Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  Dodie came out of the store, the heels of his boots echoing in the quiet. He lit a cigar, the Zippo illuminating his face as he sucked in the smoke.

  “Kincaid, what’s this world coming to?”

  Louis sat down on the open tailgate of a pickup truck and shook his head. He pulled up the collar of his jacket against the cold, wishing he had thought to wear a hat and gloves. Shit, it was cold.

  “I don’t like what I’m seeing here,” Dodie went on. “I reckon maybe I’m getting too old for this job.”

  “It’s the rest of the world catching up with your little town. Sheriff.”

  “I s’pose so.” He looked back at the open door. “Damn kids.”

  Louis glanced up. “You think kids did this?”

  “Who else would leave half the take on the floor?”

  “Maybe they didn’t really want it.”

  “Then why break in?”

  Louis didn’t reply. He shook his head thoughtfully, staring at the smashed front door.

  Junior came up at that moment, holding a baseball bat by its nub end. “Hey, I found this in the weeds,” he said.

  Dodie took it carefully by its end and examined it. “This was George’s,” he said. “He kept it behind the counter, just in case.”

  “Lot of good it did him,” Junior said.

  Dodie held out the bat to Junior. “Give this to the fingerprint guys. And don’t touch it!”

  Louis had risen from his spot on the tailgate and was standing, hands on hips, staring at the broken glass on the pavement.

  “Sheriff? Come here a minute.”

  Dodie came up to his side. “See anything weird about this glass?” Louis asked.

  Dodie looked down at the shattered glass, fanning out in a wide swath from the door. He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “There was no sign of forced entry on the back door, was there?” Louis said.

  “No,” Dodie said, frowning. He looked back down at the glass.

  and when he finally looked back up at Louis, it was with a stunned expression. “Y be damned,” he said, pulling the cigar from his mouth. “Whoever was in here tonight used that bat to break the glass to get out.”

  Louis nodded. “There’s hardly any glass on the carpet. It sprayed outward.”

  “So whoever killed George had a key,” Dodie said.

  “Or was let in,” Louis added.

  Dodie shook his head. “Damn, I can’t believe anybody ‘round here would kill George just for some lousy chains.”

  Louis was quiet for a moment. He went to the door and examined the jamb and the remaining glass. The door itself was alarmed, set to be triggered if opened, just like the one in back. But the glass itself didn’t seem to have any of the imbedded sensors common to more sophisticated systems. But how much security did a small-town jeweler like George Harvey figure he had to have?

  “The alarm didn’t go off,” Dodie said, as if reading Louis’s thoughts. “We got a call after somebody heard a shot.”

  “And what was the response time?” Louis said.

  “Twelve minutes.”

  “Long time…”

  The sheriff nodded.

  Louis looked over at Dodie. “They catch that prowler out near Cotton Town?”

  “No, there was nobody.”

  Louis smiled wanly. “I bet that was an anonymous call, too, wasn’t it?”

  The sheriff stood silent, looking inside the store.

  “Kincaid,” he said after a moment, “you think this was made to look like something it ain’t? You think somebody wanted George killed and set him up?”

  “Possible,” Louis replied. “Maybe he agreed to meet someone. Either way, this stinks. Sheriff.”

  Dodie threw his cigar to the street and squashed it out. “I’m headed home. You need any help out here?”

  Louis shook his head. “We’re about finished. Go on, you got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah. The service. Aren’t you going?”

  When Louis didn’t reply, Dodie added, “Mayor expects you there, you know,”

  Louis bit back his response. Damn, he wished he could trust Dodie.

  “Kincaid, Ld appreciate it if you’d show up,” Dodie said.

  Louis met his eyes. “LU be there,” he said.

  Louis watched him get into the Blazer and drive away. Mike and another deputy were putting their equipment into the car and the store was deserted now. A light still burned in the back, dancing off the shards of glass on the floor.

  Louis went in and stood in the middle of the store for a moment, trying to envision what had happened. Whoever had come in had entered through the untouched back door. George had been found slumped against the safe, a fair-sized bullet wound just below the knot in his tie. There was no apparent sign of a struggle, but an autopsy would reveal more.

  Louis’s eyes fell on the register. It was closed now, but he knew that nothing had been found in it. But what store owner kept money in a register after closing? Louis surveyed the interior of the store, focusing on the smashed glass display case. Only one case broken, hardly anything taken. So what was the invader after?

  Louis went to George Harvey’s desk. It was a clutter of papers, handwritten notes, and a few jeweler’s tools. A closed wallet lay on top of some papers. Louis frowned. Why hadn’t the robber bothered to take it? And a bigger question: How had this been missed by the deputies? He took a pencil and flipped the wallet open. The Mississippi driver’s license said George Hammond Harvey, 276 Flowers Street, Black Pool, Mississippi. He was forty-six years old.

  Louis used the pencil to flip through the plastic sleeves of credit cards, his annoyance over the deputies’ oversight growing. He would have to take the time tonight to bag these items. Odd that the wallet was lying out on the desk to begin with. Had George been getting ready to pay somebody something?

  Louis picked up a small pair of jeweler’s tweezers and picked through the bill pocket. A couple twenties, a ten, and some ones. And a small piece of paper. Louis used the tweezers to pull it out and he peered at the small numbers penciled on the paper, wishing he had thought to bring his glasses.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, picking up a magnifying glass. The numbers popped out at him. At first they didn’t register, then Louis stiffened.

  It was Bessie’s phone number.

  It was four-thirty in the morning when Louis got back to the station. Larry looked up from his magazine. “What are you doing here?”

  Louis kept walking to the back room, jerking open the door that separated the four jail cells from the rest of the office. The broken lock rattled against the metal door. An inmate in cell number one opened his eyes, awakened by the sound. Louis kept walking, Larry at his heels.

  “Kincaid, where you going?”

  “To see Leverette.”

  Louis stopped before Leverette’s cell. Leverette’s sleeping body was hidden in the shadows and all Louis could see was the gray jail blanket that covered him.

  “Leverette?” Louis called out.

  The blanket moved. Leverette moaned softly.

  “Leverette!”

  Leverette’s head appeared. “Who…?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “You okay, Leverette?” Louis asked.

  Leverette slowly propped himself up on one elbow, squinting out at Louis. He coughed.

  Louis looked at Larry. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Larry shrugged. “Got a bug, I guess.”

  Leverette coughed again, a deep ragged sound.

  “Open it,” Louis said to Larry.

  “What for?”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “You can do that from out here.”

  “Open it!”

  Larry crossed his arms. “I don’t take orders from you.”

  Louis shoved past him and went to the empty desk where the jail sergeant usually sat. He yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a ring of keys. He came back, dug in his pocket, and threw some bills at Larry. “Go g
et him some cough medicine.”

  Larry’s face clouded over. “Ain’t nothin’ open this time of night,” he said tersely. “And I ain’t your slave, Kincaid,” Larry glared at him then turned and stalked out.

  Louis picked up the money and unlocked the cell. Leverette looked up as Louis came in.

  “Leverette, you all right?” Louis asked. But even in the dim light coming from the hall light, Louis could see that the young man was not well. He was pale, with reddened eyes.

  “Detective,” Leverette said weakly. “Can I have some water?”

  Louis went out to the office and returned with a cup of water. Leverette drank it in slow sips. “Throat hurts,” he whispered. He pulled himself up and sat hunched on the bunk, gripping the coffee mug of water.

  “Leverette,” Louis began. What could he tell him? “7 think you’re innocent”? “In a few days, you’ll he free”? No. That was premature and he didn’t want to raise false hopes. Not yet. But Jesus, the kid looked awful. “Leverette, I want you to relax. Everything will be all right. Give it some time.”

  Hell, he had no time. Louis knew that. And he knew there would be no bail. Judge Eucher never gave bail in a capital murder case.

  Leverette just sat there. He’d be behind bars until Louis could prove his newly formed theory—that Earl was killed because he knew something about the bones. If he couldn’t do that, Leverette would rot away in this jail for months.

  Leverette raised his head to look at Louis. “Detective, would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, Leverette.”

  “Could you check in on my mom? I’m a little worried about her. I don’t think she’s feeling well. My sister went back to school and Mom’s all alone.”

  “I’ll do that, Leverette.”

  Leverette handed Louis the mug of water. He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter over his shoulders.

  Damn it, damn it all to hell, Louis thought. This just wasn’t right. The kid wasn’t going to go anywhere; he wasn’t a damn flight risk. He should be home with his mother until he needed to be in court.

  Louis stood up. “Come on, Leverette,” he said.

  Leverette looked up slowly.

  “Come on, I’m taking you home,” Louis helped Leverette to his feet.

  Leverette seemed dazed as Louis led him out of the cell and down the corridor. He blinked in the bright light as Louis brought him out into the office. Larry looked up.

  “What the fuck…? What you think you’re doing, Kincaid?”

  “Taking Leverette home.” Louis took off his University of Michigan jacket and draped it over Leverette’s shoulders. They started toward the door.

  Larry shot to his feet. “You can’t do that!”

  “He’s sick and he’s not going to run away. Cutter. I’ll take full responsibility for him.” Louis started toward the door, his arm around Leverette.

  “Kincaid! You hear me? Stop!” Larry scrambled around the desk to the door, blocking their way.

  “Step aside,” Louis said calmly.

  “Fuck you,” Larry said, bracing his arm across the door.

  Louis shoved Larry’s arm away and pushed open the door, holding it as Leverette shuffled through.

  Larry took a step backward and glared at Louis. “You’re in trouble, boy,” Larry yelled. “This here is contempt of court! Sheriff’s gonna have your ass for this one!”

  Louis tossed the cell keys back on a desk as he followed Leverette out the door. “Tell him to get in line,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  Louis stepped out of his car and reached for his deputy sheriff’s jacket. Today, he wore the crisply pressed county-issued beige uniform with plain brown tie. He put on the brown cattleman’s hat. He seldom wore it but it seemed appropriate for a funeral.

  The sky was thick with low-hanging gray clouds and there was a sharp chill to the air and a misty rain. He started up the damp, grassy slope, walking toward the gravesite.

  A green-and-white canopy covered the grave, with several rows of folding chairs arranged in front of it. Printed across the canopy was the name Wallace-Pickney. Louis tasted something bitter as he looked at it.

  The mourners—or maybe they would be better described as spectators, Louis thought—were milling around on the grass. They were dressed for grieving, the women in their best black dresses and hats, the men in somber suits. A few umbrellas waggled like colorful fishing bobs in the sea of dark clothes and faces.

  Louis spotted Tinker standing apart under an oak tree and he walked over. Tinker’s face remained impassive as Louis approached. Tinker wore a Panama hat and an old dark wool suit with baggy black pants. His tie was thin and knotted poorly, but his height and demeanor lent him his usual air of distinction.

  “Detective Kincaid.”

  “Mr. Tinker. How are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you weren’t interested in this man.” Louis said.

  “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “About what?” Louis asked.

  Tinker almost smiled. “About how all this is gomia wash out.”

  Louis leaned back against the tree, his eyes on the lectern that had been set up in front of the rows of chairs. He watched Walter Kelly, who was standing in a knot of other suited men. There was one woman in the group, standing at Kelly’s side. She was tall, with harsh black bouffant hair. Despite the gloomy day, she wore large sunglasses and a black sheath that was too tight across the hips, accentuating the little pads of fat around the top of her thighs. She said something to Kelly, then wobbled away, the heels of her pumps sinking into the wet ground, giving her a drunken gait. Louis wondered if she was Kelly’s wife.

  “How’s the case going?” Tinker asked, drawing his attention back.

  “George Harvey was killed last night,” Louis said.

  “I heard. You think there’s some connection?”

  “To what?”

  Tinker looked out over the crowd. “To that other man who was shot in the woods.”

  Louis looked at Tinker, surprised. “Why do you think there would be?”

  Tinker shrugged. “Two men, two white men, turn up dead within two weeks of each other… That never happened in this town before. Seems kinda strange to me.”

  Louis stuck his hands in his pockets. “Me too.” He paused. “I’ve been getting anonymous phone calls, someone trying to steer me in some direction that I haven’t been able to figure out.” He wasn’t sure why he was confiding in Tinker, but he knew somehow he could trust him. “George Harvey had my phone number in his wallet,” he added.

  Tinker turned to face him. “You believe he was your caller?”

  Louis nodded slowly.

  “And now he’s dead,” Tinker said.

  Louis looked over at the gravesite. The coffin was covered with an extravagant blanket of red and white flowers, paid for out of the city slush fund, no doubt. There were other flowers set about in a semicircle—several large, splashy horseshoe arrangements, a few small bouquets. It looked so bright and colorful, almost cheerful, like a wedding. The coffin was suspended on a frame above the open grave, but it would not be lowered here. After the crowd left, the bones would be transferred to a cheap wooden casket and buried in Black Pool Gardens, the indigent cemetery.

  Louis thought of the meager pile of bones lying in the shiny, brass-handled coffin. His chest tightened.

  “They’re trying to bury it,” he said softly.

  “Who is?” Tinker asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s all connected. I know it now. The bones. Earl Mulcahey, George Harvey…they’re all connected.”

  Louis’s eyes went back to Walt Kelly. Off in the distance, behind Kelly, Louis spotted Dodie just getting out of his Blazer. The sheriff was also wearing his dress uniform. It made him look different. More like a cop, but also more threatening somehow.

  “Detective,” Tinker said.

  Louis turned to f
ace him.

  “You be careful,” he said.

  Louis nodded. Tinker walked away and was lost in the crowd. Louis watched Dodie, but he was heading away from the canopied grave. He walked a short distance, stopping in front of a headstone under a group of sprawling trees.

  Louis watched him, debating whether to interrupt what was obviously a private moment. He knew Larry must have called Dodie seconds after Louis had released Leverette. Louis sighed. It hadn’t been a smart move—it went against everything he believed about following procedure—but it had been the right thing to do. He started across the grass. Now he had to pay the price.

  He paused several feet from Dodie. “Sheriff?”

  Dodie looked up. “So,” he said sarcastically, “Leverette make it home okay?”

  “Look, Sheriff, I know I should have called you first, but it couldn’t wait a minute longer.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  Louis looked back at the crowd. “Can we talk about it later?

  “You’re damn right we’ll talk about it later,” Dodie muttered. “That was a right bad move, Kincaid. Judge Eucher ain’t gonna like it, and I don’t like it.” Dodie took a deep breath, then, as if he’d suddenly remembered, he turned to Louis again. “And we’ll talk about you going over to Wallace-Pickney to get that necklace and book without telling me.”

  “I wanted to send them—”

  “Enough, Kincaid, Dodie said through clenched teeth. “This ain’t the time or place,” Dodie shook his head in angry disgust and looked back down at the headstone.

  Dodie took off his hat, his face somber. It was quiet, no birds, no rustling of leaves, just faint waves of voices drifting over from the crowd. Chastised, Louis just stood there.

  Louis looked down at the engraving on the stone.

  Jedidiah Samuel Dodie 1918-1959

  “Father?” Louis asked softly, even though he already knew.

  “Yeah.”

  Louis nodded, silent.

  “He was a sheriff, too,” Dodie said. “Right here in Black Pool.”

  Louis thought about the FBI report on old Jed. “I saw the picture in the office.”

  Dodie looked over at him, his gray eyes steely. “That man made this office what it is today. He got the new jail built, and it was pretty damn snazzy in its day.” Dodie’s eyes went back to the headstone. “He kept this county orderly, and the people here respected him for that.”