by Parrish, PJ
“Charles, you must know someone.”
“I can’t do this, Lou.”
“You can, damn it.”
Charles slumped back against the booth. Louis leaned forward, his voice low. “Charles, there comes a point when you got to quit being scared. You owe it to this dead man to help him, however you can.”
“I don’t owe some dead guy nothin’.”
“Charles, black men have died countless faceless men like this one, have died. Your own father, for God’s sake. I’m not asking for much, just a name.”
“Man…”
“If I don’t do this right, I’ll just end up pissing everyone off,” Louis said. “I need someone who’ll give me some help without coming in directly. Please.”
Charles sighed. “I know a guy, Lou.”
“What’s his name?”
“Winston Gibbons. He used to come around here a few years back. We had coffee a few times. I’m pretty sure he still works for the Feds in Jackson. Man, Louis, you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“No, I’m not sure. But I have to do something.”
Charles leaned forward. “I’m scared for you, Lou.”
Louis was surprised by his cousin’s concern. “Fll be all right, Charles.”
Charles frowned. “You gotta know. The mayor’s got muscle all over this state. If Kelly is involved in this, you watch your black ass, man.” He shook his head. “You watch it real close.”
Winston Gibbons was a short, light-skinned black man, with a thin mustache and closely-cut hair. His office was immaculate and well furnished, with only one sentimental touch: a photograph on the wall of two boys with fishing poles. Louis sat across from Gibbons, fidgeting with his tie. Gibbons leaned across the massive desk, folding his hands.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time. Detective. Charles said you needed some help with something. Good man, Charles. You say he’s your cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what can we help you with?”
“I need some information on Klan activities in my area during the late fifties, early sixties.”
Gibbons’s eyebrows came together and he unfolded his hands. “Why would a small-town officer need information like that?”
Louis told him about the bones. Winston listened attentively without speaking. “What do you intend to do with this information?” he asked when Louis was finished.
“Find the murderer.”
“Murderers, more likely,” Gibbons said. “Detective, if this was indeed Klan, and if by some chance you could put faces to the event and names to the faces, do you realize how futile it still would be?”
“Yes. But I have to try.”
Winston rocked in his chair thoughtfully. “You could be playing a deadly game.”
“I know.”
“What sort of assistance do you expect from our end?”
“Not much right now. I’d like to go it alone for a while longer. Just somewhere to start.”
Gibbons smiled. “I was a clerk for James Thomas, an agent assigned here during the sixties. I saw many things. Detective, too many things. I saw a lot of hatred go unpunished and a lot of bravery unrewarded. It made me sick, but it also made me strong.” He paused.
“There are a lot of ghosts in this South,” Gibbons said. When Louis did not reply. Gibbons smiled. “I’m not nuts. Detective, but they are here, trust me. It’s a feeling in the air. You can’t hear them or see them, but they’re there. They live with their pain, a pain we can never understand.”
Louis thought about the eerie feeling he had experienced by the grave.
“My brother Wayne died in Montgomery,” Gibbons went on, “beaten to death by the cops. That’s us in that photo up there. I keep that there to remind myself of why I do what I do.”
“So you always wanted to be in law enforcement?” Louis asked.
“Oh, I wanted to be a lawyer when I was a kid,” Gibbons said. “But that was out of reach, so I tried to get into law enforcement. Too many walls there, too, so I headed up to Cleveland, got my degree and went to work for the FBI as a clerk. I just wanted to be part of the process. Then came the summer of ‘64 and everything changed.”
“When did you become an agent?”
“1979.”
“Ever regret it?”
“Not for a minute. I have the utmost respect for the law, and those who enforce it with honesty and integrity.”
Louis leaned forward. “Will you help me?”
“Certainly,” Gibbons said.
As Louis drove back to Black Pool, he thought about the events of that afternoon. Gibbons had asked him to wait in a nearby restaurant for the information he had requested. He had eaten two full meals, drunk six cups of coffee and read the Jackson Clarion-Ledger front to back by the time the woman came in to deliver a manila envelope. He had been tempted to rip it open right then, but the waitress was looking at him strangely and he headed home.
Now he was on the Natchez Trace Highway, the only light coming from the dash. He looked down at the envelope on the seat. Unable to resist any longer, he swung onto the gravel shoulder and cut the engine. He fiddled with the overhead light, and it blinked erratically and stayed off.
He reached down to the passenger-side floor and retrieved a book of matches Junior had dropped. He ripped the envelope open. On the first page was a paragraph followed by a list of names. He struck a match, straining to read.
Detective Kincaid:
I have enclosed whatever information we have on your county and a list of people implicated in Klan activities during the years 1950 to 1965. Keep in mind that in the fifties the Klan felt little need to exercise its influence because racial restraints were already in place by the government. The names you will see come only from undercover reports. No charges were ever filed. Sorry it is not more complete. Greensboro was not an area of high Klan activity. Please keep in contact. I’m very interested in your progress. My agency will be happy to assist in any way. Be careful, my friend.
—W. Gibbons
The first few paragraphs were a short summary of activities of the era, mostly dealing with the church bombings, fires, and street violence that erupted as the sixties began. There wasn’t as much as Louis expected. But the summary, from a document dated in 1965, made his pulse quicken.
Although Greensboro County is not an area of rampant violence, there seems to be one common link in all activities: the acquiescence of the Sheriff’s Office and its refusal to cooperate with any investigation. From 1951 to 1959, Sheriff Jedidiah Dodie permitted the beatings of Negroes arrested and detained in Greensboro County. The succeeding sheriff, Joseph Millard, continued this policy to a lesser degree until 1964. To date, the Greensboro County Sheriff’s Department is believed to be responsible for the mysterious deaths of three Negroes.
The match went out. Louis let out a long breath, thinking about the dank cells back at the office. How many black men had been tortured there? How many murdered? Good God, had the unknown dead man been killed in one of those cells, too, then taken out to the woods and hanged so it looked like a Klan murder?
Louis lit another match. The report went on to list possible Klan members of the era, and the first name to hit him was Jedidiah Dodie. His cousin Charles had been right. There were more names, none of whom meant anything to him. But then one name sent a shiver through his bones. Walter Kelly. No goddamn wonder he wanted the case closed! Louis’s stomach turned over as he had a vision of Walt Kelly and Sam Dodie yanking the rope higher and higher.
But then something clicked in Louis’s head. What had Jacob Armstrong said about the bones, that they were twenty years in the ground— at least. Without the carbon test, the age of the bones couldn’t be dated accurately, and the test wasn’t due back for weeks. The lynching could have happened thirty years ago. Maybe that was why nobody missed the dead man. Jesus, was he chasing the wrong men? Were the fathers the murderers or were the sons? Was Dodie trying to protect himself or his father�
�s memory?
He heard a tap on the window and he jumped, dropping the match. It went out, engulfing the car in darkness. He hadn’t seen or heard another car. Was it a hitchhiker? He rubbed the condensation off the window and peered out. A face stared back. He opened the window an inch.
A police officer stood outside, his eyes visible in the small crack of the window. “Get out of the car.”
Louis looked in his rearview mirror. “Why aren’t your lights on?”
The officer backed up and put a gloved hand on his gun. “Just get out.”
Putting his hands carefully on the wheel, Louis took a deep breath. “Take it easy—I’m a police officer,” he said. Slowly, he opened the door and got out, raising his hands in the air. The Mustang’s headlights illuminated the empty stretch of road ahead.
“Move away from the car.”
“I’m a cop.”
“You think we care what the hell you are?” The policeman reached in and turned off the headlights, plunging the highway into darkness. The faint light of the cloud-covered moon gave a silvery glow to the officer’s white face. Louis looked around, his heart pumping faster. This was all wrong.
“My badge is in—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Louis heard distant footsteps on the pavement and another cop appeared from the darkness, his gun drawn. Louis’s mouth went dry and he took in short, nervous breaths. He was going to die and his only thought was. Not here, not on a Mississippi highway, not for nothing.
The first officer thrust him toward the car, banging his head against the hood roughly. He frisked him, jerked out Louis’s gun and tossed it in the front seat of the Mustang. The other officer, who was searching the car with a flashlight, shouted something back Louis could not understand.
“Look, fellas—”
The officer twisted, slamming his nightstick against Louis’s jaw. He tumbled against the car, tasting blood. He licked it away, glaring at the cop through the darkness. He wore a beige uniform, much like his own. On his hands were black leather gloves. He wore no badge.
The other policeman climbed out of the Mustang, papers in hand. Louis inhaled thinly and stole a glance at them through the darkness. Another violent lunge of the nightstick hit his rib cage, bringing him to his knees. He cried out, but it only brought another blow, a sharp jab between his shoulder blades. He fell to his hands and knees, writhing.
He stayed there for several moments, pressed against the rear tire. The asphalt was cold, and he could feel gravel through the knees of his pants.
He did not move. He heard the roar of the engine as the car peeled away. It was an unmarked dark sedan. He watched the taillights fade into the distance, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Every breath rattled his ribs. Fire shot through his lungs. Using the door handle, he pulled himself erect and fumbled to open the door. How had they known where he would be? Who had sent them?
As he slid into the seat, he pushed his gun over. His breathing became more regular and the pain eased slightly. His eyes began to focus as he wiped the blood off his mouth. The papers were gone. It didn’t matter; he could get other copies, and he had seen what he needed to see. A name he could link not only to the necklace, but to the Klan. Just like Zachary Taylor had said…politics and power. Walt Kelly was guilty as hell. He knew it. But how did he prove it?
Chapter 12
Louis leaned closer to the mirror, wincing as he dabbed iodine on the cut near his lip. Two days had passed since the night on the Trace, but his lip was still badly swollen and deep purple.
He reached for his shirt. There was only one reason those cops would have followed him and taken the report. Someone had sent them. Someone was worried, enough to steal evidence and scare him just enough to make him back off. But who? Kelly? Dodie? And how did they know where he was?
Louis gingerly slipped on the shirt, wincing over what he suspected were bruised ribs. He sat down to put on his shoes. He hadn’t slept well, plagued by his aching ribs and his racing mind. It was a fact that Kelly had a medallion. It was a fact that he was once a Klan member. It was a fact that he wanted this thing over with, the victim buried. But how to connect the pieces? And where did Dodie fit in?
Groaning, Louis rose from the bed. The rising sun began to filter through the curtain. He had called in sick yesterday, hoping after two days’ rest he’d feel—and look—better. But the cuts and bruises were too damn ugly to hide. He might as well go in early and face Dodie.
It was bitterly cold outside, colder than he expected, and he hurried to his car. He paused, seeing the light on in Tinker’s store. A real cup of coffee, that’s what he needed. And maybe one of those sprinkle donuts Mr. Tinker baked each morning.
He was surprised to see Tinker behind the counter instead of Teesha. Mr. Tinker greeted his first customer of the day with a cool nod as Louis walked in.
“Got coffee this morning, Mr. Tinker?”
“Always do. You know that.”
“I’d like a donut, too.”
The big man took the lid off the plastic case. “What’s your preference?”
“Sprinkles.”
Tinker grabbed a napkin and set the donut in front of Louis. “Coffee’s over there.”
Louis walked over to the pot and filled a large Styrofoam cup. He had never smelled fresher coffee than the stuff Tinker made.
“I’m surprised you’re not dead yet,” Tinker said.
“So am I.”
“Folks say you’re still asking a lot of questions. Thought they identified those bones.”
Tinker rang up his breakfast. Louis put a dollar down as he bit into the donut, wincing as he wiped his mouth.
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Tinker. You’ve heard about the memorial service for this man, right?”
Tinker nodded.
“You planning to attend?”
“What for?”
Louis shrugged. “Pay your respects to a dead man.”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s their conscience they’re cleansing, not mine.”
Louis finished the donut and sipped the coffee. “I agree. That’s why I’m still asking questions.” He tossed his empty cup in the trash and headed for the door.
“Good day, Mr. Tinker.” Louis paused near the screen door. “If you ever decide you can help me, I’m still listening. I’m in this alone. I sure could use some help from someone in this town.”
“I’ve no help to give you.”
Louis nodded. “I understand.”
Tinker’s eyes narrowed slightly and he called to him. “What happened to your face?”
Louis smiled wanly. “I heard the footsteps.”
There was no one in the station when Louis got there. He went to the coffee maker in the corner and started a pot, then went to his desk and sank slowly into his chair, holding his side. Maybe his ribs were more than bruised; maybe he should have listened to Bessie and gone to the hospital for X rays. He sighed. He felt bad for lying to her about the injuries. He told her he had tripped on a rug up in the hall and fallen down the stairs, and she had promptly thrown the braid rug out, blaming herself. But there was no way he could have told her about the beating.
Louis felt a ripple of anger toward the anonymous cops out on the Trace. Goddamn cowards. He glanced at the phone, debating whether to call Winston Gibbons. He needed to get another copy of the FBI Klan report, but he’d wait on that, too. He didn’t want to have to tell Gibbons what had happened if he could help it.
He noticed the large envelope sitting on his desk and picked it up. It was the Mulcahey case fingerprint report from the lab in Jackson; it must have come on Saturday when he was out. Louis snagged his reading glasses off the pencil holder and opened the envelope.
The door banged and Junior strode in, going to the coffee maker. “You’re here early,” Junior called out. “How’s the stomach?”
“Huh?” Louis grunted, lost in the report.
“Your stomach. Mike said you
was sick.”
“Oh, fine. Just a bug.”
Junior sipped his coffee, grimacing. “Man, you make shitty coffee, Louis,” he said.
Louis turned to reply but Junior had drifted off to the bathroom, newspaper under arm, for his morning routine.
The lab had lifted eleven different prints and numerous partials off the deer hide. They had matched seven. Louis ran his finger down the list. His own name was there along with others Louis assumed were random hunters. And yes, there it was: Leverette Mulcahey had left a palm print the size of Mississippi on the metal ledge that partially enclosed the platform. Leverette’s prints were on file for an arrest two years ago. Louis shook his head. Stupid kid had stolen two six-packs of beer from Phil’s Fast Trip.
Louis closed the report and took off his glasses. A quarter of a million dollars was a very tempting motive for a young man. Louis tried to open his drawer. It stuck again and he hit the top of the desk to loosen it.
“Goddammit, Kincaid, get that thing fixed or I’m going to bum it.”
Louis looked up to see Dodie coming in. He watched as the sheriff stopped off at the coffeepot. Louis stared at Dodie’s broad back, his head filled with the image of a big man in a white hood.
But whose face was under the hood, Jed Dodie’s or his son’s? And who was Sam Dodie? Was the man who had bought him a beer in the bar capable of pulling a noose around the neck of a black man?
Dodie turned and stopped by Louis’s desk. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I was stopped on the way home from Jackson Friday night.”
Dodie came closer, pulling off his cap. “Stopped?”
“I pulled over to the side of the road, and two friendly patrolmen happened by. I guess they thought I looked suspicious.”
Dodie reached out and turned Louis’s face to the light. Dodie’s hand was rough. Louis felt himself flinch involuntarily.
“Cops did this?”
“Yes.” Louis pulled away.
“Say who they were?”
“No, and I didn’t get a good look at them. It was dark, and it’s kind of hard to see when you’re kissing the pavement.”
“What county were you in? I can make some calls.”
