by Parrish, PJ
And the print didn’t belong to George, either. His prints were definitely on file, not just the standard postmortem prints taken at the jewelry-store murder scene, but also prints from his military service. It was possible the second print belonged to Max, but there was no way to prove it without knowing if Max had ever been fingerprinted. Tomorrow Max’s postmortem prints would be available, and Louis could have them compared. Louis looked back at the window awash with red-and-blue lights. But that didn’t do him any good tonight.
He sighed, staring at the meaningless names. It was possible this second print belonged to someone who had since moved away, or even died. And the only way to eliminate all seven names on the list would be to track them down one by one and find out if any one of them had even lived in Black Pool in the fifties. Damn, he didn’t have that much time.
He took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. Think god damn it, he told himself.
He dug through the other papers that had come back with the FBI report, unearthing the small cards showing the exact images of the prints lifted from the books. He put his glasses back on and held the two cards side by side, peering at the two prints. The larger one, the one that matched Earl Mulcahey, was a thumbprint. The other was from a finger and was much smaller.
Who did it belong to? Who else had touched that poetry book?
All his instincts were telling him that the print didn’t belong to Max. He had a feeling in his gut that the print belonged to another man in their circle of friends, someone who knew who Louis was, someone who knew Max would be sitting outside this house tonight. It had to be someone close to him.
Louis stared at the two prints. One large and round. The other small and slender.
Then it hit him, and he threw back his head, clenching his teeth in frustration over his blindness. “God,” he whispered, “it’s a woman.”
He stared at the delicate fingerprint, letting out a long breath. Maisey. She had lied about knowing Eugene Graham. But why? He shook his head slowly. What difference did it make now, especially if she wanted to get rid of her husband? If she had been involved with Eugene, and if Kelly had killed him because of it, why wouldn’t she want to cooperate now? She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Louis climbed off the bed and started toward the phone to call her, then stopped abruptly, his hand on the door.
No…
He turned back to the bed and looked down at the book, 100 Years of American Poetry. The young Maisey had probably never even opened a book, let alone gone in for such genteel pastimes as reading poetry.
Slowly, a face came to him, serene and cool. Grace Lillihouse. He drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly as he looked down at the tattered book on the bed. His mind sifted through the things Ethel had said about Max and Grace, settling finally on their wedding picture and Grace’s sad face. Maybe a part of him, deep down, had known all along, but he had not really wanted to face the fact that a woman like Grace could be involved, even indirectly, in something as grotesque as Eugene Graham’s murder. He didn’t want to face it now, really.
His eyes went to the lights at the window. But if Max had murdered Eugene over some perverted notion of protecting Grace Lillihouse’s honor, why was he now sitting out there with a bullet in his head?
Louis went to his nightstand drawer. He opened the drawer and carefully took out the book Grace had given him, Eudora Welty’s The Golden Apples, holding it by the tip of one corner. He was glad he had never opened it. It held a pristine set of prints, Grace’s prints, ripe for comparison.
He went to the hall phone, dialing Winston Gibbons at home. Gibbons answered sleepily and Louis waited for him to struggle into consciousness before going into detail.
“What is so urgent, Louis?”
“I have a book I need prints from. Immediately.”
“Immediately—as in now, or tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I can do it, if you bring it to me. Might take some muscle around the lab here but 111 swing it.” Gibbons paused. “You sound agitated. How is everything else?”
Louis slid down against the wall. “I have another dead man. And reason to believe someone is killing off witnesses.”
“Witnesses to your lynching?”
“Yes.”
Gibbons let out a long breath.
“I have a hunch about something,” Louis said, “and I hope to God I’m right. If I’m wrong…” He paused, not wanting to tell Gibbons that he was a possible suspect in Max’s murder. Not yet. Maybe a few days from now, if things turned bad, but not now.
“Louis?” Gibbons said.
“I’m all right. Things are just bad right now, Mr. Gibbons. I feel like I’ve lost control. The bad guys are winning.”
Gibbons chuckled. Louis was relieved he didn’t know just how serious he was.
“Do you want some help?” Gibbons asked.
Louis thought of Dodie and how things would look for him if Gibbons and the feds marched into town. And he wanted to try to finish this. Right or wrong, it was his. He had taken possession of this case that rainy day in December and until he put it down, it belonged to him.
“Not yet,” Louis replied. “I’ll let you know.”
“You’re stubborn, Louis.”
“So Tm told.”
“Don’t be afraid to ask for it when you need it.”
“I won’t, believe me.”
“When can I expect your book?”
“Give me three hours.”
“I’ll be waiting for you. Drive carefully.”
“Yes, I will.”
Louis packaged up the items, slipping The Golden Apples into a paper bag. He quickly changed clothes and grabbed his jacket off the bed, tucking the precious bag under his arm as he started down the steps.
Bessie was standing by the door, peeking out the curtain at the scene outside. She heard his footsteps and turned.
“Where you goin’?” she asked.
Louis stopped in front of her. “I need to deliver something. Please don’t tell anyone anything.”
Bessie sighed heavily and reached up, touching his cheek. “Louis, please be careful. I don’t like what’s happenin’ here.”
“I’m sorry about all this, Bessie, I really am.”
“Louis, you ain’t runnin’, are you?” she asked.
Louis shook his head, stepping by her. “I’ll be back by morning. I’ll be going into work. I swear.”
On the porch, Louis paused, looking at the lights. A portable floodlight had been set up, brightening the entire neighborhood. An ambulance had arrived, and someone was crawling around inside the Monte Carlo. Louis saw Dodie turn toward him and he walked quickly across the grass to the Mustang. Dodie started over. Louis was tempted to just get in the car and back out; but he waited, hand on the door.
“Where you think you’re going?” Dodie asked.
“Unless I’m under arrest, anywhere I want to. Sheriff.”
“Kincaid, don’t be stupid.”
Louis thought about saying something to Dodie about what he had discovered in the FBI report, but he couldn’t force it out. Dodie’s accusation rang in his ears and he swallowed back his anger, opening the door.
“Kincaid.”
“Move out of my way.”
Dodie stepped back, watching him. Louis climbed in the car and closed the door, refusing to look at him. He started the car and shoved it into reverse, backing out of the drive. When he reached the street, he finally looked back. He could see Dodie standing in the reflection of the headlights, chewing on that cigar.
It was nine-twenty when Louis got back from Jackson. When he walked into the station, only Larry was there, sitting at the typewriter, unshaven and glassy-eyed as he agonized over Max Lillihouse’s homicide report. He looked at Louis then turned back to the paper sticking out of the typewriter.
“Long night. Cutter?”
“Yeah, thanks to you. I was supposed to be off four hours ago.” Larry stopped t
yping. “Didn’t think Yd see you today. Thought maybe you was on suspension—or somethin’ worse.”
“Not yet.” Louis sat down at his desk. “What did you guys find out last night?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”
“Cut the crap and just tell me.”
Larry eyed him for a minute, then spoke. “The mobile CSU from Jackson showed up about daybreak. Sheriff stayed with ’em for a while. Had me and Mike talkin’ to fuckin’ neighbors, see if anyone heard anything,” Larry added disgustedly.
“What else?”
“They figure Max was shot with his own .45, close range, over the ear. A couple people heard the shot, anywheres from two-fifteen to two-thirty. You called it in at two-forty.”
Louis ran a hand over his tired eyes and down over his own prickly jaw. He hadn’t heard a shot. Or had he? Is that what had awakened him?
“Nobody saw nothin’,” Larry went on bitterly. “No other cars, nobody walkin’ around. ’Cept we got a couple guys cruisin’, say they saw a tall, slender black guy lurkin’ around the car about two-thirty.” Larry let his words dangle.
Louis ignored the insinuation. “Where’s the body?”
“Jackson.” Larry looked at his watch. “The autopsy’s probably ’bout done. Sheriff should be coming back anytime. He’s over there, too.”
Louis thought about the bones and how long it had taken anyone to look at those. Hell, Max hadn’t been dead twelve hours and already somebody was cutting him apart.
“They do the car?” Louis asked.
“How the fuck do i know? I followed the damn thing to the garage and they ran me off. Like we’re not fuckin’ good enough to even look at them bastards.”
“You’re not,” Louis said dryly.
“Fuck you, Kincaid,” Larry said sharply. “What are you even doin’ here anyways?”
Louis had his back to Larry and he forced himself to remain calm. He took a deep breath and tried to focus his thoughts. He waited for Larry to say something else, and when he didn’t, Louis let the next few minutes pass in silence. He heard the tapping of the typewriter keys resume, and looked over his shoulder.
“Who notified the family?” Louis asked.
“Sheriff did it himself, about five a.m.” Larry turned in his chair. “I hear Miz Abigail took it real hard. Guess maybe I ought to go over and console her, you think?”
Louis ignored him, his eyes drifting to a hand-scrawled note that said: Ethel Mulcahey called. Louis picked it up and faced Larry. “What did Mrs. Mulcahey want?”
“Mike took the call. Ask him.”
Louis glared at the back of Larry’s head, wanting to knock him off the chair. Suddenly Larry spoke again. “Probably wanted to ask you why we arrested Leverette again.”
“What?” Louis asked.
When Larry didn’t answer, Louis bolted from the chair and walked angrily to the back, grabbing the keys off Larry’s desk as he passed him. He jerked open the broken front door to the cells and stalked down the corridor. Willis, the jail sergeant, glanced at Louis, then back down at his magazine.
Louis stopped in front of Leverette’s cell. Larry hurried up behind him and placed himself between Louis and the bars.
“Don’t you dare, Kincaid. Give me them keys.”
“I just want to talk to him. Privately.”
“Give me the keys and you can talk all day if you want. But this dirtbag ain’t going nowhere. Not with you.”
Louis threw the keys at him. Larry caught them and glared at Louis, then turned and left the cell block.
Louis faced Leverette. The young man sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees. It occurred to Louis that he might be praying, so he didn’t speak immediately.
Leverette finally looked up. “Detective…”
“Leverette, I’m sorry.”
“I just don’t understand what’s going on.”
“I need to tell you something. But you can’t share it with anyone, not even your mother, not yet.”
“Yes sir.”
“I think your father knew something about the bones we found last December. Do you remember that?”
“Yes sir.”
“And I think someone killed him for it.”
Leverette lowered his head. Louis put his hand through the bars and touched Leverette’s arm. “I need you to tell me about your father.”
“Like what kinda stuff. Detective?”
“Why did he give scholarships to black students?”
“He always said they needed education worse than the rest of us. Said they didn’t always get a fair shake and that somebody ought to lend a helping hand.”
“Did you know George Harvey, the jeweler?”
Leverette nodded. “Everybody knew George.”
“Were he and your father close?”
“No sir. Don’t think they talked for years.” A strange look passed Leverette’s brown eyes. “Except last Christmas. Dad went over to George’s before Christmas, about a week after y’all found the bones. He told us he was getting something special for Mom’s birthday. That was December twelfth. I remember now because I was home that weekend and we were suppose to go hunting. But he was late and when he got back, said he didn’t feel like it. I was kinda angry at him.” Leverette faced Louis again. “But he didn’t get anything for her. Mom got the usual stuff…slippers, bathrobe, but no jewelry.”
“Did he seem upset about anything?”
“Dad was upset lots. He was kind of depressed-like sometimes.”
“Depressed?”
“Yeah. He saw a doctor in town about it, a psychiatrist named Eckles.”
“Why didn’t your mother tell me that?”
“She was probably ashamed.”
Louis heard the metal door clang and looked down the corridor to see Larry standing at the end, leaning against the wall.
“Do you think Eckles would talk to me?” Louis asked in a low voice.
“If I called him, he might.”
“I’ll get you a phone. Do you remember your father having any contact with Max Lillihouse last December?”
Leverette looked up sadly. “Dad hated Max.”
“Did he ever say why?”
“No, just that he was an evil man and he’d go to Hell one day. Said he could really get him, if he wanted.”
Louis gripped the bars, taking a quick glance at Larry, still standing by the door. “Did he ever say how?”
“No, except to say it wouldn’t be worth it.”
Louis looked at his watch. He had to see Dr. Eckles. He told Leverette he’d get back to him, and asked Willis to bring him a phone. Louis pushed past Larry.
Larry watched Louis go, his mouth slowly working on a chaw of tobacco. He waited until Louis put on his coat and left, then spat on the concrete floor and walked back to Willis’s desk.
“What’d he ask you for?” Larry demanded.
“He wanted Leverette there to get a phone.”
Larry glanced at Leverette. “He don’t need no phone. What else did they talk about?”
Willis shrugged, not looking up from his magazine. “Max and George. Louis is goin’ to see some guy named Eckles.”
Larry’s facial muscles tightened and he stormed from the corridor. “Watch the radio,” he hollered back to Willis. “I’ll be right back!”
Larry slammed out the station door and hurried up the courthouse steps. On the second floor, he strode boldly through the reception area, past the sputtering secretary and into Kelly’s office. He closed the door loudly behind him.
Kelly looked up from his desk. “What do you want?”
“He’s on his way to see Eckles.”
“Earl’s shrink?” Kelly asked. He rose and went to the window. He watched Louis go down the block and turn a corner at Mulberry Avenue. He picked up the phone and dialed the DA’s office.
“Bob?” he said tersely. “I want Kincaid suspended. Immediately. And if that imbecile Dodie gives you any lip, hit him with everything
you got.”
Kelly slammed the phone down. Larry turned from the window.
“The son of a bitch is the prime suspect in Max’s murder and he’s still chasin’ those damn bones,” Larry said with a snicker. “Is he fuckin’ stupid or what?”
“He’s not stupid. Cutter,” Kelly said. “He’s trying to find a patsy for Max’s murder, that’s all. He thinks if he can tie Max to the bones, he’ll be off the hook.”
Larry wrinkled his face. “You ain’t gonna fall for that, are you? You don’t know how hard it was just to be civil to him this morning, knowing he killed Max. For pussy. For fucking pussy.”
“It’s immaterial. By sundown he’ll be in jail.”
“That’s not enough.”
Kelly glanced at Larry. “Justice is funny. Cutter. It comes when you least expect it.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes you got to go out and get it yourself.”
Kelly smiled tightly and went back to his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope. “How long have you and I been doing business?”
“It’s fixin’ to be a year. Since Dodie started getting senile and weird.”
“And you have been very good about providing me with little tidbits you felt I ought to know. But things have changed. This is a different ball game now, and I need your help.”
Larry’s eyes drifted to the envelope and Kelly held it up. “You remember what this is?”
Larry shrugged.
“It’s that envelope your two friends got off Kincaid on the Trace that night. You delivered it to me the next day.”
“Yeah, I remember. I didn’t read it, though.”
“The hell you didn’t.” Kelly tossed it on the desk and put his hands in his pockets. “The information in that envelope is a lie, a bold-faced lie.”
