Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  1:47 PM

  Special Agent Mike Dunn had been waiting in Crawford’s chair, behind Crawford’s desk when the door opened and the sheriff entered.

  “Comfy?” Crawford asked.

  “Not very, Sheriff. I must say that as a southern gentleman, your hospitality instincts need some refining.”

  Crawford frowned. “I’m sorry, Agent Dunn. Did my deputies forget your coffee and donuts this morning?”

  “This is no joke, Sheriff. I know all about your little raid with your questionable search warrant. And I know all about the group of tattooed long-hairs you brought in for questioning. What I don’t know is why I wasn’t informed of any part of it.”

  Crawford stood in front of his desk, leaned over, and pressed his fingertips down on the top. “Dunn, I told you from the beginning, I welcome your help. For God’s sake, sir, I need your help…desperately. But this is my play. People in this town are dying. I can’t sit around and wait for the big city super cop to come down here, comb through every file and badger prior witnesses while hot leads need to be hunted down and vetted.”

  “You’re getting awfully close to being insubordinate, Sheriff, interfering with a federal investigation.”

  “Jesus, Dunn! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! You want to be head-honcho so bad that you’re overlooking what’s truly important here. There are four unexplained murders about to boil over and you can’t see beyond who should be saluting who. Hell, I have half a mind to give you my badge, go home to my wife, and let you deal with this whole damn thing yourself.”

  Dunn held up his hand to appeal for calm. He rose and walked to the front of the desk. He held up both hands, this time in a surrendering fashion. “You’re right. I may have jumped the gun a bit. But I’m getting pressure on this one too—the federal government, civil rights groups, everyone. If some type of control is not implemented soon, your entire town could go under. It’s the last thing anyone wants to see.” He sighed and then said, “In that regard, tell me what I can do to help.”

  It wasn’t exactly an apology, but Crawford took solace in Dunn at least recognizing a need for cooperation. “Grubbs and his crew are being fairly tight-lipped about the tattoos. Each one has the same emblems that Henry Brooks used to mark his victims. What does the Bureau know? Is there a gang connection to Henry Brooks?”

  Dunn sat on the edge of the desk. “Not to my knowledge, but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be. What does this Grubbs deal in?”

  “Meth mainly. Although his few arrests have been for dealing marijuana.”

  Dunn nodded. “Many of our southern rural OMG’s deal in meth. It’s easier for them to get as opposed to cocaine.”

  “OMG’s?”

  “Outlaw motorcycle gangs. It’s a term the Justice Department likes to throw around. The Hell’s Angels, the Bandidos, Warlocks, Pagans and the like. They have branch affiliations everywhere. And we have categorized over three hundred other OMG’s in the United States. Often these gangs identify with a polarizing figure: Satan, Hitler, Charles Manson. They represent themselves with their mark or brand. I could definitely see how Henry Brooks might strike a chord with such a group.”

  “Would they murder in his name? Use his methods?”

  “Deal, extort, kidnap, steal, rape. You name it and these guys have been known to do it. Murder? Yes, Sheriff, without any question.”

  4:22 PM

  As he spied Jean walking from her house to his car, Chan felt a wave of anticipation that he had never experienced. Throughout his high school and college years, Chan had been out on numerous dates with different girls, but this one felt different. This one held a little more promise to it.

  It also didn’t help his nerves that Jean looked drop-dead gorgeous. Her outfit was a simple pair of blue jean shorts and a white tee-shirt with an American flag across the chest. But it was the way her hair fell about her shoulders, the way she walked, the way she gave him a little wave and smiled as she approached. Chan thought he might melt.

  “Hi,” she said as she opened the passenger door and slid in. “I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”

  “No, not at all. The parade doesn’t start until five.”

  “Good. I didn’t think my shift would ever end today.”

  “Tough day?”

  “Well, just a long one. The floor was not too busy actually—especially since we sent our favorite repeat customer home today.”

  Chan laughed. He started the Torino and began to back up out of her drive. “I didn’t realize how close we live to one another. My apartment is just three blocks over on Marshall.”

  “Oh, cool,” Jean said. “Now you won’t have any excuse not to come see me.”

  As they made their way through Macinaw, the conversation between them was free, easy and rapid fire.

  “So, tell me about your home,” Jean said. “What’s life like in Villa Rica?”

  Chan bumped his shoulder. “Small town. Easy living. Not much to tell really.”

  “What are the people like?”

  “Like here, I imagine. Most are nice. But we have our share of problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “Divisions. We have them too. Racial divides. Economic divides. The same as in Macinaw.”

  Jean scrunched up her nose as she thought about it. “But you don’t seem to carry around any of those issues. Granted I’ve only known you for a little while, but you seem fairly level-headed when it comes to things like race.”

  “Well, contrary to popular opinion, not everyone down South is a racist, you know.” He laughed but then became a bit more reflective. “It’s how you’re raised, really. If you’re not taught to think along those lines, then they don’t become a problem for you. When I was little, my mom worked for a local produce company in town. One day, while she was working in the stock room, a man entered from the back, held a knife to her throat and tried to force himself on her. Two of her co-workers, both black men, heard the noise and came to her rescue. Two months later one of those workers was fired for being five minutes late to work—the first and only time that he had ever been late. It didn’t equate for my mother so she complained to the management until it got her fired.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah, it was. It’s probably why I went into journalism in the first place—to expose the hypocrisy, the unfairness—get the truth out there. People are just people as far as I’m concerned—no better, no worse.” He looked over at Jean. “I have a feeling you were taught to believe the same way.”

  Jean smiled. “We were. Which didn’t exactly make it easy on my sister and me when desegregation happened. But like you said—we moved on.” She hesitated and then added, “I just wish everyone had.”

  As they made their way through town, they turned to more upbeat subjects, including their extended families, favorite hometown restaurants and their love for music.

  They pulled into the lot behind The Republic and hustled over to the town square. The crowd, a mix of mostly happy, sweaty faces in red, white and blue, stood three rows deep, awaiting the parade’s start.

  Chan, with the paper’s camera strapped around his neck, led Jean by the hand as they darted in and out the throng of people and searched for a place to get the best view. One of the square’s park benches, that looked inward toward a Confederate memorial, was unattended, so they decided to perch themselves there.

  “Can you see okay?” Chan asked.

  “Best seat in the house.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze.

  The parade was led by the Macinaw High School marching band playing a series of patriotic tunes. Boy Scouts, the local Rotary club, a Minute Men re-enactment troop, festive floats and dignitaries in open convertibles were among those who soon followed. Chan took shots of it all.

  An hour later and Chan was interviewing the Honorable Jeremiah Stone, mayor of Macinaw and the grand marshal of the parade. Stone was a likable man who had been Macinaw’s mayor for the past twenty years. Sli
ght of build and bespectacled, Stone’s favorite saying was “It’s a great day in Macinaw.” In his interview with Chan, the mayor was concerned about recent events, but he was delighted that much of the town had come out to celebrate the country’s birthday. He hoped and prayed for better days ahead.

  Afterwards, Chan found Jean waiting for him near the park bench. “Thanks for being patient,” he said.

  “No problem. What do you want to do now?”

  “I need to get to the office and write this up. Shouldn’t take too long. Then we can grab a bite before the fireworks at nine.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Jean said.

  “Sorry I have to cram so much work in with our date.”

  “It’s okay. Actually, I’m kind of excited to see how a real reporter writes up a story.”

  Chan shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t call the process all that exciting, and watching me type can at times be painful, but at least the building has air conditioning.”

  Jean laughed before blowing a fallen strand of her hair away from her face. “Then it will definitely be worth the visit.”

  6:13 PM

  “Now is not the time for cowardice,” boomed the deep voice of Reverend Daniel Howard of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. “We must act decisively and just. We must show the people of South Carolina that we are stronger together than apart—that there are no cracks in our armor.” The charismatic and statuesque African-American minister and head of the SCLC Action Committee moved from behind the altar with microphone in hand and addressed the swelling crowd inside the Northfork Chapel. “God is with us, lest we forget. God is with us.”

  Norma stood in the back and watched the proceedings. She noted that the three remaining members of the Macinaw Seven—Anderson, Johnson and Wells—sat together on the front row. Their heads were bowed down as if the attention was too much.

  “Since the early days, we have had to protect our own,” Howard continued. “When society cannot or will not protect its citizens, it is right, our duty, in the name of God, to take matters unto ourselves. We shall not be denied. The good people of Macinaw shall not be denied. On this, the two-hundredth birthday of our country’s independence, I look around and still see those yearning for that independence, still enslaved in a system that denies solace, denies fairness, denies justice.”

  As Howard continued to sermonize and endear himself to the enthusiastic crowd, Ja’Len Wells got up from the pew and walked discreetly to the church’s side entrance. He came down the outside steps, loosening his tie. He sought out the shade of a large oak around which many cars were parked. He leaned against the tree and took a few deep breaths.

  “Feeling the heat?”

  Ja’len turned to look behind him. Norma was standing there. “I ain’t got nothing to say to the press, Miss Norma.”

  “I know,” Norma said. “But I thought you might need a friend.”

  “No, ma’am. I appreciate it. But just no….”

  “Ja’Len, you must tell us what’s going on. You must tell me.” She moved closer and pointed back at the church. “You know what’s happening inside. You know how badly this is spinning out of control.”

  Ja’Len shook his head. “I can’t say nothing. I ain’t saying nothing, do you hear?”

  “Please, Ja’Len, there’s so much at stake. Help me so I can help you.”

  “No, now, just leave me alone,” Ja’Len said as he walked away. “Leave me alone.”

  Norma watched as he made his way across the parking area, slid into his grey Mercury and took off. Disappointed, she turned and headed back inside the church.

  Down the road, Ja’Len pushed the limits of his old car. He was hot, angry, confused and still scared for his life. He tried to calm himself by reaffirming his actions. He hadn’t told anyone what they saw that day. He had kept his promise for six long years. He had kept his mouth shut. He cannot be held responsible even if others had crossed the line. He can’t come after me. I have kept my word.

  He pulled to a stop at a crossroad in the swampy nowhere lands of Macinaw. The heat and his desperation were working on him. He looked to the right into the dark woods beyond and saw a flash of movement. He zeroed in on the area—beyond the river’s run-off, the knotty cypress trees, and the moss-drenched oaks. He blinked and saw the movement again.

  It was him—the skinny white man, the murderer, Henry Brooks. He was running from tree to tree, making his way through the swamps, coming through the tall river grass, coming after him—the boar knife in his hand—a wicked smile on his face.

  Ja’Len leaned over, rested his head on the steering wheel and rubbed his tired eyes. Get ahold of yourself, man. There’s no one there. It’s just your mind playing tricks. Ja’Len straightened up and looked again into the swamp. There was only the wild green foliage and inky black water. He shook his head and even laughed at himself.

  As Ja’Len drove on through the crossroad, confident he had his fears under control, a shadowy figure arose in the backseat of his car.

  6:47 PM

  Sheriff Crawford and Agent Dunn came into the holding room. Ryan Grubbs was pacing behind the table and chairs.

  “Finally. What took so damn long? When the hell are you gonna let me outta here?”

  “Shut up and sit down,” Dunn ordered.

  “This is bullshit, man. I want my lawyer.”

  “I said shut up and sit down, Grubbs,” Dunn said.

  “Do as he says, Rhino,” Crawford said calmly. “You’re not under arrest. You don’t need a lawyer just yet.”

  Grubbs swung the chair around and sat in it with his chest against the back. “So why the hell am I here then? And who the hell is this guy?”

  “This is Special Agent Dunn with the FBI.”

  “Oh, you brought in the FBI, big fucking deal.”

  “Listen, Grubbs. We need information,” Dunn said also taking a seat. “And you’re gonna provide it for us.”

  “Oh, I am, huh? You cops got some nerve keeping me and my posse locked up all day and the thinking I’m gonna give you any goddamn thing.”

  “We released your posse hours ago. We just want to talk to you.”

  Grubbs pulled his hair out of his face. “I already told Crawford. They’re just tattoos.” He held up his arms to show Dunn the Abaddon and Michael sigils. “I had nothing to do with killing them niggas. Not a damn thing.”

  Dunn dropped a folder down on the table. “Tell us then about the HBD’s—the Henry Brooks Disciples.”

  Grubbs shook his head and sat up a bit. “Man…I don’t know…” He waited and then, “Alright, it’s a club. You know—a motorcycle club. They’re out of Savannah.”

  “And they run drugs?” Dunn asked.

  “No, you dumb prick, they run toys for Santa when his sleigh is broke.”

  Dunn jumped up, reached over and slammed Grubbs’ head on the table, blooding his nose. “Listen to me you son of a bitch, when I ask a question you give me a straight answer! You got me!?”

  Crawford reached over and forced Dunn’s hand away. Grubbs slid back into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and wiping the blood from his nostrils. “Fuck you, man! I definitely want a lawyer now. I’m gonna sue the hell outta you pigs.”

  “Rhino,” Crawford said, again with passivity. “Tell us the origin of the HBD’s.”

  Grubbs took a minute to compose himself and then focused on Crawford, “Some guy from Savannah, Diamond Jack, they call him—a four-time loser in the Coastal State pen. Heard about Brooks. Liked his style. He started a market trail up and down I-95. I got recruited last year through some associates. The tats are just a sign of membership, that’s all.”

  “What kind of numbers are we talking about here? How many are in the gang?” Dunn asked.

  “I don’t know. Thirty? Fifty? What do I look like? A freaking accountant?”

  “Think hard now, Grubbs,” Crawford jumped back in. “Has anyone come to you? Tried to recruit you or some of the other local HBD for s
omething other than running drugs?”

  Grubbs grinned and shook his head. “Look, Crawford, I know where you’re going with this and my answer is still the same. I had nothing to do with knocking off them Macinaw Seven boys.”

  “No one has approached….?”

  “No! How many times do I have to tell you? I had nothing to do with it.”

  Crawford paused as he looked over at Dunn and then, “Okay. If that’s all you’ve got, then you’re free to go.”

  Grubbs stood and kicked the chair out of his way. “That’s it? You hold me in here all day, ask me two questions, nearly break my neck and then just turn me loose? What about a fucking apology?”

  “Get the hell outta here, Grubbs, before we do charge you with something,” Dunn said.

  “Unbelievable.” Grubbs walked out still rubbing the back of his neck. “Bunch of punk-ass pigs.” The door slammed behind him.

  “You believe him?” Dunn asked.

  “Not as far as I can throw him,” Crawford said. “We should probably keep a close eye on him and the other two.” “How are your rotations holding up?”

  “We’re thin. Even with Orangeburg and Colleton helping out.”

  “Need more men?”

  Crawford stood and paced. “I’m worried about too big a presence. Things are already dicey between the whites and blacks, and the black community doesn’t exactly have a lot of faith in the badge.”

  “So, what do you suggest, Sheriff?”

  “We’ve got to catch this bastard and soon. Trap him, maybe.

  “Live bait?”

  Crawford nodded. “Live bait.”

  9:23 PM

  John Philip Sousa’s The Stars and Stripes Forever blasted from the fairgrounds’ speakers as a series of blue, red, green, gold and silver pinwheels, comets and chrysanthemum bursts lit up the clear Macinaw sky. Chan and Jean sat atop the shaky wooden bleachers in the grounds stadium, a century old playing field that was used for special college football games prior to the 1950s and for horse shows and motor-cross events in more recent times. The Macinaw crowd applauded and cheered with each successive firework blast which grew in size and rapidity.