The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  So common sense dictated that Tilon should have kept his mouth shut and let someone else find the dead girl. But whatever feelings he’d had for her, combined with a semblance of common decency, impelled him to make the call. He was part of it now, but he supposed he’d been part of it from the first time he took her to his bed.

  He heard the sound of vehicles approaching from the direction of town, and moments later a Cargill PD cruiser headed toward the scene, closely followed by a Country Squire station wagon in dirty winter white. Ward recognized the car: it was Reverend Nathan Pettle’s, which meant the police were only minutes away from identifying the body. At the same time, another Cargill PD cruiser was leaving the scene, Kel Knight behind the wheel.

  Ward was tempted to use the arriving and departing cars to mask his own withdrawal – sound carried oddly around here, and he had no desire to attract further attention – but he was also worried about taking to the road before all the players were on the field. He’d witnessed the interaction between Loyd Holt and Evan Griffin as a dumb show, followed by Holt’s slow trot toward town, and figured out what had probably occurred. It wouldn’t be long before Jurel Cade made his appearance.

  So he lit another cigarette, watched, and waited.

  17

  Kel Knight pulled into the parking lot of the Cargill PD at almost the precise moment that Reverend Pettle was being led by Evan Griffin to the body. As ordered, Knight had taken a circuitous route back to town because he, like Tilon Ward, was anxious about crossing the path of Jurel Cade or any of his deputies. In the trunk of Knight’s cruiser was a box containing the evidence collected by Tucker McKenzie at the scene, along with all the film from his camera. Usually McKenzie would have taken the film to be developed, but on this occasion he was content to relinquish everything to Kel Knight once Knight had signed all the relevant paperwork.

  Knight removed the box from the trunk and headed inside. The box didn’t weigh much, but that didn’t make its contents potentially any less valuable. Billie Brinton emerged from behind the reception desk as he appeared, brandishing a sheaf of faxes and handwritten notes. She’d been tempted to call Griffin at the scene to inform him of what she’d discovered about Parker, assuming she could even raise him on his cell phone, before deciding that he and the rest of the officers had enough to occupy them with a murdered girl.

  ‘Kel—’ she began, but he quickly cut her off before she could proceed.

  ‘One minute,’ he said. ‘I need you to witness this.’

  The department didn’t have an evidence locker per se. What it did have was a big old safe from the turn of the century, manufactured by the Victor Safe & Lock Company of Cincinnati, Ohio. It had previously formed part of the furnishings of the Arkansas Loan & Thrift Corporation, a notoriously fraudulent operation that left more than two thousand investors, including a number of churches, poorer to the tune of $4.2 million when it collapsed at the end of the 1960s. No one was entirely clear on how the safe had finally come to reside in Cargill or, more particularly, with the town’s police department, but it served a useful purpose on occasions such as this, which was all that mattered.

  Kel Knight and Evan Griffin were officially the only members of the force with access to the safe, and Billie made a show of turning away while Knight fiddled with the combination, even though she knew the numbers by heart. Once the door was open, Knight showed her the itemized evidence list from Griffin, including the rolls of film, and asked her to countersign each item as it was placed in the safe, with the exception of the film canisters. These he entrusted to Billie herself: her son Craig was an amateur photographer, and made some money on the side taking pictures at local weddings, retirement parties, and sporting events. Craig had his own darkroom, and – having learned well on his mother’s knee – knew how, when, and why to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘You want me to take them over to him now?’ she asked.

  ‘I do, just in case Jurel Cade comes calling.’

  ‘We got to talk first.’

  ‘We don’t have a lot of time.’

  ‘It’s about the prisoner, Mr Parker.’

  Knight noticed the addition of the honorific.

  ‘What about him?’

  She thrust the bundle of papers at him.

  ‘I think you ought to let him out. And fast.’

  Reverend Nathan Pettle stood over six feet tall, and had formerly weighed more than three hundred pounds before his physician advised him to lose weight or die. He now tipped the scales at one-sixty, having shed the equivalent of a person in the last two years. But a man who loses that kind of mass in his fifties is likely to end up with a certain quantity of skin surplus to requirements, and so Nathan Pettle had become a creature of creases and folds, with a wardrobe of old clothes that had been heavily nipped and tucked to fit in a manner that, had he been vainer or wealthier, might profitably have been applied to his integuments as well. His hair had been gray for as long as anyone could remember – it was gray in his wedding pictures, and they dated from the early seventies – lending him an air of dependability and wisdom that, depending on one’s opinion of the preacher, either accentuated or belied reality. For his part, Griffin had always considered Pettle a weak, unimpressive individual, one who relied on the inherent dignity of his position, rather than any notable personal qualities, to bolster his leadership credentials among his flock, aided by the absence of any significant competition. But Pettle was useful at election time, representing a block vote that could be courted by candidates, and he monitored his community closely.

  Now, Pettle stood over the body of the dead girl and whispered a prayer.

  ‘Do you know who she is?’ said Griffin.

  ‘Her name is Donna Lee Kernigan. She lives – lived – over on Montgomery Road.’

  ‘She have people?’

  ‘A mother, Miss Sallie, and a grandmother, Miss Imogene.’

  ‘Where’s the father?’

  ‘Long gone. I don’t believe Donna Lee ever even knew his name.’

  Griffin looked puzzled.

  ‘We estimate that she’s been dead at least two days,’ he said. ‘Strange that no one should have reported her missing.’

  ‘Miss Imogene is in the hospital. She got the emphysema. Miss Sallie, well, she works, but she’s unsettled.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I believe she abuses alcohol and narcotics.’

  ‘What about the daughter?’

  ‘She was a good girl. Miss Imogene always said so, and she wouldn’t lie about such matters.’

  ‘Where does the mother work?’

  ‘Paper mill over by Malvern. She cleans there.’

  Malvern was a good thirty miles away.

  ‘How does she get to work?’

  ‘She drives. She got herself a little Toyota.’

  ‘Does she come home each night?’

  ‘Mostly.’ Pettle let this hang. ‘Donna Lee attended school. She didn’t go hungry.’

  Which was more than could be said for a lot of kids in the county, black or white.

  ‘Is the mother at home now?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, but I assume she’s on her way to work by this hour.’

  Griffin would send Colson and Naylor to check. Maybe Pettle could go with her as well, just in case.

  ‘Anything else you can tell us?’

  Pettle shook his head.

  ‘These are just children,’ he said, and Griffin knew that he was referring to both Donna Lee Kernigan and Patricia Hartley. ‘Who would do something like this to a child?’

  Pettle’s eyes were growing wet with tears. He took out a large red handkerchief and used it to wipe them away.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Griffin. ‘Who would do something like this to anyone?’

  ‘We can’t stay quiet any longer. If these were white girls …’

  ‘I hear you.’

  Pettle looked hard at him. ‘Do you?’

  Griffin stared back. ‘We’re going
to find whoever is responsible.’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Our department.’

  ‘Not the state police?’

  ‘They may become involved, but that won’t be up to me.’

  ‘And who will it be up to?’

  ‘You know the answer to that question.’

  Which was when, from over the rise, Jurel Cade appeared.

  Billie Brinton was gone, and Naylor had been called out to help Lorrie Colson, leaving Kel Knight alone at the station house. He was rereading the faxes, and Billie’s notes, for the third time, and contemplating the pain that colored some men’s lives. If it had been his call, he’d have released Parker immediately, apologized for the misunderstanding, and offered his condolences. But releasing him would be Evan Griffin’s decision, and Knight thought the chief might first wish to speak with the prisoner again, especially in light of the morning’s events. And it still wasn’t clear what had brought Parker to Cargill, although Knight guessed that he was trying to establish, and rule out, connections to his own loss.

  Knight set the papers aside and walked down to the cells. Parker was lying on his bunk, one arm over his eyes, the remains of his breakfast on a tray beside him; Knight had instructed Billie to pick up food from the Dunk-N-Go before heading out to deliver the rolls of film to her son.

  ‘You still doing okay?’ he asked Parker.

  ‘I finished the book.’ Knight had dug up a battered copy of Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle for Parker to read. ‘So unless you can promise me a library card, I’m about ready to leave now.’

  ‘I have to wait for the chief to get back. I can’t let you go before then. But we know who you are, and I’m sorry you’ve ended up in that cell. You could have helped yourself more, but I’m not going to question your reasons for remaining silent. We’ll get it all straightened out when Evan returns.’

  Parker still hadn’t changed position, or even glanced in Knight’s direction.

  ‘I hear you have another body.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You might not, if someone had glanced more closely at the others.’

  ‘I agree with you.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Parker, ‘that your agreement will be a source of great easement to the dead girl’s family.’

  Knight took out his pipe and tobacco and began filling the bowl. He’d long ago acknowledged that it had become a tic for him when under stress. Sometimes he’d just work at filling and tamping, and not even bother lighting the tobacco.

  ‘I got to reiterate that you’re hard to warm to,’ said Knight.

  ‘Me and this town both.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be behind you soon enough.’

  ‘Thanks for breakfast,’ said Parker, and turned again to face the wall.

  18

  Tucker McKenzie had met a lot of lawmen like Jurel Cade in his time, but never one quite as fully developed in his failings as much as his strengths. Cade’s particular essence was not entirely venal, yet he was rotten at the extremities, and like all such corruption, his was progressive and incurable. It was hard to rise to a position of authority in a county like Burdon without being compromised to some degree, but impossible to continue in that office without becoming fatally perverted. At the same time, Cade was committed body and soul to Burdon, and his level of tolerance for domestic violence, sexual abuse, theft, assault, and murder was generally low. In that sense, his behavior in the case of Patricia Hartley might have been considered out of character, were it not for the larger context. Where Jurel Cade was concerned, in any conflict between the county and the individual, the individual must lose – unless the individual in question was wealthy and powerful, in which case what was best for them would probably also be best for Burdon. This worldview, though, might have been ordered and colored by the fact that Cade’s own family was the wealthiest and most powerful in the region.

  Now McKenzie watched while Cade and Griffin prepared to go at it before an audience that also consisted of one of Cade’s deputies, two members of the Cargill PD, Reverend Nathan Pettle, and Russell Sadler, the local mortician contracted to deliver human remains to the state medical examiner in Little Rock, despite Loyd Holt’s best efforts to wrench the contract from him. Beside Sadler stood his daughter Mary Ann, who was being groomed to take over the business once her father was himself planted in the ground. Already there were mutterings of discontent in the county about this proposed succession, a significant section of the population being of the opinion that God had not intended women to be undertakers, members of the female sex being perceived as lacking the requisite dignity and solemnity. Since Mary Ann Sadler had never yet been known to smile, and was reckoned to have emerged from the womb already dressed in black, solemnity didn’t appear likely to be a problem, and it all came down to a general resistance to change. Russell Sadler was of the opinion that people would come around in time, and probably sooner rather than later, given the necessity of seeing to their dead, and the absence of any multitude of choices. It was either the Sadlers, the Ryans up in Toving – who were Catholic, and therefore suspect as far as the roadside churches were concerned – or Loyd Holt, who overcharged and underperformed, and had once dispatched the wrong corpse to a church, the error being discovered only at the end of the service.

  Sadler had already taken a look at the remains, and he and McKenzie had agreed that it might be best if the branches lodged in the body were cut before she was placed in the hearse. Sadler had a small electric saw that would do the trick without causing excessive movement or vibration, thereby avoiding further internal damage. He was about to start work when Cade arrived, and all labor ceased. Now it was a question of seeing which side would prevail in the dispute over jurisdiction.

  ‘The fuck is going on here, Evan?’ Cade asked.

  ‘You might want to modify your language,’ Griffin replied, ‘or else we’re going to start this conversation with a falling out.’

  Cade took a deep breath.

  ‘Take it as done,’ he said, ‘but the question stands.’

  ‘We have another body, mutilated in a manner not unlike the Hartley girl.’

  ‘I can see a body, but I don’t know about the rest. Why wasn’t I informed? Why’d I have to wait to hear about it from Loyd Holt?’

  ‘We’d have informed you in due course, as a professional courtesy. For now, we’re still busy documenting the scene.’

  ‘The hell with professional courtesy: I should have been told the moment you found that girl.’

  ‘Jurel, this land falls under the jurisdiction of the Cargill PD, not the sheriff’s office. If we require assistance, we’ll ask, but any investigation will be conducted by my department.’

  ‘We’re beyond the town line here,’ said Cade. ‘This is part of Botile Township.’

  ‘Which has contracted Cargill to provide police services.’

  ‘I would dispute that interpretation, Evan, and also advise you to be less confrontational in your manner.’

  ‘I’m not being confrontational.’ Griffin kept his tone even. ‘I’m simply stating the facts. This is our case.’

  Cade turned from him to address McKenzie.

  ‘How far have you got, Tucker?’

  ‘We’re done, Jurel, or good as.’

  ‘You address your questions to me, Jurel,’ said Griffin quietly.

  Cade ignored him. ‘And the evidence you’ve processed?’

  ‘I said,’ repeated Griffin, louder now, ‘you address your goddamned questions to me!’

  Cade redirected his attention to Griffin, but with all the obvious reluctance he could muster, and with his anger barely contained.

  ‘I think we ought to conduct this discussion somewhere more private,’ he said.

  ‘Happy to do it, once I’ve finished here. That girl’s body is going to Little Rock to be autopsied at the state crime laboratory. When she’s gone, you and I can sit down over coffee, and see if we can’t arrive at som
e agreement on how best to proceed.’

  Cade was coming to the conclusion that this particular phase of the battle was lost. He returned to the remains and lifted the plastic sheet that was covering them. What might have been sorrow clouded his face, although the precise source of it, in Griffin’s view, could have been the potential ramifications of the murder as much as, if not more than, the fact of it.

  ‘You identify her yet?’

  Griffin had already warned Pettle to stay silent, and so had no fear of being contradicted when he answered that they were not yet certain of the victim’s identity. He saw Pettle look to the ground, and decided that the reverend would have made a shitty poker player, so it was just as well that his church frowned on gambling.

  ‘That true, Reverend?’ said Cade.

  After only the shortest of pauses, Pettle nodded.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said.

  Griffin figured Pettle could make his peace with God later, and the lie contained a modicum of truth: no official pronouncement would be offered until a member of Donna Lee Kernigan’s immediate family had made a positive identification of the body.

  Cade knew he was being played, but he was outnumbered, and arguing further would only make him look bad. So he took the softer option: he retreated, knowing that ultimately, as chief investigator, he still held most of the high ground. If Griffin insisted on investigating the killing, Cade would do his damnedest to block the involvement of any outside agency, aided by his family’s contacts in Little Rock. For now, Griffin and the Cargill PD were operating alone.

  ‘I look forward to that coffee,’ Cade told Griffin. ‘Deputy Arkins here will stay at the scene, in case you need any assistance. Call it professional courtesy.’

  Griffin didn’t wait for him to drive away. He gave Cade his back, and watched Sadler and his daughter prepare Donna Lee Kernigan for her journey to Little Rock, and a meeting with another blade.

  19

  There was no response when the police knocked on the door of the Kernigan residence, and Colson and Naylor saw no car in the drive. The house was a single-story dwelling, with a kitchen and living room at one side of the hall, and two small bedrooms at the other, with the bathroom in back. Like most homes in Cargill, it could have done with more TLC and some serious repairs to the shingles, but a fresh coat of paint wasn’t as essential as putting food on the table, and plastic patches to the roof had managed to see it through winter.