One Drop of Blood

by Thomas Holland

  There was other old trauma present. Nothing as dramatic, and probably not as painful, as the broken teeth. Two of the lower right ribs—probably numbers 8 and 9—had been broken and showed dense, thickened calluses where they’d healed. One left rib, it looked to be number 7, appeared to have a healed callus that overlapped an earlier one. There were a few other healed fractures, a left ring finger and possibly one of the right metatarsals of the foot.Whoever you are, you took a beating —several beatings, most likely,Kel thought as he filled out his forms and diagrammed what he saw.

  The analytical notes and diagrams totaled up to nineteen pages. Kel labeled each page the same—Locust County, Arkansas—John Doe/FBI Homicide—and then initialed and dated each one. Next he sorted them into order and numbered each—1 of 19, 2 of 19…

  Kel was completing his preliminary notes when Donnie Hawk came back into the room.

  Donnie looked at the skeleton laid out on the table and then up at Kel. He had the head-shaking look of a young child who’s just watched the magician’s scantily clad helper get sawn in half. “I’ll be,” he said. “Will y’all take a look at that? Mercy, I’ll never understand how y’all can do that. Give me a body been put through a cotton gin and I’ll put him back together—make him look good enough to take to the Sunday dance too. But that…all them bones and little pieces that look like pecan shells. Mercy.” He had walked up to the foot end of the embalming table at this point and was looking at the sorted skeleton, his head shaking in undisguised wonder. “That done absolutely amazes me.”

  “Me too, sometimes.”

  “So…what’s the verdict? Y’all finished?”

  “I’m finished for now. This was just a preliminary look-see. I wanted to get enough to answer the two thousand questions that I’m sure Special Agent Levine will have when he gets back this afternoon. In case you haven’t been payin’ attention, he’s wound up pretty tight.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. McKelvey. That’s for damn sure he is; pretty damn tight.” Donnie Hawk seemed glad that he wasn’t alone in the observation.

  Kel smiled. “Anyhow, I’ll go back over all this with the pathologist when he gets here. If he gets here. Make some refinements. More details. I’ve got some more reference materials back at the motel that I need to take a look at. Once I find out what Levine really needs from me, I’ll be able to focus a little more. As to the verdict, well…we got us a young, white male, probably twenty to twenty-five years of age, thereabouts, somewhere around five-foot-eleven in his stockin’ feet, took a glancin’ gunshot wound to the head. Also has some old injuries, probably from repeated whuppin’s.” He pointed to the healed fractures on the ribs and hand, and then he picked up the skull and jaw. “But here’s the real cork in the bottle…Look here.” He held the bones at shoulder height and turned them at an angle so Donnie could see the healed trauma. He pointed to each missing tooth one by one. “And here, here, here…”

  “All them teeth busted out whilst he was alive?” Donnie Hawk asked. He no longer sounded awed, just very interested.

  “Yeah,” Kel answered. “These have been smoothed off by a dentist, and these are all old and all healed. Same for the other fractures. Whoever this was, he had a damned rough first twenty or so years.”

  Donnie Hawk was quiet as he looked at the skeleton on his embalming table. He was silent for a long time before responding. “Very rough,” he said softly.

  It was two o’clock when Kel finally left the funeral home. He’d lingered awhile after the examination, on the off-chance that Levine might make an appearance, but when he hadn’t shown by one-forty-five, Kel tidied up his notes, watched Donnie lock up the embalming room, and then left. Back at the motel, he’d showered, refreshed his calamine lotion, and transferred his notes to his computer. Then he drafted a shell report. He’d fine-tune it later.

  He looked at his watch frequently. It was now almost four o’clock; if Levine didn’t get back here soon with the pathologist they’d have to put the exam off until tomorrow morning—unless Donnie Hawk and the pathologist were willing to work through the night.

  He was contemplating a stroll over to the diner for another time-killing glass of tea when there was a knock on his door. He got up to answer it.About time, he thought.Hope he brought the pathologist with him . Instead of Levine, however, he again found himself looking into the smiling face of Sam.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, once again I have with me the telephone for you.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” he replied, taking the phone from his host and covering the mouthpiece. “You don’t have to wait; I’ll bring the phone back to your office when I’m done.”

  “Not to worry, sir, I am happy to be waiting.”

  Kel returned his smile and then stepped back into his room.Not to worry, Sam, I am happy to be having some privacy, Kel thought as he shut the door. Shaking his head and smiling, he put the phone to his ear and said, “McKelvey.”

  “Me again, Doc,” Levine replied. “No show on the New York doc. They say tomorrow morning for sure, but I’m not waiting on the sonofabitch. I’ll have some other poor bastard from the office drive him down if necessary. Listen, I’ve got some papers I need to get signed here and a couple things lined up, and then I’m heading back down to yourLand of Opportunity . Should be there by seven, seven-thirty at the latest.”

  Kel looked at his watch. “Fine by me, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  “Yeah—well, I’m going friggin’ nuts. Got fleas or something. I itch all over. My nuts are the size of tennis balls.”

  “Congratulations. And thanks for that image. I’m sure you’re very popular with the women.”

  “Well, I wish that were always the case, but no, they’re all swollen up with some sort of crud. Itches like hell. Haven’t had it this bad since I was in the army.”

  Kel smiled—and scratched. It was like watching someone else yawn. All the talk about scratching had a sympathetic effect. “Welcome to Arkansas, Mr. Levine. They’re called chiggers—red bugs—you got them from that tall grass around the cemetery. I was goin’ to warn you, but you rushed in where fools know better than to tread. Don’t fret it though, they’ll be gone in a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks? My Lord, isn’t there anything that can be done—I mean now? Besides scratch. There’s got to be some sort of medicine.”

  “Well, when I was a kid, my grandmother used to slather us up with kerosene and sulfur.”

  “Sounds awful. It work?”

  “Sure, it’d get rid of ’em in a couple of weeks. You want faster results I think you got to light the kerosene. But if it makes you feel any better, you’re not alone in your misery.”

  “You, too? You all swollen, too?”

  “Yeah, the chiggers paid the boys a visit. I tell you what, though, it’s best not to talk about them—the chiggers, that is—they hear you talkin’ about them and they get all riled up and feel like they have to put on a show.”

  “Then change the subject while I’ve still got some skin on my ankles,” Levine said.

  “Okay. Well, I finished a preliminary analysis of the skeleton. Figured I’d do a little more in-depth stuff when the pathologist got here—if he ever gets here. Wish now I’d just gone ahead and finished this afternoon.”

  “Well that’s the other reason I called. What’s the skinny?”

  “The skinny is that I’m pretty sure it’s your guy. Young white male, twenty to twenty-five years old when he bought it. Gunshot wound to the left forehead, temple area. Also a mess of older injuries. Healed rib fractures, broken hand, broken foot, busted jaw—all happened long before he died. Don’t know about gettin’ DNA…that hardenin’ compound is all over the bones—it may be a problem after all.”

  “Aw shit.” Kel heard him exhale sharply on the other end of the phone. “You’re sure it’s the same John Doe from 1965, though? I mean, we got the right grave? Luke whatever: whatever?”

  “Based on what I know, I’d say yes. You got a copy of the ’65
autopsy? If so, I can compare it to the skeletal inventory and make sure. Should be relatively easy.”

  “Yeah, it’s in my room there at Sam’s curry emporium; brought it back the other night, I’ve been meaning to show it to you…Oh, Doc, one other thing. Some guy named D.S. called for you—said to tell you that he’s not on the list. In fact, wasn’t on any list. Wouldn’t tell me any more since he didn’t know who I was, but said you’d know what he was referring to.” He hesitated. “Who’s not on the list? That about Elmore being a deserter?”

  “Yeah,” Kel said. “I counted on you bein’ here by now so I gave him your cell-phone number last night.” He paused and sighed in thought. “So…apparently Ray Elmore not only is not on the deserter rolls, but you say that D.S. said that he wasn’t on any lists?”

  Levine made an acknowledging sound.

  “Shit. That includes the service lists. That means there’s no record that shows he even served—now how do you figure that? He’s not KIA, not MIA, not a deserter, apparently not even in the military—yet they’ve got his name on a big, bronze statue in the town square.”

  “Look, I’ve got some thoughts on that, and I think we need to talk. Tonight. As soon as I get there.”

  “Well, I hope you can make more sense of it than I can. I can’t get it to tally up at all.”

  “Doc,” there was a long hitch in his voice. “About the John Doe…”

  “Yeah,” Kel finally responded when it seemed that Levine wasn’t going to continue without a prompt.

  “You said he had some injuries…could they be from playing football?”

  “Ahhh…I don’t…I mean, yeah, they certainly take their football seriously in Arkansas, but they don’t generally shoot players in the head with pistols—best I recall. A few coaches might, I suppose, but…”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re a funny man, Doc, but that isn’t quite the injury I meant. The healed ones—you said he had some healed fractures. Could they be from playing football?”

  Kel thought. “Sure, I suppose. Ribs easy, hand and foot too…maybe. Jaw would be harder, it’s some serious trauma, but then they don’t call it smash-mouth football for nothin’. Why? Those injuries mean somethin’ to you?”

  “Like I said, we need to talk, Doc; it’s definitely time for us to talk.”

  Chapter 38

  Split Tree, Arkansas

  TUESDAY, AUGUST23, 2005

  Levine must have sped the whole way down from Memphis. It was half-past six o’clock when he knocked on Kel’s door. Kel had spent most of the rest of the afternoon pacing, waiting for Levine to arrive with what promised to be, if not answers, insights into the identity of John Doe.

  Kel answered the door and was surprised when Levine motioned for him to get into the waiting car. A few minutes later they were heading north in the direction of West Helena.

  The trip didn’t take long.

  Along the way, Kel recapped the results of his preliminary analysis. Levine, once again, showed a great deal of interest in the antemortem fractures, particularly when they could have occurred and what could have caused them. Kel said there was no definitive way to know with those types of injuries, and that they could have been inflicted five, ten, maybe even fifteen years before death. Radiographs might help, it was unlikely but possible, but that could wait for the pathologist, who might want X-rays for his own purpose. X-rays involved moving all or part of the skeleton to the small medical clinic on the outskirts of Split Tree, and it didn’t make sense to do that twice.

  Levine drove up to a small plank-and-post building with a hand-lettered sign readingPete’s. Few locals frequented the place any more, displaced instead by people in relaxed-fit jeans and Tony Lama boots who drove from as far away as Little Rock to sample a Pete’s Fried Burger. Levine wasn’t looking for a deep-fried hamburger tonight as much as he was hoping to avoid being around anyone with Split Tree ears. Tonight he needed to talk to Kel without the risk—however remote—of a full report being telegraphed to Sheriff Elmore before midnight.

  Pete’s was full. Levine and Kel took one of the last available tables and ordered quickly from the limited menu—two deep-fried gut-busters with fixings. When the waitress had gone, Kel said, “Okay, we’re here; no one’s payin’ the least amount of attention to us…time for you to start talkin’.”

  Levine tilted his head to one side as if he had water in one of his ears. He looked at Kel, validating in his own mind that he could trust him with what he was preparing to say. As much as he felt that he was beginning to grasp the threads of the case, he couldn’t completely shake the vestigial fear that he was being hung out to dry. He leaned forward. “Like you told me, I’m going out on a limb here. I’m trusting you, and maybe I shouldn’t, what with the Gonsalves case and the Bureau putting the squeeze on me, but dammit, Doc, none of this has been making sense to me…and I’m not alone there, right? Hell, I admit that I’ve never worked a homicide before, let alone one as cold as ice, but I am a good investigator and evidence is evidence, and this one just hasn’t been adding up right.” He squeezed his eyes into narrow slits and searched Kel’s face for affirmation. He saw something that seemed enough to satisfy him, though Kel hadn’t intended to convey anything. “Then today—while I’m sitting at the airport—I get that phone call, the one from that D.B. guy…”

  “D.S.”

  “Right, that D.S. guy that was trying to reach you, and the pieces began to tumble into place. I don’t have them all, but I’m starting to make out some shapes in the fog, you know?”

  “Good for you, ’cause I’m still lost. Are we talkin’ about your John Doe or Sheriff Elmore’s brother Ray?”

  “Both, maybe. Look, Doc, what do we know here?”

  “Ahhh…that would be nothin’.”

  “No, not true. We know a lot.” Levine held up his thumb as he began the tally of his evidence. “One. Ray Elmore goes off to Vietnam—least everyone in the whole town thinks so. Why? I mean why do they think so? Why do they have that statue with his name on it? Because his daddy, Big Bad Ray, the town chief of police, and his brother, the current county sheriff, they say he did, that’s why. They also say he didn’t come back. They say it, but at the same time they don’t really say it, right? Remember Edd Forrest telling us that the Elmores were always tight-lipped about the matter? Everyone chalks the silence up to ‘Big Ray taking it hard’; hell, the less he said, the more everyone believed it happened. Am I right? That’s how that shit works. They got that statue erected to him and everything. But he didn’t go to Vietnam, did he? He didn’t die, didn’t come up MIA…and he didn’t desert…didn’t even serve in the military, you’re telling me.”

  “Go on.”

  “So where is he if he’s not humping a ruck in Vietnam?”

  “You think he’s your John Doe?…I don’t see it.”

  “Why not? Look, he disappears from town a couple of months before the body was found. Right? You didn’t find any record that he enlisted—or at least no record that he served during that time period. Remember, Deputy Dawg told us he had some big-time athletic scholarship, but instead of going to college, he up and enlists in the navy and is never seen again.” Levine had extended his index finger, keeping track of point number two.

  He paused while the waitress placed their fried burgers before them, satisfied herself that her immediate duties had been completed, and moved sullenly on to another out-of-town customer in designer jeans.

  When he saw that Kel didn’t have a response, Levine moved on to his third finger. “Okay, now third, we have an unknown body—in a small town where no one is thought to be missing, mind you—and you tell me it’s a young, white male with injuries consistent with what an All-State, Honorable Mention, Double-damn-A starting Dirt Devil halfback might have accumulated.”

  “Delta Devil…Yeah…but those injuries could be from any number of things—like I said, the trauma to the jaw in particular would be pretty extreme for your average football injury…and the age is a little
off too…”

  “But? I mean, it could be, right?”

  Kel shifted in his seat and looked at the wall, picturing the skeleton at the Pacific Funeral Home in his mind. He mentally analyzed it again and then nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah…could be. Still unlikely, but it’s possible, I guess. I’m still listenin’, anyhow.”

  “Fourth,” Levine now tucked his thumb and held up four fingers, “and go figure this one; Big Daddy Elmore simply up and decides to bury a complete stranger, a John Doe, in the family cemetery.”

  “You don’t know that it was Big Ray that did that.”

  “You’re a real putz, you know it? Were you on the fuckin’ debate team in college, Doc? Yeah, yeah. I don’tknow, but c’mon, you understand the nature of circumstantial evidence?”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay. So, Big Ray buries a John Doe, and if that isn’t strange enough, he makes sure that what little paperwork is required uses an old name for the cemetery that no one is familiar with. Covers the tracks. And the tombstone—he goes and puts the biblical reference to the prodigal son on it? C’mon, Doc, for cryin’ out loud…who in their right goddamn mind goes and does something like that?”

  “Yeah, I’ll admit that parts of it sound good…except for…”

  “Except for what?”

  “Except for…well, except forwhy?”

  “I’m not sure of the why part.”

  “Well, it seems to me that you’ve got to answer that before passin’ Go and collectin’ your two hundred dollars. Why? Okay, there’s somethin’ funny goin’ on with the Elmores, I’ll give y’all that one as a free space, but why would the chief of police bury his son as an unknown homicide victim? And who killed him? From what we’ve heard about Big Ray, I’d expect he’d be movin’ heaven and hill to find the killer, not helpin’ dispose of the evidence in a levee. Same goes for the brother, W.R.”