Carolina Cruel

by Lawrence Thackston

  “My secretary tells me you are interested in the employment record of one of our former associates. Is that correct?” Davis asked, followed by a floppy smile.

  “Sonny Watts,” Tindal replied. “He was an associate here from ’68 until his death in ’76.”

  “Yes, of course. And what exactly is it that you’re hoping to find?”

  “We think certain information about him may help us link together clues to the Macinaw Seven murders. Perhaps even solve the mystery behind the disappearance of Sheriff Crawford.”

  Davis rocked back and forth in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Well, now, you have piqued my interest, Ms. Huddleston. But I still fail to see how there could be a connection with all that and Mr. Watt’s employment record.”

  “If you’ll let us look at the records,” Chan interjected, “we have other research that might make that connection clear.”

  For the first time, Davis shifted his eyes to Chan. “I just realized who you are Mr. Adams. You’re that reporter from The Macinaw Republic. You’re the one who did that expose on the Macinaw Seven all those years ago.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You wrote a book about it, didn’t you? Something about Henry Brooks’ spirit or something?”

  “Chasing Henry Brooks’ Ghost,” Chan corrected. He pointed. “It’s right there on the shelf behind you.”

  Davis did a slow swivel, looked at his book collection and turned back again. “So it is. How about that?” He waited and then, “Still chasing ghosts, are we?”

  “Perhaps. Listen, Mr. Davis, are you going to help us here or not?”

  Davis sat back in his chair. “Well, what exactly do you need from his employment record?”

  Tindal jumped back in. “Social security confirmation, former employers, records of his cases even. Afterwards, we plan on going next door to probate court to look at his will.”

  “His will?” Davis rubbed the arm rests of his chair. “Well, I guess we can come up with something for you two. You know, despite the acclaim he won for daddy’s firm with the Macinaw Seven trial, I only met the man a few times in the years he worked here.”

  “What do you remember about him?” Tindal asked.

  Davis thought about it and then smiled. “His hair. Kind of fell into his face like a sheep dog.” He laughed at the comparison.

  “What else?”

  “Other than that, all I remember was how nice a man he was.”

  8:17 PM

  Chan sat on one side of the booth at Shoney’s restaurant reading through a yellow legal pad containing their notes on the afternoon discovery of Sonny Watts. Not only did Davis provide the desired employment information, but Watts’ most recent will before his death had also been prepared by the firm and their copy saved them time and a trip to the probate office.

  Tindal slid into the booth on the opposite side with her plate from the salad bar—dark green lettuce, chick peas, broccoli and pasta. She also had her iPhone out and was in the process of sending a text message.

  Neither spoke for a few minutes until Chan looked up. “Savannah, Georgia.”

  Tindal nodded. “He was there for four years—from ’64 to ’68. An associate at Bingham and Dodd. There was no mention of his time at Crane and Campbell in his résumé.”

  Chan tapped his pen on the notepad. “The HBD’s originated out of Savannah. What do you want to bet there’s a connection there?”

  “I’ve already made a few calls to some reporters I know in Savannah. They’ll check on all that for us. But the real news is the will.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Besides the burnt, worthless, uninsured house that he left to his ex-wife—thanks for nothing, sweetheart; his holdings, life insurance, stocks and other accounts—everything else—went to his cousin, Dale Watts, in Miami.”

  “Lucky cousin,” Chan said.

  “Yeah, except there is no cousin.”

  “What?”

  “I checked for every version of the name, looked into Watts’ family records, ran the social security numbers given on the executor’s instructions, et cetera, et cetera. He doesn’t exist. Never did.”

  “So what happened to Watts’ money?”

  “The Davis law firm wired it to a bank in Miami—in holding for whom they believed to be this mysterious cousin. It had a transfer time limit in the bank, specifically instructed in the executor of the estate’s list of duties. It sat there for two months and then it was sent to an offshore account in Andorra—all two million.”

  “So, Watts fakes his death, pulls his Henry Brooks stunt and then later recoups all of his old assets from this offshore account.”

  Tindal nodded. “Yes. But get this: from what I could find out, the account is still active even today. They won’t hand out any specific information to me obviously, but I did find out that the account has passed to three private bankers in the Banca Privada d’Andorra over the past forty years.”

  “Maybe he’s drawing from the account living in Europe somewhere. To think that bastard might be out there in the world now, living it up, having the last laugh—makes me sick to the core.”

  Tindal nodded taking a bite of her salad. “And don’t forget, he was no doubt paid handsomely for arranging the return of Henry Brooks.”

  “You’re right. He had a good life here in Macinaw as a lawyer. He must have been paid a pretty penny to go through all that—burning his house, killing one of his migrant workers, having his hand in the deaths of the Macinaw Seven and Lord knows what else.

  They suspended the conversation momentarily as the Shoney’s waitress brought Chan his cheeseburger and fries. He chewed on a fry as Tindal continued to probe: “How long was it between the time Watts was supposedly killed in that fire and when Sheriff Crawford disappeared.”

  “Nearly six weeks. Why?”

  “Where did Watts go—what did he do? He fakes his death but to what end? Did he slip out of the country then? Was he involved in the actual murders of the Macinaw Seven or was he just manipulating things, pulling the strings? There are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

  Chan bit into his burger. “He was in court the day Luther Jennings was killed—so that rules him out of that one. And they believe that Cheeseboro and Grimes were killed in late afternoon which would have been hard to place him at that motel at that time without someone knowing. I’ll have to double check his whereabouts, but my guess is he was the manipulator. The HBD’s or another hired killer may have done the dirty work.”

  “But even as manipulator wouldn’t he have stuck around Macinaw after he faked his death? Just to make sure everything went according to his plan.”

  “What are you getting at Tindal?”

  “The man is supposed to be dead. His house is gone. If he was directly involved in the murders of the Seven or not, he still would have hung around—to manipulate things like you said. So the question is where did he hide out? Where did he live for those six weeks?”

  Chan smiled at his quick-thinking partner. “Where no one would have ever bothered to look for him. The home of Henry Brooks.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why Crawford was out there. He found out somehow. He was looking for Watts. Damn it, that’s gotta be it.”

  “It would make sense,” she confirmed.

  Chan shook a fry at Tindal like a teacher with a ruler. “We’ve got to get in there. We’ve got to search that old house.”

  “You heard Sheriff Monroe. The FBI won’t allow it.”

  Chan flipped the fry into the air and caught it in his mouth. “What the FBI doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”

  JULY 28, 1976

  8:46 AM

  “Where the hell is he?” Agent Dunn asked for the third time.

  Crawford moved from behind his desk and shut the door to his office. He indicated for Dunn to sit and then the sheriff returned to his own seat. “He’s safe, Agent Dunn. That’s all anyone needs to know at the moment.”

&nb
sp; “That is not all I need to know, Sheriff,” Dunn said adamantly. “This investigation is under my watch. I am responsible for Reverend Anderson. We had an agreement, remember? You must tell me where he is.”

  Crawford put an unlit cigar into his mouth and chewed on its end as he debated what to tell the FBI man. “He’s in a safe place, sir. My chief deputy has a cabin not far from here. We thought it best to move him without notifying the FBI, SLED, ATF, DOJ…the whole alphabet of law enforcement. If the deaths of Deonte Johnson and Deputy Evans told me one thing, it’s that we had too many people in the know.”

  Dunn quieted and nodded his head. “I can assure you that the leak, if there is one, did not come from our end. But I’ll take your reasoning on that for now.” He paused and then asked, “Who else knows of the location?”

  “Just me and Chief Deputy Haskit.”

  Dunn ran his fingers across the desktop. “How long will you protect him? How long will you keep him there?”

  Crawford shook his head. “I don’t know. We haven’t gotten that far in our thinking. Took me forever to convince him it was in his best interest.”

  Dunn leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Well, we’ve still got eyes on Grubbs and his crew if they try to make a move. Too bad there wasn’t anything we could pin on that son of a bitch to keep him locked up.”

  “Grubbs is dirty, a real pain in the ass, but I don’t think he’s the main threat here. Someone from the outside is running the show.”

  “We’ve managed to infiltrate the HBD’s in Savannah. But so far we don’t have anything. What about Ellis Dover?”

  “He’s got a pile of gold and a reason to hate, but I don’t think he has it in him to orchestrate a mass killing. He’s just an old blowhard with an axe to grind.”

  “Which leaves us where?”

  Crawford nodded. “Back where we started, I’m afraid—with Henry Brooks. Whoever is behind this has played every angle in a highly imaginative way—from getting inside the heads of the Macinaw Seven to the ruse at the Piggly Wiggly.”

  Dunn agreed as he stood to leave. “Yes, but in my experiences as a lawman as I’m sure it is with yours, when someone is up to no good and they complicate things too much, they always mess up eventually.” He made a move toward the door. “By the way, how’s Anderson holding up?”

  “He’s almost catatonic. Won’t say a word to anybody.”

  “Easy to kill a man who’s already dead.”

  Crawford nodded. “But apparently damn near impossible to catch one.”

  10:16 AM

  Chan sat at his desk in the newsroom pecking away on an article about a recent proposal to build a new high school in town. Macinaw High had not had an upgrade since desegregation and there was an urgent need for classroom expansion to accommodate the growing population. Like most issues in public education, however, the question came down to funding—an always contentious subject in the rural county. Of course, the article held little interest for Chan. Although things were far from over with Henry Brooks and the Macinaw Seven, life continued to move on and The Republic had to keep up with it—mundane as it might be. But Chan’s interest was still on the larger story. He wondered once everything was over, if he would be satisfied with the usual small town stuff like this proposition debate. He already had thoughts about moving to a bigger town: Columbia, Charleston or maybe Charlotte and work for a paper with a larger circulation. Jean was a registered nurse and could find work in any city—and he hoped she would be a part of any new move he would make.

  With Jean on his mind, he grabbed the desk phone and made the call. “Three West,” he told the hospital operator. And then, “Jean Reid, please.”

  “This is Nurse Reid,” she said after making it to the phone.

  “Hey. It’s me. How about we go out for dinner tonight?” Chan asked.

  “Did you not like the home-cooked meals we’ve had the past three nights?” she teased.

  “You know I did. I thought you might want to do something a little special.”

  “Of course, I’d love that. Where do you want to go?”

  “Norma was telling me about this little seafood restaurant near Mt. Pleasant.”

  “The Trawler? It’s wonderful. I’ve been there several times. But it’s Wednesday. You sure you want to drive all that way tonight? I don’t get off work until seven and then I’d have to go home and change.”

  “I could swing by your place and get some clothes for you—pick you up at the hospital.”

  There was a brief pause and then, “Sure. Sounds great. I’ll see you then.”

  After saying goodbye, Chan hung up the phone and stared off into empty space. His thoughts flew in all directions as he tried to make sense of recent events in his life. It had been such a rollercoaster the past few weeks with the move, new job and then these terrible murders and his injuries. But through it all, he had found Jean, and he discovered feelings that were beyond anything he had ever felt before. He couldn’t really put it into words, but she completed him—made him happy like no other. He questioned it: Is this love? He had seen his parents’ marriage fall apart and knew nothing was guaranteed, but he failed to see how he could do anything else in his life without her at his side. Perhaps it’s time to up the ante a little bit.

  “Adams,” Darby bellowed from his office. “Get in here.”

  Chan made the quick jaunt to his office and slid into the guest chair. “Sir?”

  “How’s the article coming?” Darby grunted.

  Chan shrugged a shoulder. “It’ll be ready for you by four.”

  Darby nodded quickly as that was not the point of his calling him to the office. “And what about the other thing?” He lowered his voice, “Any progress on Grubbs or the Disciples?”

  “Grubbs is back on the street. The police had nothing to hold him on after Deonte was killed. But he’s been low-key ever since.”

  Darby fanned out his mustache. “Anyone willing to give up info on him?”

  “Not really. They’re a close-knit group. Although one of the dancers at Dolly’s seemed a bit frightened when I mentioned the Disciples to her.”

  “You follow up with her?”

  “She disappeared that night, and I haven’t had a chance to revisit.”

  “Do it. Get to her. Any insight may prove invaluable at this point.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Darby leaned onto his desk and encouraged Chan to do the same on his side. He went back to a low tone. “With only one of the Seven left, something has to break soon. Either this Henry Brooks ghost gets to Anderson or the cops get their man, and we need to be there when it happens. Capiche?”

  Chan nodded and then leaned back in his chair. “You want him worse than the cops, don’t you?”

  “He’s fucked with our town long enough. Time for him to go down.”

  1:37 PM

  Norma huddled down in the seat of her Pinto with an eye on Reverend Anderson’s place. The house on Whitman Street was quiet. Norma would have sworn that no one was there, but with recent events, she figured it might just be Anderson’s way of staying out of sight. She tried calling and even knocked on the door several times but to no avail. She decided to sit tight and wait him out.

  She was drained by this point, numb to the killings and its fallout. She never thought that her journalistic career would be bookended with such heinous crimes so devastating to her community—especially connected as they seemingly were. But here she was again, staking out the last member of the Macinaw Seven, waiting to see if Henry Brooks would appear.

  Norma sat up in her seat as someone made an approach to the house. But it wasn’t Henry Brooks. It was another young black man, and he wore a ball cap and jacket—highly unusual in the height of this Macinaw heat. He stood at Anderson’s fence and looked all around him before entering the gate. Norma watched as the man climbed the stairs and then knocked on the front door. He waited, peered through windows and knocked again.

  Norma quietly got out of he
r car and slowly approached the man. She got to the gate when he swung around and saw her. He looked anxiously to the left and right but had nowhere to go. Norma stopped at the bottom of the steps.

  “Antwan?”

  Luther Jennings little brother froze upon hearing his name. He then nonchalantly put his hands in his pockets acting as if being caught here was not a big deal. “Hey,” he said. “I’m looking for William Anderson.”

  “Me too. I’m Norma Wiles with the paper.”

  “I know who you are, Miss Norma. You were the one who found my brother on his kitchen floor.”

  Norma nodded. “What are you doing here, Antwan?”

  Antwan turned to look at the door and then back at her. “Just checking on Willie. Make sure he’s okay. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, you know.”

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t realize you were that close to him.”

  “Oh, yes ma’am. I knew all them boys. We grew up together.”

  Norma could see the shame and guilt on his face and she went for it: “Antwan, do you know anything about these murders? Do you know why Henry Brooks came after your brother and his friends?”

  Antwan opened his mouth but the words caught in his throat.

  “Please, Antwan, if you know something….”

  “I don’t. I don’t know nothing. I’m sorry.” He then ran down the stairs, passed her and went quickly out of the gate.

  Norma watched as he disappeared down the street. Another closed-mouth response—another runner. But what could the kid truly know anyway?

  Norma sat down dejectedly on the last step of the house. She felt even emptier now, more powerless. Henry Brooks’ cold, dead hand was still holding a grip on her people. And it was tightening.

  4:39 PM

  Dixie Love grabbed her bag out of the back of her Chevy Malibu and headed toward the back entrance of Dolly’s Dollies. The house lights were on as she entered; the old building’s wear and tear showed under the scrutiny—cracks in the concrete walls, chipped tables and chairs, and cheap red carpet stained with beer and cigarette ash.