Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  Larry grinned. “Hell, I thought it was great. Gave me a whole new image of you. Mayor.”

  Kelly stared at him in disgust.

  “I wish I coulda been there, ridin’ along with you guys,” Larry said, with a low whistle, “Riders in the night, ghost riders, that’s what you guys were, only the ghosts belonged to—”

  “Shut up!” Kelly snapped.

  Larry’s smile melted.

  “You don’t know what they did to us, the damn FBI and their so-called…” Kelly stopped, took a breath and tugged at the lapels of his suit. “It was a long time ago,” he said, more calmly. “It’s all lies anyway.”

  “Then why you so worried about it?”

  “I’m a politician. Cutter,” Kelly said slowly, as if explaining to a child. “And politics is all about perception. It doesn’t really matter who I am, what I do—or what I did. Image is everything.”

  Larry frowned, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Kelly smiled stiffly. “My father used to tell me something about being a politician. It’s a lot like being a Mississippian. Both have bad images. There are always people trying to dig up your old dirt, sniffing around for scandals and ugliness. Liberals, Northerners, the FBI…they all think they have the right to tell you how to do things—whether it’s running the country, a town, the schools—or what you can put on the damn state flag.”

  “Like Kincaid,” Larry said.

  Kelly pointed a finger at Larry. “Don’t underestimate him. Cutter. Kincaid read that FBI report.”

  Larry edged forward. “You think he’d use it? Like, give it to some big newspapers or something?”

  “He’s trying to cover his ass right now. He would do anything to detract from his own guilt.” Kelly walked around his desk and stood at the window, staring out at the square. “This town is sixty-seven percent black.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “Don’t you see what I’m getting at?” Kelly said impatiently, turning. “Perception, you idiot. What would happen to me if they read the lies in that FBI report? I’d be out of here. Cutter, and you’d lose that nice little allowance I give you that I’m sure you’ve never bothered to tell the wife about.”

  Larry just stood there. Kelly turned back to the window, stuffing his hands in his pants pocket. He began to jingle the loose change in his pocket, staring down at the street.

  Larry shifted uneasily. “Mayor,” he said quietly, after a few seconds.

  “What?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Larry asked.

  Kelly didn’t turn around. “Whatever it takes. Deputy Cutter. Whatever it takes.”

  Chapter 24

  Howard Eckles was a young man, with thin blond hair and adolescent features, appearing barely old enough to have any kind of degree, let alone a doctorate. He told Louis he had not received a call from Leverette, but after some cajoling agreed to talk to Louis.

  Louis sat down on a comfortable sofa in his office and waited while Eckles settled into his chair and told the receptionist to hold his calls. There were several orchids growing in pots on the sill and a bold Matisse print on the pale blue walls. The soothing sound of ocean waves played from a hidden stereo. Louis could imagine Earl in this sanctuary, baring his secrets.

  “Earl Mulcahey was a troubled man,” Eckles began. “But that’s all I can say.”

  “I am familiar with privilege, believe me, I am,” Louis said, “but Earl Mulcahey’s dead and I need some help here.”

  “Detective, you know I can’t share anything specific.”

  “I think Earl knew something, or may even have been involved in the lynching of a young man many years ago.”

  Eckles face revealed nothing.

  Louis let out a deep breath. “Doctor, Leverette Mulcahey did not kill his father. I’m trying to help him.”

  “I agree. But I can’t confirm anything.”

  “All right. Let’s put it this way: If Earl was involved, and regretted it, how might he act?”

  Eckles shook his head, smiling. “Sorry.”

  Louis sat back in the chair, sighing. He tried another tactic. “Okay, if any man, a sensitive, weak man, prone to depression.

  did something terrible he regretted, how might such a man atone for this crime?”

  “People who commit crimes, people who would normally never do such a thing on their own, generally remain deeply penitent, always searching for ways to erase the act from their lives. Sometimes they kill themselves.”

  “And the ones who don’t?”

  “They suffer every day. Some might move away, change the scenery.”

  Earl had sold his land. Louis needed more. “How would such a person act if he or she thought, after many years, their sin would be revealed?”

  “It would depend,” Eckles said quietly, tapping a pencil. “To some, it would be a relief.”

  Louis sat back. Earl had wanted to come forward. There was no question in his mind that the unearthing of Eugene Graham had forced Earl to confront his crime.

  “Doctor, how might a stronger man act, maybe an irrational man, one who had a lot to lose?”

  “I think that’s easy. Detective. He would do anything to prevent exposure.”

  “Including more killing?”

  “Possibly. If he thought he could get away with it.”

  The receptionist buzzed, saying the doctor’s next patient was waiting. Eckles rose and Louis knew the psychiatrist would reveal no more. He thanked him and extended his hand. Eckles shook it and sat back down, swinging casually in his chair as Louis turned to leave.

  “Detective…” Eckles said softly.

  Louis turned and waited for him to speak. The psychiatrist’s eyes glinted as he stuffed the pencil into a holder. “You know, a common therapeutic technique is to have a patient write down their thoughts.”

  Louis paused, his hand on the doorknob. “You mean like a journal? Are you telling me you advised Earl to keep a journal?”

  The psychologist smiled slightly. “I don’t know if Earl did or didn’t. And that. Detective, is really all I can tell you.”

  Louis had to talk to Ethel Mulcahey. As he headed the car toward the Texaco station, the radio squawked to life. Junior was trying to reach him again.

  “Louis? Louis! You out there? Sheriff wants to see you now. Louis?”

  Louis pulled up next to the pay phone, letting out a long breath. He had a bad feeling about Dodie. The man really had no choice but to suspend an officer who was a suspect in a murder case. But once he was suspended, the case was over. Louis keyed the mike.

  “Can’t copy you. Junior. You’re breaking up.”

  “Lou—”

  Louis turned the radio off, feeling like shit. But he needed to buy some time, even if it was only hours. He slipped into the phone booth and dialed Ethel. Six rings, seven…Damn, where was she? He was just about to give up when she answered.

  She barely gave him enough time to identify himself. “How could you arrest Leverette again?” she cried.

  “Please, calm down. Listen to me—”

  “I can’t talk to you, my lawyer—”

  “Mrs. Mulcahey, please, just take a second and listen to me. I’m trying to help your son. I don’t think he did anything.”

  “Then why is he back in jail?”

  “The sheriff is trying to take the easy way out. Please, I think I can help.”

  She was crying. Louis let out a breath and it clouded in the chilly, damp air. He pulled up the collar of his jacket. Man, it was getting cold all of a sudden.

  “Mrs. Mulcahey, I need you to do something for me.”

  She did not answer. But she hadn’t hung up.

  “Look around the house for a notebook or journal your husband might have written.”

  “Detective, I don’t understand what all this has to do with Leverette.”

  “Trust me, Mrs. Mulcahey, please.”

  He asked Mrs. Mulcahey to call if she found anything, and she hung
up without another word. Louis stood at the phone for a second, debating his next move. He knew he should just go home and get some sleep. He had been awake since discovering Max outside Bessie’s, and had driven straight to Jackson and back after that. He had forgotten to eat, too, as his rumbling stomach now reminded him. He went inside the Texaco, picked up a bag of chips and a Dr. Pepper and headed to the counter.

  There were two hunters in camouflage gear ahead of him. Louis paid for his soda and pushed open the glass door, stopping abruptly. One of the hunters had taken out his rifle and was pointing it toward the store across the street.

  Louis stepped up to him quickly. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” he asked sharply.

  The hunter looked at his friend then looked back at Louis, a dumbfounded look on his face. Louis yanked out his badge, flipping it open.

  The hunter lowered the gun to his side. “I was just showing Roy here my new gun, that’s all.”

  “You shouldn’t be pointing a gun out on the street like that,” Louis said. “C’mon, man, you guys are suppose to know what you’re doing. Put the damn thing away.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “But it ain’t loaded.”

  “That’s right,” his friend said. “He just bought it. Ain’t even got bullets for it yet.”

  The first hunter stroked the barrel of the rifle proudly. “Paid 600 bucks. Can pick a buck off from a quarter mile away.”

  “Well, be careful,” Louis said, walking away.

  “Will do. Officer,” Roy said.

  Louis headed toward the Mustang then stopped, turning. The hunters were getting in their truck and Louis hurried back to them, tapping on the window. Roy rolled his down.

  “What kind of gun is that?” Louis asked.

  “A Remington DBL 700.”

  “What caliber?”

  “.30-.30.”

  Louis stared at the rifle, but in his mind he was seeing the spread-eagled body of Earl Mulcahey. Someone else owned one of these rifles, said it had cost a month’s pay. Who was that? Larry. No, Larry didn’t own it; he had said his friend Max owned it. Jesus…

  Louis watched the truck pull out, and walked slowly back to the Mustang. Lots of men owned rifles. What was nagging at him about this one? He stopped by the car, shivering in the cold, thinking now of the tire tracks out near the deer stand. A Monte Carlo could produce a wide radial tread like that. Could Max have been Earl’s killer? But that didn’t make sense; Max was a victim, too—of the same killer who was eliminating the lynching witnesses.

  Max had no reason to kill Earl. Or did he? God knows, the bastard probably would have done anything to protect the life he had built for himself. He had married into an old-money family and climbed his way to respectability and power. He threatened to kill Louis when he thought his daughter’s honor was being compromised. Would he have killed Earl to keep a damaging secret from getting out?

  Louis got in the car and started the heater, slowly munching on the potato chips. If Max had killed Earl, then it followed that he killed George Harvey, too. But George was shot with—

  Louis bolted upright. A fucking .45! The same damn kind of gun that Max had threatened Louis with. The same kind of gun Max himself had been shot with.

  He had to get a ballistics comparison on Max’s gun and the bullet taken out of George Harvey. But the .45 had been taken into evidence and was in the state crime lab in Jackson by now.

  Louis got out of the car, hurried to the phone booth and placed a call to the Mississippi State Crime Lab. He hoped Jacob Armstrong was there. The young medical examiner who had handled the bones was the only person at the state lab who might be willing to do him a favor. While he waited, he watched the clouds slowly moving in. They were dark and heavy.

  “Armstrong here.”

  “Armstrong!” Louis replied. “This is Detective Kincaid, the one with the bones up here in Black Pool.”

  “Yes, I remember you. How’s your case coming?”

  “Good, but I need some help on something and you’re the only one I know I can ask.”

  “Well, this is your lucky day. Detective. Slow day for corpses here. I’d be glad to help if I can.”

  “You have a man there by the name of Lillihouse.”

  He heard Armstrong shuffling through some papers. “Yeah, came in last night.”

  “There will also be prints, fibers, whatever, from his car. And his gun, a nickle-plated .45. Do you have access to those?”

  “No, but I can ask someone upstairs. What do you need?”

  “We had a man shot here last week, a George Harvey. You guys did his autopsy. Do you still have the report?”

  “I don’t suppose you have a case number. Detective? It sure would—”

  “No, I don’t, sorry. But I need you to see if Lillihouse’s gun matches the bullet taken from Harvey.”

  “I’ll try. Detective.” Armstrong paused. “Why do I have the feeling that’s not all?”

  Louis smiled slightly, cradling the phone. “Actually, I could use one other thing. Tire casts of a car. They should be with Earl Mulcahey’s file—”

  “Mulcahey? Who’s Mulcahey? I thought you wanted me to look at some guy named Harvey?”

  “No, this second one is a separate case. Earl Mulcahey, shot with a rifle on…Damn, it was a Sunday.” Louis rubbed his eyes.

  “Wait a minute. Detective. I don’t even know if we have your reports,” Armstrong said. “Did we do this Mulcahey guy? And even if we did, casts and ballistics are another department. I’m a doctor. Detective, not a cop. Why don’t you just bring whatever you got and we’ll run it for you when we get the stuff back on Lillihouse?”

  “I can’t, Mr. Armstrong, please.”

  Armstrong sighed. “Who did the post on this Mulcahey guy?”

  Louis tried to remember the examiner who had done Earl’s autopsy but couldn’t. “I don’t know. It was last month, before Christmas, around the twentieth.” There was a long pause on Armstrong’s end of the line. Louis leaned against the phone, watching the clouds. “Mr. Armstrong, I need some help here and I need it in a hurry.”

  “Detective, does all this have anything to do with those bones?”

  “I hope so, Mr. Armstrong.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “All right, give me the info again,” Armstrong muttered. “It might be fun playing Quincy for a change.”

  Louis repeated the names and days as Armstrong wrote them down. When Louis asked the Medical Examiner what time he could call back, Armstrong told him he needed at least four hours.

  “Mr. Armstrong?” Louis said before hanging up. “I owe you a big one.”

  “Well, those bones you brought in kinda got under my skin. Detective,” Armstrong said. “You know what I mean?” “I sure do,” Louis said.

  Ethel Mulcahey sat on the edge of her bed across from the mahogany chest. It had been Earl’s dresser, and once belonged to his mother, God rest her soul. Now Earl was gone, too. And Leverette was in jail, charged with the murder of his father. What had happened to her family? How could God be so cruel as to take both from her in such a short time?

  She stared at the dresser. The detective wanted her to look for notebooks, but Earl had never hid anything from her, and it didn’t feel right invading his privacy like this, even if he was gone.

  Ethel rose slowly from the bed and opened the first drawer. The sight of Earl’s underwear lying in neat stacks brought a catch to her throat. She didn’t understand how this could help Leverette, but she was ready to grasp any thread of hope. She opened the second drawer, then the next and the next. Nothing but clothes, golf shirts, hunting shirts, fishing shirts. Tube socks, argyle socks for church, and a small selection of ties given to him over the years by the children.

  She closed the last drawer, and walked on slippered feet to the bathroom. She checked the small cedar towel cupboard and his drawer. Nothing but a razor, blades, his prostate pills and the like.

  She would have to throw his th
ings away soon. Or maybe she could donate them to the Goodwill. Earl would want somebody to use them. Earl hated waste.

  The den was a small, oak-paneled room Earl had decorated with a stuffed armadillo and a deer head his father had shot. It was his room, and she seldom went inside. He had paid the bills in here, talked about fatherly things with Leverette. He watched football games and fishing shows here.

  The desk was as he left it, papers stacked on top, most concerning insurance or his side business of roofing. The gray television screen was covered with dust. She would have to tend to that soon, too. She sat behind the desk and placed her hands flat on the top. It was the first time she remembered sitting here. She inhaled; Earl’s smell was in the old leather chair.

  She opened the desk drawers, one by one. There were old bills, insurance papers, photographs of his cousins and sister. She stopped, knowing she could go no farther.

  Ethel closed the drawer and stood up. It wasn’t right to intrude. Detective Kincaid had no right. She had no right. She would not doit.

  Louis shifted in the hard plastic chair, picking at his french fries. He glanced at his watch. It was almost four, too soon to call Armstrong back. He gulped down the last of his Big Mac and drained the Dr. Pepper, barely tasting either. He looked up at the girl behind the counter who had been watching him suspiciously for the last hour. After calling Armstrong, he had cruised by Bessie’s, only to see Junior’s squad car sitting at the corner. He had done a quick U-turn and headed the other way. He was beginning to feel like a federal fugitive.

  He looked at his watch again. He couldn’t wait another minute. Scooping up a handful of quarters, he hurried to the pay phone and dialed Winston Gibbons’s office. When the agent came on the line, Louis asked if the results were back.

  “Let me ask you this first,” Gibbons said. “Are you positive you are okay? You don’t sound like it.”

  “I’m very tired, Mr. Gibbons,” Louis said. “And truth is, I’m beginning to feel a little like that guy Damocles, watching that sword dangling over his head.”

  “Well, I’m heading to Atlanta tomorrow for a conference. Let us come down when I get back.”

  “I’ll call you if I need you.”