Swift Justice: The Southern Way

by R. P. Wolff

  “Shit,” said the Sheriff.

  “So what did you say to Paulie,” asked the Judge.

  “Well, I don’t remember exactly, but I roughed him up a little bit and told him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Well, Paulie’s a fuckin’ snitch,” said Acton.

  “Did you mentioned anything about the KOT meeting tonight?”

  “Um … yes. I told him that he needed to make sure he made it tonight.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” said Acton. “Did you remember if you gave any details as to the time and where it was at?” asked Acton.

  “No, I’m positive. I was intentionally vague on the details. I also referred to it as a KOT meeting, so maybe the FBI won’t figure out that KOT stands for Klans of Texas.” The Sheriff wasn’t actually sure about how he phrased the meeting. He couldn’t remember whether he said Klan meeting or KOT meeting or both, but he didn’t want the guys to think that he said anything other than KOT meeting.

  “Well, let’s get him,” said the Sheriff.

  Acton replied. “We called the hospital already. He’s gone. We had someone go to the house. He’s not there, nor is his wife and two kids. They have left. The car is not there. He’s fled.”

  The Judge spoke while looking directly at the Sheriff. “He’s told the FBI that you and I have ordered the hits.”

  “Shit,” replied the Sheriff. “We got to get Paulie.”

  “Yeah, we got to get him,” said Acton. “We got to kill him.”

  The Sheriff, all of a sudden, got an idea. “Hey, do you guys think Paulie did the killings?” asked the Sheriff.

  Both men looked at the Sheriff with squinty eyes. “I don’t think so,” said Acton.

  “Yeah, you think he killed his brothers?” asked the Judge sarcastically. “Come on, Sheriff.”

  The Sheriff realized that he was stepping on a limb on this accusation, but he wanted to explore it further. “Wait a second guys, let’s not rule it out. He could have done the first night’s murders, and he might have done the second night’s as well.”

  “Okay, I guess it’s possible that he could have done the first night’s murders,” said the Judge, “but I don’t see him killing his brothers.”

  “Hey, maybe when we find him, we can pin it on him,” said Acton.

  “Hey, that’s not bad,” said the Sheriff.

  “I don’t know, guys,” said the Judge. “I think we need to find the actual killer because it’s just going to keep happening if we don’t.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said the Sheriff. “I’ll put out a search team for Paulie, and I will continue to investigate the murders. I put Junior on it as well.”

  “How’s the investigation going?” asked Acton.

  The Sheriff didn’t want to reveal to Acton that he was considering Acton, Archie, and his son. “Well, I got a list of workers at the construction site that were there when Leon got kidnapped. I suspect that one of the people on the list might have done it. I got some decent leads already.”

  “Oh yeah, what are they?” asked Acton.

  “It’s too early, and it’s too speculative at this point. I don’t want to mislead you.”

  “Okay,” said Acton.

  “All right, so what are we going to do at the KOT meeting tonight?” asked the Sheriff.

  “Okay, we have to control everyone,” replied the Judge. “We got to say: don’t take matters in your own hands. Um … we’re not going to call in the National Guard. We can take care of this ourselves. We don’t need any outsiders.” The Judge started speaking loudly, with emotion. “We are going to systematically find the fuckin’ people who did these horrendous crimes, and we will kill them. But we can’t have people taking matters on their own. We will organize it, and get it done.”

  Acton responded, “Yeah, but they’re going to give you a hard time on that. They’re losing their confidence in us.”

  “Well, we’re going to do the best job we can,” replied the Judge. “But we can’t have people taking matters in their own hands. We got to take control.”

  ~~~~

  While the Klan was having their meeting at the barbershop, Perry was speaking with the SAC at a phone booth outside the hotel. The SAC called the room and was ready to speak again, but Perry politely cut him off. He said, “Mr. Taylor, this phone line is not secure. I will call you in about five minutes from a payphone.” The SAC had hesitated but eventually agreed.

  “Mr. Taylor, this is Perry.”

  “Yeah, you think the phone lines are not secured?” asked Joe Taylor, the SAC.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me on the first call?”

  Perry couldn’t believe that the SAC was berating Perry over this when the SAC should have known that and warned Perry. Nevertheless, Perry had to defend himself. “Well, I didn’t think of it, Mr. Taylor. You had kind of surprised me there, and I didn’t think of it.” Damn, Perry thought that was a horrible response. It made Perry look weak and unsure of himself. Perry needed to recover. “We don’t think it’s secured. The owner is probably listening in, so I’m calling you from a payphone.”

  “So what did we say on the last call?” asked Taylor.

  “Well, we talked about the possible informant,” replied Perry.

  “Do you think they heard it?”

  “I don’t think we mentioned any names, but they probably could figure it out, though.” Perry needed to change the subject. “But anyway, so why did you call me?” asked Perry.

  “Well, good news: your informant, Paul Sawyer, is singing like a canary. He wants to come in. He wants protection.”

  “Really,” Perry said in shock.

  “Yeah, you must have really scared the shit out of him. He thinks the Klan is going to kill him tonight. He’s on his way to Austin right now as we speak with his whole family.”

  “Really, what did he say?” asked Perry.

  “He says that he can hand us the Judge, the Sheriff, and an Acton Cox.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Acton Cox is a local barber that is the leader of the local Klan.”

  “Oh yeah, I met him earlier today,” replied Perry. “He seemed like an asshole.”

  “Yeah, he’s more than an asshole,” said Taylor. “Anyway, Paul Sawyer claims he can give us detail information about the Klan in Dodge County and maybe the whole State because of the Judge. This is going to be great. We are going to bring down the whole town.”

  “Wow, I hope he gets to Austin safely,” said Perry. “Is he going unescorted?”

  “Yeah, we got a bunch of cars heading over to Dodge County right now and one of them will probably meet Paul Sawyer half way.”

  “Shit, I hope the Klan doesn’t get to him before us,” said Perry. He immediately regretted cursing to such a high-level official.

  “I agree, but they have their hands full in Dodge County. I think he has a pretty good head start on them.”

  “Ah … I hate to bring this up again, Mr. Taylor, but if the owner of the hotel listened into our previous conversation, the Klan may know.”

  “Let’s hope not,” replied Taylor sternly.

  “Well, this is great news,” said Perry. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Well, I got some more news. It keeps getting better.”

  “Okay,” replied Perry.

  “This Paul Sawyer told us that they are having a big Klan meeting tonight at ten-thirty p.m. They call it a KOT meeting, which stands for Klans of Texas.”

  “Wow, this is great news,” said Perry. “Where’s is it at?”

  “It is hard to find, so make sure you write this down. It is near the intersection of FM 3041 and Route 12, which is the northwest corner of the county. The meeting is in a heavily wooded area just off of FM 3041. It is located right by mile-marker fifteen. You turn north at the mile marker, and there will be a slight opening, just large enough for one vehicle. Normally there is a chain across the opening about fifty yards in. On a meeting night, som
eone will be guarding the opening and will only let in Klan members.”

  “As if anyone else would even try to go to a Klan meeting,” interjected Perry. Perry was getting excited. This was tremendous news.

  “Yeah, right, I don’t think any Negroes would be attending a meeting like that,” said Taylor.

  “So what do you want me to do?” asked Perry.

  “Well, obviously I want you to attend the Klan meeting from a distance and learn as much as you can about the Klan.”

  “Yeah, this is going to be perfect,” said Perry. “We should be able to find out their whole plan on how they are going to handle the racial crisis in town.”

  “Be careful, and call in frequently.” Taylor said as he hung up the phone.

  Chapter 27

  The Sheriff’s head was spinning. Everything was happening so fast. It was hard to keep up with the madness. It seemed like every hour a new tragedy transpired. The Sheriff wondered when it was going to stop.

  As soon as the impromptu barbershop meeting ended, the Sheriff started his drive to Junior’s house. It was now dark at about 7:30 p.m. He was thinking of calling Junior first but thought otherwise. He wanted to surprise him. Or, if he wasn’t home, he would inspect his house without Junior being there. The Sheriff hated to admit it, but his son was looking more and more like the likely suspect. He was the only one that didn’t have an alibi, though some of the other suspects’ alibis were questionable, at least they had some kind of alibi.

  Junior knew about each of the crimes. However, he didn’t know the exact site of the first crime, so maybe Junior couldn’t have done it, the Sheriff hoped.

  As he was thinking this, he finally arrived at Junior’s house. Junior’s house was actually the Sheriff’s old farmhouse that he let Junior live in. It was located on the west side of town and just east of the lake. The house was very secluded with the nearest neighbor located about a mile away.

  The Sheriff instinctively drove slowly on the dirt road so no one would notice him. He couldn’t believe he was sneaking up on his son. He even shut off his lights and used the light from the moon to guide him. Maybe he wasn’t home, the Sheriff wondered.

  He would soon find out.

  The front of the two-story beige house faced the dirt road. Directly behind the house, was a large garage and work area, large enough to fit two cars and have enough room for woodworking and other equipment including a big workbench. The garage door faced sideways to the main road. A long driveway ran along the left side of the house that curved right to the garage’s entrance. The garage was not visible when directly facing the house.

  The Sheriff got out of the car and was still dressed in his usual police uniform, cowboy hat, and his revolver clutched in his gun holster. He immediately noticed that the pickup truck was parked facing towards the street about halfway down the driveway. Junior must have pulled into the driveway and then swung the pickup truck around the driveway so it was facing towards the street. No lights were on in the house, but he couldn’t see if any lights were on in the garage.

  The Sheriff figured that Junior had to be home; otherwise, he wouldn’t have parked his truck in the driveway. He was either sleeping, which was probably likely considering that Junior hadn’t gotten that much sleep over the last few days as well, or he was in the garage working on something.

  This was a perfect setup for the Sheriff. He could check the tire marks on Junior’s truck to see if it matched his sketch. He could probably do this without Junior noticing him, he hoped. He prayed that it didn’t match.

  The Sheriff approached the front of the truck and knelt down on both knees. He peeked around to see if he could see the garage, and he couldn’t, which was good. The truck was parked far enough down the driveway, so the Sheriff was not within eyesight of the garage. He shined his flashlight on the paper and compared it to the tires. The width of the tire and the treads matched—exactly. It fit like a glove.

  The Sheriff stood still in shock, staring straight ahead into the distance. Although this was not perfect evidence, he knew, in his heart, that Junior, his son, probably was the killer. But why? Why would he do such a thing? It didn’t make any sense. Hey, there was probably a ton of pickup trucks with the same threads.

  The Sheriff breathed heavily and shook his head in disbelief. He was overreacting. There was no way Junior did this crime. He hated niggers just as much as the Sheriff did. Why would he help niggers? There had to be a good explanation. He would confront him and find out.

  ~~~~

  The Sheriff’s legs were shaking as he walked up the driveway to the garage door. He considered taking out his revolver, but he thought otherwise. There was no way he was going to approach his son with a gun pointed at his son. That would have been weird and awkward.

  He quickly noticed that the light in the garage was illuminated—Junior was most likely in there as the house lights were off. Both the garage door and the side entrance door were closed. He quietly tip-toed to the side entrance door, which was located to the right of the garage doors and closest to the back of the house. He slowly turned the doorknob, but it was locked. That was odd. Junior nor the Sheriff ever locked that door. But the Sheriff had the keys. After all, it was his house. As quietly as he could, he fiddled through his keys until he found the right key.

  He had a very bad feeling about what he was about to see on the other side of the door. He quickly inserted the key, turned the key, turned the doorknob, and swung the door open.

  What he saw shocked him and would change his and Junior’s life forever.

  ~~~~

  As soon as the door swung open, Junior, who was sitting on a tall work stool, turned right to face his dad and screamed, “Aaah!” He had a look of complete surprise and horror. He instinctively grabbed a revolver laying on the workbench with his right hand. With his left hand, he held sticks of tapped dynamite. He was wearing gloves. He stood up.

  “Whoa, dad, what are you doing here,” as he was pointing the gun at his dad.

  The Sheriff did not know how to answer because he became fixated with the sticks of dynamite that appeared to have some kind of clock in the middle of it. It was a surreal scene for the Sheriff. He didn’t understand why his son would have sticks of dynamite.

  “Tyler … what’s up with the dynamite?”

  Junior froze and did not speak immediately. He kept the gun pointed at the Sheriff. “Um … the Judge wanted me to blow up a church.”

  “Bullshit, I was just with the Judge. He didn’t mention anything about it.”

  “He didn’t want you to know.”

  The Sheriff was shocked that his son still had the gun pointed at him. “Tyler … put down the gun,” the Sheriff said calmly.

  Junior did not put down the gun. “What’s that piece of paper in your hand?” asked Junior.

  The Sheriff sighed. “Well, it’s a sketch of tire thread marks from the first crime scene.”

  “So?”

  “They match your tires.”

  Junior paused for a long time gazing at his father. “So, what are you saying? Are you accusing me of killing our friends?”

  “Put down the gun, son. I’m not going to tell you again. What’s the matter with you?”

  Junior still held the gun pointed at the Sheriff.

  The Sheriff studied Junior. He had gloves on with slits on the end. He wondered what the dynamite was for. Then it hit him. He felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. He felt sick like he was going to vomit. The tire marks, no alibi, the slit in the gloves, and now the gun pointed at him.

  It was Junior! He did it!

  The father and son stared at each other. The Sheriff felt that Junior could read his thoughts. They stood in silence, both breathing heavily. The Sheriff slowly reached for his gun.

  “No, no, Daddy,” Junior said calmly but firmly. “Don’t do that.”

  The Sheriff felt like he was having an out of body experience. He was in shock. Was his son going to shoot him? No, h
e surely wouldn’t shoot his father. He would try to reason with his son.

  “Son, what’re you doing? Put the gun away,” the Sheriff said sternly.

  Junior kept the gun pointed at his dad.

  “Did you kill them?” asked the Sheriff.

  “No.”

  “Then, put the gun down. I don’t understand why you pointing the gun at me?”

  Junior squinted his eyes and exhaled loudly.

  The Sheriff now realized that he needed to go for his gun, but he wanted to distract Junior. “Look, Tyler, you haven’t done anything wrong. I would never turn you in.”

  “Turn me in for what? I didn’t do anything.”

  The Sheriff grabbed his revolver with his right hand and started to pull the gun out of holster.

  “Bang!”

  Junior shot him a little above the elbow.

  “Aaaaahh! What the fuck are you doing!” The Sheriff felled to his knees pressing his left hand against his right arm to stop the bleeding. The bullet lodged into his arm, and it felt like someone was pinching him with a large vice grip. It was extremely painful.

  “Daddy, look what you made me do,” Junior said sarcastically and without remorse. “Damn, why did you do that? Why did you reach for your gun?”

  “What are you doing?” the Sheriff yelled. “What are you doing? You’re fuckin’ nuts. I’m hurt here; call an ambulance.”

  “I’m not calling a fuckin’ ambulance, Dad.”

  “You shot Lucky and Cueball, didn’t you?” asked the Sheriff.

  “Fuck yeah, I killed them all. You dumb shit.”

  “How did you know where Lucky was going to hang Leon?”

  “It’s not that hard. I had a general idea where it was going to happen, and I just waited until their car passed me on Route 12. They didn’t see me on the side of the road because they’re stupid like you.”

  “What’s with the dynamite?” asked the Sheriff.

  “Well, I was going to blow up the stage tonight at the KOT meeting.”

  “What is your deal? I don’t understand. … Aaah, my arm is killing me. Come on, man.” The Sheriff started whimpering a little bit when he spoke, and he started to get back on his feet. He was thinking of going for his gun again.