Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7)

by Tom Lowe

  “Murders by the hands of reform school staff aren’t recorded. At least the cause of death isn’t reported accurately. In Andy’s case, and probably more boys, there’s not a record of death because the supervisors at the time informed family members their son had escaped—had run away. Jesse Taylor believes there is another cemetery up there, one that’s unmarked. And he’s convinced that’s where Andy Cope and others are buried.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I do.”

  Cory Wilson turned more pages in his notebook. “I checked employee records around the time Jesse Taylor was held there. I checked it against death records. From what I could determine, there are four living in the area that’d worked in the reform school in the mid-to-late-sixties. Those include two men and two women. I’m trying to speak with them. Don’t know how receptive they’ll be or even what they’ll recall.”

  “Who are the men?”

  “Edward Johnson…goes by Hack Johnson. The other one is Zeke Wiley. He maintains a P.O. box. No physical address in the property tax rolls. Johnson lives with his wife on a farm.”

  “I’m not one to suggest how you do your reporting job, but if you speak with Caroline, you’ll have a better grasp on the story. Jesse Taylor, and probably a few others his age, can give you some first-hand information. Also, you’ll be entering some dangerous areas of reporting. Know whom you can really trust. Your colleague, Wallace Holland, isn’t one of them.”

  He moistened his lower lip, closed his notebook and slipped it in his back pocket. “I think you’re right. I’m the new guy, and this is the first real news story I’ve seen since I started there. And for the most part, until it’s ready to be written, I’m doing it a little covertly. My editor knows, but no one else.”

  “Once you get enough for the public to see the enormity of it, a century of abuse to kids, your story will go international. Then you can work anywhere, if you want.”

  “It looks like the sale of the old school is imminent. At the newspaper, we’ve heard rumors of a press conference soon. If James Winston and Vista Properties buy the place, I wonder if they’ll have contingency conditions built into the sale.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An option for the property to go back to the state, and monies refunded in the event a mass gravesite is found as they start pushing dirt around and building houses.”

  “If we can find even one of those graves before that, there won’t be a sale, at least not for a while, and that’ll give forensics people time to look for more graves. Maybe the whole place can be turned into a memorial park.”

  “You mind if I have copies of those letters that Curtis Garwood sent you? I’ll need a copy of Andy Cope’s picture, too.”

  “I’ll give you copies of the letters. Caroline Harper has extra copies of the photo. I’m hanging on to this one.”

  He smiled, teeth showing this time. “Although I couldn’t find a lot about you in public records, I’d suspect privately you’re highly trained in this sort of thing. I’ll keep detailed notes as the story unfolds. Maybe one day you’ll tell me why you got out of law enforcement.”

  “Maybe I’m not completely out. Maybe I’ve just shifted my priorities.”

  He nodded. “I’ll call you to get copies of the letters. I’d better head back to the office.”

  I watched Cory Wilson walk away—now walking into what would be the most dangerous story he would cover. My phone buzzed. I recognized the caller ID. I answered and special agent Carly Brown from the FBI said, “Sean, I wanted to get back with you earlier, but when you look for a fifty-year-old fingerprint, it takes time and expertise. We used an electrostatic charge and found one print on the brass end of the shotgun shell casing. It looks to be a thumbprint. Now all you have to do is find a match.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Jesse Taylor felt the demons awakening deep in his chest—the gnawing at his gut. Dry mouth. Rapid heartbeat. The voices telling him one drink would make it all go away. He drove without a place to drive to—no destination, no safe harbor. Just out here with the sharks circling closer, he thought. Got to find Jeremiah. He wanted to drive out to Jeremiah’s bus but he was hesitant. What if the deputy sheriff was there? Just another shark in a pressed uniform.

  He lit a cigarette and headed back toward Marianna, the late afternoon sun creating deep pockets of shade in the palms and piney woods. Jesse drove by an old barn long abandoned, the words See Rock City almost covered in green kudzu vine. The barn, surrounded by dead and broken corn stalks, had lost its form and character, the roof sagging under the thick kudzu, the barn now a humpback leviathan—a fossil in a field of abandoned dreams.

  Around the bend he spotted an oasis, or maybe it was an illusion of escape. He didn’t care at that point in time. He stopped at a liquor store and bought a fifth of vodka. He returned to his car, sat behind the wheel and unscrewed the cap. He took a long pull from the bottle. His face flushing the color of cherries, eyes wet. He picked up his phone and punched in Sonia Acker’s number. When she answered, he said, “Sonia, it’s Jesse. Don’t hang up, okay?”

  “What you want?”

  “That’s a helluva hello. If you didn’t want me to do something about that noose, then you shouldn’t have brought it to the coffee shop. The sheriff’s office is investigating.”

  “So you called the police?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping shitheads off your grandma’s property.”

  “She’s old. Just leave her be.”

  “The last thing in the world I want to do is…is to mess with your grandma.”

  “You been drinkin’ or are you on some kinda pills?”

  “I have to talk with your uncle. Jeremiah can’t keep carrying this weight. If I know who shot Andy Cope, probably the same asshole who shot your Uncle Eli…if know who did it, it’s not Jeremiah’s cross to bear anymore. They won’t come after him—they’ll come after me ‘cause I’ll take the information to all the news media in the state. And that’s got them scared because there are lots of roots growin’ in this shit. And the state doesn’t want the truth to turn fourteen hundred acres into land with zero worth to developers. It’s like some poor bastard realtor tryin’ to unload a haunted house. Nobody wants somebody else’s ghosts.”

  “I’ll give you my uncle’s number, and then you can call him. No sense me bein’ in the middle. If he wants to talk, to tell you somethin’ nobody will do nothin’ about, that’s cool. But if he don’t…just go away. Okay?”

  “You have my word.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “For me, it’s all I got left in this shitty world.”

  She gave him the number and disconnected. Jesse called Jeremiah. It went directly to voice-mail. “Jeremiah…Jerry…it’s Jesse. Man, you got to let me try to make it up to you, okay? You have my number. Call me, all right? Together we’ll stay strong—for us and all the guys who survived that shithole.” Jesse left his number and added, “We got to talk. Call me, okay?” Jesse put the fifth of vodka under the driver’s seat, popped a mint into his mouth, and drove toward the place that changed him forever—the Florida School for Boys.

  FIFTY-THREE

  For the first time since I received Curtis Garwood’s initial letter, I thought there might now be physical evidence to connect someone to the murder of Andy Cope. I started my Jeep, Carly Brown still on the phone. I gave her a brief update, told her I was working with local law enforcement, didn’t say how many and added, “Well, it’s a challenge to find a match, but it’s better than not finding a print to match. At least we’re halfway there.”

  She chuckled. “I guess to you, my optimistic friend, that means the glass is half full.”

  “I never considered the half full or half empty perspective. I’m always curious as to what’s in the glass and how it got there—the source.”

  “That’s a different point-of-view. The bureau just eliminated more than seventy million suspe
cts for you. We didn’t, of course, get one smidgen of a hit in the AFIS database.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. The print you pulled from the brass head is at least fifty years old. So all I have to do is find out who was working at the reform school in the mid-sixties. Due to time and circumstances, the pool can’t be deep.”

  “But it can be deadly, assuming the perp is still alive. Can’t imagine the guy’s willing to go to prison to die. You start sniffing around that county, and he could be holed up somewhere. A guy like that could be suicidal and willing to take others out before he saves the final brass nail for his own coffin.”

  “Or he might go quietly into the night.”

  “We’re back to that perspective thing again, Sean. You want to know what’s in the glass? The only way to do that is to search for the source.”

  “At least I have something to search for now.”

  “Yes, but keep this in mind, to get prints of some elderly guy, or anyone for that matter in Florida, you’ll need to show probable cause. A fifty-year-old print from a shotgun shell, no dead body or indication of murder, is deep into the gray area of probable cause. So you’re going to need a lot more to convince a prosecutor to take it to a jury.”

  “I’ve got the print, thanks to you. What if I could find the shotgun that fired the shell?”

  “After a half-century, doubtful.”

  “It’s all about the source, Carly. I’m not thinking about the perspective, I’m thinking about a firearm I recently saw up close and personal.”

  “Let me guess…somebody pulled a gun on you.”

  “A double barrel 12 gauge shotgun. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s a vintage piece. The markings are distinctive, made by A.H. Fox Firearms.”

  “You were close. That’s a fairly rare shotgun.”

  “But, yet, two local lads had it in a gun rack in the back of their truck.”

  “Could have been stolen or sold long ago. If you take care of a classic shotgun like that, it’ll last two lifetimes. So if you were close enough to ID the model…want to tell me what the hell happened up there?”

  “If I thought it’d bring in the FBI, I would. I’ll fill you in when there’s more puzzle pieces in this tragic and macabre mystery. And it’s only a mystery because it was allowed to happen and then swept under a lot of bureaucratic rugs through people and politics.”

  “You told me you’re working with the sheriff’s department. It looks like you and some overworked investigator have your work cut out before he or she asks a judge to haul some elderly person into the sheriff’s department to get prints made.”

  “If I can squeeze out one more favor…send a digital file of the print to me. Please overnight the shotgun shell to the motel where I’m staying. I’ll text the address to you. Thanks, Carly. The FBI’s always welcome to join the search.”

  “I wish we had the manpower to chase ghosts and ice age cold cases. Fact is, unless it’ll rewrite American crime history, we don’t. But if you start finding multiple bodies of kids buried on the grounds of that spooky old place, that will be a green light for us to send in the resources. Good luck, Sean. Next time you’re in Tampa, you owe me a cold martini.” Carly disconnected.

  I started my Jeep and called Caroline Harper. “I wanted to let you know that the FBI managed to pull a print off the brass head of the shotgun shell Curtis Garwood kept all those years. It was embedded in the brass, meaning the print came from the person who fired the gun at Andy that night.”

  “Dear God…I think I’m going to cry.”

  “You’ve earned it. It’s my hope you can cry tears of joy when we find a match for the print.”

  “Sean, thank you.”

  “You can thank me when I find your brother’s killer. A matched print will bring us ninety percent closer. If we find the match, it’ll be the last ten percent that will send him to prison, maybe even a penalty equal to what he chose to do to Andy.”

  “What do you do next?”

  “I’m driving to the courthouse. Maybe, just maybe, the assistant state attorney will look at this without clouded judgment. I’ll keep you posted. Have you heard from Jesse?”

  “No, and I’m worried. His anger is leading him into dark places.”

  “If you hear from him, tell him to call me. Advise him to stay away from Jeremiah Franklin. Deputy Parker is a good man. I think Jeremiah will be able to sense that. I’ll speak with you later.”

  I headed in the direction of the county courthouse. Maybe I’d call Lana Halley to speak with her in person, or maybe I’d just walk into her office. Because now I had evidence, a fingerprint and the shotgun attached to it. I had cell phone video of the state attorney meeting privately with the CEO of a company ready to bulldoze buildings and land. And it’s land that the state attorney said hid no apparent evidence of abuse.

  I didn’t know whether Lana was in the mud with her boss, complicit in the denial of allegations and quick to prosecute people like Jesse for rocking the boat. Either she opened the closed door to Jeremiah’s identity, passing it to someone with a motive, or it was Detective Lee. Whoever did it might as well have tied the knot in the hangman’s noose left in front the home of Jeremiah’s mother.

  I’d soon find out, and the answer would dictate my path. If Lana was involved in this spider’s web, I knew how to discover it. And then I’d go to the attorney general of the state. But before that meeting, I’d find as much evidence as Deputy Ivan Parker and I could recover. We’d have to do it before Jesse Taylor crashed and burned, taking Jeremiah Franklin into Jesse’s downward spiral.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  It was late afternoon and Jesse Taylor didn’t remember driving there. It seemed to show up. Sort of how a dream shows up. It just appears. But for Jesse it wasn’t a dream, it was graphic proof of a nightmare that never had a third act ending. He slowed his car in front of the main entrance to the former reform school and rolled down his window. A pickup truck was parked near the guard gate. Jesse recognized the truck. Same truck. Same security guard. Johnny Hines sitting in the guardhouse behind the big glass windows.

  Jesse drove slowly by the entrance and continued around the perimeter of the immense property. He looked at the chalky-white buildings in the distance, rusted water tower, old brick smokestack, and together they reminded him of something ghastly. The combined visuals, beyond boundaries of the razor wire fence, had the appearance—the grim bits and pieces of a German death camp. He reached for the bottle of vodka and mumbled, “They did everything but put a numbered tattoo on my wrist and turn on the fuckin’ gas.”

  He pulled off the road on vacant pinewoods land across from the property, a thousand yards away from the main entrance. Jesse reached in his backseat, pulled the green Army blanket off his guns, found the .45 caliber pistol next to his shotgun. He set the bottle of vodka on the center console and held the pistol in his scarred hands. Lifting the end of the barrel to his nostrils, he smelled the gun oil. Jesse looked to his left and then right. No traffic. He got out of his car, shoving the pistol under his belt, grabbing the bottle of liquor.

  He sauntered across the street, walking up to the fence. He stood on the same property he hadn’t walked on in fifty years. His heart beat faster. Palms sweaty. He hiked along the outside of the fence for about one hundred feet, coming to a locked gate. It was a small entrance, barely large enough for a compact car to drive through if the gate was open.

  Jesse stood there, looking at the buildings in the distance, remembering the long days and excruciating nights here. His breathing came quicker. He was back inside—transported through a keyhole he could never lock, back to the first night he was marched to the White House. At least five boys were forced to stand in line outside the door to the torture chamber. The fan started. Whump – whump – whump. Then the crack of the leather on flesh. The sound was like a firecracker. It was followed by the first scream. Always the loudest scream before the boys lost their voice during the begging, pleading and the crying. Smack of the wh
ip. Whump – whump – whump. The screams faded as the crack of leather, chewing into bleeding flesh, seemed to move in sync with the turning of the fan blades. Whump - whump – whack – scream.

  The boy standing in front of Jesse was probably ten years old. He stood rigid, tears trickling down his pink cheeks, legs shaking. He glanced back at Jesse. The boy turned around, not looking up at the fleshy man whose job it was to send them inside. One-by-one. The youngest boy’s shoulders trembled, urine staining his pajamas and pooling between his bare feet.

  It was a week later, Jesse’s buttocks still covered with open lacerations, when the Preacher came into his bunk in the cottage. It was a hot summer night. No air moving through the screened in windows. The pulse of crickets chirping loud outside. Preacher smelled of tobacco and bourbon. His body stank of sweat, testosterone and diesel grease. He grabbed Jesse by the back of his neck, his strong fingers digging into his tendons, the strength of his grip almost paralyzing. “It’s time for your next whupin’ boy. Lay across that bunk on your stomach. He pushed Jesse face down onto the cot. “Don’t you scream, hear me boy?”

  The sound of a semi-truck moving through its gears brought Jesse back to the present. He looked at the bottle of vodka in his hand. It was at least three-quarters full. He held the neck of the bottle and smashed it against one of the steel fence posts, shattering the glass. Then Jesse pulled out the pistol, gripping it with both of his scarred hands, aiming and shooting the padlock off the gate. He picked up the lock and walked back to his car. He sat there, his heart hammering. Breathing hard. Trying to fill his lungs with air. Sweat beading on his brow. Nausea billowed from his stomach like sulfurous gas.

  Jesse opened his car door, vomiting on the ground. He leaned back in his seat, his head on the headrest, the lock in one hand. He started his car and drove back toward the main entrance to the school. The pickup truck was still where he’d seen it. It looked like Johnny Hines was watching television. Jesse got out of his car and walked up to the guardhouse.