by Jerry Brown
Bowman looked down at his feet, sliding a piece of gravel from underfoot before returning his eyes to her. "Well, Miz Emma, I think you've done a wonderful job. He's a joy to be aroun' and he's always neat and clean."
While her face beamed, her words remained sharp. "He outta be. He don' do nothin' to git dirty. Jes' chasin' 'em trashy women 'roun'. 'Bout de only thang he can do is catch catfish. I guess I oughtta thank the Lord for dat. He can catch 'em fish! Well, listen, I gotta go. Enjoyed meetin' wi' you. Been meanin' to git by here, but seems like I work alla time. I'm real sorry about Miz Carolyn. If you see my Baby you tell 'im to get home now. I got one mo' place I gotta look."
"Okay, Miz Emma. I'll tell him if I see him. You get back up this way, stop in to see me, you hear. I don't know how much longer I'm gonna be here, but I'm glad I got to visit with you."
"I will and you come. Baby catches a mess of fish, I'll cook some fo' you an' send 'em by Baby,"
she shouted over her shoulder. "I'd love that, Miz Emma. You take care now," Bowman yelled at her disappearing back.
He smiled and shook his head as he watched her walk away in a quick, short paced, stiff-kneed gait. His mind turned to the thought that Miz Emma could never be convinced that she was harming her son. It was obvious she was confining Emrick to her world and expectations. Someday his dependency would lead to misery for both of them. When he realized the direction of his thoughts, he sent his brain a message: Butt out, Bowman, leave these folks alone. You can't cure the ills of the world. But he knew himself well enough to know that the only way to avoid involving himself was to leave and at that moment he resolved to return to the Coast, go sailing, quit wallowing in indecision and self-pity, and get on with his life. As he turned and neared the ladder, he remembered that Miz Emma needed help with her plumbing and he ran down the dusty lane to catch up with her. She had somehow passed from sight. When he reached her place, there was no response to his knock. While crossing toward the side of the house, he remembered Emrick saying that the community kept a close scrutiny of him. He called out, "Emrick", "Miz Emma" in an effort to cover his actions.
His brow was sweaty when he reached the rear of the house and found a spigot atop a leaking white plastic pipe. A hacksaw, replacement elbow and glue had been laid out on the back step. He wiped the sweat from his his forehead with his hand and his upper lip with his shirt sleeve while his eyes searched for a shut off valve. Seeing none, he walked around the other side of the house calling for Emrick and his mother. When he had about given up hope and was leaving the yard, he spotted the valve near a ditch running alongside the road. He moved quickly to close the valve, then walked resolutely to the rear of the house. It took him only a few minutes to complete the repairs. Walking away, he busied himself with peeling excess glue from his finger tips, thinking somehow this would demonstrate to anyone who may have been watching that he had stolen nothing.
Rather than return to the balcony, Bowman set out on foot to explore the area to the east of Lake Mary, a landlocked lake that had once been the bed of the Mississippi river.
He was searching for Emrick. He did not have long to wait before he heard the haunting tones of a blues harmonica, initially just a wa-wa-wa sound of various notes followed by a spirited rendition of one of the few older blues songs Bowman could identify by name: "Roller coaster". One song followed another as Bowman attempted to trace the sound. At a steep rise he reckoned the player must be somewhere near the top of the hill. About a third of the way up his labored breathing forced him to sit and rest against a tree. Panting, he heard the music stop. Nevertheless, he continued the climb, resting only once more before reaching the crest. He saw a dull gray concrete marker, its inscription barely readable, worn down by time and the elements. He sucked air greedily as he strained to make out the inscription which identified the site of a blockhouse that had been constructed as a stronghold by the Jesuits in the 1500s. He recalled a conversation with a detective from New Orleans in which the guy told him the history of the place. Either this site, or a nearby place, was the location of Fort Adams which served as a customs entry point into America's most southwestern frontier until the Louisiana Purchase expansion.
It was also the last American soil touched by Phillip Nolan, immortalized in the novel, "The Man Without A Country". In those days the river flowed alongside the steep bluff he had climbed. He made a mental note to get in touch with Flint and brag about his discovery.
Although descending the hill would be a piece of cake compared to the climb, he was forced to rest for a bit. While situated with his back against a tree, he became aware of a slight movement above him. He moved quickly out and away from the tree and spotted a crudely constructed platform. Emrick glared down at him from the side of the platform.
"Gosh, what a great spot," Bowman blurted. "You must have a quite a view of the lake."
"Not dis time a year. Too many leaves."
"You mind if I come up?"
"It prob'ly wouldn' hol' you. What you doin' heah anyway?" Emrick fretted.
"Your mother was just up at my place lookin' for you and, from some of the things she told me about your father and that she didn't want you to learn to play music, I knew you wouldn't want her to know what you do every afternoon."
"How'd you know it was me?" His expression sobered.
"Baby, you're the only one who passes my place every afternoon and this movin' music starts shortly after. I didn't have to be too smart to figure out who was doing the playin'."
"Name's Emrick." He pouted.
"Okay, Emrick it is." Bowman apologized. "I just got used to hearing your mama callin' you that."
"What's Mama doin' out dis time a day?" "She said she got off work early and wanted you to eat soon so she can watch TV. Also she said she couldn't cook until you repaired the water pipe. I fixed that for you."
"She jes' wanna know where I am and wha' I'm doin'," Emrick said, his eyes glaring.
"Maybe so, but I told her I'd give you the message if I saw you."
"Well, you din't see me den," Emrick said sternly.
"Okay, but I know somethin' else she knows and somewhere else she's goin' and its not somewhere you want her to be."
"Where's 'at?"
"I won't tell you unless you play me a tune," Bowman teased.
"I don' play in fron'a udder people yet."
"Well, you're goin' to have to learn in a hurry if you want to head your mother off."
"You old people all alike, always pushin' other folks to do wha' you wan' 'em to do, dat dey don' wanna do," Emrick said.
Bowman ignored the evasion and said: "I'm not tryin' to force you to do anythin'. I just love to hear you play and if I don't do somethin' to get you to play for me now, I know I'll never get to hear you again. So you'll either play a tune or get in trouble with your mother. If that's blackmail, so be it." Bowman challenged.
"Mister I wouldn' do dis to you. You better tell me." "The name is either John or Bowman. I'll tell you just as soon as you play me a song and I don't mean one little part. I expect the whole song," Bowman said continuing to push, but adding a smile.
"I gotta go fin' my mama."
"Okay, but you don't know where she is and I do. You better start playin'," Bowman teased.
Emrick paused and fidgeted, but finally conceded. "Well, you sit down under the tree and don' look at me. If I see you lookin', I'll quit."
"Good enough," Bowman answered as he seated himself. Emrick began playing the mournful song he ended with everyday, but this time more movingly than ever before. Bowman sneaked a glance and saw that Emrick was holding an open metal tobacco can near the reeds. He realized that Emrick was performing for him and seeking his approval, so he eased back to show his closed eyes and his relaxed smile. When the song continued beyond the normal stopping point, Bowman was content that, for once, he had done the right thing. He kept his eyes closed until his friend was beside him.
"Emrick that was beautiful. You're good, man." Even to his untr
ained ear, he knew there was real talent. Raw, but something very special. Emrick beamed but quickly changed his expression. "What about my mama?" he demanded. "She's gone over to your new girlfriend's house." "How the hell she know about her? You tell her?" "How can I tell what I didn't even know. But she knows and she's goin' by to have a talk with her." "Don' make no diff'rence, Florence can handle dat." "I don't remember what name she mentioned, but it wasn't Florence." "How can she know 'bout her? Don' nobody know 'bout her." "Apparently your mother does. Why don't you do this. If you're already at home when she gets there and you act like you're puttin' the finishin' touches on repairin' her water pipe, she may just doubt what she's been thinkin'. Then you won't have to answer questions all night. By the way, you need to open the valve near the road. I left it closed so the glue could cure."
Emrick breathed a sigh of relief and his chest swelled. "Say Bowman, you awright, you know dat?" Saying nothing more, he grinned as he turned and jogged down a hidden sloping path which tapered gently down the east side of the hill. Seeing an easier way home pleased Bowman greatly.
Chapter 13
Visits with Bowman became a part of Emrick's daily routine, and it did not take long before he joined him on the balcony without thought or concern. For his part, Bowman looked forward to Emrick's mid-afternoon visits and waited until he saw him coming in the distance to prepare a pitcher of iced tea or lemonade.
On one such afternoon the two men had taken their respective seats, Bowman pushed back in the recliner and Emrick propped on the rear two legs of a ladder back chair. Because of the bright sunshine Bowman had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Emrick did likewise, playing his harmonica as Bowman listened, taking care to direct his eyes away from his friend.
A voice came from below. "You play dat mouth organ good, Mr. Bowman. Where's a white man learn to play like dat?"
Both men froze. Bowman, thankful for the heavy balustrade, grabbed the instrument from Emrick and, as he stood, tapped the reeds on this right thigh
as if clearing it of spittle, then leaned over the railing.
"Hello, Miz Emma, it's good to see you again,"
"You ain't seen 'at ole no count boy a mine, is you?" she asked, holding her hand over her eyes to shade them.
"Yes ma'am, he's up here keepin' me company."
"You ain't got no work for 'im, is you? The boy needs to find his self a job."
"No, Miz Emma, I'm afraid everything is too far gone with this house to spend much time tryin' to repair it," Bowman responded.
Emrick climbed down the ladder and Bowman placed the harmonica in his shirt pocket.
Emma spoke to her son, but made her comments loud enough to include Bowman. "Baby, I wuz lookin' for you to tell you I wuz goin' over by yo' Aunt Ida's for awhile. Don' you stay here so long you worry the man."
"Miz Emma," Bowman said, "I'm awful pleased to have him here. He's real good company and puts up with my sorry playin'." He was immediately sorry that he brought up the subject again, when Miz Emma raised her brow as if to respond. When she paused, his gut wrenched, but she said nothing more about the harmonica.
"Well, if you gits tired of 'im, you jes send 'im home. I don' wan' him to be no bother," she said.
"He's no bother, Miz Emma, I promise."
When Emrick climbed back to the porch, Bowman returned his harmonica to him, but there would be no playing for the rest of the afternoon.
After Emrick left, Bowman remained on the balcony to watch the sun set. It was not that the view was so compelling, especially with the obstruction by the sickly live oak, but he knew that his time here was coming to an end and he wanted to get his fill of what pleasures there were.
That night after sundown, Bowman walked down the lane from the house toward a paved road. The dirt was hard packed by many years of foot traffic. Reaching the blacktop, he walked alongside it until he reached a pay telephone situated next to the community grocery that had once been operated by his father-in-law. After an extended and animated conversation, he returned leisurely to the rear of the house and busied himself preparing supper.
He had hardly begun when the beam from the headlights of an approaching car flashed through the open door and across the wall he was facing. He cautiously walked out the door but was unable to make out the driver because of the headlights. The driver left the lights on after switching off the ignition, toying with him.
"You're slippin', John Bowman," said a slow raspy voice. He immediately recognized the distinctive speech.
"Hello, Bill Ed Flint. How in the world did you ever find me?"
"You ask me, Bill Ed Flint, unquestionably NOPD's finest detective, something like that? It was elementary, Bowman," Flint said as he struggled to remove his large frame from the confines of the compact sedan, using the door and the top of the vehicle for support.
Shaking Bowman's hand, he continued his comments while following Bowman through the doorway of the kitchen. "It didn't take me but one phone call to learn you were somewhere up here. Like Sherlock I deduced exactly where you were and that you couldn't be reached by telephone - altogether an excellent excuse to get away from the city and rest my weary bones."
Bowman said nothing, still looking somewhat incredulous.
Flint explained, "You forgot that I was reared in Woodville and hunted these fields and woods all my life. You told me who your wife's parents were. I don't know why you're here, but I figured you would be stayin' at their house." "Have you had supper yet?" Bowman asked.
"Yeah, I stopped off at Mama's before I came out here. I wasn't goin' to miss the chance of eatin' her cookin. She still spoils me and I still love it."
"I can't blame you for that. You're just takin' a few days off then?" Bowman asked.
"No, actually I'm workin'. I came up here to find you and see if you want to do some consulting work. Have you been keepin' up with the Porter case?"
"Are you talkin' about that child who was killed? I read what little information the newspaper provided, but I haven't seen a television set in weeks."
"What have you been doin', hibernatin'?"
"That's about it," Bowman answered with a shrug.
Flint laid out the limited facts of the case and handed him photocopies of investigative reports. He went on to explain about the racial tensions in New Orleans and commented that they could not even be sure the killings were not continuing. Flint revealed that a large number of missing person cases are filed on black juveniles every month. The fact that they had turned up no more bodies could merely suggest that those responsible were doing a better job of disposing of them. With all the swampy area surrounding New Orleans, there was simply no way to know.
"What I hear you telling me," Bowman said, "is that you have a horrible murder with almost no leads. Everything you've told me suggests that it was a hate crime committed by some screwball group. Because of the nature of the crime and racial tensions the media is havin' a field day expressin' shock and indignation. Until there's some kind of break in the case, the police department is spinnin' its wheels and takin' a beatin'. So to divert attention you're goin' to put on a dog and pony show. Does that about cover it?"
"That and the fact that we really have no idea what we are dealing with. It's not all for show. What do we know about Satanists and skin heads or even voodoo? It's not inconceivable that one of these consultants might open the door for us."
"I understand that, but where do I fit in? I know absolutely nothing about group offenders. I don't even know anything about street gangs. I know a little bit about the Klan, but they obviously didn't do it or it would already be solved. They are so infiltrated they can't have a silent thought that is not officially written up by ten different intelligence-gathering agencies. Wow, is that an oxymoron! They haven't had a thought in years - certainly not a silent one."
Flint removed his navy suit coat and draped it on a chair. He loosened his tie and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "What if it's not a group?" Flint asked. "A
t first I didn't think there was a chance in the world that it wasn't. But now, it seems to me that if it was a group, they must have left the area. Otherwise, something would have leaked out. What if it wasn't a group? What if it was just a deviant trying to cover his tracks? The sad thing is that we probably would have a better chance catching a mobile group than we would a pedophile. It wouldn't be quite so bad if we could limit the geographical scope of our investigations, but with it happening in City Park...hell, people go there from all over the city."
Bowman's face perked. "You know, Flint, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you use a curse word."
"I've used several in the past few weeks," he confessed. He snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. I have some more material in the car." He returned with a three inch stack of papers and handed them over.
"Bowman, don't give me an answer now. I've brought with me a synopsis of what we have on the murder itself, an artist's rendering of the designs carved on the boy's back. Maybe they will pique your interest or maybe you might spot something. I'll come back Wednesday afternoon and we'll talk again."
As he made his way to the door, Bowman stopped him. "Flint, there's no reason in the world for you to drive all the way back up here. Leave me your home and office numbers and I'll call you, but I can tell you chances are slim to none that I'll come to New Orleans. There just doesn't seem to be enough to go on. It would just be my using the police force, or them using me."
Flint frowned. "Bowman, I'm not going back to New Orleans immediately. You were worried about the them using you. I'm using you now. I'm going to call in and tell them that I need a couple of days to try and persuade you, then I'm going to Natchez or just tramp around the woods up here. Unless somethin' dramatic happens the investigation is goin' nowhere. I'm tired and I'm frustrated. I just need to get away for a couple of days."
"Good enough. Use me." An involuntary smile emerged from Bowman as he recalled the course of his initial acquaintance with Bill Ed Flint. It had been happenstance, a chance meeting at a hotel bar in Jackson. Flint had introduced himself and recalled one of Bowman's consultations in New Orleans. Flint initially listened attentively and asked questions, but it was more of a query than a conversation. When Flint disclosed that he was reared in Woodville, the location of "Rosemont", the boyhood home of Jefferson Davis, Bowman made reference to having toured the house. Once Flint discovered that Bowman had an interest in, and respect for, "the President", a bridge was established. He became the talker and Bowman the listener.