“Reverend, I would never presume to tell you what to say. I just want to assure you that we are going to catch the people who did this. There will be no cover-up. No leniency.”
Reverend Carter sighed. “Okay, Sheriff. But we need to speak out. We need catharsis. John, we have folks coming from Dallas, Houston—a contingent from Chicago, even—they’ll be here Friday morning. We’ll be having a rally on the courthouse lawn.” He looked Seastrunk in the eye, pupils wide in the yellow light. “Don’t worry—we’ll be respectable.”
“I don’t doubt it, Reverend. Just remember, the people who killed Dalia Bordelon thrive on hate.”
“‘Hatred stirreth up strife: but love covereth all sins.’ Proverbs 10:12. But, John, there must be justice.”
“I know it.”
The sliding door opened and Hadassah Carter stepped through carrying two dessert plates in one hand. “Y’all want pie? These are last fall’s pecans—finish them up.”
The Reverend chuckled. “Oh, Hash—always trying to fatten me up!”
The sheriff took his pecan pie. “Thank you, Hadassah. By the way, I saw y’all’s grand-niece Tasha today. She’s grown into a fine young woman.”
“We were just tickled when she decided to move home,” Hadassah said. “You’ll be seeing more of her, I gather, Sheriff. She’s working on the Bordelon investigation.”
The Reverend scowled and remained silent.
The sheriff paused and glanced at him and then said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well. Y’all’d better be careful.”
“I know it.”
•
The cable news reporter looked maybe twenty five years old, and, up close and in person, her pancake makeup gave her a China doll look that Seastrunk found unsettling.
“Is this a racist county, Sheriff?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “There are a few hateful, racist people here, as there are anywhere. It was individuals like that who committed this crime. And we will catch them.”
“So this case will be treated as a hate crime?”
“It will be up to the district attorney how to try the case. But our investigation is focusing on the hate crime aspect—this young woman was killed because she was black. So we’re digging into the white supremacist community, listening to chatter.” He sensed Bobby standing behind him, just out of the camera’s view.
“Any suspects so far?”
“We have some leads; I’m not going to give anything away at this point in time.”
“Has this incident divided your community along racial lines?”
“Well, now take a look up at that platform.” He nodded at the makeshift stage set up across the courthouse lawn where a young guitar player from out of town performed an old Pete Seeger song. He remembered playing the same song in a smoky bar on the Drag in Austin more than forty years before. Sitting on folding chairs behind the singer were two of the most bitter enemies in local political history—an enmity with national ramifications: Mose Carter, Civil Rights era icon known simply as “the Rev” to his fans and followers, who led marches and sit-ins as an acolyte of Dr. King himself; and former Speaker of the House Robert Duchamp, who built his political career railing against affirmative action and welfare queens as a master of the coded race baiting of the post-Civil Rights era. Seastrunk said, “Does that look like a community divided to you?”
“Still, some white residents have accused Reverend Carter of grandstanding—of bringing in ‘outside agitators’ to stage huge rallies in a bid to rekindle his fading political clout. How do you respond?”
“I disagree. A tragic thing happened in our community, and the people have a right to speak out about it. But let me be clear about one thing: this is not a rally of outsiders, and it’s not the Reverend’s rally alone. This is a rally led by the people of this community, condemning an evil act.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” She turned toward the television camera and Seastrunk felt the tension fall from his body as she addressed an unseen anchorman in New York. “Let’s go now to the stage where local African American leader Mose Carter is preparing to speak.”
Seastrunk looked out over the crowd as Carter gave his sermon. Mostly, but not exclusively, black. About evenly divided between locals and out-of-towners. A group of white college-aged kids occupied one corner of the lawn under a “Peace Now” banner, as if this were an anti-war protest. They had unwashed hair and hemp clothing, and one dark-haired boy even played a bongo drum. Scattered along the periphery, members of the Nation of Islam stood with arms crossed in their trademark dark suits, bow ties, and hats. And, in the center of it all right in front of the stage, the massive national media contingent—a jumble of cameras and microphones, blow-dried hair and print-reporters’ scruffy beards.
But much of the crowd consisted of local families wearing looks of concern and sadness more than anger. Officers from the local police department provided security, but Sheriff Seastrunk did not expect violence. No one was defending the murder—no groups had signaled any intention to stage a counter-protest. Embarrassed: had the reporter asked him how the white community as a whole felt about the murder, that’s the word he would have been tempted to use. Most folks just want this thing solved and forgotten.
Reverend Carter spoke, his aging voice still strong: “We have suffered a great pain in our community this week.”
Murmurs through the crowd: amen.
“We have suffered hurt at the hands of those who would deny the spark of the divine in all God’s children.”
Amen.
“We have suffered hurt at the hands of those who live by hate, who seek to divide us, who seek to sow hatred and discord throughout our land.”
Amen.
“But we shall conquer the hatred with justice. We shall conquer the hatred with love.”
Amen!
Applause flowed through the crowd, along with a few hollers. One of the college kids blasted an air horn. Duchamp rose and pumped a fist, and, notwithstanding his conciliatory words to the reporter, Seastrunk’s stomach turned at the Speaker’s hypocrisy. And he could swear he saw a brief look of utter disgust cloud, for just one second, the face of the Reverend as he turned to see the Speaker beside him.
The Reverend continued. “The devil has come to the bayou.”
Mmm-hmm. That’s right.
“Evil has come to the bayou.”
Amen.
“The devil puts hate in the hearts of men, turns him against his brothers. For the Lord said: ‘Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’
“All nations. Not white nations, black nations, brown nations, yellow nations. All nations.”
That’s right.
“And so Paul told the Galatians, ‘There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.’ The devil wants you to forget that. The devil wants you to see black nations and white nations, Jew and Greek.”
Mmm-hmm, amen.
“So we must fight against the devil’s racism. And we must fight against the racist devils!”
Oh yeah! That’s right! Amen!
Seastrunk turned to his deputy, who was watching the stage with one eye and the crowd with the other, like a New Orleans cop at Mardi Gras. “Bobby, I’m going to see about paying Willie Kincaid another visit—last thing we want is photos of the sheriff dawdling on the courthouse lawn instead of devoting every minute to solving this murder. But why don’t you poke around the crowd, see if you see anything worth telling momma about.”
With an intense gaze the sheriff could not read, Bobby said yessir and sauntered off.
•
The deputy walked along the edge of the crowd along the back of the courthouse lawn, wondering what “leads” the sheriff was talking about. It had been Bobby’s idea to log into the various neo-Nazi websites and chat rooms, using the Southern Poverty Law Center’s
database as a resource. But his probing through the dank crevices of cyberspace yielded nothing about Dalia Bordelon’s murder except the typical racist rants—certainly nothing that provided any leads. The sheriff himself had only a rudimentary understanding of the “internets” (as he called it) and seemed almost gratified that his deputy’s technological sleuthing had been fruitless.
Bobby crossed the street to Steptoe’s Hardware. The store had closed for the day in anticipation of the rally, but when Bobby peeked inside, he saw Old Man Steptoe sitting in lawn chair set up right in front of the counter smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper. A shotgun leaned against the counter at his side.
He kept walking. Around the corner on the side street in the little parking lot across from the Presbyterian Church, Bobby walked up on a red pickup with two men sitting high in the bed drinking beer. The gun rack hanging inside the rear window held two rifles just visible through a translucent Confederate flag window screen. They tossed their beers into the parking lot behind their back as the deputy approached. Bobby decided to let them believe they had gotten away with something.
“You need help keepin’ the peace, deputy?” Long, greasy black hair. White t-shirt over a bulging torso just beginning to go soft. Heavy, colorful tattoos. “These ni-erk liable to start a riot.”
He had swallowed the epithet with a mixture of disgust and mischief Bobby understood. Ignorance playing at sly, the sheriff would have called it. He said, “There’s not gonna be a riot. Town police got it covered anyways. What’s y’all’s business back here?”
The long-haired man spit tobacco juice over the side of the pickup before answering. “Just keepin an eye on things—our duty as honest citizens.”
The other, silent one had his black hair buzz cut, but Bobby had no trouble seeing the resemblance. “Aren’t y’all the Tatum twins?”
They glanced at each other. “Yeah. Do we know you?”
“Y’all were a couple years ahead of me in school.” And used to beat the shit out of me. Not that you’d remember—Wayne and Duane Tatum used to beat the shit out of anyone smaller than them.
“I ain’t much into memory lane.”
“Me neither.” The short-haired one mumbled this, hardly lifting his eyes.
“Well,” Bobby said. “Who’s who?”
“I’m Duane,” said the long-haired one.
“Uh-huh. When did y’all get back to town?”
“You mean, when did ol’ Wayne here get sprung from the pen?” He let out a whooping laugh and elbowed his brother. “Tell him, Wayne.”
“Two weeks ago.” Scowling—he didn’t share his brother’s glee. Bobby thought this made him the less dangerous one.
“And I’m only here for the month,” Duane said.
“Why?”
“What do you care, deputy? Are we under arrest?” He smiled, but his brother turned and glared hard at him. Then he looked back down, never bringing his eyes near Bobby.
Bobby said, “It’s been a long time, that’s all.”
“I am sick of your memory lane bullshit!” Duane turned the color of rage and his eyes popped wide. Bobby moved his hand to hover over his holstered weapon, but then Duane gave another bellowing laugh. “Almost had you there, huh deputy? Almost made you shoot two unarmed good ol’ boys in the back of their own truck.” His face turned to a sneer as quickly as the laughter had come. “You woulda been screwed,” he said through gritted teeth. Then the laughter again, just a chuckle this time.
Wayne hung his head straight down now, hands clasped on the back of his neck. In the background, the sermon was over and the guitar player had started up again—a Kris Kristofferson song this time.
Duane said, “Seriously, though. I’m thirty days on, thirty days off, working a rig off shore out of Port Arthur. Bet you can’t say you get six months off a year, can you?”
“Nope.” And I don’t have to be stuck out in the Gulf for six months a year with the likes of you, either. “Well. Y’all take care, now.”
Bobby turned to go, taking note of the truck’s license plate. As he walked away, Duane called after him: “Good luck with colored day on the square, Barbie!” And there it was. The old obvious, stupid, and infuriating nickname. The twins—Duane at least—remembered him after all. Did they remember lying in wait for him at the dumpster behind the school, pounding his face and throwing him in? Not every day, of course. Just when he least expected it. He kept walking, repeating the license plate number over and over in his head until he got out of view. Then he took out his pad and wrote it down.
•
Sheriff Seastrunk called the number for Willie Kincaid’s daughter, not expecting Willie to be there but hoping his anti-social paranoia didn’t run in the family. He wasn’t disappointed.
A woman’s voice answered hello.
“This is Sheriff John Seastrunk. Ms. Sally Kincaid?”
“Why Sheriff Seastrunk, yes this is Sally. What on Earth can I do for you?”
He was starting to remember Sally—a poor country girl his daughter’s age. Thick as thieves one summer, hadn’t they been?
“Lord Sally, it’s been a million years. We need to catch up. But I’m afraid right now I need to speak to your father. I’m guessing he’s on the lake?”
“‘Fraid so. I’m not expecting him till Saturday. He likes to come in when my son’s not in school. I swear, sometimes it seems that boy’s the only person he’ll have a conversation with.”
Seastrunk hesitated. He could probably track Kincaid down on China Island that night … and risk spooking the poor fool to death. Ol’ Willie probably doesn’t have lick of information that’s going to help us solve this case; no sense ticking off constituents without good reason. “There’s no rush, Sally. Be alright if I came by that Saturday afternoon?”
“Well, sure. Sheriff, this is about that girl that was killed, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But Sally, I’d really rather talk to your father.”
“That’s fine. But, Sheriff, you know daddy had nothing to do with it, right? I mean, he may be crazy as a loon since momma died, but he’s sweet.”
“I know it. He’s not a suspect. I just have a few questions. Easy ones.”
“He told me he found her. But nothing else. He won’t talk about it. Shook him up.” She paused. “Sheriff—John, if he acts scared, it don’t mean anything. He’s just like that, you know?”
“Sure. Like I said, he’s not a suspect—”
“He’s got a lawyer up in Dallas—”
“I’ve met him. And I’m going to call him as soon as I get off the phone with you.”
“Okay, Sheriff.” A pause, and then Sally’s voice grew soft. “He’s more of a child than my boy sometimes …”
The boy. “Joey his name was, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” Another pause. And in that space of two breaths, Seastrunk imagined that child’s strange eyes. When Sally spoke again, her cautious voice sounded as if it came across some old and fraying cable to a distant island. “He loves his grandfather and me very much.”
“I don’t doubt it.” The sheriff would not know why the next question came to him. “Sally, do you have any reason to believe Joey might know something about Dalia Bordelon’s murder?”
Silence, as if the cable had finally broken. But when Sally spoke again at last, her voice sounded close and strong and chipper as before, just a grown-up version of the cheerful, ditzy girl he had known years ago. And she laughed with good strong humor. “Why Sheriff that’s just silly. He’s only a little boy, and he never goes out on the water without Daddy. Why in the Lord’s name would you ask such a thing?”
Her voice held no anger, no defensiveness, only surprise and bemusement at the question, which Seastrunk himself now saw as foolish. He rubbed his temples, feeling as if his mind had become dislodged without his awareness and had just at that moment snapped back into place.
“I’m sorry, Sally, no good reason. Good-bye, now.”
•
> Standing with his back to his desk, gazing out his window at the brilliant arboreal display on the courthouse lawn, Seastrunk tried to put his thoughts in order before calling Kincaid’s Dallas lawyer, Geoff Waltz. He worried over his conversation with Willie’s daughter. A mental hic-up, that’s all. He felt old.
From the outer office, his receptionist: Why hey Bobby! Yeah, he’s in there.
Sighing, the sheriff turned to see his deputy scribbling onto a piece of stationary from Seastrunk’s own desk. “What is it, son?”
Bobby held up a license plate number. “I’d like to run a tread analysis on this vehicle, Sheriff. Sir.”
Seastrunk took the scrap and laid it on his desk and forced the vigor into his voice, allowing himself to resume and take comfort in the role he had built for himself. “Can you tell me who it belongs to, deputy?”
Bobby nodded and their blue eyes met. “Wayne and Duane Tatum—twins.”
“Lord, the Tatums have been breeding poor white trash in the bottom lands around these parts for generations. What’ve you got on them?”
Bobby picked up the piece of note paper with the number, folded it, and placed it in his breast pocket. He’s liable to start thinking he’s leading this investigation. Then the deputy said, “Not much. Their truck’s the right size. And they were hovering around the rally today, just off the square. Seemed hostile. Duane especially.”
“Like half this county.”
“I know, Sheriff.”
Watch your tone, son. “What I’m hearing is, you’ve got yourself a good old fashioned, shit your britches, call home to momma, hunch.”
“That’s about the size of it.” Bobby grinned a little, which Seastrunk accepted as just a smidge of humility. “But I don’t think we need more than a hunch to check out those treads—they’re in plain view after all. We can talk it over with the D.A.—”
All the Devil's Creatures Page 6