Chan fished his cigarette around in the ash tray. “No, Norma, I can’t.” He looked directly into her eyes. “I’ll never put another person I care about at risk like that again. I just can’t.” He made a fist and pounded the table. “I won’t.”
Norma allowed his anger to settle and then said, “It comes with the territory, my friend. These types of stories happen rarely, but they do happen. And you’ll have to accept all that goes with it.” She took another drag. “Chan, you’re a bright, young man—smart and intuitive. A couple of old dinosaurs like Darby and I won’t be able hang around long enough to see this through—you will.”
Chan was about to protest again, but Norma stopped him. “Trust me, Chan Adams, I know what I’m talking about. You will recover. You’ll bounce back and when you do, you’ll figure this whole thing out. I’ve seen how you’ve worked this story. You know when to be sympathetic, when to be cautious and when to kick ass—you’ve got great instincts for this kind of work. I’d hate to see you throw it all away now.” She paused to let her words sink in. “Give yourself a few more days. Just don’t rush to make your decision, okay?”
Chan sat motionless, the cig hanging from his lips. He then looked at her and briefly nodded.
“Good,” Norma said as she sat back in her chair. She took another drag and smiled. “And Chan, when you eventually do figure out who is behind this, give it to the son-of-a-bitch with both barrels.”
OCTOBER 6, 2016
11:22 AM
Chan walked up the steps of the Cannon House Office Building in Washington, D.C. It was a cloudless day in the nation’s capital and the bright sun and autumn air emboldened his every step. At the top, he paused and shook off any last-second doubt or fear.
He entered the large center doors not helping but to note the grand Beaux Arts style of architecture of the century old building. He bypassed a crowd of people and was soon in the massive rotunda surrounded by eighteen Corinthian columns, supporting its detailed, coffered dome. Chan took only a moment to look around. Although he had been to Washington many times before he had never been in this building. But his purpose there was too overriding for sightseeing, and he continued his march to the elevator doors.
His prior arrangements through the offices of Representatives Jim Clyburn and Joe Wilson of neighboring South Carolina congressional districts enabled his passing of security, and he was directed to the special elevators which took guests to the fifth floor. The elevator doors opened, and Chan walked calmly and directly through the nose bleed section of Cannon House. He came to room 527, office of South Carolina’s eighth district representative, Treywick Boland Richards.
Richards’ political career had been a highly successful one beginning with his election to the state’s senate in 1976. He had served judiciously in that position for three terms before setting his sights on Congress in 1988, where he had been re-elected every two years since. The still vibrant seventy-three-year-old Richards had become a popular mainstay in Washington introducing lasting legislation, serving on several committees and even chairing the Ethics Committee in recent years. He was pegged as a hard-working family man, who had built solid friendships on both sides of the aisle. There was even talk that, despite his age, he may be up for a cabinet position after the upcoming presidential election. Ellis Dover would have been very proud to see his prodigy become so successful.
A secretary’s desk was immediately to Chan’s right upon his entering the larger office of 527. He was greeted by an older woman with a pleasant face.
“Yes, sir. May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Congressman Richards,” Chan said coldly.
“Do you have an appointment,” she said as she pulled reading glasses to her eyes and scanned the day’s agenda.
“No. But what I have to say he needs to hear.”
The woman frowned. “Well, as it turns out, he is here in the office today.” She paused and then asked, “Is this of a personal nature?”
Chan nodded. “Oh, yes.”
She picked up the phone. “And what is your name, sir?”
“Tell him…Henry Brooks is here.”
The woman frowned again and relayed the message in a hushed tone. Almost immediately the door to Richards’ private office opened. An assistant and two interns hustled out.
Trey Richards then appeared at the door. He looked very distinguished, almost regal—a young man’s face under a grey head of hair and a fit body in a flattering grey suit. He stood motionless for a moment eyeing Chan. After the recollection, he smiled. “Chan Adams,” he said. “I was expecting one ghost and found another.” He tapped his door with his hand. “Come in, please.”
Chan followed him inside, pulling the door closed. Richards walked behind his grand desk and sat in his leather back chair. Beyond the desk, a picture window, wrapped in golden drapes, provided a beautiful view of the bustling city below.
“Would you care to sit?” Richards offered.
Chan shook his head.
Richards eyed him strangely. “Well, let’s see now, Adams. The last time I saw you I had just been elected to Congress for the first time. Am I right?”
“That’s right.”
“Still in Macinaw?”
Chan nodded.
Richards leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head—relaxed, confident. “So, tell me, what have you’ve been up to?”
“It’s a long story,” Chan said with no emotion.
“Okay. Then tell me why you’re here. What can I do for you?”
Chan felt it bubbling up inside him and he couldn’t suppress it any longer. “Well, for one, you can go straight to hell.”
Richards attempted a smile and turned his ear as if he misunderstood. “Pardon?”
“I said, you can go to hell, you spineless son of a bitch.”
Richards sat up in his chair and cleared his throat. “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe you should come another…”
“I know all about it, Richards. I know it was you in the Dover barn that day.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was you. You were having sex with Robert Dover. You had your tie around his neck—as some sort of erotic asphyxiation—you choked him to death.”
Richards picked up his phone. “I think you need to leave now.”
“There were eight of them, Richards. Eight witnesses to your crime, not seven. It was the eighth one that sent you the blackmail letter.”
Richards put down his phone and feigned confusion. “Blackmail letter? Adams what the hell are you talking about? God, man, I know the Macinaw Seven story affected you. I heard that you began living from bottle to bottle, but this…”
“You were part of the Davis and Milton law firm back in 1969. After you killed Robert and your fake suicide went to shit, you called Sonny Watts to save your ass. Only problem is you set the devil on the seven arrested but you didn’t get to the eighth witness. And in 1976 after you won your party’s nomination for the South Carolina senate, that witness sent you a letter demanding fifty thousand dollars. You were loaded so I’m sure you didn’t give a damn about the money. But you couldn’t risk the embarrassment or lose the chance at your growing power, could you? Not with all those black boys still out there running around that knew the truth. So you got your old buddy Watts to bring Henry Brooks back from the grave to murder the Seven. I wonder how much that cost you.”
“Now, Adams, these are serious and slanderous accusations, and I will hold you personally responsible for spreading these lies.”
Chan’s laugh dripped in sarcasm. He then leaned on the desk—hatred in his eyes. “Fuck you, Richards! You’re going down for all of this. For the Macinaw Seven, for Crawford, Haskit, Evans…” His voice broke slightly. “…for Jean. You’re going down for all of them.”
Richards rose from behind his desk and held out his hand. “Now, hold on, Adams.” He paused, thinking—his hand still out like a traffic cop. “This is all speculation. You can’t
prove any of this.”
“Yes, yes I can. I have evidence of Sonny Watts’ ties to Henry Brooks and the HBD’s, including Henry Brooks’ knife. I have Peyton Medlin’s amended autopsy of Robert Dover. I have the blackmail letter. And most importantly, I have the eighth witness who will swear as to what you did in the barn that day.”
Richards drew his hand across his face and held it against his mouth. He then looked directly at Chan and said, “Mistakes may have been made, Adams. But we can be reasonable about this. What is it that you want?” He went back to his desk and fumbled for his checkbook. “How much do you want? How much to make this go away?”
Chan shook his head sadly. “You don’t get it, do you, Richards? Sometimes you just can’t make things go away.”
Richards began to breathe heavily; his face looking much older than a few minutes ago. He slammed the checkbook down on his desk. Somehow in a matter of seconds his life had all fallen apart—his entire, well-crafted plan had imploded. In desperation, he reached in a drawer and pulled out a handgun, .38 caliber. He pointed it at Chan’s heart. “Oh, yes, Mr. Adams. I can make things go away. One way or another.”
“You’re going to shoot me here? In your office?”
“You attacked me. Came in shouting crazy things. I have a right to defend myself. My staff will back me. And the world will believe me over some drunk, has-been reporter.”
Chan undid the buttons on his shirt and showed Richards the wires and listening device taped to his chest. “I haven’t had anything to drink yet, Congressman.”
AUGUST 6, 1976
8:22 PM
Sheriff Crawford sat in a rocking chair beside his wife’s bed. Now in the final stages of ALS, she had been confined to her bed like this for months. With his two sons grown and out of the house, the sheriff had to hire sitters for her for much of the time he was away. Whenever he was home, her care became his second job. It had become a painful way for both to live. He looked at the frail woman’s face as he rocked away, trying to remember the beautiful woman he once knew. He checked his watch. Less than four hours to go, he thought.
He heard a knock on the front door and went to answer it. Chief Deputy Haskit rushed inside. “Sorry to barge in on you, Sheriff, but I think I may have something.”
“What about?” Crawford asked, standing firmly in the doorway.
Haskit continued into the living room unabated and Crawford reluctantly followed. They stood together in the dimly lit room. “I got to thinking about what Adams told us yesterday. You know, about how that stripper, Dixie Love, started acting antsy whenever he mentioned the Henry Brooks’ Disciples. And then how she threatened him.”
“It was probably nothing.”
“I don’t think so, Sheriff—cause I did some digging around about this woman and found out a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s got a record—a two-time repeat offender. Her real name is Audrey Sawyer—from Savannah.”
“Savannah?”
“Yeah. Just like the HBD’s. My buddy, Walt, over in probation and parole, knew the agent in Georgia who had her as one of his cases. Said she was a complete nut.”
“But that doesn’t…”
“And get this,” Haskit said excitedly. “She did five years at the Women’s Transitional Center for gigging her ex-boyfriend.”
“Gigging?”
“That’s right, Sheriff. She gigged him with a knife. Cut him up pretty bad from what I was told.”
“C’mon, Bobby, what are you saying here? You think because she has a record and used a knife once that she had something to do with all this?”
“Think about it, Sheriff. She knew Ryan Grubbs—she at least had knowledge of the Disciples. Somebody like that could have gone unnoticed. Everybody’s been looking for a Henry Brooks type—she could be the female version.”
“No…”
“I think it’s worth looking into,” Haskit pleaded.
“Bobby, how could a woman like that take on seven young black males? Deputy Evans too?”
“Cause she’s the one with the knife. She gets close to them. They wouldn’t expect it coming from her. There are plenty of women in the lockup who have taken men down. And I think Jimmy might have gotten careless. It’s not impossible.”
“You’re grasping at straws now.”
“I disagree. No one thought it could have been Henry Brooks either, remember? I believe it’s worth checking out.” He paused. “Really, Sheriff, we’ve got nothing to lose.”
Crawford sighed and cut his eyes back towards Judy’s bedroom. He checked his watch again and was about to say something when Haskit continued, “I called the strip joint—she’s not working tonight. But I got her address and want to go over there. No harm in checking her out.”
Crawford nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But I’m going with you. Let me call my neighbor Mrs. Townsend and see if she’ll sit with Judy until I get back.” He then smiled at his deputy as he went for the phone. “Who knows? Maybe we will get lucky.”
9:48 PM
Far-off lightning streaked the night sky as Haskit drove his squad car down an unmarked dirt road in Southwestern Macinaw County. Sitting on the passenger’s side, Crawford took in the flashes in the distance with concern.
“We better get there before too long,” Crawford said. “Looks like a storm is heading our way.”
“Shouldn’t be far now if I read the directions correctly,” Haskit said. “I think I see porch lights up ahead.”
Within a minute, Haskit pulled his squad car into the front yard of the small house, littered with strewn trash and junk car parts. The two lawmen approached the front door—a slight wind and electricity in the night air.
“Better let me handle this,” Crawford said as he knocked on the door.
Bearing a joyous smile and dressed in shorts and a halter top, Dixie Love answered. Her smile faded almost immediately. “What’s this?”
“Miss Love, my name is Sheriff Crawford. Deputy Haskit and I would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
She squinted her eyes at Crawford. “What about?”
“The murders of the Macinaw Seven, Miss Love. We have reason to believe there may be a connection between the murders which only you can help us with. It will take just a few minutes.”
Love gave the sheriff a long, hard look and then shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if I can help, but come on in.”
They entered the small front room which was as disheveled and unkempt as the yard. Haskit scanned the room quickly and indicated the two packed bags by the couch. “Going somewhere, Miss Love?”
“Gonna see my mom in Texas,” she said as she sat on the couch and crossed her bare legs. “Is that a crime?”
“No, ma’am. Just seemed a weird time to be traveling,” Haskit said.
“Don’t care for the heat, Deputy. I always travel at night.” She looked up at Crawford. “Now what’s this all about?”
Crawford stood in front of Love with his deputy behind him. “Henry Brooks.”
“What about Henry Brooks?”
“The hour is late, Miss Love. Do you know anything about him?” Crawford asked.
Love glanced quickly at Haskit and then back to the sheriff. “Yes,” she said simply. “I know all about him. In fact, I can take y’all to him if you want.”
“Wait. What? You can take us to him?” Haskit asked with a laugh. “The man’s been dead for ten years.”
Dixie grinned at him with child-like exuberance. “Oh, he ain’t dead, Deputy. Not by a long shot.”
Haskit leaned into the sheriff’s shoulder and whispered. “What the hell?”
Crawford turned to him and said under his breath, “Just play along. See where this takes us.”
“So you’re gonna take us to him? Henry Brooks?” Haskit asked incredulously.
Dixie Love stood and smiled. “I will. Actually, I’m dying for you to meet him.”
11:27
PM
A hard rain fell as they drove back through Macinaw and headed across the Edisto River toward Henry Brooks’ farm. Crawford told Haskit that he would drive the squad car so that the deputy could sit on the passenger side and keep a close eye on their guest in the backseat. Haskit had unsnapped the sheath from his sidearm as they rode.
The lightning continued to pop all around them coloring the old farm and the surrounding swampland in a wicked blackish blue.
“Keep to the right,” Love said as they passed the farmhouse. “Stay on the farm road until you reach the curve by the river.”
“I sure hope you know where you’re taking us,” Haskit said.
“Don’t worry. It won’t be long now, Deputy,” Love replied.
After the road curved, Crawford pulled off in a thick, weedy patch. There was an incline to their left which ran down into a group of trees and the swamp beyond. “Is this it?” Crawford asked.
“I think so,” Love said.
“Is this what?” Haskit asked.
“The drop off point,” Crawford said.
The deputy looked at his boss with a lost expression. “Drop off for what?”
“I’m sorry, Bobby. I didn’t want you out here. I didn’t want you to come. But you insisted.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“I hate that it has to end this way, Bobby, but you went snooping around, looking for information on Dixie and you wouldn’t let it go. Knowing you, you would have figured it out sooner or later.”
“Sheriff, I don’t understand. Figured out what?”
Crawford pulled his weapon from his left-sided holster and aimed it at Haskit’s chest.
Haskit stared at the sheriff’s gun hand and then it dawned on him. “You’re left-handed,” Haskit mumbled. But his moment of clarity came too late.
“I’m sorry, Bobby…” The sheriff pulled the trigger—the gun shot exploded inside the patrol car. Haskit’s body was thrown against the passenger door. A trickle of blood appeared on the window.
Crawford held his position for a moment—smoke rising from the barrel. He then holstered his weapon and turned to the backseat. Dixie Love was holding her hands over her ears. “It’s over,” Crawford said. “He’s gone.”
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