Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  Louis picked up the mike. “Yeah, Mike.”

  “Sheriff wants to know where you took off to.”

  “Uh…10-7, McDonald’s.”

  Louis glanced over at Abby. She was staring out of the passenger window. It was fogged-over from the heat of their bodies.

  “Got a call for you, Louis.”

  “Patch it through.”

  The feminine voice came on moments later. “Detective Kincaid? This is Marsha Burns from Tampa.”

  Louis straightened, setting his coffee on the dash. It was the sculptor. “How are you? Is the head finished?”

  “That’s why I called. Someone called me the other day and said you didn’t need me to finish it. I was told that you found out the man’s identity.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your sheriff, I believe. How in the world did you identify him?”

  “We—” He stopped. Their conversation probably was being monitored back at the station. “Uh, we got lucky. Listen, Miss Burns, can I call you back? I can barely hear you.”

  Abby looked over with a slight frown, knowing Louis could hear just fine. Marsha Burns told him to make it quick. Louis repeated her number and hung up.

  “I’ve got to go, Abby,” Louis said, turning in the seat to face her.

  She looked up at him. “Will I see you again?”

  He took in a deep breath. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said softly. He saw disappointment cloud her eyes. “Maybe in a different place or time, it would work, but…” He was saying more than he should. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Her eyes held his for a moment then she looked away, nodding briskly, biting her lower lip.

  “Can I drive you home?” he asked.

  She didn’t look at him. “No, I think I’ll stay in town for a while. I…I have things to do here.” She opened the car door and got out quickly.

  “Abby—”

  “Good-bye, Louis.” She closed the door. She ran across the parking lot. He wiped the foggy windshield with his sleeve and watched her go.

  He got out of the car and went to the pay phone inside McDonald’s. He dialed Marsha Burns’s number and waited until she came to the phone.

  “I couldn’t talk over the radio. Miss Burns,” he told her. “The truth is, we haven’t identified him. There are some people here who want this body buried and this case closed. I need you to finish the head.”

  “I can’t do that. Detective,” the woman said. “Your sheriff told me that the case is closed, and when I’m told to stop, I stop. I’m not getting paid to continue, and I can’t do this pro bono. I’ll send back what I have.”

  Louis shifted the phone to his other ear. “Look, Miss Bums. In two weeks, those bones will be buried. A nameless corpse will be buried. Please, Miss Burns. I need to know who he was.”

  “I’m sorry. Detective, but I can’t help you.”

  “Miss Burns—”

  “I have to go. Good-bye.”

  “I need a face!” Louis said, raising his voice. But she had already hung up.

  Louis slammed the phone down and it bounced out of its cradle. He did it again, his frustration exploding into impotent fury.

  Finally he turned, breathing heavy, to look square into the disgusted eyes of the black girl behind the counter.

  “Well, I sure hope you get that new face, mister,” she said, “’cuz that one you got is lookin’ damn ugly right now.”

  Louis just stared at her then finally broke into a laugh. Jesus, he was going nuts. This case, this place, was making him nuts. But he wasn’t going to give up. He had decided that much up in the deer hide. He wasn’t going to give up until either every last damn lead—or he himself—was exhausted.

  Early the next morning, Louis was waiting on the steps of the library when the elderly woman trudged up with her key. Louis gave her a polite “Good morning, Happy New Year,” but she still eyed him warily as she let him in.

  He went straight back to the Local History room. He switched on the fluorescent light and it took several minutes to finally flicker on. There were no windows and the room had the cramped, mildewed smell of an old basement. An old iron radiator in the corner heated the small room to an unbearable stuffiness.

  Louis quickly took off his coat and draped it over a chair. He wandered down the shelves, running his index finger along the spines of the books. Greensboro County Book of Vital Statistics, The History of Black Pool, Northeast Mississippi’s Prominent Families.

  On a wide shelf near the back were huge land and plot maps, and stacks of newspaper binders that protected the brittle issues of the weekly Black Pool Journal. He brushed the dust off the top one and read the embossing. 1973.

  He opened the book, supporting the large cover with his left hand while turning the pages with his right. He had no idea what he was really looking for. The headlines were typical of small town news: politics, deaths, club news, high-school sports. The dusty binder was bulky, and after a few moments he set it aside. He paused, sweating, and pulled off his sweater before moving on.

  He stopped before a wall of books, some with leather-bound covers, others held together with plastic coils. Interesting.

  He pulled one down. The cover said. The Carlson Family History.. Louis opened it and skimmed the first few pages. Somebody had written down, for all to read, the Carlson family tree and all the honors and noteworthy events that had happened to the family members throughout history. Louis put it back. There were more than a hundred of these books. It floored him that families actually did this. Who the hell cared?

  He pulled out another one, then another, working his way up the alphabet to Lillihouse. There it was. Strange, it was a cheaply prepared Xeroxed copy, bound in plastic. Louis took the book to a worn leather chair with a split seat.

  The Lillihouse book began in 1810 with hyperbolic prose that made even the criminals in the family sound exciting and noble. It went on through the generations, citing births, deaths, marriages, and various accomplishments. The Lillihouses were a plantation family, originally from Georgia. They had settled in the northeast corner of Mississippi fifty years before the war, and were well established by 1860. Like many others, their land and wealth was pillaged, and after the war they struggled to regain the lifestyle of the past. The text credited Great-Grandfather Milton as the savior of the family, having overcome the ruinous conditions of Reconstruction. It took forty years but he became a prominent businessman by establishing Black Pool’s first gasoline automobile sales yard, specializing in “previously owned” models.

  Louis smiled. The original used-car salesman.

  Milton Lillihouse had several children, but only one boy. That boy was Franklin Lillihouse, Abby’s paternal grandfather. Louis was hoping to find a military man in the family tree to match what Zachary Taylor had told him about the medallion. But all the Lillihouses were landowners, bankers and local businessmen, as Max was. Not a Medal of Honor in the bunch, including old Milton himself.

  There was a listing for Abigail Elizabeth, born April 17, 1964. She was the only child of Max Lillihouse and Grace Ketcher. A vision of the grand old Lillihouse home came to Louis’s mind. Dodie had said Grace’s father built the mansion. That made it owned by the Ketcher family, not the Lillihouses. Maybe he should be looking up Grace’s history.

  The Ketcher family book was a large, expensively bound volume that dated back to the early 1600s. This volume had a professional touch. Louis smiled to himself. Apparently Grace’s family had been the one with the money. Old Max must have married into a good thing, if the quality of his family’s book was any indication.

  Louis flipped through the pages of the Ketcher book. There was plenty of Confederate gray and more than a few military men, including old Colonel Ketcher himself, Grace’s father. The more recent pages had a multitude of photographs, and Louis found one of Max and Grace’s wedding dated October 2, 1956.

  They made a striking couple, standing before a half-circle
of twelve bridesmaids. Grace looked lovely, her blonde hair done in the bobbed style of the period, her dress and long veil ending in a pool of satin and lace around her feet. In his white morning coat. Max was a broad-shouldered, handsome man—just as Louis had expected. Louis studied their faces, intrigued by the contrast he saw. Max was beaming proudly. Grace was somber, almost sad.

  There was another couple in the picture. Walter Kelly and his wife, Maisey. Maisey had these big Liz Taylor eyes and wore a dress too tight for a wedding. Mayor Kelly was reed-thin, with not much more hair than he had now.

  Suddenly Louis froze, his eye riveted by one small detail. Around the mayor’s neck was a chain. A heavy chain, with a medallion on the end.

  He let out a long breath. Jesus, it was the necklace.

  CHAPTER 11

  Louis sat in the car in the library parking lot, staring at a Xeroxed copy of the wedding picture. The librarian had not allowed him to check out the Ketcher family book, so Louis had made several copies. His heart was racing. Finally he had some proof, something to link someone with the dead man. And not just anyone. Walt Kelly, the goddamn mayor.

  He peered at the copy, trying to make out the medallion. It was possible that it wasn’t the one found in the grave. No, it was too close for coincidence. Taylor had said only about a hundred medallions were made. What were the chances of two in the same little town? Louis let out a deep breath. Questions, nothing but questions. But the real question now was, what to do with this information?

  There was no one on his side, no one he could trust. He knew he had to tell Dodie about this, but he couldn’t be sure just where Dodie stood with Kelly. He needed more information first, about both men.

  He thought suddenly of his cousin Charles. He worked in the mayor’s office as a clerk or something. Maybe he could shed some light. Louis headed the Mustang back to the square.

  A half hour later, he and Charles were sitting in a cafe near the courthouse. Charles had been pleasantly surprised when “Cousin Lou” showed up at the office to ask him to lunch. Charles was a tall, sinewy man, about forty, with gray-specked hair and the longest, most graceful hands Louis had ever seen on a man. They looked like he imagined a violinist’s hands might be. By the time Charles was digging into his pecan pie, Louis had gotten Charles through all the small talk and was eager to pump his relative for answers.

  “So, how long have you worked for Walt Kelly?” Louis asked.

  “Going on fifteen years,” Charles said. “I was the first black man hired by the county. Started as a sweeper, and now I’m an administrative assistant.” He drew out the last two words proudly.

  “Is Kelly a good man to work for?” Louis asked.

  Charles shook his head. “I suppose. If you lay low and keep your nose clean. That man, he runs this town. He’s…” Charles searched for the right word. “He’s not mean, exactly, but, you know, not the kinda man you wanna piss off.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression myself. How long has he been mayor?”

  “Since ‘76. Before that he was a councilman. His family’s always been big in politics.”

  “How does he get along with the people he works with?” Louis picked up his coffee cup. “Like the sheriff, for instance.”

  “Dodie? He and the mayor get along good. They’s different, but alike, and they scratch each other’s back, like everybody ‘round here, know what I mean?”

  Louis smiled. “Not really, Charles. This place is a mystery to me.”

  Charles chuckled. “Suppose it is. Well, I remember the election in ‘76. Kelly had it locked up for mayor. His daddy had been a congressman, and Kelly, well, he just had all the right stuff…went to Ole Miss, dressed real fine, talked so smooth, saying he’d bring progress to Black Pool. I remember all the signs he put around said, ‘Walter Kelly: Symbol of the New South.’ ” Charles gave a wry smile. “Shit, I voted for him myself.”

  “And Dodie?” Louis prodded.

  Charles shook his head. “Well, he was different. A real roughneck. Didn’t even finish high school.” He leaned close. “Rumor was he got Margaret Sue Purdy knocked up, so he dropped out to go to work.” Louis waited while Charles munched on pie. “Sam wanted to be sheriff real bad cuz his daddy, Jed, had been sheriff. But Sam, well, he wasn’t exactly a chip off the old block, and everybody knew it.”

  “What do you mean?” Louis asked.

  Charles’s expression turned cold. “Let’s just say Jed ran things tight, real tight. And the white folks liked it that way.”

  “But Dodie got elected,” Louis prodded.

  “‘Cuz of Kelly. I think Kelly was afraid of the other guy who was running, thought maybe he couldn’t keep him in line the way he could Sam. So one day, there was this big old ad in the paper saying Walter Kelly wanted Sam Dodie as sheriff, said he’d do the job as good as Jed did. So Sam got to be sheriff, riding right in on his daddy’s coattails.”

  “And Walt Kelly’s endorsement,” Louis added.

  “Yeah, and Sam’s been paying for it ever since.”

  “What do you mean?” Louis asked.

  “Well, Kelly’s on the board, you know.”

  “Board?”

  “Board of commissioners. They oversee the sheriff’s budget and stuff. Sheriff can’t spend a dime or take a shit without their approval.”

  “Who else is on this board?”

  “Well,” Charles said. “There’s Fred Turner. He owns McCabe’s Sportin’ Goods. And Kurt Franck. He’s a big wheel at the loggin’ company. Stan Wallace, the funeral guy, and Max Lillihouse.”

  Louis signaled the waitress for more coffee. After she left, he pressed on.

  “Any other history between Dodie and Kelly?”

  “History?”

  Louis wasn’t sure where to go. Except maybe to the two powerful fathers. “What about their fathers? They get along?”

  Charles shrugged. “Well, Kelly’s old man, Albert, the congressman, I remember when I was a kid, seein’ a picture in the paper of him standin’ on the steps of Valley College, keepin’ the black students out. As for Jed, well, he was like John Wayne, and if you was black you just had to jaywalk and you went to Jed’s jail.” Charles shook his head. “We used to joke that Albert wouldn’t let us in and Jed wouldn’t let us out.”

  Louis had a sudden vision of the two fathers in white robes. “So they were friends,” Louis said.

  “They was different, different jobs, come from different kind of folk, but it was like they had the same brain, know what I mean?”

  Louis nodded. ‘Tell me something, Charles, you notice anything weird going on at work lately?”

  “What you mean?”

  “Extra visits, private conversations…anything weird?”

  “Just all that plannin’ for your bones, Louis.”

  Louis frowned, thinking. There were no secrets in small towns. “What do you know about Kelly’s personal life?”

  For the first time during the lunch, Charles stopped eating. “What you gettin’ at here, Lou?”

  “Well, who’s he hang out with?”

  Charles set his fork down, the pie suddenly ignored. He leveled his eyes at Louis. “You didn’t invite me to lunch just to get to know me, did you?”

  Louis hesitated. “Look, Charles…”

  “You’re questionin’ me,” Charles said, stabbing a finger at Louis. “I know what you’re doin’. You’re interrogatin’ me.” He shook his head disparagingly. “Jesus, my own flesh and blood.”

  “Charles, I’m sorry. I should have been more honest.”

  “Shit…” Charles was frowning, more from disappointment than anger.

  Louis sighed. “I’m stuck on this case, Charles, and I don’t know where to go. I thought you might know something about Kelly.” He paused. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, genuinely contrite.

  Charles pursed his lips. “Well, I’ll forget it, but only cuz you’s family.” He picked up his fork and poked at the pie.

  Louis hesitated then leane
d forward. “Give me an honest opinion, Charles,” he said in a low voice. “Could Kelly or his father be involved in something like a lynching?”

  Charles met Louis’s eyes. “You talking ’bout the bones?”

  When Louis nodded, Charles looked around the cafe and leaned close. “I heard some shit, a long time ago. I really can’t say for sure about Kelly, but I know for a fact that old Jed liked to go out ridin’ at night.”

  Louis was silent, his mind working, trying to fit the pieces together. He felt Charles’s eyes on him.

  “Why you doin’ this, Lou? Even if Kelly did do it, you ain’t never gonna prove it.”

  “You’re probably right,” Louis said quietly. “But I don’t believe the man is who they say he is.”

  “You ain’t the only one,” Charles said. “Lots of folks think it’s a big joke, havin’ a funeral for some guy, some Willie Johnson. He was killed by the Klan, and it’s like them tryin’ to make it all right now, when we know it ain’t never gonna be.”

  “I didn’t think you cared about the dead man,” Louis said. “I didn’t think anyone here did.”

  “Well, maybe we do, but we just don’t see no sense in talkin’ about it. You don’t understand. Cousin, is that it’s plain-ass painful to talk about it. I lost my daddy in a church bomb in’. You know that.”

  Louis let his shoulders drop. “I’d forgotten. I’m sorry.” He sat back in the booth, feeling deflated. He still had no sense of whether he could trust Dodie. And he sure as hell couldn’t do this alone anymore.

  “Charles, I need help.”

  “You done said that and I done told you all I know.”

  “I mean outside help. Who do you know in Jackson?”

  “Jackson?”

  “With the FBI.”

  “The FBI? Are you fuckin’ crazy?” he whispered. “Do you know what would happen if you went behind everybody’s back to the FBI? Man, they’ll be findin’ you hangin’ from a tree and me next, if they knew I helped you.”

  Louis never thought about the Feds until he read the book about their infiltration into Mississippi Klan activities. But he was getting desperate.