I just put my sweaters in a different drawer and shake my tee shirts free of wrinkles.
We live in completely different worlds. When our worlds collide, there’s usually a lot of confusion and turmoil, but we muddle along as best we can. Since neither of us wanted to be the first to acknowledge the elephant in the room, we chatted about inconsequential things.
“We don’t have a full accounting yet, but I think the pilgrimage went very well this year, all things considered.” Bitty took a sip of wine and stroked Chen Ling’s furry little head. The dog is rarely far from her. “At least the weather held. And the concert went very well, and the Sunday brunch was lovely, too. You should have gone.”
“I was in a coma,” I said after another sip of wine. “It was self-induced and lovely. Since I’m not working for several days I have a lot of free time to catch up on things I haven’t done for a while. Cleaning out my closet is on the list. I’m not sure I’ll get to it, but you never know.”
We chatted about tasks we had yet to do and how nice it was that Deelight was having the next Diva Day at her house. She’s lived in Holly Springs all her life, and we went to school with her and her sister. We committed many childhood crimes for which we all got in trouble, and now she has young children who are doing the same. Motherhood isn’t always easy. Deelight has change-of-life kids. I would rather have a sharp poke in the eye than deal with children at this stage in my life. I’ve never been that patient. My sister Emerald has six children and manages just fine. I consider her either insane or numb to reality. Probably a little of both.
“Brandon went straight to bed when we got home. He’s just drained. I don’t know what’s going to happen if he has to . . . go away,” Bitty said.
“He won’t go away,” I said. “Jackson Lee won’t let that happen. I mean, there’s no way that old gun could have fired the bullet, right? I don’t understand how they decided it definitely came from Brandon’s rifle.”
“Jackson Lee said the ballistics report matches the bullet—or minie ball—to our rifle. I just don’t understand it. It’s never fired in my lifetime or my mama’s lifetime. The only reason we kept it is because it has sentimental value. You know how she was, and I’m the same way. I keep something as trivial as a spoon, if it belonged to one of my ancestors.”
Since I came from the same kind of values, I completely understood. We keep pieces of charred wood in our basement that was part of the original structure that burned, just because it belongs to the house. Such things aren’t worth anything to anyone but us.
“There’s probably a mistake,” I said. “I’m sure the rifles got mixed up or the bullet isn’t the same. Something like that. I just can’t imagine who would load their gun with real bullets for a reenactment. It must have been a mistake, but still . . . is there someone else at the reenactment who has a rifle that’s similar to yours?”
“Probably. It was a rather common weapon during the war, I understand. Mama’s two times great-grandfather brought it home from the war. I’m not sure if he was wounded or had gotten sick, but his old rifle hasn’t been used since right after the turn of the century. It stopped firing right around then and ended up just being a conversation piece over the mantel for a long time. I remember seeing it as a child when we went up to the country to visit relatives.”
Bitty’s mama had come from Tennessee, not far from Shiloh. Like our ancestors, hers had fought under General Nathan Bedford Forrest, one of the South’s best commanders, if not the best. Forrest had lived in the area around what is now Ashland, Mississippi, and was revered by many of his neighbors, as well as the soldiers who fought under his command. He wasn’t called “The Wizard of the Saddle” for nothing. His descendants carried on his legacy; Brigadier General Nathan Bedford Forrest III died heroically in World War II. We Southerners take pride in such things. We’re a rather morbid lot.
I said, “I’m sure the police have checked out the gun pretty thoroughly. If it won’t fire then they’d know they have the wrong weapon.”
“If it didn’t fire, then they wouldn’t charge Brandon with killing Walter,” Bitty argued, and I agreed.
“I know. I just keep thinking back to the chaos of the last reenactment. Walter Simpson was flailing around, and I was trying to match up weapon to soldier—it was crazy. I could have mismatched gun to soldier, but those were all supposed to be replicas.”
Bitty’s eyes got big. “You mean our rifle may have gotten mixed up with someone else’s gun? But I don’t see how that’s possible. Brandon would have noticed if he carried the wrong rifle, since ours doesn’t fire.”
I nodded. “He would have, but I watched the police tag the rifle he carried right after Walter was shot. Maybe we should ask Brandon if he kept his rifle close to him the entire time before the battle. Just in case someone with a similar rifle picked it up, thinking it was theirs.”
“So, you think someone else may have accidentally switched them? But if that was the case, the bullet wouldn’t match our rifle. It would match theirs. Brandon was holding our gun.”
“True.” I sighed. “Well, it was only an idea. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for everything. We just have to wait and see what happens.”
“Jackson Lee will do a discovery, or whatever it’s called, to find out exactly what the charges are and how they’ve come to their conclusion. Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with, as far as evidence. I just don’t understand how they think Brandon would load real bullets into the rifle and then shoot at people. Even by accident, he’s not that stupid or cruel.”
I didn’t know what else to add, so I said, “It’s unlikely that he’ll go to trial. We’re worried for nothing. The police did what they had to do after the ballistics report, but I’m sure this will all be sorted out soon.”
Bitty nodded, but I noticed she held her wine glass so tightly by the stem that I worried it might break. “I’m sure it will, too,” she lied.
It turned out to be almost a week before Jackson Lee was able to get what he called a discovery package. That is simply a statement of all the charges against Brandon and depositions or interrogatories that may have been made. To our complete surprise, three people had given depositions stating they’d overheard Brandon and Walter Simpson in an argument before the reenactment, and one interrogatory stated Brandon had aimed his weapon at Simpson.
I sat with Bitty and Brandon at the kitchen table as we tried to make sense of all that Jackson Lee had just given us. He had copies of the police reports, depositions, and interrogation statements. We spread them out on the table, and Jackson Lee sat with his arm across the back of Bitty’s chair. Clayton had gone back to school at Ole Miss, but Brandon stayed behind a few days longer to hopefully clear himself of any charges.
“But I don’t even know this guy,” Brandon protested. He put his finger on the name Ted Burton. “I’ve never heard of him. How does he know me?”
Bitty shook her head. “I don’t know, honey. He said he saw you and Walter Simpson in an argument right before the reenactment. Did you argue with Mr. Simpson?”
“No. He was pretty upset about having to wear the blue instead of the gray, but he didn’t say much to me about it. Just muttered a lot. Why would this guy say I argued with him? I don’t get it.”
Jackson Lee cleared his throat. “Did you perhaps have an exchange of words with Walter that might be misconstrued as an argument? A loud comment between you? Anything like that?”
After thinking a moment, Brandon shook his head again. “No, I’m pretty sure there wasn’t. It was so crazy, trying to get everything organized, and Sammy Simpson was directing us where to go and stand, which direction to advance or retreat . . . we did basically what we’d done at the first reenactment, but he had us approach from a different direction for a better effect, he said.”
Jackson Lee pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. “
Here. Show me the basic diagram of your movements the first day, then the second day.”
Brandon raked a hand through his thick blond hair, looking so young and bewildered that I just wanted to hug him. He had circles under his eyes and looked thinner in just a week. I was sure this was having a terrible effect on him. It would on anyone.
After several minutes of drawing out the depot, freight office, tracks, and adding in his movements as a series of dashes to reach point X, he turned it around to show Jackson Lee. “We came from the east here the first time, see, across the tracks, while the cavalry came from the other side. The guys didn’t want their horses stumbling on the tracks, so Sammy had to move it all around. The Yankees are the X’s and Rebels are circles. Clayton and I stayed together that first day.”
“And the second day? Were you together?”
“No, sir. Sammy split us up because he needed a Rebel to come up behind the depot so it’d be surrounded.”
“So that second day you came from the north?”
“Yessir. Mr. Simpson—Sammy—said we’d do what Van Dorn himself had done and attack from all sides. He had Rebels coming from four different points of the compass, and the Yankees were supposed to just give a brief resistance before surrendering. As far as I know, that is what they did. We only had ten Yankee soldiers to seventeen of us. We would have had more, but Royal Stewart went and got himself put in jail for getting in a fight with Skip Whalen, so they were out. But I guess then Mr. Simpson wouldn’t have been wearing his suit, would he . . .”
After studying the crude map for a few moments, Jackson Lee sighed and picked it up. “I think I’ll keep this a while. I need to see the police photos and diagrams as comparison.”
Brandon nodded. “I don’t know how old Mr. Simpson got shot, I swear I don’t. He was supposed to have surrendered. That’s what happened the day before when Royal wore the blue. He gave up right away. Then he sat down and smoked one of those thin cigars, just for fun and to flirt with one of the girls watching. Royal plays around a lot. That’s what got him into trouble with Skip Whalen, his flirting with some girl he shouldn’t.”
Jackson Lee smiled. “I’ve heard about Mr. Stewart’s escapades.”
“So have I,” said Bitty. “He’s always getting himself in trouble. So who is this Brenda Allen? She gave a deposition stating she overheard Brandon and Walter Simpson arguing about a gun too.”
“She’s one of the tourists. She happened to be standing at the end of the depot right by the street and across from Phillips and said she saw and heard Brandon and Walter in a tug of war over a gun.” Jackson Lee shook his head. “That makes two witnesses to say you were in an altercation with Simpson. Do you know why they’d say that, Brandon?”
“No, I didn’t argue with him at all. Wait—I know why they think that. Only it wasn’t me, it was Clayton. He told me old Mr. Simpson came up to him and wanted to swap weapons. Clayton was bringing me the rifle, and Mr. Simpson stopped him. He thought it was his rifle and said he’d been looking for it. He grabbed it, and Clayton wouldn’t let go. They argued about it for a few minutes. Then Mr. Simpson took a good look at it and said it wasn’t his after all. That’s all there was to it.”
“Did Clayton have your rifle all morning? It wasn’t ever out of his hands?” Jackson Lee asked.
“That’s what Mama asked us. He carried it the day before, so it was my turn. We swapped out days to carry it, and he forgot and left it locked up in the house, so then he brought it to me.”
“Have you had any work done on the rifle lately? Cleaning, repairing, anything like that?”
“No, it stays in Mama’s gun safe most of the time now. Wait—I cleaned it before we took it to the reenactment. Is that what you mean?”
“A routine cleaning?”
Brandon nodded. “I broke it down like usual, used tung oil, wiped it real good.”
“Explain that process, please.”
Lifting his brow, Brandon looked a bit bewildered, but launched into a recital of his care of the rifle. When he got to the part where he mentioned cleaning it for the last reenactment a few months before, Jackson Lee stopped him.
“Where were you when you cleaned it?”
“Oh, that was at Christmas when we did the reenactment with Sammy.”
“Sammy Simpson?”
Nodding, he added, “A bunch of us sat around cleaning our weapons, drinking a little, and talking about how it must have been during The War.”
Jackson Lee looked thoughtful. “Was the rifle out of your sight at any time?”
Now Brandon seemed perplexed, but shrugged. “It could have been. It was just us, you know, and we were messing around a bit. But it’s the same rifle. It has the mark on the plate.”
“An identifying mark?”
“Guess you could call it that. It’s where it got run over by a wagon, and it left a dent in the plate.”
“Tell me again everything you can recall about your actions before Saturday.”
“Everything?” Brandon slanted a quick glance at his mother. Jackson Lee smiled.
“Just as pertains to the rifle, where it was placed after Friday’s reenactment, and where Clayton brought it to you, and if at any point it was out of your hands. I’ll also need to talk to Clayton about it,” he added to Bitty, and she nodded.
Brandon launched into a rather lengthy recital of his activities, while I marveled at the energy levels of people in their twenties. Jackson Lee honed in on one point: “When you got your cheeseburger at Phillips Saturday morning, where was your rifle?”
“At my side.” He paused. “I leaned it against the front of the counter while they gave me my food and drink.”
“No one else touched it?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Another pause, then he said slowly, “Except that I left it leaned against the counter while I carried my food to the table at the window. Only had my back turned for a moment, though.”
“That’s all it takes,” said Jackson Lee, but his frown wasn’t displeased as much as very thoughtful. “If someone switched rifles, that makes no sense. It leaves too much to chance, such as if Brandon would even aim at Walter. Anyone wanting to kill Walter would want more control than that over the situation. After all, Brandon could very well have aimed it at anyone.”
“True,” I said, trying to follow his line of thought. “But what about afterward? What if someone switched rifles after Walter was killed?”
“I considered that, but the rifle in custody belongs to Brandon,” Jackson Lee said with a sigh. “It’d make no sense to switch if the rifle was unusable, but it works. Brandon knows his own rifle.”
“Who loaded it for the Saturday reenactment?” I asked, and Brandon smiled.
“Well, there’s not much to loading it since it doesn’t fire. I poured a little powder down the barrel, but the mainspring is broken so I was just, you know, acting.”
Jackson Lee frowned. “So you’re sure it doesn’t fire at all?”
“Yessir. It has the rod to ram the bullet and paper cartridge in with the powder, but that’s about the only thing that still works. I can’t fire a rifle when the hammer won’t strike the firing pin.”
“What about the other reenactors?” I asked. “Most of them had rifles or pistols, original and reproductions. Did any of them have a rifle like the one Brandon had?”
“Probably,” said Jackson Lee. “It’s an 1853 Enfield. There were over three hundred thousand of them used by Confederate and Union soldiers. It was one of the most popular rifles of the time since it was one of the first rifle-muskets that could be loaded more quickly. It fired a bullet developed by Claude Minié, and became known as a ‘minny’ ball. It revolutionized the rifled-musket since it was a conical lead bullet with a hollow base that flattened out when it hit a target. The rifling in the bore spun the bullet
out with deadly accuracy. The damage it did to the human body was terrific. Caused more amputations and deaths than any other firearm before it.”
“You sound like you’ve studied it pretty extensively,” I said, and he smiled.
“If I’m going to argue that Brandon didn’t set out to kill Walter Simpson, I’d better know what I’m talking about. If the mainspring is broken, there’s no way he could have fired that bullet.”
“What about all the noise and smoke from the guns?” I asked. “I mean, someone was obviously shooting something.”
“Powder,” said Brandon. “Just pour powder and maybe ram a paperwad down the barrel. It makes a lot of noise and smoke, but no bullets, so it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“So if someone shot a real bullet, it couldn’t even be noticed in all the noise and smoke,” I said, and he nodded.
“Right. This isn’t the kind of gun you can forget you left a bullet in. You’d have to know it’s there, or it wouldn’t fire properly.”
“What if it was already loaded and someone poured in more powder and just paper?” asked Bitty. “Would that happen?”
“If it did happen, the rifle would probably explode with that much powder,” Brandon said. “It’d at least be noticed.”
Bitty pressed her face against the pug in her lap. Chen Ling responded with a wiggle and snort, then turned to lick Bitty’s chin. I thought it was rather sweet. Dogs often know when their guardians are stressed or unhappy, and most of them respond in some way. I’d never thought the little gremlin she held would be sentimental. Shows how wrong a person could be.
“So you’re hoping that someone else with an Enfield shot Simpson?” Jackson Lee asked Bitty. Before she could reply, he said gently, “Ballistics matched the rifling on the bullet to the rifling in the barrel of your gun.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice trembled slightly, and I felt her anguish.
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