Cracker Town

by WF Ranew

  Anne Durand Smith tottered off to a back room. Red heard her speaking to another woman. In a short time, Anne and her daughter Sylvia returned to the living room.

  Red stood and introduced himself. The three sat down.

  “Anne and Sylvia, I am a private investigator,” he said. “Years ago, I spoke with Jean-Michel about some documents he’d provided to someone I was investigating. After that, he became a valuable source for me during my time with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. But only in regards to criminal behavior among some of his clients. He kept a tight lid on people he thought were trying to escape persecution or even death in their home countries.”

  Sylvia smiled and interrupted to offer Red a glass of iced tea. He said yes, and she left the room a few minutes.

  “Are you looking for someone in particular, Mr. Farlow?” Sylvia asked in a deep south Georgia accent. She poured tear and handed the glass to Red.

  “Thank you. I am, indeed,” Red said. “But since Jean-Michel is deceased, I’m not sure how I can locate this person or if the man even used Jean-Michel for a new identity and papers.”

  Sylvia asked Red about the man, a description of him, his previous name, and when he might have approached her grandfather.

  Red told her about Cleet Wrightman, who disappeared in 1973.

  “I see,” she said. “Mr. Farlow, we’ve had other requests from law enforcement officers for material about suspects in various crimes. Some of those we could help. Others we could not.”

  Red had gulped his tea, and Sylvia topped off his glass.

  “My grandfather was very particular whom he’d take on as clients,” she said. “When he did, they had to sign before getting the new papers. With their real names.”

  Red’s heart jumped.

  “That’s encouraging that you could help the police,” Red said. “And that a paper trail exists.”

  She pointed to a padlocked door.

  “Yes, we have his work area and file room. Everything is in a large safe. But we can access it. First, why do you want information on Mr. Wrightman?”

  Red told them, in brief, about the Goings family and Jamison Elton murders. He also laid out Cleet’s story and his time in Central State after the murder of Mitsy Elton.

  Sylvia asked if the two Elton killings were linked to Cleet.

  “That’s what I’m trying to determine,” Red said. “You see, Cleet left Central State on a discharge in April 1973. On his way to Damville, he stopped in Valdosta. That evening Walter Goings, his wife, and their daughter were stabbed to death.”

  The two women didn’t seem shocked. At times, Sylvia paused to speak with her mother and make sure she heard the conversation.

  After Red satisfied Sylvia that he was legit and had reasons to delve into her grandfather’s forgery client file, she escorted him into the study.

  She found the box for 1973 and sat down with Red to review her grandfather’s files.

  They found Cleet Wrightman’s file in a half-hour. The folder contained copies of his fake driver’s license, birth certificate, and Army discharge papers in his made-up name, Johnny Craven.

  One question lingered in Red’s mind. Cleet Wrightman had mental challenges, and likely someone helped him obtain falsified ID papers.

  Who found Durand and got Cleet to him?

  Red took copies of the Johnny Craven documents and reviewed them more closely later.

  Among them was an affidavit with three signatures. One was Durand’s. Another was Cleet’s scrawl. And the third was a witness.

  Red recognized the name.

  * * *

  On his drive back to Atlanta, Red called and got an appointment to visit Randy after lunch.

  His client walked in as Red sat in the lobby.

  “Back so soon?” Randy said as the two men shook hands.

  They walked to Randy’s office and sat down.

  “There’s something else you need to know,” Red said. “And I beg your forgiveness for not telling you sooner. I had my reasons.”

  Randy sat up straight. “Well, God almighty, spit it out, man.”

  “You have a sister. Nancy Miller’s daughter,” Red said. “Her name is Jenny Miller.”

  Randy leaned forward and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. He ran both hands up and down his face a couple of times.

  “Well, damn, Red,” he said and smiled as he looked up at the PI. “You’ve done it again. Tell me about this. When do I meet her? How do I reach out to Jenny?”

  Red sat there relieved and told Randy as much as he knew about the man’s sister.

  “I thank you more than you can imagine for this, Red,” he said. “A sister. Wow. Can’ wait to tell Linda.”

  Red gleamed.

  He left and went to his truck.

  * * *

  His search for Johnny Craven began on the Internet, where Red found nothing.

  He asked a friend in the state patrol’s office to search of driver’s licenses for the name. Oddly, nothing turned up. He also went over to the Georgia History Center, and, with the help of a digital librarian, he found a John Craven’s phone number in the Ellijay, Georgia, directory.

  His name and photo also cropped up in a regional magazine story about local businesses in the North Georgia mountains. Why on earth would a man on the run agree to a reporter’s interview?

  Red felt certain he’d found the Johnny Craven he sought. But he wanted to know more before confronting the man.

  * * *

  When Red walked into the coffee shop, he looked around the room for Jenny Miller. There were numerous women in their forties working on laptops. Where to start?

  As he ordered his espresso, he noticed someone walking up to him. He turned to see the slightly younger likeness of Nancy Simmons Miller.

  She smiled nervously.

  “If you are not Jenny, I don’t know your mother,” Red said. “But I do, and you look so much like her. Just as beautiful, too.”

  “Mr. Farlow,” she said, extending her right hand. “Mother said you were friendly and huggable as a teddy bear. So, please…” She put her arms around Red’s shoulder and leaned in.

  Jenny invited Red over to her table. He grabbed his coffee and followed her across the room.

  The woman closed her laptop and put it in an oversized bag beside her said. She looked at him.

  “I understand you have some news about a brother who has been invisible all these years,” she said. “Tell me about him. Randy?”

  “Yes, Randy Goings,” Red said. “He’s my client, and I assume your mother told you about the unfortunate tragedy that befell Randy and her many years ago.”

  “She’s talked a lot about that over the years,” Jenny said. “When I was thirteen, she told me about her love affair. Of course, Jim Miller has always been my father.”

  Red nodded and sipped his brew. “When did you learned about Randy?”

  “Guess I was in college,” she said. “I went to Mercer in Macon. One Thursday afternoon, my mother called in tears. She’d been holding back telling me about Randy. She couldn’t tell me everything when I was a kid.”

  The call came a week before Jenny’s twenty-first birthday. Nancy drove up to visit her daughter. They went out to lunch, and Nancy told her she had a brother living in Atlanta. A half-brother, but blood kin to be sure.

  “What did you think of that?” Red asked.

  Jenny diverted her eyes and stared out the coffee shop’s side window. Outside, sun rays stream down, filtered by hardwood trees in a vacant lot next door. Behind the lot, several boys played on junk cars, rusting and without tires.

  “I didn’t know what to think,” she said. “I mean, the news was a big surprise and intriguing. Mother was so upset I didn’t know how to respond to her. Finally, as she sat there in tears, I asked if anything had happened to the man. Had he died or something?”

  Nancy assured her he was fine, as far as she knew. But she hadn’t talked to him in over forty years. She knew ev
erything about him. Top attorney in a big firm. Married to a psychology professor.

  “That was over twenty years ago. So, you see, Mr. Farlow, I am more than ready to meet this person. My brother,” Jenny said.

  “Have you not tried to contact Randy during that time?”

  “I’ve thought about doing so. Mother has asked me not to,” she said. “I can understand why. It would probably have been a big shock to him, as well. But now, he knows. I’m very excited about this. Thank you so much for bringing us together.”

  “Randy wants to meet you as soon as possible,” Red said. He handed Nancy a piece of paper. “Here’s his cell number, but he would like to call you. Today.”

  “Today. Oh, wow,” Jenny said. “OK. Can’t wait.”

  As they finished their coffee, Jenny told Red about her web design company.

  He said nothing about the cold-case investigation into the deaths of Randy’s family.

  After saying goodbye to Jenny, Red walked to his truck and phoned Randy. His client promised to call his sister immediately.

  Chapter Seven

  A week later, Red drove from Savannah to Macon, where he met up with Randy for the trip to Valdosta. They rode in Randy’s executive-model European car. Nice ride, in Red’s opinion.

  Randy talked endlessly about meeting Jenny.

  He and Linda had dinner with Jenny Miller the previous Monday evening, after Randy met his sister for coffee a day earlier. Randy told Red all about his feelings, excitement, and plans for inviting Nancy Miller up to Atlanta for a family luncheon.

  The two men rolled into Valdosta a little after one, having stopped for sandwiches in Tifton. Randy drove to the Victorian house on a cross street not far from the college. There, they would meet the great-granddaughter of the Findlay couple who’d rented an apartment to Randy’s father.

  They walked up the steps onto the spacious veranda. Red rang the bell.

  Suzy Richardson opened the door and invited the men inside. They sat in a back room near the kitchen.

  “Granny kept everything, so I may be able to help you,” she said. “I wasn’t born back then, so I wouldn’t know their thinking on keeping or disposing of possessions left behind by renters. But from the look of their attic, they didn’t discard anything.”

  “Your grandparents rented the house a lot? How many years?” Red asked.

  “They did. After my mother moved out to go to college and later get married, they started renting the upstairs, which is huge,” Suzy said. “That would have been in the middle sixties. She lives in Atlanta now. I got the house when she and my step-father moved up there.”

  Suzy described the large home and which areas were rented out, mostly to college men.

  “They did not want to mix it up, so they just rented to males,” she said. “Upstairs, there are five big bedrooms, a kitchen, and a large living room plus two baths. They also rented the garage apartment in the back. Who did you say lived here?”

  Randy seemed reluctant, but he spoke. “My father. He was a professor at Valdosta State for a short time.”

  Randy and Red had strategized what they would say in meeting Suzy. Their goal was to determine if she still had an old army trunk at the house or in storage somewhere.

  “Hell, Red, this is will be like shooting fleas on a mouse in the corn crib a mile away,” Randy had said. “But if you say it’s worth it, let’s go down there.”

  Red figured their chances of finding the trunk ranged from slim to none. Besides, he had no idea what might be in it if they discovered the container, cracked the lock, and peered inside. It could be a bunch of girlie magazines. He didn’t speculate about that to Randy.

  Suzy gave them a tour of the home.

  Randy had no idea which room his father rented. He and Red thought perhaps they needed to pinpoint the exact one, however. Red called Nancy. She described the second-story garage apartment with a living room, small bedroom, tiny closet, kitchen, and bathroom. She called the space “very cozy.” Red could just imagine.

  He told Randy what Nancy said, and they asked Suzy to see the garage apartment, if possible.

  “I checked with them yesterday,” she said. “A young man and his girlfriend live there, but they’re in classes all afternoon. You know, my grandparents never rented to a couple, even if they were married. But I don’t mind. Guess they are turning over in their graves.”

  When they entered the apartment, Red sensed caution in Randy. They looked around the place, which was relatively neat considering two college kids bunked there.

  “Suzy, as I mentioned in my call to you, we are trying to track down an old army trunk Randy’s father owned,” Red said. “We believe he left it in the apartment for whatever reason.”

  Suzy said they could look around the attic, and she’d show them up there.

  They climbed an exterior staircase to the second-floor apartments and, after knocking, entered through the kitchen door. Suzy spoke to two guys in the living room. One was on his computer, and the other played a video game on the TV.

  “Sorry to intrude,” Suzy said. “But we need to talk through to the hall and the attic staircase.”

  The studious man smiled and said no problem. The gamer paid no attention to the adults barging in and walking across the huge living room.

  The hallway was dimly lit but wide and spacious, like the rest of the old house.

  Suzy unlocked and opened the attic door to reveal ancient unfinished wooden steps ascending into blackness. She flipped on a light by the door.

  They walked up into the dusty den of a museum to past lives.

  * * *

  Suzy Richardson had not asked for identification, but Red anticipated the woman might want some assurance Randy was the person he claimed to be. Why would anyone hand over a trunk left by a tenant fifty years back? They could only speculate.

  In the case they actually found the trunk, Randy needed some proof of ownership, that being the estate of Walter Goings. A junior attorney prepared an affidavit ascertaining that Randy was the executor of the Goings estate. For good measure, Randy also brought his letter of testamentary. Further, in a box from Walter’s office, they found a receipt for a hundred-dollar security deposit and one-hundred twenty-five dollars for two months’ rent. Paid in full by Professor Walter Goings. It was dated November 1972 and signed by Mrs. Findlay. Over her signature, she’d written the word, “Confidential.” Odd but sensible, in Red’s view.

  They walked around the attic organized into two sections. The back of the large space was devoted to family heirlooms and sundry items stored for no reason but getting them out of the way, their useful lives obviously finished.

  Moldy masking tape on the floor marked the second. The section consisted of former tenants’ items, presumably left by someone intending to retrieve them later. Most were suitcases, boxes of textbooks and framed photographs, crates of kitchen utensils, several sets of golf clubs, footballs, tennis rackets, basketballs, baseballs, and bats.

  Suzy got Red to help her rearrange the more recent items, behind which were a dozen or so trunks of various sizes and colors, all dirtied by years of dust settlement. At the bottom was a green army trunk with an end-of-days lock. Randy had no idea where the key was. He checked his father’s personal possessions at the time of his death, all wrapped in butcher paper from the county morgue and tied with string. A wallet, set of keys, penknife, two fountain pens, a handkerchief with Walter’s initials, and bloody clothing.

  They’d found the trunk. Suzy wiped the top with a cloth. Painted in red were the words, “Prof. Goings.”

  At that point, Randy raised the question of ownership and whether he could take it off her hands. He brought out the paperwork and showed Suzy. But she seemed satisfied that if two men from Atlanta drove all the way to Valdosta to find an old trunk, well, they could have the thing as long as they hauled it off.

  That they did. It wasn’t heavy with content as much as the bulk of how the trunk was made—steel frame and w
alls with heavy corner braces and metal handles. It took Red and Randy some time to carry it slowly down to the car.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Suzy asked. “Not that I care what’s in it. Just curious, that’s all.”

  Randy hesitated. Red signaled to him in a gesture of why not.

  “We brought a tire iron for this express purpose of tearing into the thing,” Red said.

  His client motioned for Red to do the honors. Even with the iron, it took muscle-flexing bracing, twisting, prying, and jerking to jimmy the lock from the hasp.

  Randy flipped open the clasps with the tire iron as they’d sealed with age. Then he opened the lid.

  Paper, file folders, a Leica camera body and two lenses in their leather cases, three Tri-X film rolls, two packets of photos, a Boy Scout knife, and a tomahawk-style hatchet.

  Randy quickly went through the various folders. But he wasn’t about to read them in front of Suzy.

  Satisfied the trunk contained no gold bullion of which she hadn’t know about all those years, Suzy bid the men goodbye. Randy closed the car trunk, and they headed out.

  “Let’s drive over to Quitman and check out the trunk in the privacy of my aunt’s old farmhouse,” Red suggested.

  “Good idea. Who knows what we might find?”

  Randy drove the fifteen miles on US 84, and they rolled into Quitman around four in the afternoon. They took a left onto the Madison highway, drove three miles, turned left again, and traveled down a little-used dirt road to a huge antebellum plantation house. Randy stopped near the front steps.

  “Thought you said this was a farmhouse,” he commented as they got out of the car.

  “It is. A farm, I mean,” Red said. “My cousins rent it to the locals who grow cotton and row crops. Been in the family since the early nineteenth century.”

  They pulled the trunk out of the car and carried it to the front porch. Each man sat on either side and opened the lid.

  First, the family pictures. Randy went through them, holding and looking at each one with a smile on his face. “I was about one year old here,” he pointed out to Red. Among them were all of his and his sister’s life celebrations. Baptisms, birthdays, Christmas, and Thanksgiving. New clothes every Easter and the beginning of the school year.