by Greg Iles
After a puzzled moment, my mind leaps ahead to close the logical loop. “Brody Royal?”
Henry nods with utter certainty.
“But Dr. Robb was killed five years after Albert Norris. Why wait so long to silence him? And a midair collision? Not even a topflight crop duster could engineer that with any hope of survival.”
“I don’t think there ever was a collision. I think Snake sabotaged Robb’s plane, then banged up his own wing with a sledgehammer just after Robb went down beyond the runway. This was an isolated, unattended airport. Heavy fog, no control tower. Snake lied to the police and the FAA, his nephew backed him up, and that was it. No one could contest their story.”
Despite his intensity, Henry hasn’t sold me. “There’s lots easier ways to kill people, Henry, and without the collateral damage. Do you have any evidence that the crash was murder?”
“My Double Eagle source as much as told me it was murder today. I didn’t want to use up my time with him going into detail on that. But I’ve got circumstantial evidence. You decide how strong it is.”
“Go on.”
“Think about Albert Norris after the firebombing. He’s dying in agonizing pain, third-degree burns over ninety percent of his body. Dr. Robb can’t do a thing for him. Albert doesn’t tell the FBI anything, or even his best friend. But before he slips into a coma, he names Brody Royal and Frank Knox as his killers. Probably two others as well—Sonny Thornfield and Snake Knox. The second that Dr. Robb hears those first two names, his blood runs cold. He knows he’s a dead man if he ever reveals them. So he publicly supports the story that Albert never named his killers. But privately, that knowledge is eating him up. Robb treated Albert’s best friend for years, and that poor man never stopped mourning his buddy. All that time, Dr. Robb knew who had killed Albert. He ran into the Double Eagles almost daily in the community. And Robb was even closer to Brody Royal than that.”
“How do you mean?”
“Along with a lawyer named Claude Devereux, Robb was partners with Royal in a big hunting camp down the river. Robb often flew them down there to hunt or work on the land.”
The first name pings on something in my memory. “Is Claude Devereux the old Cajun who practices law in Vidalia?”
“That’s him,” Henry says with distaste. “And he’s a piece of work. Devereux represented not only Dr. Robb, but also several Klan members and Double Eagles over the years. I don’t think Robb knew that, though. Because when he couldn’t stand keeping the secret anymore, it was Devereux he confided in. I’m sure Devereux told him Brody Royal couldn’t possibly have been involved in Albert’s death—poor old Albert had surely been ranting on morphine, out of his head. Devereux probably promised to make discreet inquiries about Frank Knox, even though he’d represented Knox in court before.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Years passed. At that point, either guilt finally overpowered Dr. Robb’s fear, or Robb started to suspect that Brody Royal was screwing his wife.”
“What?”
“Are you really surprised? This is Louisiana, man. I’ll explain that in a minute, but whether that was true or not, Dr. Robb decided to confide his secret in someone besides Devereux—someone he knew he could trust.” Henry straightens up and looks hard into my eyes. “I think he chose your father. Tom Cage, M.D., the well-known paragon of rectitude.”
Of course. Who else? “How well did Dad and Robb know each other?” I ask, looking down at the photo of my father by the plane.
“Robb and your father attended several antique gun shows together around this time. Robb would fly them there in his plane.”
“Henry, are you suggesting that my father has known for forty years who murdered Albert Norris? And he’s never told anyone about it?”
The reporter holds up his palms. “You’re here talking to me because your father is keeping secrets from you. When you first came in, you told me you thought he might have killed Viola.”
“Technically. Under the law.” My cheeks are burning. “But I don’t consider mercy-killing murder. This is something else altogether.”
“Let me finish my story. Then make up your own mind. I think that when Dr. Robb came to him, your father instantly realized how dangerous the information was. He probably urged Robb to talk to somebody with real authority. I think Robb chose Orrin Dixon, a young congressman from Tennessee. Robb and Dixon had been fraternity brothers at Vanderbilt. Dixon had recently started voting moderately on race, and he’d also become close to President Johnson. Plus, Robb and Dixon had kept up their friendship over the years, and they’d been on several fishing trips in various states.”
“Accompanied by young women?”
“Let’s just say that the girls who died in the crash had both worked as interns for Congressman Dixon in Washington in the past.”
“Democracy in action.”
“On this occasion,” Henry goes on, “the girls were already in Louisiana. Dixon was scheduled to fly in on another plane, then the whole party would leave for Arkansas the next morning. A private camp up in the Ozarks.”
“Five people, total?”
Henry slowly shakes his head. “No. One other person was scheduled to fly that morning.”
My mind races to fill in the blank. “Brody Royal?”
“No.” Henry is fairly bursting to enlighten me, but at last the picture is starting to come clear.
“Claude Devereux.”
“Right. After the crash, Devereux claimed that Congressman Dixon had a last-minute scheduling conflict, so Robb had decided they’d fish in Tennessee instead. So Dixon could still get in some fishing, right? Devereux told reporters that he’d had no desire to fish in Tennessee, so he begged off, and that decision saved his life.”
“How did he explain the girls?”
“Claimed they’d been doing PR work for the congressman down here and were simply being given a plane ride back to Knoxville as a favor. Dixon’s office denied this, but it supported the rest of the story, and the FAA wasn’t concerned with who was sleeping with whom, only the mechanics of the mishap.”
I take a minute to mull this over. “Claude Devereux’s a sharp lawyer. You think that when Robb changed their flight destination at the last minute, he figured Robb was planning to spill his guts to Dixon?”
“I do.” Henry’s perpetually sad expression has morphed into the alert stare of a hunter closing on his prey. “And Claude couldn’t let that happen. Frank Knox was dead by this time, but Brody Royal was still Devereux’s richest client—not to mention the source of his political power.”
“Do you think Devereux ordered the hit? Or that he told Royal about Dr. Robb, and Royal ordered it?”
“Devereux would have told Royal about the danger, to keep the blood off his own hands. He knew what Royal would do. We’re talking about a man who’d ordered the crucifixion or flaying of an eighteen-year-old boy.” Henry’s face has flushed with emotion. “All Royal had to do was call Snake Knox and tell him how things stood. Snake was always at the airport, because of his crop-dusting business. Snake probably laughed and told Devereux he’d better find an excuse to get off that plane—which he did. Eight hours later, Dr. Robb was dead.”
“Along with a pilot and two young girls.”
“Snake wouldn’t have hesitated a second over that. Unlike Ku Klux Klansmen, he was all cow, no hat.”
“No hood, you mean. I’m still not hearing proof, Henry. But I did hear several unsupported suppositions. What did the NTSB find at the crash site? Anything suspicious?”
“I told you, they accepted Snake’s story at face value.”
“You also said Snake sabotaged the plane. Any proof of that?”
“Three different pilots have told me the surest way to bring down Robb’s plane undetected would have been to put water in the fuel tank. It wouldn’t take much, and the evidence would burn away in the fire.”
“Can’t a pilot check for water in his tanks?”
“There
’s a sump they can check, but some pilots don’t. Snake Knox knows everything there is to know about small planes. If he wanted to use water and be sure it wouldn’t be picked up in the sump, he could have filled a few condoms with it and dropped them into the tank. It would take the fuel a while to eat through the rubbers, but once it did, that plane was coming down. And remember—Dr. Robb’s plane had already taken off, then unexpectedly returned to land, which caused the accident. Nobody ever explained why that plane came back so fast. Robb’s pilot had thousands of hours of experience. I think he felt his power going and tried like hell to make it back. He almost did, too.”
Henry is making this murder sound plausible, but as an assistant DA, I learned that you can almost always construct a scenario to fit a preconceived result. “Do you have anything else to make this case? Do you have your source on tape?”
“No.” Henry looks embarrassed. “He wouldn’t let me record him during our first session. But goddamn it, Penn. First principles, right? Cui bono? Who benefited from the crash? Dr. Robb’s death didn’t simply remove the threat of exposure from Brody’s life. Six months after the plane went down, Brody Royal married Dr. Robb’s widow.”
And the circle closes. Gooseflesh has risen on my arms. “Royal had a double motive for wanting Robb dead.”
Henry gives me a silent nod, knowing that this last piece of information has convinced me. “She was a stunning redhead. I wanted to interview her, but she died of a stroke before I could get her to agree to talk.”
“Have you talked to Congressman Dixon?”
“Same story. Dixon died two years ago, abdominal aneurysm. But I don’t think Robb ever told him anything. Dixon wouldn’t have sat on that.”
Again the heat rises to my face. “But my father did? Damn it, Henry, you want me to believe that the most ethical man I’ve ever known withheld critical murder evidence for forty years?”
Henry nods slowly. “I’m not saying I blame him. There’s a lot you don’t know about Brody Royal. What could your father have gained by revealing what he knew? A clean conscience? The moral high ground? That doesn’t mean anything if you’re dead.”
I’ve made this point myself before, specifically to my fiancée. But even so, it’s hard for me to see my father making that choice.
“Your father’s a good man, Penn. But he’s probably carrying burdens that no man should have to carry alone. There’s no telling what he saw and heard back in those days. What he might have done with the best of intentions, and yet caused terrible consequences. I’m not surprised he doesn’t want to talk to Shad Johnson. He won’t talk to me, and he loved my parents. He won’t even talk to you, his own son.”
“But what does he know, Henry? The identity of Albert’s and Pooky’s killers? Is that really enough to explain his self-destructive silence about Viola?”
Henry shakes his head. “No. But we still haven’t covered the most disturbing part of this story. The murder of Viola’s brother. The gang rape, all that. Once I’ve finished, you won’t have much trouble understanding why your father is reluctant to talk about that time.”
A chill of presentiment makes me feel nauseated. “What are you saying, man? Would you cut to the fucking chase?”
The reporter holds up his hands, trying to get me to be patient. “I’m going to make a cup of coffee. Do you want some?”
I reach out and take hold of his arm, but he gently disengages, then takes a carafe from a stained old Mr. Coffee machine and fills it at a small sink. He’s clearly deep in thought, and his thoughts seem to be causing him pain. He measures out some Eight O’Clock brand, then, once he has the coffee going, returns to his worktable and slides another photograph from a manila envelope.
“I wasn’t sure whether I should show you this,” he says, passing me the three-by-five print.
The photo shows four men standing in the stern of what looks like a deep-sea fishing boat. I recognize my father and Ray Presley standing together, facing two other men who look only vaguely familiar. Seeing Dad with a crooked cop I was glad to watch die gives me a surreal sense of foreboding.
“I recognize Dad and Ray. Who are the other two men?”
“That’s Claude Devereux,” Henry says, pointing to a dark-skinned man on the right side of the photo. The camera apparently caught Devereux telling a humorous story, because the other men are smiling or laughing. Dad, Ray, and Devereux look to be in their mid-thirties in this image, but the fourth man looks older, maybe forty. Even laughing, his hawklike face and wiry build give him a powerful presence.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.
“That’s Brody Royal.”
“Jesus, Henry,” I breathe, feeling dizzy.
“He looks like a shorter Charlton Heston, doesn’t he?”
“Where the hell was this taken?”
“No idea. I found that photo in the Beacon morgue. The man who likely shot it is dead, and no one seems to know where it was taken. It could be the Gulf of Mexico or the South China Sea. I’m hoping you can get the answer from your father, among other things.”
I nod slowly. “I intend to.”
“Was I wrong to show it to you?”
“No. I want to know everything you do. I need to know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Henry takes several photocopied pages from the manila folder. They appear to be heavily redacted FBI surveillance reports from the 1970s. Much of the typing that hasn’t been blacked out is scarcely readable.
“What’s this stuff?”
“Three FBI reports detailing trips taken from New Orleans to Natchez for medical treatment.”
“By whom?” I ask, my chest tightening.
“Members of Carlos Marcello’s Mafia organization. In each case, they were followed to the door of your father’s office on Monroe Street. Twice during normal office hours, but once at about eight P.M., and Ray Presley also showed up on that occasion.”
Sour bile rises into my throat. “Goddamn it, Henry. What are you telling me here?”
“I don’t know what it all means, Penn. I just want you fully informed when you finally speak to your father.”
While I stare at the reports in disbelief, Henry fills a Northeast Louisiana University mug to the brim with coffee and takes a scalding sip. “Damn, I needed that.”
After pouring me a cup, he takes the reports from my hand and looks into my eyes. “How far would your father go to protect his family? Would he go to jail for the rest of his life?”
To my surprise, tears well in the corners of my eyes. “Without a second’s hesitation. Dad doesn’t have much time left anyway. He’s already outlived every prognosis he’s been given.”
“I figured as much. When you first came in, you told me you thought your dad might be trying to protect somebody. What if that somebody is you, Penn?”
“Me?”
“Not just you. Your mother, your daughter, your fiancée, your whole family. What if the Eagles simply exploited the chance to frame your father, then threatened to kill members of his family if he fought it? No one knows better than Tom Cage what the Double Eagles are capable of, and there’s no Ray Presley around to protect you anymore.”
I nod slowly, weighing the odds. “If someone made that threat, and Dad believed they’d carry it through . . . yes, he might sacrifice himself without a fight.”
“Today I heard a story that I wish I’d never heard. The man at the center of it was Brody Royal. I’ve heard some pretty horrible things in my time, but this . . .”
“You already told me Royal was involved in horrific murders.”
“That was back in the sixties. This happened only two years ago.”
Two years ago? Again Henry has stunned me. I look down at the photo of my father in the boat with Brody Royal. “Do you have anything stronger than coffee?”
He opens a drawer and takes out a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. Unscrewing the top, he pours double shots into paper cups.
CHAPTER 20
SONNY THORNFIELD STOOD in the hallway of Wilma Deen’s house, peering through a crack in the door of the room where Glenn Morehouse lay on a motorized hospital bed, his torso raised at a thirty-degree angle. The flickering blue light of a television washed over his shockingly skeletal form. His sister had carried in a cup of ice chips, and Wilma alternated between placing these on his tongue and sponging off his sweating forehead. Glenn’s head was to Sonny’s left. Wilma had placed herself on the far side of the bed. Sonny couldn’t see any pistol from where he stood, but he believed it was there. Glenn might have it in his left hand, under the covers. It would be a damned .45, Sonny thought, recalling men he’d seen knocked down by the Colt cannon.
“Jesus,” Snake whispered from behind Sonny. “Ain’t been but a month since I last saw him, and he done shrunk to half of what he was.”
Sonny nodded. It was hard to believe that anything, even cancer, could change a man so much. Like a half-drowned man, Morehouse sucked in a deep breath. Then his eyes opened wide, as if something had frightened him.
“Take it easy,” Wilma half sang, like a doting grandmother. “Everything’s fine. You were almost asleep. You fell off that sleep cliff.”
“Something’s wrong,” Glenn said. “I can feel it.”
“No, everything’s fine. You remember what the doctor said. Everybody gets that feeling when they get this poorly.”
Morehouse strained upward, squinted around the room, then finally settled back against the mattress. Wilma fed him another ice chip. After a minute or so, his eyelids began to fall again. Sonny wondered whether she meant to wait until he was completely unconscious to go for the gun.
Ten seconds later, she laid her left hand on her brother’s arm and began to stroke it. She sponged his forehead with her right hand, then moved it away as if to dip the rag again. But this time her hand disappeared behind his leg, and a moment later Morehouse cried out in terror.
Wilma backed away from the bed, a Colt .45 automatic in her hand.
