Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

“Hello? Dr. Barron?” Chan called out.

  Dr. Cliffe Barron appeared in the doorway holding two heavy fishing rods. He was an older man in his mid-seventies, a pleasant face under choppy white hair and beard. He narrowed his eyes at his visitor. “Are you the reporter?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Chan Adams with The Macinaw Republic.”

  He motioned with a wave of one of the expensive rods. “Well, come aboard, then.” He waited as Chan leaped onto the deck. “Give me a few minutes to put these away, and I’ll join you up top.”

  Chan nodded as he passed the galley door and continued around to the bow. He bypassed two cushioned lounge chairs and made his way to the very end of the Hatteras. He scanned the Calibogue Sound as the warm, summer sun sprinkled diamond patterns off the quiet waters. Having been sequestered in the swamplands of Macinaw for the past two weeks, a touch of the coast was just what Chan needed. He closed his eyes and soaked it in.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Chan spun around. Dr. Barron had returned. He was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a baggy shirt—the uniform of man who no longer had pressing engagements. He had also donned a floppy hat and aviator-style Ray-Bans to protect his eyes.

  “Yes, it is,” Chan replied. “I imagine you have quite a few beautiful days down here, Doctor.”

  He smiled. “Oh, yes. When God gets tired of heaven, he comes down here and stays with us for long weekends.”

  Chan laughed and then glanced around the vessel. “Not a bad looking boat either. You keep her in tip-top condition, I see.”

  “My home away from home,” Barron said. “And no pesky grass to cut.”

  Chan nodded but then cut the pleasantries short. “I appreciate you seeing me today. I have a lot of questions regarding Henry Brooks. My editor said you wouldn’t mind.”

  Barron frowned a bit but then shook his head. “Not the avenues I care to travel down much these days. As a psychiatrist, I don’t generally discuss patients with reporters, even deceased patients, out of privacy and confidentiality concerns, of course. However, I am willing to talk about the part of Henry’s case that I know is already part of the official forensic record—if you think it’s important….” He gestured to the two lounge chairs and they both sat. “They tell me you have a copycat of sorts up there in Macinaw. Is that right?

  “Two victims in a week, Dr. Barron. Both were stabbed in the neck and both had angel sigils carved into them.”

  “Sounds like our boy, Henry. The victims were local?”

  “Yes,” Chan said simply. He started to say more but thought it best not to get into all the Macinaw Seven details with the doctor at this time.

  “Well, how is it that I can help you?”

  Chan pulled out his notebook and pen. “First, can you tell me how you got involved with Henry Brooks?”

  Barron placed his hands over his chest and interlocked his fingers. “I was with the South Carolina State Hospital in Columbia at the time. I worked with many of the patients housed in the maximum detention buildings. I guess I had developed a bit of a reputation for analyzing some of our more difficult patients. I wasn’t subspecialty trained as a forensic psychiatrist, but let’s just say I had a knack for it. Henry was ordered by the court to undergo extensive evaluation upon his arrest in the fall of 1963, and I drew the lucky straw.”

  “What were your first impressions?”

  “I’d be lying if I said the hairs on the back of my neck didn’t stand on end the moment he was brought into the observation room. He was a thin man, perhaps the thinnest I have ever known. His skin seemed only window dressing for his skeletal structure. Completely emaciated.” Barron gritted his teeth as he remembered. “His eyes seemed close to bursting right out of his head as if the slightest pressure would pop them out completely.”

  “And your professional opinion?”

  “Henry was…well, a difficult patient to precisely diagnose. As we shrinks sometimes say, ‘He didn’t read the DSM’—that’s the psychiatrists’ diagnostic manual. I don’t recall all the details about most of my patients, but Henry was different—I could never forget his details. Without question, Henry was psychotic. Clinically, he met the diagnostic criteria for paranoid schizophrenia. He experienced auditory hallucinations and he had a well-formed system of bizarre religious delusions. Those angels of his, Abaddon and Michael, were a core part of his religious delusions. But it’s important to understand that paranoid schizophrenics with religious delusions are a dime a dozen. Most are only harmful to themselves. They scare the hell out of people because they’re strange, but most are as dangerous as kittens. There was more to Henry than his psychosis, or to be precise, there was less to Henry…”

  “Less of him? What do you mean?”

  “Henry lacked a conscience. He lacked remorse. He lacked empathy. He lacked that part of the human mind that allows most of us to behave as safe, polite neighbors—that part of each of us that allows our species to get along without killing each other. Henry lacked that vital part of being human. And because of that, he enjoyed killing people. Most psychiatrists would describe Henry as having a psychopathic or sociopathic personality. The technical term now is antisocial personality disorder, but I prefer psychopath…less clinical, more evocative, don’t you think? In addition to being a paranoid schizophrenic, Henry was a psychopath and that’s what set Henry apart. And he was smart—very smart—and malicious as hell. That is a very dangerous combination, my friend. Those were the special snips and snails that this serial killer was made of. As interesting patients go, he was a once in a lifetime case. I suppose Henry was the pinnacle of my career; but he gave me many of these white hairs on my head.”

  “And what got Henry Brooks to that point, Doctor?”

  Barron wiped a bead of sweat that ran from his forehead and looked over at the reporter. “That’s a long story, my friend, and I’m feeling a little famished. Can you stay for lunch?”

  12:22 PM

  They sat outside the Quarterdeck Restaurant overlooking the harbor and its famed red and white striped-tower lighthouse. Chan had a go with the restaurant’s double-cheeseburger and onion rings while Cliffe Barron enjoyed their celebrated blackened jumbo shrimp. Both complimented their lunch choices with Budweiser drafts.

  “So, about Henry’s background?” Chan asked.

  “Sad, to be honest, but also wickedly fascinating at the same time. Whenever I could get him to talk about his family he spoke about them fondly, but, God, what a complete can of worms….”

  Chan took a drink of beer. “What was the root of his delusions? Why angels?”

  “In addition to his pig farm, Henry’s father was a well-oiled Pentecostal preacher. In the 1930’s, he came to Macinaw from Western North Carolina, the Appalachian Mountains, and began his own church. They were bizarre believers—snake handlers—fire eaters. They put their faith against any and all tests. I’m afraid Henry was subjected to the worse of his father’s stringent beliefs.”

  “Like what?”

  Barron wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “He often took young Henry to his barn out behind their house. It was where he kept his snakes for church handling. The father would release two rattlesnakes from their cages onto the floor and put Henry on a stool in his bare feet. The father stood on a broad, sturdy wooden box and beat him severely with a belt, taunting him to jump onto the floor if he had enough faith in God.”

  Chan blew out of breath of disbelief.

  “As you can imagine, Henry developed a fascination with right and wrong. Over the years, he manifested these beliefs into the two representing angels, Michael and Abaddon. He believed to the very end that the two angels resided inside of him, waging a war for lost souls.”

  “What happened to his family?”

  “His mother died in ’32—snake poisoning—can you imagine? The father disappeared around ’38. The neighbors reportedly stopped seeing him around the farm. Henry claimed he went back to North Carolina, back to the Smokies. But my guess is he
was among the scattered bones found buried in that old barn of his.”

  “So, Henry remained alone afterwards?”

  “He was about twenty years old by then, but yes, that left him in charge of the farm which he ran by himself. He had only one other sibling, a brother, who died of the 1918 flu pandemic before Henry was born. He had no wife. No other relatives.”

  “Isolated, confused, severely damaged. Did anyone ever try to reach out to him?”

  “He indicated to me that the voices kept him company. The angels. He sought no help because they told him all he needed to know.”

  “Including when and who to kill.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was obviously unstable, Doctor. Surely the courts saw this.”

  Barron nodded as he drained his draft beer. “At his trial, Henry was represented by Crane and Campbell, an ambulance chasing group out of Columbia. They really didn’t try too hard to put up a defense as I recall—completely out of their league. Many people believed they represented the man just for the free publicity.” Barron threw his napkin on his plate. “It was the 1960s and South Carolina at the time was a state of agitation, separation, and execution. So, on the fifteenth of March, 1966, they squeezed every bit out of Ol’ Sparky’s electrodes to rid us of one Mr. Henry Brooks.”

  4:39 PM

  Norma raced up the church steps, opened the doors of the vestibule and immediately felt cold air rush out to greet her. She came inside and paused for a moment as her eyes adjusted from the bright Carolina sun.

  She made her way into the large sanctuary of Northfork Chapel, an African Methodist Episcopal church, and scanned the interior. A custodian was sweeping the carpet in front of the altar.

  “Sir, excuse me, but can you tell me if Reverend Anderson is here today?”

  “Yessum,” the old man said. “He back there in his office.” He pointed the direction with the end of his broom. “At the end of the hall.”

  Norma thanked the man and followed through the door to the right of the choir loft. She followed the mauve-colored hallway past several empty offices until she reached the last one—the closed door adorned with the moniker: Associate Pastor. Norma knocked gently.

  There was a momentary pause and then the door opened. “Well, hello there, Sister Wiles, how are you today?” William Anderson asked. The portly clergyman backed up and welcomed her in to his office.

  “I’m fine, William. Glad to see you’re doing okay,” Norma said as she entered and took a seat opposite Anderson’s desk.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m well…despite all that’s happened.” Anderson sat behind his desk.

  Norma pulled out her notepad and took a good look at Anderson. He was dark skinned and even though he was close to thirty years of age, he still had a round, cherub-like baby-face. “Of course, that’s why I’m here, William.”

  “I’m sure you have questions, Norma, but I’m afraid I have few answers. I’m as puzzled about Tyrell’s and Luther’s deaths as anyone.”

  Norma nodded as she wrote. “Had you spoken with them recently? Had any contact?”

  Anderson shook his head. “No, of course Luther was a member here, but he had not been to church in weeks. Any contact I had with him before was only for church related business.” He lowered his voice. “We never spoke about our past.”

  “And Tyrell?”

  He shook his head again. “Nothing. I knew he was here in Macinaw. But through the years, I may have seen him only three or four times. We acknowledged one another but that was it.”

  “What about the other members of the Seven? Deonte Johnson, Ja’Len Wells, Darius Grimes or Brandon Cheeseboro?”

  “After the trial, we went our separate ways. I haven’t seen or spoken to them in years.”

  “I see.” Norma scanned her notepad. “William, did the Macinaw Seven have anything to do with Henry Brooks?”

  Anderson’s eyes widened. “No, of course not. I read that in the paper too. Very strange, isn’t it?”

  Norma tried reading through Anderson’s poker face. “Are you sure, William? Nothing from the Orangeburg Massacre? Nothing from the day of the Dover boy’s murder? Nothing from the trial?”

  Anderson smiled half-heartedly. “Henry Brooks had been dead for years before any of that, Norma. We were just a bunch of kids at the wrong place at the wrong time. Our trial proved that. We had nothing to do with the death of that white boy. And we certainly had nothing to do with Henry Brooks.”

  “What did happen that day, William? How did you seven end up at Ellis Dover’s barn?”

  William shrugged his round shoulders. “You know the story as well as I, Miss Norma. We were just out walking. We came up the hill out there, saw that big red barn of his and wanted to take a look. Just curiosity really.” Norma squinted her eyes with doubt, but William continued. “We peeked inside and saw him hanging there…that rope around his neck…my God, it was awful. We all just freaked out and ran away as fast as we could.”

  Norma sat in silence for a moment hoping for more. She then tapped her pen on the pad. “Okay,” she finally said. “Well, I’ve got addresses for Johnson and Wells and I’ll check with them. See if they have anything to add. Do you know the whereabouts of the other two?”

  “No. Like I said, we went our separate ways. I don’t know where they are now.”

  Norma stood. “Alright, then, I thank you for your time.” She slipped him her card. “Please call me at this number if you think of anything else.”

  She paused before turning to go. “You know I’m just trying to help, William. The last thing I want is more of our people dead.”

  “Of course,” he said. “A pleasure to see you again, Sister.”

  The conversation ended and Norma left. Anderson held his position for a few moments staring at the closed door.

  “Alright. She’s gone now.”

  A closet door to Anderson’s right opened. Four black men, the remaining members of the Seven, stepped out from hiding. They huddled in front of the desk as Anderson gathered them in with his eyes.

  “Like we agreed years ago—not a word about any of this. Do you understand? Keep quiet and keep low. Or sure as hell, we’ll all be facing Henry Brooks.”

  OCTOBER 2, 2016

  12:56 PM

  After the morning investigation at Henry Brooks’ farm, Tindal and Chan returned to Chan’s house. Tindal wanted to see all of Chan’s old notes and articles from the forty years before. She had pulled her boots off and was sitting cross-legged on his floor—mounds of notebooks, newspapers and documents surrounded her.

  Chan walked over from his bar and handed her a glass. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Whiskey. On the rocks.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early for cocktails?”

  Chan frowned and looked at a wall clock. “You’re a writer, Tindal. I’d say we’re about an hour late as it is.”

  Tindal smiled but sat the glass down beside her without taking a sip. Chan shrugged and drained his glass.

  “None of this makes sense,” Tindal said as she directed her attention back to the paper pile.

  “Murder rarely does.”

  “I know, but what would anyone have to gain by knocking off the Macinaw Seven?”

  “Revenge,” Chan said. “Especially if you think that they had something to do with your son’s death.”

  “Still think it was Ellis Dover?”

  Chan sat down on the floor next to Tindal. She smiled again as he exaggerated the ache of crossing his sixty-two-year-old legs. “Sure. Why not? He had motive and the resources to get it done. It made sense then; it makes sense now.”

  “But your investigation turned up nothing on him. He had alibis in all but two of the murders. Even if he had hired someone like you theorized, why wait so long? He had ample opportunity before. And another thing: would a man like Dover risk everything that he had built in his life to kill seven people? It just doesn’t seem plausible to me.”

  “Perhaps he was bidin
g his time, waiting for the right moment. I don’t know. But there was little else to go on. And there were no other suspects, unless you want to believe it really was the ghost of Henry Brooks.”

  Tindal held up an old copy of the Macinaw Republic and pointed to the headline: VANISHED. It described the night of Sheriff Crawford’s disappearance. “You said it yourself; you thought Crawford was on to something. Who else was in that squad car with him?”

  “Witnesses said there were three people in the car that night. Two up front and one in the back. We can assume the other one up front was Deputy Haskit as he’s been reported missing since that night as well.”

  “And in the back?”

  “No one was sure. It was at night, and it was raining. But the FBI will do a DNA test on the corpse, so we should have a positive ID soon.”

  “What was Crawford working on at that point?”

  Chan shook his head. “He kept everything close to the vest. At the time, he was being hounded by civil rights groups, the FBI, everybody. And he saw us, the press, as a nuisance, always kept us at arm’s length. By that point I’m sure he was sick of seeing me around the station.”

  “Didn’t the feds have a theory?”

  Chan shook his head. “Too much ego on their part. That group never much likes to admit defeat. They left it as on-going.”

  Tindal mulled it over and then asked, “Do you think Crawford’s disappearance was tied into the murders of the Macinaw Seven?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? What if Crawford and Haskit had picked up the killer? What if he was that third person in the squad car? Why did they end up at Henry Brooks’ farm? And how did all three end up dead at the bottom of that hill?”

  Tindal bit down on her lip. “It is crazy. So many pieces to this puzzle.”

  “And none fit.” He paused as he crunched an ice cube from his glass. “Now you know why I drink so early in the day.”

  Tindal smiled at Chan’s light-hearted comment although she knew there was more to his dependency than the puzzling mystery. She then ran her hand through the slush pile of papers. “Okay. That part of the story has to be the end game anyway. I think we may be rushing things here. Take me back to the last week of June, after Luther’s murder. Macinaw was in an uproar. You and Norma Wiles were checking leads. What happened next?”