Mercy Killing

by M. Glenn Graves

  “I’m a lawyer and I know how rumors can affect communities. Funny how people like to believe the worst, so it was easy to drop a sentence here and there suggesting that Old Rosemary succumbed to her injuries from the accident. The hit and run became a smoke screen for us. I didn’t have to lie so much as distort the facts and make sure that the right people got wind of my innuendos.”

  “I think I want you on my side if I ever have the need for a lawyer in North Carolina.”

  “I passed the bar in Virginia as well. I am certified in three states. South Carolina also belongs to me. Our firm does business all through the southeastern section, so it was expedient for me to seek those other certifications.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Don’t be. I have had to work hard for everything I have achieved. Hard work is hard work.”

  “Being smart helps, but it’s still impressive.”

  “As a black woman, yes, but, I do have to be extremely careful around some people not of color. Or, I should say, around the people who are green with jealousy. It’s a dog eat dog world,” she said.

  Sam, who had been welcomed inside their home from the moment B.C. knew that I had a canine sidekick, was resting in front of the faux fireplace. He raised his head and looked at B.C. I could almost detect a smile on his face, but that would have been difficult to prove. B.C. looked in his direction and smiled at him. I had the suspicion that she was smuggling him treats when I wasn’t around to control his diet. Anyone who liked dogs could figure out the pathway to Sam’s heart and what organ it passed through.

  30

  I entered Rosemary’s room and moved towards the chair that was stationed next to her bed. She was sitting up reading, resting her back on an old, oversized pink pillow. It appeared that she had been expecting me.

  “Come in, child. You alone?” her voice registered some slight disappointment.

  “My friend Rosey had to go to Washington. He’ll be back in a few days. At least I hope so.”

  “Seems to be a good man, and a good friend for you.”

  “Both.”

  Rosemary put the book she had been reading on her lap. I read the name of Shakespeare scrolled across the cover in oversized letters.

  “Finished Keats?”

  “Not quite. Your friend quoted the Bard, so I had to change authors for a spell, just to see what I could learn from the greatest,” she grinned as she pointed to the book.

  “Arguable point,” I said.

  “I’m certainly not alone in that sentiment. Do you read Shakespeare?”

  “Not in a long while. I stay with current authors. Easier reading.”

  “But maybe not as rewarding as William himself,” she countered.

  “Perhaps not,” I said.

  “But you have come all this way to see me about another matter.”

  “I have. I need you to take me back to that dark day in April, 1933, when Colby’s parents were in his room after his death. What I have heard is that they were arguing, perhaps even yelling at each other as well as yelling at you. Would you elaborate?”

  “Yes, what you have heard is quite true. Mr. Joseph Johnson, generally referred to as J.C. Johnson, gave all the appearances of being a model citizen, a good husband, and a diligent father. He was highly regarded around the community. Appearances are oftentimes deceiving, as you know.”

  “You have specifics?”

  “Of course I do. To call that man two-faced would have been a kindness he did not deserve. He was a bastard in the popular sense of the word. He beat his wife, but never hit her in the face. Oh no, that would never do. The marks would have been seen in public. He hit her in the stomach or would whip her with a belt across the back of her thighs, and other hidden places. He was a brute.”

  “You saw him do this?”

  “Only once. I saw him strike her in the chest. He used both hands and rammed her as hard as he could. She fell backwards, of course, and landed on the floor. I could only imagine the pain she endured at his hand. Monster, he was.”

  “So how did you know about the locations of his wrath against her?”

  “The times when he was severely brutal, she would ask me to put salve on her injuries, especially the time when he used a belt on her legs, just below her waist. I could see the signs of the older injuries in other parts of her body, old bruises healing but leaving their stains. I can tell you this. He would not have hit me that way but once. Then his body be buried next to that child’s.”

  “Did he abuse the children?”

  “Not the baby. At least I never saw him hit the baby. And I never saw him hit Mary Elizabeth. He doted on her. I mean that in the worst possible way.”

  “Did you see him ever do anything to her?”

  “You mean sexual abuse?”

  “I suppose that’s what I mean.”

  “I never saw a thing.”

  “There is hesitancy in your voice.”

  “I suspected him of hurting that child, but I never witnessed any abuse.”

  “Did you talk with Beth Anne about your suspicions?”

  “Goodness no. You have to remember the times, and you have to remember that I was a young woman back then and regarded with little respect or intelligence. I was their hired nigger, if you know what I mean.”

  “But Mary Elizabeth loved you.”

  “Oh, indeed she did. And I loved her. Worked for her later on.”

  “Did you have a good relationship with Beth Anne, Mary’s mother?”

  “For the most part. I would provide some comfort for her. Like I said, I would help to ease the pain of her bruises and some of her non-physical pain. But not so often that it became a weekly chore. She was ashamed, no doubt. Even when I helped her, she made me promise, swear an oath that I would tell no one about what Joseph had done. She said he didn’t mean to do it. Land ‘o Goshen, I wish I had a nickel for every time a woman told me that about her man. I’d be livin’ in a castle on top of a mountain. You know what I mean?”

  “Afraid I do. It seems we of the fairer sex have a twisted kind of dedication in us.”

  “Mixed blessing, perhaps; but, for the most part, a stupid kind of dedication, if you ask me. I could tell you tales, child. But you asked about that day,...he was yelling at Beth Anne like it was her fault. The only thing that woman could do was to tell him that it was my responsibility to check on the baby. Maybe I was her way out of another beating.”

  “I thought you were fixing supper and then cleaning up afterwards,” I said.

  “I was. I was busy in the kitchen. I thought for sure that she would be lookin’ in on little Colby. And, I think she did look in on him, now that I think of it.”

  “So, Joseph and Beth Anne are behind closed doors fussing with each other.”

  “Well, he was yelling and she was listening. More like cowering in the corner would be my interpretation. She wouldn’t ‘a dared to raise her voice to that man. I think if she had ever done that, he would have killed her. No, he was yelling and she was listening.”

  “Then they called you into the room?”

  “You know a lot about that day. Why do you need me to tell you?”

  “You were there. Most of my information is only hearsay. You were an eye witness to some of the events. So, you were summoned to the room?”

  “Yes, they called me into the room and accused me of neglecting the child.”

  “They accuse you of anything else?”

  “Said it was my fault. Said that little Colby would be alive if I had done my job properly, or something like that. Then, all of sudden, Dr. Cranebottom knocked on the door and opened it. He stood in the doorway and defended me. Said that it was not my fault, he said that child died of some natural cause that he could not determine without an autopsy. After he said that, Beth Anne Johnson looked at him as if the doctor had just claimed to be the Lord Jesus himself. I can remember that scene as clearly as I can see you sitting there beside me right now. She walked over to that doctor and to
ld him in no uncertain terms that there would be no autopsy performed on her baby boy, that what he was suggesting was outrageous. She had a look in her eyes that, well, for a moment, I thought was insanity. She looked crazy, like a veritable Mad Hatter. Her eyes were wide open and she had this look about her, like a wild person who had just lost track of herself.”

  “Did Mr. Johnson say anything to Dr. Cranebottom?”

  “Not a word. He just stared at his wife and then I remember him showing the doctor out of the room.”

  “Anything else happen?”

  “Yeah, but it was right pitiful. Mrs. Johnson went over to Colby’s crib, took the limp body of the child in her arms, held that dead baby against her chest and sat down in the rocker. She rocked the baby until the funeral home came for him. Like I said, it was pitiful, but odd.”

  “What was odd?”

  “She didn’t cry.”

  “I have spoken some with Mrs. Carpenter. She has memory flashes and can piece together only some fragments of the events. She was hiding under the large bed in the nursery and could see lots of shoes coming and going, or so she says.”

  “Shoes?”

  “She remembered that you wore high-top tennis shoes.”

  “I did. Hand-me-downs. I had a brother who wore those shoes until his feet got so big his toes were poking holes out the front. Then I got them. Wore them a long time ‘cause my feet didn’t grow as large as his.”

  “She also remembered seeing someone wearing black, high-top laced shoes, which she said were her mother’s.”

  “That’d be right. Mrs. Johnson wore those kind ‘a shoes almost every day. In fact, I remember that she had several pairs of identical black, lace-up shoes. I never saw her wear anything that looked comfortable. It was the style back then, you know. ‘Cept for my old tennis shoes.”

  “Mary Carpenter also remembered seeing some purple shoes. You remember seeing purple shoes?”

  “Purple shoes? No, never. Mrs. Johnson would never wear anything like that. Were these women’s shoes?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Well, Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t been caught dead wearing any color like that. But now Mary Elizabeth, ah, Mrs. Carpenter, she would wear bright colors. She wore lots of bright colors. I believe she had a pair of purple heels. Yeah, she would be the one to wear purple, but that was years later.”

  31

  When Rosey phoned me later that evening, I provided him with the highlights of my conversation with Rosemary and her daughter.

  “And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.”

  “Sounds like Shakespeare,” I said.

  “Good ear. From his oft’ read play from high school days, Julius Caesar. Hamlet has a similar line, in case you are interested.”

  “Oh, by all means. If you must showoff, do it with gusto I always say.”

  “Meet it is I set it down that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

  “You finished with the Bard?”

  “For the moment.”

  “You must have fared well with that conflagration of letters in D.C.”

  “They had questions. I had answers. Nothing significant. It’s easy to answer questions when you tell the truth.”

  “Easy, but oftentimes with grave consequences.”

  “Oftentimes, but not always,” he said.

  “Did you learn anything from their questions?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. They wanted to know how we were on to Big Mike as a gun runner.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “I told them I had no idea what they were talking about.”

  “You call that the truth?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We were not on to Big Mike as a gun runner. As you recall, he came to us telling us that he was an undercover F.B.I. agent working to disassemble the gun runners along the east coast.”

  “So, their question actually verified what we suspected, that Sam Gunther was dirty or rogue or whatever, and they knew it.”

  “How ‘bout them apples?”

  “Learn anything else?”

  “Yep.”

  “You gonna tell me?”

  “Can I quote Shakespeare again?”

  “As Mrs. Betty Lawrence, my English teacher in the eighth grade would say to me, ‘are you able to quote Shakespeare again?’”

  “Without question...Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. And in regards to that grammar lesson, the lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  “Yikes. So tell me, what is the mad method you gleaned from the people asking you questions?”

  “They have another undercover agent working with the bikers.”

  “Did they tell you that?”

  “Not in so many words, but, yes, that’s effectively what they said.”

  “Any names?”

  “They weren’t that blatant, just careless. We’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open.”

  “And be careful who we shoot. When are you going to join me?”

  “I am en route as we speak. Should arrive around lunch time tomorrow. Fast enough?”

  “Considering our popularity, I wish you were already here.”

  “Should I break the speed limit and hurry on down?”

  “I think we’re in sufficient trouble for the time being. Just drive safely and get here as soon as you can.”

  “Where are we staying?”

  “Well, there are actually some folks in North Carolina who like us. B.C. Jenkins owns a guest house in Elizabeth City. Two bedrooms, bath, small kitchenette, and a sitting room. She offered it to us as long as we need it.”

  “Aren’t we the cat’s meow.”

  “Just remember she’s a criminal lawyer who likes criminals.”

  32

  There was a heavy fog engulfing Elizabeth City when I awakened the next morning. The guest cottage was neatly situated behind B.C. Jenkins’ home. There was a shared drive and my Jeep was parked conveniently behind her house in front of the cottage hidden from the street. I felt safe from roving patrol cars. I was driving the Jeep, so unless the local police were extremely diligent, there would be no way to connect the Jeep to me without running the plate.

  I let Sam outside to handle whatever it was he needed to handle, and made some coffee using the apparatus B.C. provided in the cottage. While I was taking a shower, I decided that a plan for the day would be to go back and visit Mary Carpenter and see if she could recall any additional memories from that long ago event. I also decided a quick visit to Josh Ainsley was in order. I wanted to know the identity of the woman who passed me the note about Rosemary and her hidden existence here in Elizabeth City. Plans for the day were taking shape. That’s the exciting way it is for sleuths.

  I was drying my unruly red hair when I thought I heard a phone ring. I shut off the dryer to listen. It was my mobile. Annoying rings. Plural. I refuse to learn how to program the thing, so I just allow it to ring at random with whatever obnoxious tone it might choose. En route from the bathroom to the bedside table where I left the phone there was a knock on my front door. Wet, unruly red hair and all, I answered the door.

  I merely point out that, generally speaking, my hair, my lovely red hair, is only unruly when it is wet. Which means that at least once a day, after an otherwise refreshing shower, I go through the agony of dealing with my natural curls. I guess that means that most of the time I enjoy a bad hair day. I should invest more in caps.

  I opened the door with the ringing cell phone in one hand and a portable hair dryer in the other.

  “Don’t leave too quickly once you finish what you’re doing,” B.C. Jenkins said when I answered.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  “Sorry. It’s the lawyer in me. To the point. Good morning. Hope you rested well.”

  “I did. As did Sam. Thanks. Now, tell me why I cannot leave quickly.”

  The cell continued to ring at intervals.

  “You’d better get that. I
’ll wait,” B.C. said.

  “Forgive me,” I said and flipped open the phone. I prefer the old models.

  It was Rogers.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said to her.

  “Just checking in to see if all is well and that you are not convalescing in some local hospital recovering from more recent gunshot wounds.”

  “Sarcasm notwithstanding, I am fine, thank you. You have anything new to add to my confusion.”

  “Nope, you’ll have to go with your present state of befuddlement. I wanted to be sure that you made it through another night.”

  “Your concern is so heart-warming. I’ll talk with you later,” I said and closed the phone.

  “You were about to explain why I should not leave quickly,” I said to B.C.

  “Mother woke up this morning and remembered something that might help you.”

  “I will be there after another cup of coffee.”

  “We’re eating breakfast. Come join us. I can fix anything you desire.”

  “Sounds enticing. Go ahead and pour me a cup. Your brew is likely better than mine.”

  Twenty minutes later the unruly stuff on top of my head was nearly dry and I was too famished to persist in finishing the arduous task. Wrestling with my mane is not something I have ever cherished as long as I was the one who did the wrestling. Once upon a time, when I was a wee little tike, my mother was the diligent one who refused to permit me loose in the world with my wild locks.

  Sam was waiting by the door as I was about to exit. I enticed him inside and fed him. Like most men, they’ll follow you anywhere if you but feed them

  “I’m going next door. You guard the place. If anyone but the Jenkins family comes inside here, you have my permission to attack them. Then call me.”

  He growled as if he understood and I left.

  Eggs, bacon, toast, grits, orange juice and hot coffee were waiting on me as I entered their breakfast nook. Rosemary was eating toast and jelly. B.C. was indulging in the total layout. How could such a petite lady, beautifully trim and in such obviously good shape chow down on such a meal. I sat down and began with the coffee. Slow is good some mornings.