by Tom Lowe
A middle-aged woman in jeans and a yellow blouse stitched in butterfly images, stood from her desk near the counter and met Jesse. Her dirty blond hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, round face with a narrow smile, capped teeth. “Can I help you? You lookin’ to place an ad? We have a special this month that applies to print and online too.”
“No ma’am, I’m not here to buy an ad, but I do like your newspaper. Been reading it every day since I got back in Marianna.”
Her smiled dropped a notch. She tilted her head, folding her arms, trying to place his face somewhere in her memory. “How may I help you, sir?”
“Is Cory Wilson here today?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s here. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I have something even better.”
“And what might that be?”
“A story. I have a damn good story for him.”
Another woman, mid-twenties sat at her desk near the counter. She looked up from her keyboard, overhearing the conversation. She picked up her phone, buzzed a man sitting next to the man eating the hamburger, and said something into the phone.
Cory Wilson stood from his desk and walked across the newsroom to the counter. He wore his plaid shirt outside his jeans, brown hair combed back, angular face, a week’s worth of stubble growing, rimmed glasses. He picked up a mint from the bowl, glanced at the man and nodded. “Hey, are you my three o’ clock appointment?” Cory smiled.
The receptionist said, “He didn’t make an appointment.”
Cory broke the mint between his back teeth and said, “Probably my mistake. I have time to chat. Thanks, Deloris.”
She shrugged and lumbered back to her desk, leafing through ad copy. Jesse cleared his throat. “Are you Mr. Wilson?”
“Cory’s fine. We’re not formal here. Can I help you?”
“You cover the police beat, right”
“Cops and crime.”
Jesse glanced around the large room. “You got somewhere we can talk. Be frank with you, I’m getting tired of speaking with people in their lobbies.”
“Sure, come to my desk.” He unlatched a swing-through door built into the counter, Jesse following Cory back to his desk. “Have a seat.”
Jesse sat in a chair on the opposite side of the desk, glancing around the room, the man eating the burger was wiping mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth.
Cory leaned back in his chair. “What do you have?”
“How familiar are you with the Dozier School for Boys?”
“Not much. I’ve only worked here for a year or so. I know the state closed it. Apparently, budgetary reasons, why?”
“I was in there before they changed the name, back in the mid-sixties. Here are just some of the permanent souvenirs they gave me.” Jesse placed his palms on the desk, the scarred back of his hands visible to the reporter.
“Jesus…what happened to you?”
“They beat me to a pulp, the men who worked there. I wasn’t alone. Dozens and dozens of us, through the years. I believe there are a lot of hidden graves there.” Jesse told him about the brutal whippings, Curtis Garwood, the letter and about Andy Cope. “Maybe you could interview Andy’s sister, Caroline. She’s got a lot to say and don’t mind sayin’ it to whoever will listen. But that’s one of the glitches. Nobody listens. State wants to sell that place and sweep all the shit under the rug.”
“Let me look at some of the files.” Cory tapped his keyboard and began reading the screen. “Between tossed out class action suits to a lack of tangible evidence, looks like there was nothing police or prosecutors could take to trial. What’s different now?”
He lifted is hands. “Is this enough tangible evidence?”
“To do forensic work, maybe bring in ground-penetrating radar to hunt for bodies, there’d have to be something way beyond those scars. And, please, I mean no disrespect. Based on what you told me, what they did to you and others is unconscionable. But the prosecutor is probably right. To go to the jury, to send a man to life in prison or lethal injection, there has to be evidence that will push the reasonable doubt from the minds of a jury.” Cory exhaled and looked toward the man who’d just finished eating at his desk. “Wallace, can you come here for a minute?”
He brushed breadcrumbs from his lap and waddled over to Andy’s desk. “What’s up?”
“Wallace Holland this is Jesse Taylor. Wallace covers a lot of areas, including the courts. Jesse lived in Jackson County years ago. He spent a few months in the Dozier School. He believes there could be bodies—bodies of kids killed while in there, buried in hidden spots on the property. I know you’ve covered a lot of the events related to the old school. You ever hear of unsolved murders in there?”
Wallace smiled, a piece of lettuce between his teeth, mayonnaise spot on his white shirt “Oh sure, as a reporter I’ve heard all the rumors. Fact is there are no facts, at least provable facts related to child deaths. The last investigation a few years ago had a lot of innuendo but no prosecutable evidence.” He chuckled. “I doubt if there would be many people left to prosecute. Hey, I gotta hit the head.” Wallace nodded and walked away, the smell of French fries and hamburger still lingering.
Cory said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the suffering you and other boys had to endure while in that place. But like Wallace said, there’s no evidence to take to a grand jury. As a reporter, I’ve got to have facts. I wish you luck.”
“Why don’t you look into who wants to buy that property? Why is the state on a fasttrack to sell it? If there are bodies hidden in there, murder victims—that would hold up a sale for years. That could be one helluva story. You might win a Pulitzer Prize.”
“I’m interested in accuracy.”
“What if you had someone who witnessed Andy’s killing?”
“An eyewitness? Who?”
“He’s scared, and for a lot of damn good reasons. He’s black and lives out in the sticks. He was in there when I was, and they killed his brother, too.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can’t tell you that, at least not now. Maybe soon. He’s gonna meet with me again. I believe he’ll finally talk ‘cause his aging mama wants to find her son’s body and bring him home, to get him the hell outta the place where he was murdered.”
“Jesse, look at the reality of the situation. If this man was an eyewitness, from what you told me, it was a rainy night. It’s been decades. The witnesses’ credibility will be questioned. If the shooter is still alive, it’ll simply be his word against the witness unless there’s physical evidence to connect the man to the murder.”
“Are you a golfer?”
“I enjoy the game.”
“Could you imagine teeing off and knowing that a few feet below your ball was the body of a boy? Not just dead…but murdered. Thanks for your time.”
TWENTY-TWO
The guard gate was about to open when it happened. The temperature dropped quickly, the sun became absorbed by dark clouds rolling in from the northeast, and a cool breeze set in, blowing across the reform school property, tree limbs swaying. I glanced up and saw the mockingbird fly from one of the oaks at the entrance and head into the surrounding woods. Lisa Kurz flashed a tense smile. Ben Douglas looked at his watch.
Johnny Hines stood in the guard shack, the gate’s electric motor straining, gears grinding, as if a chainsaw were getting pinched by a partially cut limb and the pull of gravity. Finally the gate swung open, the three of us walking onto the property. Ben said, “I have lots of photos, including aerials, easement locations, utilities, schematics—everything you’d need to take back to Mr. Farnsworth.” He grinned. “But I know the most important thing is for you to inspect as much of the property as time will permit to get a gut feeling for its vast potential.” He handed me a three-ring binder, tabbed with more than two-dozen categories.
I followed him, Lisa following me, making our way across the property, Ben stopping to point out various buildings, speaking briefly ab
out their former use and at greater length about their potential. We walked by a dozen timeworn brick cottages, a three-story dormitory, offices, out buildings, and a long-abandoned swimming pool. Stagnant water remained, pooled from rains at the deeper end, frogs leaping into the black water, tadpoles thick as maggots. I could smell a putrid odor similar to fish rotting in the hot sun.
Lisa said, “I’d mentioned mitigating potential. The state is willing to remove this old pool, pay for any well water samples, and clean up a long abandoned muck pit where hog waste was stored. That is a tiny fraction of the vast amount of pristine acreage here. The topography would be perfect for a world-class golf course. You could even build thirty-six holes, a full clubhouse and have plenty of land for single and multiple family units.”
Lightning streaked through the northeast sky. The temperature dropped another few degrees and the wind picked up. Lisa clutched her purse strap hanging from her right shoulder. “Looks like a storm’s blowing our way. It might be a good idea to head back.”
Ben considered the sky. “It might go around us. That’s odd—the weather forecast said it was supposed to be hot and dry. Let me show you a couple more things.” He led the way around small buildings that had been standing on the property for more than a century. Up close, the architecture was an austere brick and mortar, designed to keep people from leaving.
No visible bars, but an invisible caging hung over the landscape like a morning dew.
I pointed beyond an outpost building to small crosses in a lone field. The crosses were made from sawed PVC pipe, all the same size, some falling down. “What’s that?”
Lisa looked in the direction I pointed. “It’s been here forever. There was a fire more than a hundred years ago. Unfortunately some of the boys lost their lives.”
“Did all of them die in the fire?”
“From what I understand, most. There was disease, such as typhoid, that hit the area. With little or no drugs in those days and factoring on the remote and rural area, the state lost some of the juveniles—or rather the residents. It was tragic.”
Some of the juveniles. I glanced around. “Are those the only graves?”
I saw her cut her eyes to Ben. He cleared his throat. “Absolutely, at least to our knowledge.”
“The reason I ask is because of the special treatment that goes into construction around a known cemetery.”
Lisa nodded. “Of course, the pipe crosses would have to be replaced with more decorative headstones.”
“Would you have names to go on those headstones?”
She clutched her purse tighter, knuckles growing white. “All of that can and will be addressed to match or exceed zoning covenants when we get close to a contingency offer.” She looked at her watch. “I must be getting back. I happened to be in Marianna when Ben called. I work out of Tallahassee. Can I answer any other questions?”
“No. Not at this time.” I smiled.
She almost clicked her high heels as she turned to leave. “Ben, you might want to wrap it soon. The weather looks like it’s taking a turn for the worse.” A gust of wind blew her hair. “It was nice meeting you, Sean. We hope to hear from you or your representative soon.” She walked quickly down a path, her heels pounding the chipped and broken concrete.
Ben flashed a wide smile. “Anything specific you’d like to see? Our daylight’s fading fast.”
“I’d like to see a bathroom. Too much coffee on the drive here.”
“I’m sorry, but everything’s locked. I got here as quickly as I could after I spoke with Mr. Farnsworth. I wasn’t near the office to pick up a ring of keys. We can open the buildings tomorrow, if you like. We have to keep this place locked up. If not, even with security, vandals will get in here and create a mess.”
“I understand. Maybe tomorrow…when Lisa mentioned the animal pens, specifically the former hog pens, I’m sure I could take a leak there. Where are the pens?” I smiled.
Ben grinned. “It wouldn’t hurt if you did, that’s for sure.” He pointed to the north, and stepped away from the building we were standing next to, walking toward something that resembled a tool shed. “I’ll show you.”
I followed him for about seventy-five feet, stopping when he did close to the shed. He pointed toward a field. It was larger and longer than a football field. The grass looked to have been recently cut by a tractor pulling a large mower. He gestured to the north. “See that lone oak way out there to the right?”
“Yes.”
“It’s back in that vicinity. Not much left. A barn-like building, maybe a few pens. There’s a shallow and dry area where waste was disposed. You don’t want to walk that far to pee.”
We could hear the rain coming before we saw it, a torrent moving through the woods. Ben said, “I can run to the car and get some umbrellas. I got two from a golf tourney I was in last year. They can almost pass as beach umbrellas.”
“I’ll be fine. You go on. I’ll wait for the rain to slack and find a tree to pee under.”
He stared at the woods in the distance, the sound of rain like a waterfall. “Maybe I should stay with you.”
I smiled. “Sometimes it’s best to let the buyer take the wheel. I won’t be long.”
He opened his mouth to say something when lightning struck the roof of the old high-rise dormitory, less than fifty yards from us. “We need to get out of here. When I was a kid I saw lightning strike a small herd of cattle north of Tampa. It was on our neighbor’s farm. The bolt killed seven of eight cows.”
“You head back. I’ll take shelter under the awing on that shed. If I try to run, I might spring a leak. I have a weak bladder from a tour in the Mideast. I’ll speak with Mr. Farnsworth tonight. Tell the guard I’ll be out shortly. Just had to find a place to pee, okay?”
He nodded, inhaled a deep breath as rain slapped the tree leaves, fat drops smacking the concrete pathways. He looked toward the sky, the reflection of lightning in his eyes. “I look forward to talking with you or Mr. Farnsworth. Be safe!” He turned and ran, a wall of rain chasing him.
My next stop would be to a lone oak—the place where Andy Cope may have died.
TWENTY-THREE
I stood beneath the awning, rain pelting the tool shed, wondering how long I had before the guard would brave a thunderstorm to find me. Maybe Ben Douglas told him to let me take my time. Maybe not. I removed Andy Cope’s picture from my shirt pocket, looked at his face for a moment, before transferring the photo to my wallet—the driest place for it.
Lightning struck a tall pine near the tool shed, a severed limb crashing through the boughs hitting the ground, bouncing once, thunder echoing from the old buildings. I felt the atmosphere change. The charged ions part of the air I breathed, green spots floating in front of me, my eyes trying to adjust, ears ringing. The hair on my arms stood, almost bristling like an animal. Maybe some part of the lightning had traveled through me, leaving me unhurt. Something was different, as if the powerful bolt had split atoms, the landscape momentarily altered in a bluish wash slowing down the pendulum of time and the perception of dimension.
I looked out in the field, through the marsh in the distance, and I saw what resembled the silhouettes of three men. They were upright effigies out of sync in the balance of sky and earth—almost standing on the edge of the world. They moved stealthily, in no hurry—their prey losing ground. The men wore fedora hats. Dark clothes. One appeared to be holding a shotgun. White lightning veined through the sky in front of them, and for a heartbeat, outlining the dark images in a rim of white.
I stepped from the awning, walking across the muddy field in the rain, instinctively reaching for my Glock, which I’d left in the Jeep. I walked more than a hundred yards, following the men—my mind racing back to Afghanistan, back to the time I tracked three members of the Taliban. Move on. Today, I could hear the mud sucking at my shoes.
I wiped the rain from my face, picking up my pace, the three men reaching a vanishing point, crumbling into the purple vista. They
were gone. Disappeared. But the lone oak was there, standing tall in a remote corner of the immense field. I approached it, the rain tapping against the leaves. It was one of the largest oaks I’d ever seen, huge knotty girth—outstretched limbs larger than most trees.
I knew the oak was very old, probably been here since the Seminole wars, maybe Indians or soldiers had hidden behind it. And now I was betting that a boy was shot and killed in front of it. I imagined what the oak might have looked like when Andy Cope was a boy. How many feet had it grown since that time? If he had been taller than five feet when he was hit with buckshot…where would the killer have aimed? And where might that spot or pattern of buckshot be today, if even only one of the steel balls was imbedded in the tree?
I looked at the tree trunk, my eyes slowly moving upward. All the gnarled bark appeared the same, growing with continuity, the same ridges and small crevices in a natural pattern. The tree’s exterior, the way the bark grew with lines and shapes, was it’s own fingerprint. I looked for the scar—the artificial blemish.
And there it was—the one flaw.
It wasn’t from rot, disease, or some organic reason. It was as if the oak had been injured, the bark growing around a puncture wound in a circle that resembled a dark inverted doughnut. I placed my right palm against the tree, moving up the trunk, feeling for the irregularity. The rain fell through the leaves and limbs, falling on my face. At my height, a little over six-two, I could just reach the indentation.
I used the small light on my phone to examine it. The hole went less than an inch into the bark. I opened a blade on my pocketknife to dig in and around the perimeter of the pit. In less than thirty seconds, I felt metal against metal, the dull tap that comes from manmade material.
