cards you’ve got with you and leave these people alone!” John whispered hostilely, as he closed with Sam.
Sam looked at him as if he hadn’t heard a word he said.
“Mr. Webb, I know you don’t think much of me, but you should really read this,” Sam handed a note over to John. “Just read it. After that, you can rip it up, pass it around to your friends back in New York for a good laugh, or you can drive up to my house and call me a liar and a cheat—I don’t care. Just you read it!” Unsure of what really to do at this point, John took the note from Sam Posey’s hand. “Maybe I’m a fool for comin’ out here. I ain’t decided yet. But I’ll not be able ta’ live with m’self if I don’t at least try…”
John cut him off with a single harsh, barking laugh.
“I took your damn note. You said that’s all you want? Well, mission accomplished. Leave these people to their grief.”
Having done what he came to do, apparently, Sam Posey walked away, and left the cemetery without another word to anyone.
With the note still held loosely in his hand, John caught Annie Ruth staring over at him from where she stood by her husband. And then, all of a sudden, John Webb didn’t want to have that conversation with Arthur. He didn’t want to think about him being guilty or not guilty. Without knowing really why, John just wanted to go someplace where no one was looking and read that note.
The funny thing about funerals is that different people can have very different reactions to them. Some people want to find someone or something to be close to, in order to remind themselves that they’re alive. Some prefer the reflection of solitude. Many people like to tune everything out, as though the numbness of thought would seep into their emotional state and dull the pain of loss. Still others, like Sheriff’s Deputy Dan Merrill, became oddly alert, as though afraid they might miss some important clue to life hidden within the details and ritual of the proceedings.
*
Dan Merrill had wanted to be a cop since he was four years old; ever since he had watched one Roy Rivers stare down an angry crowd when Henry Johns, a black man, had been accused of raping a teenage white girl from three counties over. Henry was well known and well liked, but that day, he was just a damn nigger and fit to be hanged. Roy threw Henry into the lock-up until he could get some answers, but several of the men from town wanted justice first, and bother with a trial later. Most sheriffs would have just let them have their way, rather than face that kind of hate and rage, but Roy stood there at the door of the sheriffs office, shotgun in hand, and promised to shoot the first man to put a foot on the steps. No one took him up on the threat. That evening, when it was revealed that the “teenage girl” was actually a recently released patient from the Chattahoochee mental hospital and had a bit of a history of accusations, the whole story fell apart. Henry Johns was completely innocent, just the unfortunate individual that happened to be delivering several large sacks of salt to the hotel she was staying at.
Since that day, Dan knew that he was going to be a policeman. He followed Roy around constantly, asking questions, until his mother was certain Roy would be sick of the sight of him. Instead, Roy seemed to take a special interest in the boy. He spent hours with Dan, quizzing him on police procedures, making him memorize every face in Coweta County, and every life story behind it. The job of deputy was his the day he graduated from high school, if he wanted it. But the problem with that was, Dan wanted it too much. With Roy’s blessing and a few dollars to his name, Dan Merrill took a bus to Atlanta to spend the next year at the Police Academy.
When he returned home to Sales City, he could have taken a job with the Atlanta Police Department making twice what he would as Roy’s deputy, but he was committed to serving his hometown. Just like Roy had taught him, he considered the people of Coweta County to be his responsibility, and he could never forget that. Not even when one of them had passed on…
Especially when one had passed.
Deputy Merrill was keenly aware of many things going on during the funeral. He noticed John’s surreptitious examination of the crowd earlier, and the subsequent observations and interviews afterward. He could guess what the northerner was doing. Truth be known, he was keeping an eye out on some of the same people.
Dan wasn’t surprised to see Sam Posey arrive, but when he shoved a note at Webb, that got his interest. The angry look on Webb’s face made him especially curious. Webb had just arrived in town—when did he have time to even meet Posey?
Dan kept a quiet vigil over John Webb throughout the funeral. Nobody else seemed to notice the distracted way he smiled and shook hands with all the well-wishers, but it was obvious enough to Dan that John’s mind was somewhere else.
Because Dan was watching, he was close enough to hear John Webb make a quick request to Gerald, the Rivers’ houseman. He watched as he took the keys from him and
headed toward the car. It took him a few moments to extract himself from the other family, but the look on his face was determined—even under the stern reproach of Wilhelmina, whose voice could be heard even from where Dan stood in the distance:
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, John, and I will not stand for it!”
“I’ll be right back. I just forgot something in my room,” John responded. Wilhelmina just threw her hands up in the air and went back to talking with everyone. In a moment, she was right back into the same conversation she was engaged in before John interrupted. As far as anyone could tell, his indiscretion was forgotten. Dan knew better, but he wasn’t sticking around to watch it happen. He was more interested in where John was in such a hurry to get to.
Funny thing about backwoods counties and country towns, roads were always an afterthought. John Webb couldn’t have known this, so he assumed that the quickest route between any two points would be by road. Dan Merrill knew better. For every winding, nonsensically designed road in Georgia there were a hundred horse tracks, laid out as straight as an arrow’s path. When Webb turned left on Funeral Line Road, he knew there wouldn’t be another turn or stop for another twelve miles. Plenty of time to “borrow” one of Ed Nelson’s horses and make his way toward Creek Bed Road, which was the next crossroads.
Sure enough, Dan beat the good detective and traced him just another mile further, where he pulled off and made his way down to the very spot where Dan had first met Webb, just shy of the bridge where Reverend Rivers had been shot. Dan hadn’t planned on spying on anyone today; otherwise he would have had his field glasses to see up close. As it was, he had to content himself with peeking out from a safe vantage point. But he could still make out Webb, still clutching that damn paper, working his way along the edge of the river towards Parrot River Bridge. He was looking down at the rocks. Looking, as though the whole fate of the world was down there. He waded into the river, got down on his knees. Dan didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for, but it was important.
Dan watched for a few minutes, until Webb froze in place. His hands were clearly trembling, even from this distance, as he plunged his fist into the water and brought up…
Dan had no idea. Webb moved around so that his back blocked the view, and whatever it was that he found, was tucked into his jacket before Dan could see it. And then the show was over. Webb got out of the water, walked up to the car, and drove off toward town. Leaving poor Deputy Dan to wonder. With more questions than answers, Dan worked his way back up to the horse, then headed back to old Ed Nelson’s to return the horse.
*
Had he stayed but a few minutes longer, Dan would have had yet another question to add to his list, because within moments of driving away from that quiet stretch of water, John Webb coasted onto the Parrott River Bridge. With Dan now gone, no one was there to bear witness as John got out of the car and came over to the edge of the bridge.
The weather had done a fine job of clean up, but John’s trained eye was still able to make out the brownish discoloration that he knew to be dried blood. Placing his hands on the wooden rail, he took a moment to contemplate what might have been going through Carl Rivers’ mind before the end. Then, reaching into his left pocket, he brought out Sam’s note. The contents of his right pocket, which he had just found in the river, was too disturbing to even think about right now.
John read and reread that note, as if searching out a loophole in the language. Maybe he could find some bizarre grammatical error that would change what it meant, somehow. Perhaps there was some trick or double meaning that would alter the course set before him. In the end, however, he resigned himself to its reality. With a heavy sighing breath, he put the note back, and eased himself over the edge of the rail to peer down.
He saw what he was looking for after a few moments of hard looking. It was no surprise that no one had seen it thus far. The paper was caught in a wood joint set far back into the bracing of the bridge, where shadow concealed it from all but the most scrutinized observation.
It took a bit of doing, and not a few close moments, but John managed to work his way down to where the scrap was lodged and freed it. He didn’t wait to climb back up, but slowly, fearfully opened the paper to see what was written on it. His face was a leaden mixture of anger and regret as the words played out. For a moment, it seemed that all the strength left him, and his arms began to lose their grip on the bridge supports. The drop down to the river probably wouldn’t kill him, but the current would certainly finish whatever part of the job remained.
Before it came to that, however, he managed to collect himself enough to haul his body back up and into the car. He sat there for a good solid hour with that note clenched in his hands. Then, with a grim look on his face, he started the car, and headed back to the funeral. John Webb tried to clear his head and focus, realizing that he would have to face everyone back at the cemetery, and then at the dinner to follow. He had already decided he could not show this evidence to anyone else, but he also knew what it meant, and he knew that his work in Coweta County was far from over.
Chapter 3
Wednesday, May 25th, 1942
“Nobody ever said that solving crime was easy.” Those were the words that came unbidden to John’s lips as they stared down at the second body. They had been spoken to him on his first homicide case several years earlier, when he and the senior detective were examining the mutilated corpse of a teenage girl in a back alley, smelling of urine and abandonment. It was a memory that would forever remain burned upon his mind, and those words along with it.
“Does Wilhelmina know yet?” he heard Dan whisper to Roy. The two stood far back, as though coming nearer to the corpse would somehow make it more real, or that crossing that last distance might seal the deal, and George Rivers would be irretrievably lost. John looked back to lock eyes with Roy.
“She’s been in her room all mornin’. She knows somethin’ bad’s happened.” Roy broke the look and started to take in the familiar scene. They were standing on the Rivers’ own estate. Roy was standing in a nicely tailored dressing robe, looking oddly operatic in its striking contrast to the painfully angered look on his face.
“Nobody heard nothin’! Not one damn peep,” Roy commented angrily.
Nodding, John forced himself to look back at the body.
It was messy.
That was the most appropriate word for it. Messy. George did not die easily or quickly. His body had been mutilated, and from the looks of it, the killer had not waited until George was dead to do it. Leaning in close, John placed a tentative finger into a fresh groove just under the remainder of George’s left arm. It was about three inches deep.
“The killer started out calm. The first cuts into his back were from glancing blows. It was like he was trying to knock him down first…before he got started.” John explained how the axe blows got progressively deeper, as the killer went on with his task. Roy was impressively stoic, though John knew this had to be killing him.
The scene was horrendous. Apparently, George had gone out to the back of the house for some reason—possibly to investigate a noise—when he was struck from behind. All of this John could show them, using the simplest of evidence around him. Even Dan had to be impressed by the man’s powers of observation.
It probably took several minutes before George finally died.
The murder scene was covered in blood, and it was clear that the murderer took great pleasure in inflicting pain. What was unclear was the meaning of the 3-letter message left, written in blood, on the outside wall of the Rivers’ home. E L P.
It was this cryptic message that had brought about John’s simple, yet elegant expression about the ease of solving crime.
“Poor George must’a been tryin’ to ask for help, and couldn’t finish,” Roy said aloud. Dan got a strange, quizzical look on his face that John couldn’t help but notice.
“You have a different take on it, Deputy Merrill?”
Dan was clearly caught off guard, and tried to wave him off, but John was curious, and persisted. “You have something to say. Say it.”
“I was just wonderin’ why George would write out ‘help’ in the first place. Anyone comin’ by would see him before they’d see his note.”
“A good point…maybe George wasn’t thinking too clearly, though. Maybe he just wanted to call out for help in whatever way he had available,” John reasoned, but without conviction.
“How’s come he wrote it backward?”
Everyone turned to Deputy Fred Flandon, who up to now had offered very little, preferring the “keep quiet and try not to do something stupid” approach to fieldwork. The poor deputy turned red with the sudden focus on him, but he pressed forward, anyway.
“It’s just that, if you were goin’ to write out the word ‘help,’ you’d start like normal…with the ‘H.’ That’s the only letter George didn’t get to.”
“Not one DAMN THING about this makes any sense, Fred!” Roy yelled. His cool exterior was wearing thin. “And I don’t give a rat’s hairy ass why he wrote backward. I’m gonna catch this sonofabitch, and I’m gonna set this right!” he bellowed. Then, turning on Dan with a face torn with mixed pain and rage, he pointed toward the woods that surrounded the Rivers’ home.
“Get that worthless old bloodhound down here and start him on any trail he can find. This fella’ came out here last night, and I mean to find out where he went to.” Roy was still fuming as he trudged up to the front of the house.
“Sheriff,” John barked, a little sharper than he intended, though not by much. “You do know that, if I were here officially, this is exactly the point where I’d tell you that you should remove yourself from this case.” There was a pause as Roy looked back at him, as though he were deciding if he wanted to yell, cry, or just hit him.
