One Drop of Blood

by Thomas Holland

  “Either. Both,” Levine now picked up the question.

  “Can’t say I know the facts. But gossip always held that Big Ray and Miss Grace was to be married. High-school sweethearts and all. Then he went off to the Pacific during the war and she apparently couldn’t wait. He got wounded and spent some time healin’ up in a hospital in Florida or somewhere like that. When he got back here to Split Tree, Miss Grace was married to that fat-assed Carl Trimble. No offense to the dead, but Carl Trimble wasn’t worth much.”

  “Why’d she marry him then?” Kel asked.

  “There were rumors, of course. Carl had the good fortune to have flat feet and managed to serve out the war comfortin’ the women on the home front. Miss Grace was one of them, I guess. In any case, she gets herself married and has a son—Jimmie Carl. Everyone calls him ‘short-stack,’ ’cause his birth date and Mr. and Mrs. Trimble’s first weddin’ anniversary don’t quite have the spread as you might like. He hated it—Jimmie Carl that is. I remember my older brother called him that once after a football game, and Jimmie Carl ’bout beat the thick snot out of him. He wasn’t big, but he was pretty good with his fists. Have to be with his upbringin’.”

  The chief paused and nodded slightly to his two listeners to verify that they were still interested. When they nodded back, he continued. “Back then there wasn’t anythin’ to do but get on with gettin’ on. Big Ray and Miss Grace lived their separate lives. Big Ray came home from the war and got married and had his own kids—Ray Junior and Waymond Ray—W.R.—you’ve met him, you say. Big Ray and Carl had to get along too, they were in the same…clubs…but they clearly didn’t have much to do with one another. Shit, Big Ray wasn’t called Big Ray only ’cause he was tall; like him or not, he was one helluva drink of water. He projected power, you know? And Carl was a fat little piece of shit. Big Ray was everythin’ Carl wasn’t, includin’ bein’ a man.”

  The chief paused and stared at the acoustic tile ceiling for a few breaths. “Carl took to drinkin’, and when he’d been a-drinkin’ he took to beatin’ on Jimmie Carl, maybe on Miss Grace too, I don’t know, you hear all sorts of things. Anyhow, Big Ray catches hold of him after a meetin’ one night and parts his hair with a pick handle. Damn near killed him, they say. Course Carl wasn’t goin’ to admit it was Big Ray that did it, so he says it was a bunch of niggers that jumped him out by the levee. Excuse the expression.”

  Edd Forrest waited for his guests to process that information, but got blank expressions in return. “Maybe y’all not from around here but that story don’t wash. Not in 1965, anyways. No respectable white man, especially one as insecure as Carl Trimble, was going to admit that he let some colored boys whup his ass—even if it was true. That was the tip-off. Shows how much he hated Big Ray that he’d rather folks think that some blacks whupped him rather than Big Ray Elmore. Sure, some of the local boys around here used that as a convenient excuse to raise hell with the blacks; knock out some windows, disturb some sleep, but the reality was that everyone knew who’d done it. And it weren’t the blacks. Grace Trimble knew as well; story was that she supposedly talked to Big Ray and told him no more. Never happened again, but Carl Trimble never touched his family again, either. After that, Big Ray just sort of moved in, at least figuratively, and acted like a father to Jimmie Carl, and Carl Trimble done stayed functionally drunk.

  “So, to answer your question, Trimbles and Elmores close? Depends who you’re talkin’ about. Not Carl and Big Ray, that’s for damn sure.”

  There followed a long silence. Levine could hear the soft, rhythmic click of his watch. He waited for someone to pick up the conversation, but both Kel and Chief Forrest seemed content to sit in silence. Finally he cleared his throat and shifted his weight in the metal chair so that he was leaning slightly forward. It creaked under his weight. “Thanks, Chief, didn’t mean to get so far off target but that helps put some things into perspective. But about the Jackson case…as I said, I’m here to see what can be done to jump-start the investigation.”

  Chief Forrest removed his feet to the floor and slid up under his desk. His look conveyed little. “Well, Agent Levine, as I said, that’s outside my jurisdiction. This office will support you in any way we can, but I don’t see much of a role for us.”

  “You mentioned the ACLU, you know what that was all about? I’ve read the Bureau’s take on the matter, but I’d be interested in your version.” Truth was, Levine had read something in the FBI case file about ACLU involvement, but it hadn’t seemed particularly pertinent, and he’d glossed it more than he should have. Now he was mildly curious but didn’t want to admit to this sharp, young kid that a special agent for the FBI hadn’t done his homework.

  “Don’t know much. Jackson claimed his rights were bein’ violated by local Jim Crow officials; the official police version said he was drunk and disorderly. Don’t think much ever came of it one way or t’other, but I’ll also admit to not knowin’ much about it.”

  Levine nodded as if in agreement. “Thanks, that pretty well jibes with what I have in the case file.” Now he shifted gears. “Mainly I was hoping that you might have some records or files on the case that aren’t in the Bureau’s folder. Understand that it was out of this jurisdiction, but thought you might have something.”

  “No sir, not to my knowledge. Course I’ve only been in this job a few years, but I don’t have any historical records like that. They’d be county records if there are any.” He smiled. “You’d have to ask the sheriff.”

  “Well, as I said earlier, the sheriff doesn’t seem too motivated to assist.” Levine tapped his fingers on his thigh and looked at the chief, who returned his stare. “By any chance, you wouldn’t know where this town might keep some skeletal remains, would you? Specifically those of the John Doe.”

  “The Leon Jackson John Doe? No, sir. Might check with Donnie Hawk, he’s the Locust County coroner.”

  “I did. He told me to ask the Boy Scouts.”

  Edd Forrest smiled. “Welcome to Split Tree, Mr. Levine.”

  Chapter 19

  Split Tree, Arkansas

  THURSDAY, AUGUST18, 2005

  They emerged from the refrigerated air of the new city hall into the soggy heat of midday. The overhead sun shut down their eyes, and Kel shuddered involuntarily from the change of temperature.Rabbits, he thought. His grandmother had always said that a surprise shudder was the result of rabbits running over your grave. It hadn’t made any sense to him as a child, and it didn’t make any more sense to him as an adult.

  Levine was standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, not moving. He had a look on his face as if he was scouting out a hard surface to bang his head against.

  “Don’t tell me you honestly thought you were goin’ to learn somethin’ from this meetin’,” Kel said, watching Levine’s curious expression. “You said yourself that it was goin’ to be a waste of time.”

  “Maybe I was wrong. Did you catch that part about Big Ray taking Trimble apart after a meeting? What the hell kind of meeting, do you suppose?”

  Maybe he wasn’t looking for a hard surface, after all. Maybe he was just focusing on a hard nut to crack.

  “A staff meeting at CILHI, maybe. God knows they make me want to club people.”

  Levine’s expression wasn’t amused.

  “Ahh, okay. I guess I don’t know,” Kel atoned. “I’m sure they have all sorts of clubs down here. Little towns can be very social.”

  “Maybe. That’s the second time I’ve heard the expression, though.”

  Kel noticed that Levine’s look had suddenly changed. So had his voice.

  “And here comes the man I first heard it from,” Levine said, his eyes focused on someone over Kel’s shoulder.

  Jimbo Bevins was walking up the sidewalk toward the two men. He was wearing his hard straw cowboy hat and its glossy waxed surface glinted in the light. He also was smiling broadly, but his eyes had a sharp sliver to them.

  “You sure can be a hard man to track dow
n, Mr. Levine, that’s for dang sure,” he said as he drew up close. The smile was still broad and the sliver sharp. He adjusted his pistol belt and put his hands in his hip pockets as he looked at Kel, taking his measure.

  “Didn’t know anyone was tracking me down, Deputy. Long time no see.” Levine saw that Jimbo wasn’t taking his eyes off Kel. “Deputy Bevins, this is Dr. Robert McKelvey; Doc, this is my trusty keeper, Deputy James Bevins of the Locust County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “How y’all are, Mr. McKelvey.” Jimbo kept his hands in his pockets but offered a calculated nod in Kel’s direction.

  “Fair to middlin’, Deputy, and yourself?” Kel replied.

  “Same. What brings you here to Split Tree; you workin’ with Mr. Levine?”

  “Yes and no—mostly no. I work for the army. I’m tryin’ to identify the remains of a young man who died in Vietnam thirty-some years ago—that’s my job—and I simply needed to talk to some folks.”

  “Like Miss Grace?”

  “Mrs. Trimble, that’s right. Needed to clear up a few things. Case just happens to overlap with Special Agent Levine here.” Kel didn’t necessarily want to distance himself from Levine, but saw no obvious reason to risk being collateral damage in a pissing contest either.

  “So, Deputy, I take it you’re still assigned to watchdog me?” Levine resumed control of the conversation.

  “Sheriff still thinks y’all might still need some assistance, is all.”

  “Probably do, Deputy Bevins, no doubt I do. In fact, right this moment I need some assistance getting something cool to drink. Kel and I were heading for the Albert Pike Café. Care to join us?” As was his practice, Levine had already started walking across the street to his car and left both Kel and Jimbo to catch up.

  By the time Jimbo Bevins had pulled his Sheriff’s Department cruiser into the Albert Pike’s parking lot, Levine had locked his car and started to walk inside. Jimbo hurried and the three of them entered more or less knotted together. The usual crowd was assembled—at least they all looked the same, even if they weren’t—but the booth that Levine and Kel had staked out earlier was now occupied by two heavy-set middle-aged men in short-sleeved dress shirts and shiny brown cowboy boots. They were eating breaded catfish and big, crumbly cubes of buttered yellow cornbread. Levine still had a hard time adjusting to the early dinner times that everyone here seemed to schedule.

  They took an adjoining booth, Jimbo Bevins pulling up a chair from a nearby table and sitting at the end rather than next to either man. He adjusted his pistol belt so that it didn’t bind him as he sat, and the leather creaked softly. His attention was focused now on Levine, and he had a look that made it appear as if he were trying to memorize the federal agent’s face in case there was a quiz later. Jimbo had never been too quick at quizzes, and this man was stacking up to be one of those puzzles with lots of little pieces.

  “Sorry you had such a hard time finding us, Deputy,” Levine said as a waitress dealt out menus. Joletta had been replaced by a skinny, blue-skinned old woman with thinning hair and a smoker’s cough that racked her whole body periodically. It was the fruity sort of cough that made anyone within earshot cough in sympathy. “Did you have to look long? To find me, that is.”

  Jimbo smiled and shuttered his eyes partway as he continued looking at Levine. “No sir, Split Tree ain’t a big place; that’s one advantage to it.” He eyed Levine a moment longer. His eyes flashed feral and then softened. He looked up at the waitress and ordered some iced tea and some peach cobbler.

  Kel ordered tea and another slice of pecan pie. Levine, apparently adjusting to the heat somewhat, or perhaps conceding to a chemical habit, ordered coffee.

  “Well,” Levine continued, “if a place has to have an advantage, finding wayward FBI agents easily would be a good one to have. But tell me, how’d the sheriff know I was back in town?” Levine suspected he knew the answer but hoped he could tease the information out of Jimbo. “Not from recognizing my car; the motor pool gave me a different vehicle when I was back in Memphis.” That was true, but only because Levine had requested it.

  “Mr. Levine, I ain’t nothin’ but a Locust County deputy sheriff. How W.R. knows things ain’t but none of my good business. He tells; I do; that’s the way it works ’round here.”

  The waitress had delivered their orders, and Levine waited for her to move on to the catfish-and-cornbread men, checking their status, before he continued.

  “Sorry to have upset Mrs. Trimble. That certainly was never anyone’s intent.” Levine was trolling his baited hook and waited for Jimbo to rise to the surface.

  He bit. “Yes sir. You got to understand that she’s terrible sensitive about Jimmie Carl; even after all these years. Strange people askin’ questions and all. Sheriff knows how she is, and he just don’t want her upset none. He’s got a special place for her, you understand?”

  As Levine had suspected. They probably had no sooner left her house than Grace Trimble had called Sheriff Elmore. Levine took a sip of coffee, replaced his mug on the table, and smiled. “Seems like a nice lady.” He flashed a look at Kel who had been quietly watching the dynamic between the two, trying to figure out the game rules before joining in.

  “Yes sir,” Jimbo replied between bites of cobbler. “She’s a mighty nice lady. We believe in showin’ proper respect ’round here. Maintainin’ order.”

  “Of course you do. That’s your job, isn’t it?” Levine prodded and poked. “You and the sheriff maintain order and keep everything orderly. What is it that you people call her—‘Miss Grace’?”

  Jimbo’s eyes began to flash again. “Your people probably do things different, but around here, callin’ her Miss Grace is just a sign of respect.”

  Levine started to respond but Kel interjected quietly. “Around here, anyway.” He wasn’t sure what was happening but both men looked like they were about to eat each other. “Go some other places in the South—across the river into Mississippi, I suspect, and some people might call that nigger talk.”

  Jimbo broke stares with Levine and eyed Kel. Dismissal was replaced with curiosity.

  “That so?” Levine asked. He still wanted to take a bite out of Jimbo’s ass with a dull spoon, but he recognized Kel’s attempt to defuse a tightening situation.

  “That’s the way house slaves used to address the masters. Mr. or Miss and the first name. There was a time in certain areas of the South when no respectable white folk would talk like that to other white folk. It was thought to be demeanin’ to them; to the speaker, that is. Other places, here in Arkansas, for example, I don’t think that was ever really the case. More a sign of respect, like Deputy Bevins says. Maybe ’cause Arkansas was never as much of a slave-ownin’ state as were the likes of Mississippi or Alabama.” He shrugged as if to say,so now you know .

  “Y’all from around here then?” Jimbo’s interest in Kel had sharpened somewhat over the last few minutes and he finally put voice to it.

  “Naw. Not really. Other side of the state.”

  “McKelvey, you say? Used to be a mess of McKelveys in these parts. You any kin to them?”

  Kel smiled. “You’re right, Deputy. There used to be McKelveys here, but not in a long time. Now let me ask you somethin’.” He deflected Jimbo’s question. “Chief Forrest mentioned that your boss lost a brother in Vietnam, is that right?”

  Jimbo hesitated. No doubt he was uneasy about supplying too much information to two men he was supposed to be bird-dogging. “Yes sir,” he finally responded, his IQ outweighing his judgment. “His twin. Ray Junior. They was the kind that looked exactly alike, and I mean exactly alike. Didn’t act nothin’ at all the same though—unless they was tryin’ to. They were both a few years older than me so I never knew him. Heard of him, though. Ray Junior was an All-State Honorable Mention halfback for the high-school football team—big-time athletic scholarship over at Tech; W.R.—the sheriff—he played too, but not nearly as good. He was a wingback.Delta Devils . State Triple-A champs thre
e years in a row.”

  “No shit? That’s somethin’,” Kel said by way of starting to shift conversational gears. Now he paused. “He didn’t come back, though, is that right? I mean, they never did recover his body from Vietnam, did I understand that correctly?”

  “Ray Junior?”

  “Uh hmm.”

  “Naw, they never did find him. Surprised everyone. Enlisted right after graduation, shipped off instead of goin’ to college, and never came home. His daddy took that piece of sorrow to his dug grave.”

  “How many men from Split Tree died in Vietnam?” Kel asked. The martial dedication of small southern towns is a historical fact, but two from a town the size of Split Tree was an impressive statistic.

  “Not but two. Dozen or so served over there, but only two got killed: Jimmie Carl Trimble and Ray Junior. Their names are on the monument over there at the courthouse.”

  Jimbo Bevins shoveled another bite of cobbler.

  Levine had allowed conversation to drift somewhat, to calm, and now he wanted to pull it back to the matter of concern to him. “Jimbo”—he waited for the deputy to swing his face around and fix his eyes—“you said the sheriff didn’t want us upsetting Mrs. Trimble—Miss Grace—is that what he thinks we were doing?”

  “Yes sir. That’s how we, that’s how he sees it.”

  “Well, shit, Jimbo, I’m certainly sorry to get you caught up in all this. I really am. I can see why the sheriff told you to get a handle on us. Two strangers arrive in town and start kicking up all sorts of bad memories that everyone else wishes would stay forgotten. I certainly can understand his being upset.”

  “Yes sir, you know, he’s just kind of funny about Miss Grace.”

  “I certainly can understand that. I imagine he probably gets pretty pissed when someone starts messing around with her, asking about her son, and all.”