Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  Winston paused again. “Louis, you can’t let yourself get tangled up in this.”

  Louis leaned his forehead against the phone. “Eugene, the victim…he was just a kid, Mr. Gibbons, a kid who wanted to be a pro ball player.”

  “You’re too involved.”

  “I know.”

  Gibbons was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. “Be careful, Louis.”

  “I will. About the book…”

  “Well, as you know, there are two prints on the old poetry book. There are three prints on The Golden Apples. One’s yours, and the others didn’t come up in the data bank. According to our man here, who is the best there is, they both very likely belong either to a child or female.”

  “Because of the size,” Louis said.

  “Yes, but here’s what’s interesting,” Gibbons said. “One of these unidentified prints matches the unknown print on your old poetry book.”

  Louis clutched the phone. “So the same person handled the old poetry book and The Golden Apples?”

  “Looks like it. Do you know who owns this second book?”

  “Yes, I do.” Louis sighed, suddenly feeling drained. He had hoped that Grace would prove to be the owner of the poetry book, but now that he knew, the expected feeling of exhilaration did not come. Instead, a sadness passed over him. Grace Lillihouse was the catalyst in Eugene Graham’s lynching. Somehow, some way, she was part of it.

  Louis said good-bye to Gibbons and hung up. He dialed the crime lab in Jackson.

  “Kincaid,” Jacob Armstrong greeted him.

  “Did you do it?” Louis asked.

  “Sure did. Man, you don’t know what it took to get these results together. I owe donuts and beers all over the place.”

  “I’ll send you a dozen of each.” Louis shifted the phone to his other ear impatiently. “So?”

  “The ballistics matched. Lillihouse’s .45 killed your man Harvey,” Armstrong said.

  “And the tire tracks?”

  “The guy who did the comparison said the Monte Carlo tread is rare, too expensive a tire for most folks,” Armstrong said. “And the tread you lifted from the field matches the Monte Carlo. Looks like you got yourself a killer, Kincaid.”

  A dead killer, Louis thought. It was finally all starting to fall together, even if he still didn’t know who had stalked and killed Max.

  “Do me a favor,” he told Armstrong. “Hold on to the results. I’ll come down and get them. Things are a little shaky here.”

  “Sorry, Detective,” Armstrong said. “I thought you needed them quick. I just overnighted them to your office.”

  “Damn,” Louis muttered.

  Louis came around the corner of Water Street and craned his neck, looking for Junior. The street was empty. It was after four; they had probably given up on finding him today. But at least now when he did go in, he would have something concrete to tell Dodie.

  He pulled up in front of Bessie’s house and killed the engine. Inside, he called for Bessie, but there was no answer. The house was cold and he flipped on the thermostat and headed upstairs. As excited as he was about the news from Gibbons and Armstrong, he was drained. He had been running on adrenaline, and right now the thought of crawling under the quilt for a quick nap seemed pretty good.

  The old furnace kicked on. Louis undressed, pulling on a pair of old blue sweatpants. Barefoot and bare-chested, he grabbed a Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator and moved to the window to watch the street.

  It was too cold for the kids to be outside. But Tinker was on his porch, rocking, bundled in a blue parka. The wind was kicking up dervishes of dead leaves in the gutters, and the exhaust pipes of passing cars coughed out white clouds. The sky was a block of gray granite. It reminded him of a February sky in Michigan.

  A squad car rounded the corner slowly, and Louis watched it cruise down the street. It was the car Larry usually drove. They hadn’t given up, after all. The squad car stopped at the intersection. Tinker watched the car, then looked up at Louis’s window as if he knew there was something more to this visit. Louis felt it, too, as a knot formed in his gut.

  Louis watched the squad car. It had pulled over to the side of the curb. Louis took a swig of the Dr. Pepper, thinking about Dodie again. Once he confronted him with the evidence about Max killing George and Earl, Dodie would have to realize that Max’s murderer also must have had something to do with the lynching. A fourth man was still out there somewhere, and for some reason he had felt threatened enough to kill Max. Louis was still betting it was Kelly. The knot in Louis’s stomach tightened as he thought of Kelly—and Bob Roberts. The two men were close allies and would be hard to beat. If he expected Dodie to go to bat for him against those two, he would need as much ammunition as possible.

  Louis had a sudden idea. He went to the phone in the hall and dialed the Jackson Medical Examiner’s Office, asking to be connected to whoever was in charge of the Max Lillihouse shooting. As he waited, he heard the front door open and looked down to see Bessie come in, arms full of grocery bags from the Piggly Wiggly. He waved to her.

  “Yo, this is Victor,” came a voice over the phone.

  Louis turned his attention back to the phone. “Victor, this is Deputy Resnick, Greensboro County Sheriff’s Department.” He couldn’t risk giving his own name.

  “I was told y’all was going to be calling,” the other man said. “In a big damn hurry for those results, are ya?”

  “Yeah, we are. Got anything for me?”

  “Hold on, got to get the file.”

  Louis waited impatiently, listening to Bessie singing softly down in the kitchen. Victor came back on the phone a few minutes later.

  “Sorry, Deputy, I can’t help you.”

  “Why not? Aren’t they back?”

  “Some are, but I can’t release it to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “The file’s been sealed. Says here. To be released only to the Greensboro County District Attorney.’”

  Louis slumped against the wall. “That’s crazy,” he muttered.

  “I’m just doing what I’m told. Sorry, Deputy.”

  Louis slammed down the phone. Roberts again. Hell, for Roberts to put a seal on that file meant two things: He was leaving Dodie out of the loop and he was after Louis’s ass. There was only one thing left to do now: Call Winston Gibbons.

  He reached for the phone, but then stopped. Sirens…

  Bessie appeared in the foyer, looking up at him, fear in her eyes. The phone rang and Louis jumped, his eyes darting from it to the front door.

  “Louis?” Bessie said.

  The sirens were coming closer; the phone’s shrill ring filled the house. Louis grabbed for it, knocking it off its cradle.

  “Hello?” he said sharply.

  “Lou…Lou! This is Charles.”

  “What?”

  “Cousin Charles… Lou, you ain’t gonna believe this, I almost didn’t my own self until I seen it. Jesus, Louis, I can’t believe all this shit is coming down.”

  “Charles, talk to me, man!”

  The sirens were right outside. Bessie spread the curtain, mumbling something.

  “Charles, what the hell’s happening?”

  “I’ll lose my job for sure now, I know it.”

  Louis could see the red lights flashing outside the front window. The sirens fell silent. Charles’s voice was barely audible.

  “A clerk in the D.A.’s office done called me. Louis, they’s issued a warrant for your arrest.”

  Chapter 25

  Louis waited at the top of the stairs. In one sense, he felt calm, almost invincible. He had done nothing wrong, and he was a cop. Cops took care of other cops. But another part of him was terrified because he knew a lot of things weren’t right in this miserable town.

  His heart quickened as he heard footsteps out on the porch. When they pounded on the door, Bessie looked up at Louis and he nodded for her to let them in. She opened the door wide, standing behind it.


  Larry was standing behind the screen. Junior and Mike behind him. Each man wore his tan uniform and brown felt hat. Larry held a black nightstick in his right hand and was tapping it against the wood slat of the screen door. He opened the screen and it banged against the house, snapping back to catch Mike in the shoulder as the three men entered the vestibule.

  Larry looked at Bessie. She returned his stare with such abomination that he turned away.

  Junior stepped forward and looked up the stairs. “C’mon, Louis, we gotta take you in,” he said.

  “I’d like to see the warrant,” Louis said. “And I want to make a phone call.”

  “At the jail, Kincaid,” Larry said.

  Junior pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and held it out. When Louis didn’t move, he put it away. “Now, come on down here, Louis,” he said. “Let’s keep this easy-like.”

  Junior sounded almost apologetic, but the look in Larry’s eyes was unnerving. Louis tried to swallow but his throat was tight.

  “What are you ‘resting him for?” Bessie cried. “What’s he done?”

  Mike was the only one who looked at her. “For killing Max Lillihouse, Miz Bessie,” he said quietly.

  She let loose with a wail. Larry yanked the cuffs off his belt and took a step up. “Git your ass down here, boy. Now.”

  “Jesus, Larry, this is Louis you’re talking to,” Mike said.

  Larry ignored him. “Kincaid, don’t make us come up there and get you.”

  Bessie was crying and Louis was afraid she would do something that might get her hurt. “Let me get dressed,” he said.

  “We’ll just take you the way you are,” Larry said quickly.

  “Y’all can’t take him like that!” Bessie said, “Let Louis get dressed. What’s wrong with you?”

  Mike touched her arm. “You leave things be, Miz Bessie. Go on.”

  She jerked away from Mike and backed against the wall.

  Louis stepped forward. “Don’t touch her.”

  “You come on down here and we won’t have to,” Junior said.

  Louis came down the stairs. Larry shoved the nightstick in his belt, and when Louis reached the third step, Larry grabbed his arm, jerking him down. He pushed him up against the wall, bracing the back of his head with his forearm while he wrenched Louis’s left arm up behind him. Louis did not fight. He closed his eyes, feeling Larry’s hot breath on his neck.

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you, asshole?” Louis hissed.

  Larry slammed his forearm against the back of Louis’s neck, forcing his face roughly to the wall. Louis jerked instinctively in defense, but Larry’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

  “Hey, hey!” Junior shouted. “Calm the fuck down here.”

  Larry snapped Louis’s wrists in the handcuffs and spun him around. “You have the right to keep your mouth shut,” Larry began.

  “Jesus, Lar, you don’t need to do all that,” Mike said.

  “You have the right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford a lawyer on that big-ass salary of yours, then we’ll git you one…”

  Larry wheeled Louis around, and Louis tripped on the throw rug and fell. He heard Bessie cry out and felt warm hands on his bare arms. He struggled to his feet, balanced by Mike.

  The door opened and the cold air rushed in. Mike had a steadying hand on one arm, Larry was jerking on the other. Junior walked on ahead. As he was led down the sidewalk, Louis scanned the faces of the neighbors standing outside their homes watching. His stomach churned with humiliation, and he felt color rise to his cheeks. Where the hell was Dodie? he thought angrily. Why wasn’t he here?

  Larry gave him a subtle push, and Louis fell forward, scrambling for balance. He spun around and planted both feet, glaring.

  “Don’t even think it, nigger,” Larry hissed.

  Mike pulled on Louis’s arm. “C’mon, man.”

  The concrete was cold on Louis’s feet and the frigid wind cut across his bare chest. Louis wanted to look down, look away from the staring eyes, but he forced himself to hold his head up, stealing a look back at Bessie. She stood gripping the porch rail, her shoulders heaving. Louis spotted Tinker standing on his porch, watching. Then, with a shake of his head, he went inside.

  Mike put a hand to Louis’s head, guiding him into the backseat. The door slammed behind him. Larry and Junior got in front, and Junior started the car with an unnecessary flood of power and kicked on the lights.

  Louis sat back against the seat. The leather was cold against his skin and the cuffs cut into his wrists. He shifted to lessen the pressure and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

  The cell was cold and smelled of mildew washed over with disinfectant. Gray—everything was gray. The cell walls were peeling gray paint. The bars were gray, as were the metal bunk and its thin wool blanket. Across the ceiling were large gray water pipes, pocked with rust. It was the only spot of color except for the red line on the corridor floor, painted exactly one foot from the cell door. Even the light was gray. No windows and just an empty socket hanging from the ceiling of the cell. The only light came from the dim corridor lights and the desk sergeant’s lamp.

  Louis couldn’t stop shivering. He still wore only the blue sweatpants. He pulled the blanket from the bunk and wrapped himself in it, walking to the front of the cell. He stepped in some icy water and looked up. The pipe above was leaking. He had been placed in a cell nearest the door to the office, and he pushed his head against the bars, trying to see down the corridor.

  “Hey, Willis,” he called out.

  There was no answer. Louis knew the desk sergeant was there. He could hear him turning the pages of his magazine.

  “Detective Kincaid. That you?” Leverette Mulcahey called, his voice echoing from several cells away.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “What happened? What are you doing in here?”

  “Long story.”

  “What’s happening around here?”

  “I don’t know,” Louis said. “Leverette, do they let you make phone calls?”

  “Yes, but they listen in on them.”

  Shit. He’d been here four hours now and they had yet to bring him a phone. He needed to call Gibbons. And where the hell was Dodie?

  “Hey, Willis,” Louis shouted again. “Tell Junior I want a phone.”

  No response. Louis sat down on the bed and stared at the floor. A roach scurried across the cement and disappeared into the drain.

  Mike backed through the door to the station, arms loaded with to-go containers from the Burnt Bun Diner across the street. Slipping them onto the desk, he opened one, and the steam from the biscuits and gravy curled upward.

  Larry came over and lifted a lid. “What’s the third one for?” he asked.

  “I thought maybe Louis would be hungry. He’s been here since four o’clock with nothing to eat.” The eggs were plastered to the top of the container, and Mike carefully peeled them loose with a plastic fork.

  “You pay for it?”

  Mike shrugged. “It was only a buck ninety-nine.”

  “That nigger don’t need no food. We’ll feed him in the morning.”

  “It’s already paid for, Larry. Let’s just give it to him.”

  “I’ll give it to him, all right,” Larry said, scooping up the white container. For a second Mike thought he was going to throw it away, but Larry started toward the back, then stopped abruptly. Larry looked around the office. It was after ten p.m. and no one was there except Mike and himself. He pulled a paper cup from the dispenser on the wall and unzipped his trousers.

  “Christ, Larry,” Mike said.

  “I heard about cops doin’ this before,” Larry said, turning his back to Mike, “but never thought I’d get to.”

  Mike heard the tinkle of urine hit the cup. It disgusted him what Larry was about to do, but he said nothing.

  Larry poured the urine onto the top of the gravy and stirred it in with the plastic fork. He wiped the fork on the s
ide of his pants and placed it on top of the box. He was chuckling as he went through the door to the cell block.

  Early the following morning, Louis awoke to the bang of the broken lock of the office door slamming up against the bars of his cell. He opened his eyes to see Junior holding a phone.

  Louis stood up and took the phone through the bars. Junior pushed a bundle of orange cloth through the bars. “Here, get dressed,” he said. “You got your arraignment this morning.”

  Louis took the orange jumpsuit and tossed it on the bunk. The phone did not reach to the bunk, so Louis cradled it in his forearm while he dialed. He dialed Gibbons’s direct line at the FBI in Jackson. Junior stood near the bars, chewing on a toothpick, watching him. There was no answer.

  “Junior, what time is it?” he asked.

  “Ten after six.” Junior replied.

  Too early, and Gibbons’s home phone number was back in his room. Louis wanted to call Charles but couldn’t remember that number, either. The thought of calling Frances or Phillip Lawrence crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He couldn’t call them at six in the morning to tell them he’d been arrested for murder.

  “Y’all didn’t eat much,” Junior said, his eyes indicating the open container of untouched food.

  Louis didn’t answer. He dialed Bessie’s number. It took several minutes to calm her down enough to ask her to bring him shoes, socks, and underwear. He thought of asking her to search for Gibbons’s home number, but he had scribbled it on an envelope and didn’t know where it might be. When he asked Bessie if she knew an attorney, she said she would see what she could do. She told him she was praying for him before she hung up.

  “You done?” Junior asked.

  Louis nodded and Junior took the phone. Louis watched him as he turned away. He had always known Junior did not really like or accept him. But something had developed between them in the last month, a vague kinship created by the uniform. But now that was gone, and though he couldn’t believe it, he felt a chilling loneliness in Junior’s aloofness. He went back to the bunk and sat down, putting his head in his hands. He hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a stretch, and he knew he should be exhausted but he felt wide-awake, tense with adrenaline. Or fear.