by Tom Lowe
He blew out a deep breath. “I can’t work an investigation with a civilian.”
“Sure you can. Every good cop in the world does it. It’s called working with informants. Can you trust the sheriff?”
“He’s by the book. No BS. Tough but fair.”
“Good. You’ll need him.” I told him about Curtis Garwood and how I got involved when Caroline Harper came to me near where I live on the east coast of Florida. “Jesse Taylor and Jeremiah Franklin knew each other growing up around here. Both spent a little time in the reform school. Their alleged infractions wouldn’t justify reform school today. But it was very different back then. Talk with both of them. If Jeremiah does tell us who killed Andy, can you get with the sheriff and offer Jeremiah protection? Maybe keep a patrol in front of his mother’s house, if that’s where he’ll be?”
“You really think somebody would take him out?”
“Look again in that bag and tell me what you think.”
His jaw-line popped slightly. He looked past me as a diesel truck lumbered by. Then he leveled his eyes at mine, his guard now lowered, replaced by a spark, a sense of justice inside that first drew him to police work. “I don’t need to look in the bag. I need to find who did it.”
“Off the record, what’s your take on Detective Lee?”
The deputy shook his head, blew out a breath and said, “He’s old school. Been around a long time. I saw him at a restaurant, off duty a couple of months ago. He was wearing a gold Rolex. I heard he vacationed in the Greek Isles last winter. How’s a detective from these parts afford that stuff?”
“He doesn’t, at least not on the income he makes from the county. Be careful, Deputy Parker.” My phone rang. It was Caroline. She said. “I just wanted to thank you, again, for what you’re trying to do.”
“It’s not just me. I have Deputy Ivan Parker with the sheriff’s office here. He’s trying to help, too. I told him about Andy. Maybe you can add more information. I’ll put him on the phone.”
“Okay.”
I handed the phone to Deputy Parker. He introduced himself and listened, occasionally jotting down notes, asking a question, more notes. Efficient. Attention to detail.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll give you my number. Don’t hesitate to call anytime. We’ll see if we can change things.”
After he disconnected, he handed the phone back to me and said, “We’ve got to try to bring closure to that lady.”
“That’s the plan, Deputy Parker.”
He nodded. “If we’re working together, just call me Ivan. That’ll do fine.” He wrote a number on the back of a business card. “This is my mobile phone number. Use it to call me rather than on the office phone.”
“Where are you headed?”
“To Mrs. Franklin’s house. And to visit a cottonwood tree.”
FORTY-NINE
I watched Deputy Ivan Parker drive away in the squad car, the paper bag on the front seat beside him. I hoped by bringing him into the circle that an official investigation would begin. The only problem was that Deputy Parker didn’t feel comfortable letting some of his coworkers know he was looking at a cold case. So unofficially he’d investigate. I wasn’t sure which is more dangerous, tracking evil in the field or eluding it directly on the force.
I unlocked my Jeep, turned the ignition switch, and heard my phone buzz. I wanted a few minutes to call Lana Halley, to convince her to meet and talk with me. I looked at the caller ID. I recognized the number from the local newspaper. I answered and Cory Wilson identified himself. “I appreciate the tip, although it was anonymous. Can I ask who you are?”
“Did you find the state attorney and the CEO of Horizon Properties, James Winston?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. What’s your connection to the former Dozier School property? I assume you have some connection because you mentioned Jesse Taylor’s name. When he met with me, the school—what he said happened there, was all he talked about. I’d venture that those fourteen-hundred acres and the buildings would be the only common thread between the state attorney meeting with a potential developer.”
“Good deduction. Did they corroborate that?”
“Before we go further, tell me your name.”
“I’ve already been in your paper. Your colleague, Wallace Holland, didn’t let the facts get in the way of his story. Name’s Sean O’Brien.”
There was a four second delay. I heard him tapping a keyboard. “So you’re the Sean O’Brien in Wallace’s piece on the Dozier School, the paramilitary connection.” He continued beating the keys faster. “If you’re not here looking to build a paramilitary center on the property, what do you want with it?”
“I want nothing with it. I want to have an independent forensic unit look for unmarked and undocumented graves of children who were held there.”
“Since Jesse Taylor was here, I’ve been doing some digging on that. I was about to dismiss the stuff he was saying for a lot of obvious reasons—the one hundred-eleven year history of the place. Probably some of the coldest of cold cases…but when he saw me noticing the scars on the back of his hands, he shared his story of how he got those scars. I had a hard time sleeping that night.”
“It gets worse than scars on hands. Now, it’s your turn. Why is the state attorney meeting at a private country club with the CEO of a company wanting to develop that property?”
“Mr. O’Brien, can we meet to talk in person, off the phone?”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. Where?”
“There’s an area downtown with a gazebo and a tall monument.”
“It’s called Confederate Park.”
“Meet me there in thirty minutes.”
“Mr. O’Brien, based on what I’ve found and not been able to find these last few days, this could be a very big story. Maybe it’s the story of the century in these parts.”
FIFTY
Jesse slowed down his car as he drove past the gray mailbox with the red cardinal painted on one side hoping he’d see Jeremiah’s old Toyota parked in his mother’s driveway. He stopped and turned into the drive, moving slowly, acorns popping under his tires. No Toyota. He pulled next to the home, parked and got out. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the front door and knocked. He could hear a television in the background, the dialogue sounded like someone delivering a sermon. Was it Sunday? He wasn’t sure. Days running together. Time a blur.
The door cracked open a few inches, Jeremiah’s elderly mother standing just beyond the opening. In the background, he could definitely hear a TV preacher shouting. She looked up at him, one eye partially closed, as if she’d had a stroke since he last saw her snapping green beans on the front porch.
He cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Franklin. Is Jeremiah here?”
“No, he’s not. And you don’t need to be talkin’ to him no how.”
“Yes ma’am, you’re probably right about that. Sometimes I put my trust in others that haven’t earned it. I’m not makin’ excuses, I just want to do what’s right.”
She opened the door further. Jesse could smell green beans and fatback pork cooking from in the kitchen. She pointed over his shoulder and said, “That cottonwood tree was where he found it, the noose.”
Jesse turned. He saw a single piece of rope dangling from a low-hanging limb, the end of the rope frayed from having been cut. He turned back to the old woman. “I’m sorry that happened. We’ll find who did that.”
“Who’s we…you? Little Sonia carried it in to town to show ya’ll. I tol’ her not to. She find you?”
“Yes, ma’am, she did.”
She stared at the tree, her closed eye now partially open—milky, her thoughts someplace else. She looked up at Jesse. “It’s been a long time since I seen that. Used to see it some when I was a little girl. Back in ‘em days I was always home ‘fore darkness of a night set in deep.”
“Did Jeremiah go to his home, the bus?”
“Don’t know where my boy is. You l
eave him be. I ain’t never gonna bring lil’ Elijah home. I just thank God I got a son and daughter left. Leave Jeremiah alone.” She closed the door.
Jesse started to knock again, but stopped. He turned, stepping off the porch. He looked back at the single piece of rope as a breeze blew through the trees, the rope moving like a pendulum in the wind. Jesse started for his car, stopping as a deputy sheriff’s cruiser slowly entered the driveway. The deputy parked directly behind Jesse’s car and got out. He carried a paper bag and walked up to Jesse. He said, “I recognize you.”
Jesse nodded. “Maybe it’s ‘cause ya’ll arrested me for doing nothing but trying to defend myself.”
“I’m Deputy Parker. I could tell you’d been drinking that night but, if you recall, I’m the guy who agreed with the witness about your Miranda rights.”
Jesse turned his head slightly, trying to remember the deputy’s face. He sighed. “Sorry, man. There was so much shit goin’ down that night, I can’t remember who all said what. I do appreciate you bein’ a standup guy.”
“The witness, Sean O’Brien, gave me this, too.” The deputy held up the bag. “I understand you and Caroline Harper saw what’s in it.”
Jesse pointed to the cottonwood tree. “What’s left of it is still hangin’ from that tree.”
“Mrs. Franklin home?”
“She’s in there. She’s not too damn happy, though.”
“Rightfully so. Is Sonia Acker in there too?”
“Don’t know. Last time I saw her is when she left that paper sack on the table in the coffee shop.”
The front door slowly opened, the hinges creaking. Deputy Parker and Jesse looked in that direction. The old woman stepped on her porch. She held an open Folgers can. She spit a stream of tobacco snuff into the can and set it on the small wooden table next to plastic flowers in a vase. She stared at Jesse, her mouth pulled down in the corners. “Look what you done. You got the po’lese out to my house. Ya’ll both go on…get.”
Parker smiled and said, “Mrs. Franklin, you may not remember me. I’m Deputy Parker. I was out here a couple of years ago when your house was burglarized. Your daughter had called us.”
She gazed at him a few seconds, the snuff under her lower lip, the neighbor’s dog barking from a house directly behind her property. “I ‘member you.”
“If you recall, I found the teenager who did it. And we recovered the things he stole from you. Ma’am, I’m going to take down what’s left of that rope in the tree. And then I’m going to try to find the person responsible.”
“Lil’ Sonia shoulda never brung ya’ll out here.”
Parker nodded and looked at Jesse. “Hold the bag for me.” He handed Jesse the paper bag and then put on rubber gloves. “Follow me.”
They walked twenty-five feet to the cottonwood tree. Parker held his right hand up, signaling for Jesse to stop, and then the deputy looked at the ground just below where the remnant of rope hung. “Wait a second.” He knelt down, looking at a barren spot of yard, mostly dirt. He used his cell phone to take two pictures. One was of an impression of a boot print. The other was of an impression bare feet had left in the moist dirt. He looked back toward the old woman.
“Mrs. Franklin, when Jeremiah walked out here to cut that noose down, was he wearing boots?”
She shook her head. “He was in his bare feet. He was so mad when he saw it he ran outside in the early mornin’ and cut it down. And he tracked some mud back on my flo’.”
Jesse looked down at the ground and said, “Whoever left that boot print was a big fella. There’s a pyramid thread shape on the heel.”
The deputy said nothing. He looked at Jesse’s feet, his slip-on boat shoes. Jesse shook his head. “You really think I could have done this?”
“It’s not what I think. It’s what I find. Only thing in this business that doesn’t lie is the science of evidence.”
“Until somebody plants fake evidence.”
Deputy Parker ignored the comment, standing to look closely at the frayed end of the rope, and then he untied it. “Open the bag.” Jesse did so and the deputy dropped the rope piece into the bag with the noose. The deputy folded the bag and removed his rubber gloves. He said, “I’m riding out to Jeremiah’s place down near the holler in that pecan grove. You need to stay out of this. You still have to face the judge on the other charges.”
Jesse said nothing. He followed Parker up to the front porch. The old woman looked at the deputy out of her one good eye. He said, “Mrs. Parker, I’m real sorry somebody left that noose in your yard. I have a picture of his boot. With some luck, I just might find him. Why, ma’am, do you think some idiot did this?”
“Mean. People bein’ mean.”
“There’s a lot of that, unfortunately. You think it’s because of what Jeremiah might have seen in the reform school when he was a boy…you think that’s why somebody did this?”
Jesse stared at the deputy for a second and then looked over to the old woman. She watched them both out of her good eye, silent. A crow called out from a tree line across the road. She spit in the coffee can and looked back at the deputy. “All these years Jeremiah kept that inside of him. Even after all this time, somebody don’t want Jeremiah to say who kil’t that white boy. My boy, Elijah, never came out of there alive or dead. Somebody kil’t him, too.”
The crow flew over her home. She watched it disappear. “In my dreams, I see Elijah bein’ buried alive. The dark soil movin’ ‘cause his heart was still beatin’ fast, just under the black earth, his little hands clawin’ like an animal. I heard him whimper, tryin’ to cry out to me…mama. But he couldn’t holler much ‘cause his mouth was full of dirt. Men fillin’ his shallow grave with shovels of dirt. And then he’s quiet. His tears got nowhere to go except to make the dirt into mud.” She turned and walked back inside.
Before the door closed, Jesse could hear the TV preacher shout, “Redemption! It’s in your hands.”
FIFTY-ONE
Near the center of Marianna, the gazebo stood close to an obelisk concrete monument to slain soldiers. The top of the monument tapered into a pyramid shape. At the bottom was an inscription. From where I sat in my Jeep I could read the engraving: Confederate Heroes – 1861-1865. I glanced at my watch. Cory Wilson was five minutes late. At that moment, a blue Ford Explorer pulled into a parking spot. Cory got out, looked around, and walked toward the gazebo. I followed him. He carried a small notepad in one hand, phone in the other. He stood next to the entrance to the gazebo and waited.
I approached from behind him and said, “Glad you could make it.”
He turned around, nodded. “I appreciate you coming, too.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see your phone.”
“Why?”
“I’d prefer not to have my voice or image recorded.”
“If I did that, I’d let you know.”
I held out my hand. He gave me his phone. There was no indication of a recording. I handed it back. “You saw the state attorney and James Winston at the county club?”
“I approached them in the club’s parking lot, right before Winston ducked into his waiting Mercedes. Winston said he was looking to buy a home in the area and was considering applying for membership to the country club, a place where Jeff Carson is a member. Carson said he was introducing Winston to the amenities the club offers.”
“What do you know about Carson’s background?”
“What do you mean?”
“His history. Education. Where he grew up. Early and current politics. Wives. Girlfriends. Family.”
“He’s effective as a prosecutor. Wins more cases than he loses. I think a lot of that is because he’s hired some good lawyers. The Second District is large. He’s divorced a couple of times. Carson’s a master politician. When running for office, he touted the fact he came from a hardscrabble, dirt-poor life to achieve the American dream. He still has a house in Jackson County. His father apparently abandoned the family when Carson was a kid.
After that, a single parent, his mother, raised him and a brother named Andrew.”
“Does Carson have children?”
“One, a daughter who lives in Atlanta.”
“Where’s his mother?”
“I heard she’s at Cypress Grove, an assisted living facility in the county. Her name’s Julie Carson.”
“Does anyone know you’re meeting me?”
“If I said no, is this where you pull a gun and take me somewhere to shoot me?” He smiled nervously. “I did a cursory background check on you.”
I said nothing, letting him talk.
“I didn’t mention to Wallace Holland that I was meeting you. Not much available on your background. Looks like some of the things Wallace got right in his story. You were the sharpshooter that took out the terrorist pilot with the nuclear cargo. Damn impressive shot. And you were a detective, homicide, down in Miami. But you, apparently, have nothing to do with land acquisition and development. Jesse Taylor had told me about the letter you received. He mentioned the story of Andy Cope…tragic if true.”
I reached into my shirt pocket, lifting out the photo of Andy Cope, handing it to him. “This is Andy. It’s because of what happened to him that I’m here. And because of his sister.”
He held the picture, studying it for a moment. “You think he was murdered and buried on that property?”
“Yes.”
Wilson raised his eyebrows. And then I gave him a briefing—my initial outing with Curtis Garwood, the two letters, the spent shotgun shell, the piece of buckshot I dug from the tree, and Caroline’s hopes to find Andy’s grave.
He handed the photo back and said, “I spent time looking or trying to look at burial records from the old reform school. Not a lot there. The state has records of a couple dozen deaths of kids held at the school. They indicate most died in a fire. Others from diseases. There’s a tiny cemetery tucked away on the property. It’s marked with headstones made out of plastic pipe.” He flipped open his reporter’s notebook, leafed through the first few pages of notes. “I didn’t see a death record of Andy Cope.”
