Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  One…

  Two…

  Three!

  He threw back the covers with great force, falling onto his backside as Kean came charging out at him and licked him in the face.

  “Kean! You scared me to death, you rascal!”

  Tyrell stayed there for a moment more, catching his breath and rubbing Kean’s head. “Man, I might have killed you, charging me like that,” he said with a laugh.

  With his heartbeat finally slowing back to normal, Tyrell stood. He eased the hammer back down and slid the safety on.

  “C’mon, boy, let’s go finish our supper.”

  Kean’s growl at the stranger emerging from the closet came too late. The knife jabbed through the back of Tyrell’s neck and sliced through his carotid artery—he died before his body hit the bed.

  OCTOBER 1, 2016

  11:25 AM

  Tindal Huddleston checked the address she had saved in her iPhone again. The numbers were correct, and she had been directed to the right spot, but the house was not at all what she was expecting: a concrete block style home, simple and non-descript—not at all like the man who supposedly resided inside.

  She pulled her rental car, a light blue 2012 Buick Regal, into his drive and parked behind an automobile covered with a grey tarp. Leaves, tiny sticks, and water stains all about indicated that the vehicle underneath hadn’t been used in some time.

  She stepped out of her car, threw her work satchel over her shoulder and walked to the front door. Tindal was quite beautiful, but she carried herself without the vanity that sometimes goes with it. She was five feet ten inches tall, thin and had long, straight brown hair. She had green eyes that suitably matched her hair as well as that of her light-brown skin, which made her appear tan no matter the time of year. She wore ‘Gigi’ style sandals with her skinny jeans and white t-shirt. She didn’t appear dressed for business, but business was upper most on her mind.

  She knocked several times on the front door until she heard a rustling inside.

  “Just a sec,” a man’s voice finally said.

  A lock clicked, and the door opened a few inches—still held by a chain. Eyes and a scruffy, partial beard appeared from behind the door.

  “Chandler Adams?” Tindal asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Sir, my name is Tindal Huddleston. I’m an investigative reporter for Reuters News Agency. I’d like to talk to you about the recent discovery of the patrol car on the Brooks property.”

  The door closed for a second, and Tindal heard the chain being worked loose. When he reopened it, she had a better look at the man behind it.

  The years had worked their toll on Chandler Adams. His hair was still as long as it had been forty years before, but the color had darkened from blond to a light brown sprinkled with grey. His goatee was multidimensional like his hair, deepening his wizened look. Tindal noticed his gaunt cheeks and the red eyes which she recognized as signs of a person who lived from bottle to bottle.

  “I’ve called several times now and left dozens of messages about coming to see you,” Tindal continued. “Do you not answer your phone?”

  Chan half-glanced into the dark room behind him and then said, “Not sure where it is.” He smiled sheepishly. “You’re from Reuters?” He held his hand up to block the near noon sun from his eyes.

  “That’s right. I’m here to do a feature on the patrol car. I was told you might be able to help fill in the gaps, so to speak.”

  Chan looked at her sourly. “I dunno. That’s been over forty years. My memory has been a sieve of late.”

  Tindal smiled briefly. “Please, sir, this story has generated a great deal of interest around the country—speculation is high. And you had a front row seat to what went down back then. What you have to add could really help bring this story together.”

  Chan stood for a moment contemplating before meeting Tindal’s green-eyed gaze. “Oh, uh, forgive me. Come in, please.” He backed into his house and led her through the door.

  “Thanks,” she said, making quick observations as she entered. Although it was technically the house’s living room, Tindal thought it was anything but. The shades were pulled on the windows, so it was dark. There was a stuffiness to the room as well, as if fresh air hadn’t been allowed in for months. A TV sat in the corner, but it looked old and had a thin layer of dust across the screen. The room was devoid of pictures or decorations. An opened fifth of Jack Daniels sat on a cabinet top near the TV.

  “So, how’d my name come up?” Chan asked, as he sat on the couch and directed Tindal to the worn recliner. “A quick Google search of the case…”

  “No, I guess what I meant was, who told you I was here…in Macinaw? I thought I had effectively dropped off the planet.”

  “Sheriff Monroe told me your address. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Chan shook his head, indicating that he didn’t mind. He thought about it for a second. “Ironic they found the patrol car out there on the old Brooks property, huh? Have you been to the site?”

  “Law enforcement won’t allow anyone near it. From what I understand, they haven’t even touched the car yet.”

  “Monroe’s handling it?”

  “The sheriff and his deputies are serving as the blockade to any interested passers-by, but I get the feeling others are in charge.”

  “Probably SLED, the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division,” Chan offered.

  “Yes, perhaps even the FBI. It’s a big case.”

  “It was huge then, too,” Chan confirmed, which gave Tindal her opening.

  “That’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me what happened forty years ago. What do you remember about that night? What happened to Sheriff Crawford and the others? Or we could start with the Macinaw Seven. The Dover murder? Henry Brooks?”

  Chan sighed and rubbed his hands on his jeans as he thought about the magnitude of all that she was asking. “That’s gonna take some time. Obviously. And I hate to come off as a complete ass, but what’s in this for me? As you might imagine, I’ve gone down this road several times.”

  Tindal forced a smile, a bit disappointed. “What do you want?” She glanced around his sad little house. “We could offer you an information fee. Or perhaps you want story credit? I know you’ve been out of the game…”

  Chan waved her off. “No. I don’t need any of that. Writers who seek fame and fortune are either hacks or fools—usually both.”

  This time, Tindal agreed with a genuine smile. “So, what is it that you want?”

  Chan rubbed his hands again and bent his head as if prayer. He sighed again and then looked back up. “You hungry?”

  Tindal thought about the yogurt she had had at the airport in Columbia at 5:30 a.m. and the hunger pains rumbling in her stomach. “Sure.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Okay then, let’s get something to eat. How about you pick the spot, and I’ll pick up the tab? Deal?”

  “I like the way you think, Ms. Huddleston. It’s a deal.”

  “Good. And you can call me Tindal.”

  Chan stood and offered his hand. “Only if you call me Chan.”

  Tindal rose from her chair and shook it. “Agreed. So, where are we going, Chan?”

  “The only place worth going to in Macinaw.”

  “It’s that good?”

  He smiled. “Oh, yes. Good enough to make the poets weep and the angels sing.”

  12: 36 PM

  “What’s this?” Tindal asked with a slight frown.

  Chan sat down across from her at the picnic-style table with the exact same plate. He had placed her change on her tray. “It’s called ‘the Large.’ Your only other choice here is ‘the Small.’”

  “Large what though?”

  “Barbeque. The best in the state. Some say the entire Southeast.”

  “Oh, I guess the pig sign out front should have given me the hint, huh?” Tindal said playfully. “The thing is, I don’t eat meat. Especially meats that once walked
around the barnyard and had adorable faces.” She took her plastic fork and pushed at the cut meat covered in golden mustard sauce. She then pointed to another divider in her plate. “And what’s this?”

  “It’s hash on top of rice.”

  “And what goes in the hash exactly?”

  Chan laughed, ignoring the question. He pointed to another divider. “And that’s coleslaw. Surely, you have coleslaw where you come from.”

  Tindal dug through the slaw and brought a scoopful under her nose. “Yeah, but not dripping in liquid lard like this stuff.”

  Chan smiled and picked up the slice of white bread from his tray and pointed to it.

  Tindal shook her head. “Do you know how many preservatives they put in white bread these days?”

  “C’mon. Give it a go, Tindal.” He took a bite of his barbeque. He then indicated the Styrofoam cups on the table. “Hell, the sweet tea will kill you. Why do you think the lifespan down South is so short?”

  Tindal laughed and looked around at the others who had come to dine in Lulu’s. A variety of folks had gathered, a mix of blacks and whites with many sharing the same waistline problem. She then looked toward the serving counter. A large African-American woman, whom she assumed was Lulu, was working the register, while several other staff filtered in and out of the open kitchen behind her. A brick smokehouse a few yards behind the building could be seen through a kitchen window.

  She then zeroed back in on Chan. He seemed to be enjoying his plate. He was handsome in a way, or perhaps once was. The lines in his face were minimal for a man over sixty, but he did have pronounced crow’s feet around his eyes whenever he smiled at her—which is what he was doing now—having caught her stare. She smiled back but turned her head slightly in embarrassment.

  “I know that Reuters is a net news organization that covers the globe,” he finally said. “So what city do you work out of?”

  “New York.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “Seattle, originally. I moved all over as a kid. My dad was an executive with Sears. My family lived in Chicago during my high school years. I went to Northwestern after. Worked at the Tribune my first year out.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been with Reuters for the past four years. I used to do the one-minute news video pieces you see on AOL and elsewhere, but just this past month I decided to move to their investigative print division. Cold cases like this have always fascinated me.” She paused and then asked, “So, what about you? What’s your background?”

  “I’m a Georgia kid, grew up in a sweet little place called Villa Rica—about an hour away from Atlanta on the Bama side. My parents split early, so it was just me and my mom.”

  “And you started working for the Macinaw Republic in ’76, right?”

  “Yeah. Moved here right after college. Didn’t know a soul.”

  “Things must’ve happened quickly as far as the case goes.”

  Chan smiled as he remembered. “First day on the job actually.”

  “Baptism by fire.”

  “Most definitely.”

  Tindal pulled out a notebook and a recorder from her satchel. She pointed at the recorder. Chan gave his approval with a simple shrug.

  “So where do we start?” Tindal asked

  “What do you know?”

  “The basic facts leading up to that night. I skimmed through your book, Chasing Henry Brooks’ Ghost on the flight into South Carolina—quickly skimmed it, truth be told. I guess I picked up on few things, but I’d still like you to walk me through all of the details.”

  Chan nodded thoughtfully as he took a drink of sweet tea. “There are so many pieces and parts to this story. And they’re perpetually in motion. Even in today’s world.” Chan wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I know it sounds cliché, but if you really want to know what happened, we should start at the beginning. Before I got involved.”

  “Robert Dover?”

  “Before that even. 1968—the Orangeburg Massacre.”

  Tindal leaned forward and lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “Okay, I’m all ears.”

  “Our sister county to the north, Orangeburg, is home to South Carolina State, a historically black college—the first of its kind in South Carolina. On February 6 of 1968, some of the students from State went to the local bowling alley but were denied access by the white owner. The students continued to gather at the bowling alley and tensions rose over the course of the next two days. As part of their protest, the students staged a rally around a bonfire on a street in front of the campus. A fire truck was called in to douse the fire, and state troopers were assigned to protect the firemen. Things get out of hand quickly. One of the kids threw a banister rail from a campus building and struck a trooper in the face. Five minutes later, you had nearly seventy officers lining the campus with weapons. Apparently one of them fired a warning shot to get the students back and then all hell broke loose. The other officers thought they were being fired upon and opened-up on the crowd. In the span of about ten seconds, thirty of the students had been shot, three fatally.”

  “Jesus….”

  “Yeah. It was the first such tragedy on any American campus. In fact, it was two years before the Kent State killings in Ohio.”

  Tindal leaned back in her chair. “For someone who wasn’t there, sounds like you know all about it.”

  Chan shook his head. “No, I’m no expert on it. Bass and Nelson were the men who wrote the definitive account. The two Jack’s, I call them. After what happened in Macinaw, I tracked them down and interviewed both.”

  “What happened to the troopers who fired?”

  “They were acquitted a year later in federal court.” He paused, noting the concern on her face. “This was the late ’60s, Tindal, in South Carolina. Civil rights, protests, and marches had reached their apex. The media and the politicians only shrugged, buoyed by a public malaise with the whole thing.”

  “But surely the African-American community…”

  “When the societal deck is stacked against you,” he interrupted, “voices fall quiet quickly.”

  “So, no coming together, no organized reaction—like what was done after the Charleston shootings last year?”

  “No, believe me when I say a lot has changed in our state and in our country in the last fifty years. It was a different time.”

  “They did nothing then?”

  “It was buried. People moved on,” Chan said and then caught himself. “Well, most moved on.”

  “Most? So, this does tie in to the Dover murder? How?”

  “Two of the Macinaw Seven had been on State’s campus the day of the Massacre. At the time, it was believed that they went after the Dover boy as retaliation for the troopers being acquitted.”

  Tindal sipped at her tea. “I see what you mean by all the moving parts.” She pushed her tray away, placed her elbows on the table, and clasped her hands, interlocking her fingers. “I obviously came to the right source. But before we continue, I really need to know what is that you want? What can I give you for your help in all of this?”

  Chan took another swallow of tea and cleared his throat. He took his time with his words. “Whatever they find in that patrol car could possibly tie all of this together. The Orangeburg Massacre, Dover’s murder, the Macinaw Seven, Henry Brooks—it all made a compelling story back in the day, but a story without an ending. I want to know, Tindal. I’ve got to know. My price for my help is for you to keep me informed…of everything. I’ve got to be in on all the details. I’ve got to know what you find. Before you let anyone else know. Agreed?”

  Tindal nodded her agreement. “This one was personal for you, wasn’t it, Chan?”

  Chan looked beyond her shoulder as if he was staring off into the past. “You have no idea.”

  JUNE 17, 1976

  5:49 AM

  The break room at The Macinaw Republic was known as the bullpen to the reporters. It was where they gathered each mornin
g to scour their work from the day before and to summon enough courage from their coffee and cigarettes before meeting with Darby. It seemed that Chan’s one-way-street experience with the editor the day prior was a common occurrence shared by most of the staff.

  Chan sat next to Norma Wiles, the black woman he had met when he came to introduce himself. She was the only African-American in the group but did not seem stymied by that fact. As she greeted her co-workers that morning, Chan noticed Norma was not only well-received by them, but she also had a mothering way about her that they all appreciated. And now she had a new bird under her wing.

  “Don’t let him get under your skin, Chan. He can be a bit abrasive, but he’s not a bad guy at all. He just wants what’s best for the paper.” Norma leaned over and doused her cigarette in an overflowing tray on the coffee table. “He’ll take a little getting used to.”

  Chan nodded as he continued his smoke, the ash falling between the couch and the table.

  Norma looked over to a square, breakfast-style table where two men were sitting and scanning the paper. She caught the eye of the man closest to her. “You’re covering civil court this week, Hal?”

  The thin, dark haired man shook his head. “No, Judge Bair is out this week. But hopefully Boss will send me to the courthouse anyway. See what I can stir up.”

  “Maybe Chan can tag along,” Norma said, indicating the cub reporter with her thumb. “It would be a good place to get his feet wet.”

  Hal made an unenthusiastic nod to the suggestion and then went back to reading the paper. Norma turned back to Chan.

  “Whatever Darby gives you—school board, market report, city government, kid’s birthday party—take it without hesitation and work on your article like it’s a Pulitzer. And before you submit it, let me take a look.”

  Before Chan could respond, there was a knock on the frame of the break room door. Darby stuck his round head in. “Let’s go, people. Assignment time.”

  6:02 AM

  The conference room was adjacent to the break room, so all were seated quite quickly. Chan watched and listened as the day’s assignments were handed out and discussed. The staff then departed after receiving their marching orders. Within fifteen minutes, everyone was gone except for Norma and Chan. Darby fished some papers around at the head of the conference table.