Natchez Burning (Penn Cage)

by Greg Iles

  “Well, we’re not putting it back under the water. And there are a lot more where this came from. We’ve even got one with a bullet embedded in it. This is a very important find, Sheriff. A major discovery, both historically and legally.”

  Dennis takes off his hat and rubs his thinning hair. “Jesus H. Christ, Penn. What do you propose I do with this?”

  “Drain the Jericho Hole,” Henry says, as though proposing that the sheriff empty a horse trough with a sump pump.

  “Drain the . . .? Shit, you’re crazy.”

  “It’s probably going to have to be done,” I tell him. “Unless you bring an expert team of divers in here, and heavy salvage equipment. The only question is, will it be done under a state warrant or a federal one?”

  Sheriff Dennis lifts an Ole Miss coffee mug off the desk and spits tobacco juice into it. “I like spitting on the Rebels,” he says distractedly.

  “I have a feeling I know which warrant it’s going to be,” Henry says. “Let’s go, Penn.”

  “Damn it, Henry,” the sheriff says wearily. “Take it easy. You boys sure know how to screw up a pretty day.”

  “We just wanted to give you the chance to take the lead on the investigation,” I tell him. “If you wanted to.”

  Walker stares at the bone another few seconds, then looks up with rueful eyes. “I sure appreciate it, Mayor. But I wouldn’t want to take all the credit for something like this. Besides, my office isn’t equipped to handle it. The logistics alone are overwhelming. And then the forensic side . . . No, I think the FBI is the proper outfit for this case. This is right up their alley. I’ll be glad to lend all the support they ask for, but they definitely ought to be the lead agency on this.”

  In any other circumstances, this answer would be stunning. For a local sheriff to voluntarily cede jurisdiction to “the feds” is almost unprecedented. But the subtext here is plain: civil rights murder. In a parish with these demographics, Sheriff Dennis’s decision is the prudent one Kirk Boisseau predicted.

  I give him a knowing smile. “I hear you, Walker. But there’s one other thing I’d like to discuss with you. Henry already knows about it, so consider this a private conversation. This problem is a lot more suited to your . . . outfit.”

  Dennis looks downright afraid now. “What’s that?”

  “You’ve got a serious meth problem in this parish. Not just users, but meth labs. Major labs, and suppliers, too.”

  Sheriff Dennis stares warily back at me, and even Henry looks puzzled by my digression. “What’s the local meth trade got to do with these bones?”

  “More than you might think.”

  After glancing at his office door as if to make sure it’s completely shut, Walker speaks softly. “What the hell’s going on here, Penn? You walk in my office out of the blue and start talking about our meth problem? You think you don’t have crystal meth over in Natchez?”

  “Of course we do. I’m not interested in the meth. I’m interested in the men who make and sell it.”

  Walker’s eyes narrow, then go wide with comprehension. “And what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Clamp down on every meth dealer in the parish. I mean hit them hard. Shut down the supply for at least a month, maybe two.”

  “To what end?”

  “To what end?” Henry echoes, almost shrilly. “How about enforcing the law of the land? Is there some reason you don’t want to arrest local meth dealers?”

  A pained expression comes into the sheriff’s face. “Henry, we’re off the fuckin’ record here.”

  I hold up my hand to restrain the reporter. “I want you to hit the Knoxes,” I say evenly. “I want them to feel some heat.”

  Dennis licks his lips, but he gives me no clue to his inner reaction. “I’ve actually been working up to a big bust for a while.”

  Henry snorts, but the sheriff ignores him.

  “That’s how we do it over here,” Walker goes on, “like it or not. We build up tips from our informants, then hit a big load of dealers all at once.”

  “Is Billy Knox on your hit list?”

  Sheriff Dennis shifts his weight in his chair. He looks even less comfortable than he did when we were discussing the bones. “Penn, I’ve heard all kinds of rumors about Billy over the years, but so far as I can tell, he’s a legitimate businessman. And a damn successful one.”

  “Too successful,” Henry mutters.

  The sheriff expels a long rush of air, like a deflating balloon. “How exactly do you define that, Henry? Making money ain’t a crime yet, is it? If you boys have some hard information, I’ll be happy to follow up on it.”

  “We have information,” I tell him, “but not the kind you need. I’ll just say this: if you hit the meth dealers in this parish hard enough, Billy Knox is going to feel it.”

  The sheriff squints at me for several seconds, then gestures at the bone on his desk. “You still haven’t told me how that connects to this. How ’bout you tell me why you and Jimmy Olsen here needed an escort home last night? What were you afraid of?”

  I look at Henry, but the reporter shakes his head.

  “So that’s how it is,” says the sheriff. “Then I guess neither of you can tell me why the FBI showed up at the hospital morgue and took possession of Glenn Morehouse’s body this morning?”

  Henry and I look at each other in shock.

  “Yep,” says Dennis. “They transported that corpse to the Belle Chasse Naval Air Station, on Lake Pontchartrain. Which is strange, because last time I checked, murder was a state crime.”

  Henry and I solve this mystery simultaneously: his call to Special Agent John Kaiser must have produced this result.

  “You want to know what we were afraid of last night?” I ask softly.

  Dennis nods.

  “The Double Eagle group. Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield, for example.”

  “And Forrest Knox,” Henry adds.

  Dennis sits up straight, both hands held in front of him. “Hold it right there. Listen to me, men. Forrest Knox is the director of the Criminal Investigations Bureau of the state police. If you’ve got a problem with him, you need to take it up with him—not a lowly sheriff in a poor parish like this one. I’ve been in this job exactly five and a half weeks. I’ve spent day and night trying to put this department back together after the explosion that Penn here caused when he busted that casino boat, or gambling syndicate, or whatever it was. And that’s almost more than I can handle.”

  Before Henry can say anything, I ask, “Have you heard that my father’s been charged with murder?”

  The sheriff gives me a sober nod.

  “He’s being framed, Walker.”

  “That, I believe.”

  “The victim was the sister of Jimmy Revels, who died with Luther Davis. Jimmy’s bones may be down under that convertible with Luther’s, not five miles from here. Henry’s not going to give up his sources, but I’ll tell you this: the Double Eagles killed Revels and Davis, and they killed Viola Turner, too. My father’s not going to jail for those bastards. I’m going to squeeze until one of them pops and gives up Viola’s killer.”

  I stand and lift the bone fragment from the desk. “If you won’t help me, I’ll go to the DEA and the FBI. But I’d prefer to work with you. I told Henry you’re a stand-up guy, and I still believe that. This is your chance to make a difference, Walker. To show people they were right to put you in this job. And all you have to do is enforce the law.”

  Breathing hard, I sense more than see Henry nodding at my side.

  Sheriff Dennis looks flustered by my passion. Leaning toward him, I add, “This is personal, Walker. I’m going to pull every string I can reach on this case. And I know some people.”

  The sheriff ducks his head and spits into the Ole Miss cup again. “I know you do, buddy. And I’ve got no problem rousting out every meth cooker in this parish at the crack of dawn, if that’s what you want. But if you’re after Billy Knox, jailing the local fuckups won’t hurt him none
. Billy’s way too slick for that.”

  “I thought you said he was a legitimate businessman,” Henry comments.

  Dennis cuts his eyes at Henry; he’s losing his patience with the Beacon’s intrepid reporter. “I said I can’t prove different. But legit or not, Billy’s made a shitload of money in about five different businesses while everybody else has been watching their bank accounts shrink to nothing.”

  “What does that tell you?” Henry asks.

  “One, he’s smart. Why don’t you call the IRS on him, Henry?”

  “Some people,” Henry says in a quavering voice, “think Billy Knox isn’t the smart one in that family. They think a certain cousin of his might be running interference for him in this parish.”

  Sheriff Dennis’s face goes slack for a couple of seconds, like a man who can’t believe you just called his wife a slut.

  “Nathan Bedford Forrest Knox,” Henry says defiantly.

  Dennis looks at me to see whether I share Henry’s apparent lunacy. Then he rises, his face bright pink, and splays his big hands on his desk.

  “Nothing personal,” Henry says, far too late.

  “Nothing personal?” Dennis shakes his head as though he can’t decide whether to kick us out of his office or throw us into a cell. “Henry, you’re saying I’m either a crook or a fool, and I don’t care for either choice. So, why don’t you get the fuck out of my office?”

  “All right,” I say, pulling the reporter up out of his chair. “Henry should have phrased that better, Walker. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “The hell he didn’t!” Dennis’s face has gone scarlet, and a thick vein bulges in his forehead. He used to look exactly this way when he charged aggressive pitchers from the plate. “For your information, Forrest Knox hates his cousin, and most of the rest of his family. He’s had to fight that Klan history all his life. The only time I’ve ever seen Lieutenant Colonel Knox in Billy’s presence was at a family funeral, and they didn’t even shake hands!”

  Every deputy outside this office must have heard the sheriff’s rant. And maybe he meant for them to. Henry starts to say something, but I silence him with a shake of my head.

  “Sorry we bothered you, Walker. At least this way you won’t be surprised when the FBI comes into your parish to check out these bones.”

  Sheriff Dennis’s eyes burn into Henry’s back as I hustle the reporter out the door. “Hold on, Penn.”

  I stop and turn back.

  “Shut the door.”

  After I do, he grimaces again, then looks up with man-to-man intimacy. “Are you sure you want to stir up all this old trouble? In my experience, the only thing that happens when you do that is everybody gets covered in shit.”

  “Maybe. But in my experience, you usually have to dig through a lot of shit to find the truth. Whether it’s old shit or new makes no difference to me.”

  Walker studies me for a few silent seconds. “And you realize who you’re screwing with?”

  My breath stops in my throat. “They’ve left me no choice, Walker. From what I can see, the Knoxes killed Viola, and they want my old man to pay for it. I’m not going to let that happen. Anybody gets in my way, it’s their lookout.”

  Dennis nods slowly. “All right, then. Good luck to you, brother. I’ll think on what you’ve told me.”

  “Don’t take too long.” I open his door. “Have a nice day, though.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “I went to Ole Miss, by the way.”

  Dennis spits into his cup again. “I know.”

  STANDING BETWEEN OUR VEHICLES outside the sheriff’s department, Henry gives me a look of contrition. “Guess I didn’t help much, huh?”

  “It didn’t go too badly.”

  “What did he say after I left?”

  “Walker knows what’s going on in this parish.”

  Henry gives me a suspicious look. “Did he admit that?”

  “As much as he could, yes. He tried to warn me how dangerous this could be.”

  “It would be a lot less dangerous if people like him did their jobs. We gave him the damn bones, and he wouldn’t lift a finger to investigate them!”

  “Not even the FBI has done its job in these cases, Henry. Walker’s a rookie sheriff. Give him a few hours to absorb this. He may come through yet.”

  “I’m not waiting around for that.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re going to call John Kaiser and tell him about the bones.”

  After an initial moment of shock, Henry grabs my forearm, his eyes bright with excitement. “Could you believe what Dennis said about the Bureau taking Morehouse’s body? That has to be Kaiser behind that, right?”

  “Must be. I don’t know how Kaiser swung that, but he’s clearly jumping on this case in a big way. Let’s see how fast he moves on the bones.”

  The reporter nods thoughtfully. “Can I mention your name when I call him?”

  “You can tell him I’m involved, but for now you should stay point man with the Bureau. I’ll check out Kaiser as soon as I can.”

  Anxiety clouds Henry’s eyes again. “What was all that about the meth stuff? Asking Dennis to bust the Knoxes? I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Just a test. I wanted to see how much pushback I’d get.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t know yet. Walker’s one of those country boys who’s hard to read.”

  Henry looks like he’s about to crawl out of skin from excitement. “I hate to ask, but did you speak to your father last night? About the photo with Brody Royal, all that?”

  “I did, but there were no great revelations. Dr. Robb shot that photo on a deep-sea fishing trip off Biloxi that lasted five hours. My father hated Royal. He did overhear some drunk talk about the JFK assassination, but let’s save that for another time. I keep thinking about what you said about Pooky Wilson’s friend, the one you call ‘Huggy Bear.’ You said he could put Brody Royal away for the murder of Albert Norris. Why has it been so hard to identify him?”

  Henry’s eyes cloud again. “Albert opened his store in 1949. When he died, it had been open fifteen years. During that time, he employed or trained between forty and fifty young men. And that doesn’t count the musicians who hung out there for extended periods. I’ve busted my ass to track them all down, and I’ve been amazed to learn how many of them are dead. But I still haven’t managed to find him.”

  “But didn’t you say he visited the deathbed of Wilson’s mother? Surely some family member remembers him?”

  “Mrs. Wilson didn’t have much family. One home health nurse remembered a black man in his sixties who came for a short visit, but she didn’t hear his name, and he wasn’t there for long. He was wearing a black baseball cap. I’m thinking that might be my man.”

  “Well, keep looking. The sooner we can apply pressure to Royal and the Eagles, the sooner we can make one of them give up Viola’s killer.”

  Henry says nothing, but I can read his response in his eyes: Is that our main priority here?

  Whatever Henry may think, it’s certainly my priority. “Keep your eyes open. Walker Dennis is no coward. If he’s scared, there’s a reason for it.”

  “You, too.”

  Henry offers me his hand. I shake it, then climb into my Audi and head for the Natchez bridge. As I arc over the river, my cell phone pings, and I find a text message from Rose, my secretary, whom I asked to find out all she could about Judge Joseph Elder’s health and job situation. The LCD reads:

  Judge Elder will be back at work next Monday. Still planning to resign and move to Memphis so far as I can find out. No word on his replacement. Putting out feelers everywhere I can—on the DL, of course. Good luck.

  “Next Monday,” I say aloud, as pain hits high in my stomach. If Shad decides to take my father’s case before the grand jury and have his case placed on Judge Elder’s docket, then Elder could arraign Dad and revoke his bail, even if he won’t be the judge who actually tries his case down the road. And as I re
alized yesterday, for my father, jail almost certainly equals death. Whether Shad follows this course is a purely political decision, and I haven’t enough information to predict what he might do. But the relief I felt this morning at hearing Judge Noyes’s low bail has vanished. Depending on Judge Elder’s mood and philosophy, Shad could take my father’s freedom at any time.

  CHAPTER 35

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL NATHAN Bedford Forrest Knox sat at his desk in Louisiana State Police headquarters in Baton Rouge, writing an assessment of the need to maintain a permanent state police presence in the city of New Orleans. State police SWAT teams had deployed there the first day after the storm and operated 24/7 for eight weeks before returning to normal duties. No one had doubted the need then. In the immediate aftermath of Katrina, three hundred New Orleans Police Department officers had deserted their duties, and the Crescent City had become a free-fire zone in which criminals roamed at will, homing in on the drone of generators to rob citizens struggling to survive amid the floodwaters. So far as the public knew, such crimes had been checked by Lieutenant General Russel Honoré, the so-called Ragin’ Cajun, an appellation that made Forrest laugh. Honoré was a Creole by birth, not a Cajun.

  While the army had played an important role post-Katrina, the tide of anarchy loosed during those first seventy-two hours of the flood had been stemmed by snipers operating under wartime rules of engagement. That story could never be told, of course. Rumors had leaked out, as they always did. Police officers on loan from other states had reported encountering significant numbers of corpses with unexplained gunshot wounds (wounds that a Navy SEAL sniper had described as “180 grains of due process”)—but the biblical scale of the destruction had made it easy to write off most of those deaths with only superficial inquiries. Where the public was concerned, Forrest Knox didn’t mind anonymity; it was the foundation of his strength. But a small cadre of powerful men knew that it was officers like him who’d stepped up to provide the last line of defense against chaos, and they were working hard to show their gratitude by having him moved into his boss’s job: superintendent of state police.