“Yes, Ma’am, is it possible we could speak with Mr. Crane or Mr. Campbell?” Tindal asked.
“I’m afraid not. Both Mr. Crane and Mr. Campbell passed away some time ago. This firm, what little is left, is represented by John Cruise, Mr. Crane’s grandson. And I’m afraid he is away from the office today.”
“Is there anyone else who could help us?” Tindal followed.
“We have two other lawyers, Mr. Strickland and Mr. Reynolds. But neither of them would have any knowledge about the case. They’re both spring chickens.” She laughed.
Chan furled his brow. He then smiled at the woman and mustered as much southern charm as he could. “And what about you, Mrs. Darwin? Helen? Could you help us with the information?”
“Please,” Tindal added.
Darwin grabbed the necklace hanging between her coat lapels and rubbed a few of the faux pearls as if they were rosary beads. “Well, I suppose I could let you look at the files. No harm there. They are just sitting in the basement collecting dust.”
“That would be very nice. Thank you,” Chan said.
4:22 PM
Under a naked light bulb, Tindal sat at a folding table in the basement of the old building, waiting. Chan, carrying a box of files, emerged from a back room. Mrs. Darwin followed.
“I think that’s all there is,” Darwin said.
“We appreciate your help,” Tindal said.
“We certainly do,” Chan followed as he gently placed the box on the table. “I’ll put it all back when we finish.”
“That will be fine,” Darwin said. She turned to the stairs, hesitated and then turned back. “You know, I started working here in 1979, two years before Mr. Crane passed. We’ve always been successful as a firm—we’ve always had enough business—well, enough to keep the lights on. But that case…” She pointed to the box. “I can’t help but think it’s been a blight on our name for all these years. Some may even call it a curse.”
“Henry Brooks has been a curse for many people, Mrs. Darwin. He’s been a curse for our whole state,” Chan said. “And its high time that curse was lifted.”
Mrs. Darwin nodded. “Well, if you need anything else, I’ll be upstairs at my desk.” She turned and ascended the stairs.
Chan looked at Tindal and asked with a smile, “Shall we begin the exorcism?”
“Let’s get to it,” Tindal said as she reached deep inside the box and brought out a handful of files.
5:47 PM
The basement took on a quiet presence as they read through Henry Brooks’ court files, police records and evaluation documents. Only the hum of the light bulb and the occasional turning of pages could be heard. For Chan, it felt like déjà vu, having already poured much of his life into reading and studying about the madman.
Tindal finally stopped, rubbed her eyes, and stretched in her chair. “What a piece of work, huh?”
“Not your typical pig farmer, that’s for sure.”
“It always amazes me how these serial killers can get away with it for so long.”
“No one ever expects it to happen in their town,” Chan said. “You build walls to keep the monsters out. You never think you’re walling them inside with you.”
“But he had no grand disguises. No real desire to hide his purpose. It seems someone would have known.”
“We can’t fathom the depth of that kind of madness. It’s near impossible to detect. The same was true for Dahmer, Bundy, and Gacy. Rational people want to smile, shake your hand, be good neighbors. These guys want to cut your heart out and offer it up as sacrifice to the gods or have it themselves for breakfast. Brooks was the same way.”
“Yeah, but listen to this,” Tindal said. She pulled her hair back behind her ears, looked down at the file and read, “I know their souls. I can see it in their eyes. They blink and I can see their salvation. Or their damnation. I am the angel of light. I am the angel of darkness. I will decide their fate. I will seek them out. I will find them in the cribs of their babes, the beds of their whores, in the dark corners of their hiding places. I am everywhere.” She looked up. “That kind of madness is hard to hide, right?”
“I guess by the time you knew that side of him, it was too late—you were his next victim.” Chan leaned over the table to look. “What’s that from anyway?”
Tindal turned the file so he could see. “It’s from an interview the firm conducted with Brooks while he was in the state hospital.” Chan picked up the file and flipped through it. “They were probably trying to ascertain how best to defend him in court.”
Chan laughed as he continued flipping. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
“An insanity plea must not have been enough.”
“From what I was told, that was just another excuse to execute in those days.”
“We’ve come a long way from those days…which is ultimately a good thing.” Tindal stopped as she noticed Chan’s stunned expression. “What is it?”
Chan looked to Tindal and then back to the file. He remained quiet; making sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. He then pushed away from the table and stood.
“Chan, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Chan moved to Tindal’s side of the table and laid the file in front of her. “What?”
“The form. It’s the state hospital permission form. The one the firm had to sign in order to have its meeting with Brooks.”
Tindal glanced at the worn document copy. “Yes. What about it?”
“Look at the signature.”
Tindal’s eyes shot down to the bottom of the form. Her mouth gaped open. “My God…Sonny Watts.”
JANUARY 3, 1964
3:27 PM
Sonny Watts sat on the wooden bench in the visitors waiting area of the maximum detention building on the campus of the South Carolina State Hospital. He had on a black coat and tie and black shoes. His brief case was at his feet. He rubbed his hands compulsively.
A buzzing noise sounded in the room. He watched as the red bulb above the door darkened and the green bulb came to life. He heard the heavy metal lock being turned, and then the door opened. A giant of a black man dressed in a white orderly’s uniform emerged. He smiled at Watts.
“Are you with Crane and Campbell?”
“Yes,” Watts said, straightening up. “I represent the firm.”
“Have you been to see him before?”
“No. First time.”
He smiled again. “You’ll do fine. Come with me, please.”
Watts stood, grabbed his brief case, and followed the orderly through the open heavy door. They walked a long corridor. There were no windows only unmarked and unopened doors. Watts became conscious of every step and every breath he took. The farther he progressed in the old building, the farther he felt like he was descending into hell.
They passed another locked door where an armed guard stood watch. Immediately after the guard, they passed a nurses’ station. Three busy nurses hustled in and out of the cubicles and paid Watts no attention.
Four more corridors branched off from the nurses’ station. Watts followed the orderly down the one marked “A.” They reached a certain point and the big man held out his hand. “Wait here please.” The orderly disappeared behind a door.
Despite the cold winter day outside, Watts felt flush and began to sweat. He pushed his hair out of his eyes as he waited. The door opened again. A man in his late-fifties and wearing a lab coat over his shirt and tie emerged. He smiled to put Watts at ease and then shook his hand.
“I’m Cliffe Barron, the attending psychiatrist for this unit. Are you with the Crane group?”
“I am. I’m Sonny Watts.”
“You look awful young to be a lawyer.”
“I’ve just taken the bar, waiting on the results. I’ve clerked for the firm throughout my years in law school.”
“And they sent you to conduct the interview with Henry Brooks?”
“Don’t let my youth fool you, Doctor. I’m very perceptive. I can handle our cl
ient.”
Barron smiled. “Of course. This way please.”
He led Watts into another room, clear of any furniture save a small metal table with two folding chairs on either side. An iron ring was bolted to the floor’s center.
“You will sit here,” Barron said. “Your client will be brought in and will take the other seat. Your conversation will be private, yet I must warn you not to incite him in any manner.” Barron pointed to the wall. “A panic button is there for emergencies.”
Watts sat and nodded politely at the doctor. He opened his brief case and removed several documents and a leather-bound notebook. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“Very well,” Barron said. “Let us know if we can further assist you.”
Barron left the room. Watts squirmed a bit in his seat in anticipation of Brooks’ arrival. He had heard the whispers of the others at the firm. They said the man was truly repulsive. That it was hard to look at him much less speak with him. But when he did speak, his coldness, his savagery sent chills down one’s spine. Watts was no dummy. He knew the old men at the law firm wanted nothing to do with this monster, but the press, the notoriety was worth taking the case. Watts was just the firm’s sacrificial lamb.
A door at the back of the room opened. The black orderly who had escorted Watts earlier entered; he held Henry Brooks by the arm. Watts felt his breath escape him. He had never seen a man so frighteningly thin before. He could make out bone structure wherever the skin was exposed. He was particularly drawn to the man’s head—a skull with pale blue eyes. Without the man even uttering a word, Watts felt he was in the presence of evil.
Brooks sat in the folding chair as the orderly took the loose chain around the detainee’s waist and locked him to the floor ring. The black man tugged on the chain, and finding it secured, exited the room. Watts looked directly at Brooks. He could sense the man searching his soul.
Watts swallowed his anxiety. “Mr. Brooks, I’m…”
“I know who you are,” Brooks said. “You are the deceiver—the giver and the taker. There is light and darkness here. I can see it in your eyes.”
Watts tried to smile but couldn’t. “Mr. Brooks, I represent…”
“War is coming. The end is nigh. No more pretending now. You shall be called. You must pick up the cause.”
“Cause? And what cause is that, Mr. Brooks?”
Henry Brooks flashed his yellowed, crooked teeth. “You will burn, but you will rise from the ash. Your power is not to turn water into wine, but to turn the wine into poison. Betraying God is easy, deceiver, but when you betray the devil, there’s hell to pay. My end is your beginning. It is your destiny.”
JULY 4, 1976
6:22 AM
The Eastland Heights Trailer Park was located in a lot on the outskirts of the town of Macinaw. A scraggly pine forest stood to its left, and to the right, a high fence separated it from the yard of a salvage company. A low-lying fog covered the grounds making the trailers look like abandoned ships moored in some forgotten harbor.
Most of the inhabitants of Eastland were still asleep when five patrol cars rolled down the center dirt drive. Grubbs trailer was in the back of the lot—a shabby brown and white single-wide with loose underpinning. Grubbs’ beat-up, red truck was there as were several motorcycles.
Crawford exited the lead patrol car, pulling the warrant from his pocket and making a fast approach. Local magistrate, Wilbur Shaw, one of Crawford’s fishing buddies, came up with a drug search warrant based solely on the sheriff’s late night say-so.
He banged on the trailer door. “Ryan Grubbs? This is Sheriff Crawford. We have a warrant to search the premises.”
The silence inside was broken by startled movement. Crawford turned and winked at Deputy Haskit who was standing behind him. Haskit drew his weapon, reared back and kicked open the door.
At that same moment, a screen door swung open on the back of the trailer. Terrance Orton, the smaller man from the 7-11 incident, ran out barefoot and shirtless. He made it to the bottom of the back stoop when Deputy Evans stepped in and swung a two-by-four that clubbed him in the knee, sending him yelling and cursing to the ground. Orton rolled on his back and held his bruised knee.
“Well, what do you know?” Evans mused. “If it ain’t the party-man himself.”
With the entrance cleared, Crawford followed his deputy into the front room. Roland Wolfe, Orton’s partner, sat on a couch in his boxers next to an overweight woman who was squeezed into an extra small tee-shirt. Wolfe had no expression but his eyes fired daggers at the lawmen.
“Where’s Grubbs?” Crawford asked.
The back-bedroom door opened and Grubbs walked out—a naked woman partially draped in a bed sheet stood behind him. Grubbs was over six feet tall and well-built. Like the others, he had a beard and long hair that fell past his shoulders. He had had just enough time to slip on a pair of jeans.
“Well, well, the high sheriff himself. How’s it hanging, Crawford?”
“I should ask you the same, Rhino. Long time no see.”
“So, what are you and Macinaw’s finest doing in my house so early in the morning?”
Crawford held up the warrant before returning it to his pocket. “Looking for drugs. We got wind that a pipeline may be running right through the center of your home.”
Grubbs shook his head. “Not here, Sheriff. We’re clean.”
“Really? I hear meth comes through here by the truckload.”
“I don’t know who the hell told you that, but your info sucks.”
Crawford moved closer to Grubbs. “C’mon, Rhino. You know if we search hard enough, we’ll find what we’re looking for.”
Grubbs grinned at the not so subtle hint. “You boys always do.” He then moved even closer to Crawford and lowered his voice. “What’s this all about?”
Crawford grabbed him by the wrists and raised them to eye level. Grubbs had the same sigils of Abaddon and Michael tattooed on his forearms. “Do I really need to explain it to you, Rhino?”
Grubbs jerked loose from the sheriff. “They’re just tattoos, man. Nothing illegal ‘bout that.”
“But murder is.”
“Man, I didn’t have nothing to do with killing them colored boys. I got witnesses.”
“Who? These shit-bag rednecks?” Crawford indicated the couch. “You better come up with better witnesses than that.”
Grubbs snorted like a mad bull. “What do you want, Crawford?”
“Information…for now. Report to the law complex this afternoon at one. And bring these witnesses with you.”
Grubbs frowned. “Today? C’mon Crawford. It’s the fourth of July.”
“That’s right. So be on time or we’ll be back to put a firecracker up your ass.”
11:00 AM
With the temperature already over ninety degrees, Macinaw was in for a blistering fourth of July holiday. Chan drew deeply on the offered cigarette and blew the exhaled smoke out the passenger side window. The breeze was hot but it felt so good to be out again. Norma had picked him up from the hospital in her ride, a ’71 brown Pinto Runabout, and headed for the law enforcement complex to get his car.
“What’s the latest?” Chan asked.
“Talked to William Anderson again. He still denies any knowledge of Henry Brooks.”
“He’s lying.”
“I know, but what can you do? It’s their dirty little secret and they’re not telling anybody.”
“Watts knew. He said it might be something major.”
“But what could he have discovered between last week and yesterday?” Norma asked. “He claimed he knew nothing before.”
“He said he hadn’t seen the Macinaw Seven since the trial—unless one recently paid him a visit. Is that even possible?”
“I don’t see how. Crawford has had the remaining three under constant surveillance.”
“Right. So, barring some outside contact, Watts must have remembered something from six years ago,” Chan said.
“I’d like to read the transcript of the trial again.”
Norma nodded. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“There’s growing sentiment in the black community that the police aren’t going to be there to protect them. That we are on our own. Maybe even have to protect our own.”
“Hmmm. That could be a problem.”
“There’s a meeting later at Anderson’s church. Some high-profile organizers will be there.”
“You going?”
Norma nodded. “Darby wants me to cover the parade today, but I plan to swing by there later.”
“I’ll do it. I mean, I’ll cover the parade for you—take the photos, talk to the mayor, interview a few locals. You go take in the meeting.”
“Feeling well enough to go?”
“Yeah. Besides, I plan on being at the fairgrounds tonight for the fireworks anyway so I might as well cover the whole thing.” He hesitated and then added, “I’ve got a date.” Norma looked over at her young friend and smiled at him until he laughed. “Is there some problem with me having a date?”
“No. Just wondering what kind of woman would go out with a man who had been shot at, dragged in the street and set on fire?”
“A very beautiful woman, thank you. Someone who doesn’t mind a few scars.”
“Oh, so she’s blind then,” Norma laughed.
Chan laughed too. “No, but if she is going out with me then perhaps her judgment is slightly off.”
“Not at all. Seriously, that’s great. Is it the cute nurse from the hospital?”
Chan nodded. “Jean Reid. She’s a Macinaw local.”
“I’m really happy for you, Chan. You’re young. It’s time you had some distraction from all this craziness.”
“What about you?” Chan asked. “You’ve been dealing with this ‘craziness’ too. And for years, I might add.”
Norma hesitated in her response, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I try not to let it get to me, but it’s there under my skin. Henry Brooks, the Macinaw Seven. They’re stains that will never fully come clean.” She looked over at him. “I’ve seen what those stories did to this town. And I can feel it happening again. You may have taken the physical brunt of the past few weeks, but I, like most every other citizen of Macinaw, live with the pain daily. There is no getting away from it.”
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