The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  Now, his coffee going cold, Griffin was reading a litany of Parker’s pain: his father, a detective, lost to suicide after a fatal shooting involving two teenagers; and his wife and child taken from him by a killer unlike any Griffin – or, it appeared, most everyone else – had ever encountered. Mother: dead. Grandfather, a retired state trooper up in Maine: dead. Griffin was convinced that he had never before encountered a man so alone. He felt both guilt at his treatment of Parker and anger at him for permitting the situation to have arisen in the first place through his obduracy. Occasionally, depending upon the page he was reading, Knight would offer information not included in the document, but mostly Griffin was permitted to read in silence. When he was done, he returned to the murder of Parker’s wife and child: blinded, partially skinned, and left for him to discover in the kitchen of his own home. Griffin didn’t know how the man was still walking upright, let alone functioning on any identifiably human level.

  ‘Billie got all this?’ asked Griffin, when he was done.

  ‘The majority of it.’

  ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘I made a call.’

  Knight’s sister-in-law was married to Jack Kavanagh, a police lieutenant in Brooklyn. He and Knight met only at weddings and funerals, but a contact was a contact, especially when it came to police.

  Griffin saw that Knight was playing with his damn pipe again.

  ‘If you’ve got something to say,’ said Griffin, ‘then say it, but you’re still not going to ignite that contraption in my office.’

  Knight restored the pipe to his shirt pocket before speaking.

  ‘Parker was regarded by some in the NYPD as a blue flamer’ – ‘blue flamer’ was police slang for a rookie who wanted to change the world – ‘and by others as a Jonah. He was carrying baggage for his old man, and the killing of those two kids, so he probably felt he had something to prove. He made detective in three years, and scored some good busts, but didn’t seem set on winning popularity contests. According to Jack, Parker wasn’t cut out to be police. He was too solitary, and too troubled. He took chances with his safety, which meant he also took chances with the safety of his partners. He joined to do penance for his father’s sins, but he was always going to burn out, or get himself or someone else killed. What happened to his wife and daughter, no one would have wished on him, but …’

  ‘If it was going to happen to someone,’ Griffin concluded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No.’ Knight looked over his shoulder, instinctively checking that no one was nearby. ‘Those almost-healed cuts on his knuckles.’

  ‘What about them? I never believed they came from an accident with a car tire.’

  ‘Someone killed a guy named Johnny Friday in a Port Authority restroom up in New York a while back. Beat him to death and left his body cuffed and gagged in a stall.’

  ‘Who was this Friday?’

  ‘A pimp, predator, and sexual torturer. He worked the waifs and strays at bus stations while handing out miniature Bibles and religious literature. He’d feed the kids drugged soup, and then they’d vanish. Later, someone would spot one of them in a pornographic photograph or film, but most were never seen again.’

  ‘You’re telling me that Parker killed him?’

  ‘I’m telling you that Parker was spotted at the Port Authority in the hours before Friday died, and it looked as though he might have been watching Friday for a while. But nobody witnessed the attack, because whoever killed Friday timed his move well. The restroom was almost empty, apart from a junkie who’d locked himself in one of the stalls and wouldn’t have woken if the walls fell in around him. The janitor had given up monitoring his clientele during the Carter administration, and his radio was playing at full volume to discourage loitering. Finally, nobody wanted to know, because to know would be to get involved. It was only when the blood started flowing that someone saw fit to tell the janitor, and he did the smart thing and went to find a cop. A man was seen leaving the scene, but it was cold, so he had a scarf over the lower half of his face, and the hood on his jacket was raised. By the time the uniforms arrived, he was gone.’

  ‘Was Parker questioned?’

  ‘Not until a few days later. He admitted to being at the bus station, but said he was waiting for a contact that never showed.’

  ‘Did they ask him about those cuts?’ said Griffin.

  ‘Accident with a car jack, more or less the same as he told you.’

  ‘And they bought all this?’

  ‘No witnesses, and no prints. Jack says the Port Authority Criminal Investigations Bureau thinks the killer might have taped his fingertips, because one of the witnesses saw what looked like plastic on the suspect’s hands. There was some talk of getting a warrant and looking for bloodstains on Parker’s clothing, but they didn’t think they had enough to satisfy a judge, and it could be that the will wasn’t there, not after what happened to Parker’s family. And no one was weeping for Johnny Friday. If Parker did take him out, certain parties might have chosen to regard it as an act of public service.’

  ‘But there’s no evidence that he did?’ said Griffin.

  Kel Knight wasn’t sure that he liked the look on Griffin’s face. It bore definite signs of contemplating expediency.

  ‘None, beyond circumstantial. Why?’

  ‘Just get him out of that cell,’ said Griffin. ‘I want to talk to him.’

  22

  Tucker McKenzie was working his way through the Kernigan residence, but had so far found nothing to suggest that Donna Lee might have been abducted from her home. Still, he had dusted for prints, and suggested to Naylor possible avenues for investigation, although it was Naylor himself who spotted the obvious.

  ‘Where’s her school bag?’ he asked.

  He was right: there was no trace of Donna Lee’s bag. If she had returned home at any point over the weekend, the bag should have been in the house, teenage girls, in Naylor’s experience, being reluctant to carry textbooks around unnecessarily; and the small desk in Donna Lee’s bedroom, at which she presumably studied, bore no traces of schoolwork.

  Colson was already at Hindman High. Naylor called and asked her to check if Donna Lee had been carrying her school bag when last seen. Colson said she’d get him back to him, which she did five minutes later.

  ‘She had the bag with her,’ she said.

  It was therefore possible that Donna Lee Kernigan had never returned home following band practice, making it all the more important to identify the driver of the truck that picked her up.

  Which was precisely what Colson was currently attempting to do.

  The three girls seated before her had all been crying, but one had obviously been crying more than the others. Her name was Vernia Crane. Her eyes were swollen, and she clasped a wad of tissues in her left hand so that they resembled, to Colson’s eye, a white flower. The two remaining girls, Lashaye Jenkins and Shari Hill, looked nervous and sad, but Crane’s grief was of another magnitude entirely. According to the school, and the three girls themselves, they had been Donna Lee Kernigan’s closest friends.

  Colson started slowly, asking about their routine that morning, and how and when they’d heard about Donna Lee’s death. She then progressed to the nature of their friendship with the deceased girl, how long they’d known her, and the kind of person she was. Colson was gentle throughout, permitting them the latitude to digress, trying to keep the conversation as informal as possible under the circumstances. Crane spoke less than her peers, but contributed when questioned directly. Gradually Colson worked her way around to Friday band practice, at which two of the girls, Crane and Hill, had been in attendance. Colson asked if Donna Lee had appeared troubled or distressed that day or earlier in the week. Had her behavior changed lately?

  At this, Crane reacted. It was the slightest of responses – a tensing, a movement of the eyes – but Colson picked up on it, and she thought the other girls did too. Colson didn’t imme
diately pursue it, though, and instead asked if any of them had been present when Donna Lee was collected by the truck on Friday evening. All three said they’d left before Donna Lee, which had already been confirmed by the music teacher, but already it was clear that the dynamic in the room had altered. Whatever Colson might learn, it would have to come from Vernia Crane. Colson tossed a few more softball questions, and received assurances that none of them had seen or heard from Donna Lee since Friday, before thanking them for their time and informing them that they could leave.

  But as they stood to go, Colson asked Crane to remain for a moment. Crane visibly sagged, like a prisoner who had, for an instant, believed she might yet escape the gallows. She returned to her chair, but kept her eyes on the floor.

  ‘How close were you and Donna Lee?’

  ‘We were best friends,’ said Crane.

  ‘Were you closer to her than Shari and Lashaye were?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Did you share a lot?’

  Crane nodded.

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘No, not everything.’

  ‘What things didn’t you share?’

  ‘Stuff.’

  ‘You must know, Vernia, that we’re anxious to speak with whoever was driving that truck. The driver may have been the last person to see Donna Lee alive.’

  She didn’t add that the driver might also have killed Donna Lee. She didn’t have to, because Vernia would have to be dim-witted not to have come to that conclusion without help, but neither did Colson wish to voice an accusation that might cause Crane to protect this unknown party.

  ‘I know that,’ said Crane.

  ‘Then do you also know who was driving the truck?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘I wasn’t implying that you were,’ said Colson, although she kind of was. ‘But if you even had a suspicion, or a thought of who it might be, that would be a help.’

  Crane assembled and disassembled the tissue rose in her hand. She had very long fingers. According to the music teacher, she was already a skillful pianist, helped by an analytical mind and a natural inquisitiveness.

  ‘It only started recently,’ she said at last.

  ‘What started recently? A relationship?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How recently?’

  ‘A couple of weeks. Might be a month.’

  ‘Was it sexual?’

  ‘I think so. Donna Lee talked about being on the pill. The guy didn’t like to use rubbers.’

  ‘And this relationship, was it with the driver of the truck?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t tell me his name, and the first I heard about a truck was this morning. But I got the impression, from things she said, that he was older than her, and—’

  Colson waited.

  ‘And could be he was white,’ Crane finished.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Maybe “impression” isn’t what I mean. She told me he was older. The white part I just assumed. It was in the way she was acting, and some of what she said about him and what he liked.’

  ‘Liked in what sense?’

  ‘This song came on the radio, and Donna Lee said that she was sick of hearing it, that he played it all the time, but then she caught herself and wouldn’t say anything more.’

  ‘Do you remember what the song was?’

  ‘I think it’s called “Night Moves”, but I couldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘Bob Seger?’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds right. I’d recognize it if I heard it again. I mean, the song is okay, but, you know …’

  ‘It’s kind of white.’

  For the first time, Vernia Crane managed a smile. It was malformed, and died shortly after birth, but it was something.

  ‘Yeah, very white.’

  ‘Did you know Patricia Hartley?’

  ‘Just as a face around town.’

  ‘Or Estella Jackson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Donna Lee?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Crane frowned. She stared at Colson, even as Colson realized her error in connecting Patricia Hartley’s death with Donna Lee Kernigan.

  Because Crane had heard the rumors about what was done to Patricia Hartley, and now she knew what had befallen her friend.

  Vernia Crane fell from the chair to her knees, lay on the floor, and curled herself up into a ball of pain, and all Colson could do was hold her and say, ‘I’m sorry, honey. I’m so, so sorry …’

  23

  Kel Knight freed Parker from captivity before escorting him back to the Lakeside Inn to shower, shave, and change his clothes. Parker noted that his wallet, phone, and car keys had not been returned to him, and pointed this out to Knight as they drove down moribund streets.

  ‘Chief Griffin would like to talk to you before you make any decision about leaving Cargill,’ said Knight.

  ‘That decision has already been made,’ said Parker. ‘Keeping my possessions from me isn’t going to change my mind.’

  ‘Well, he’d still like to talk with you.’

  Parker decided that he didn’t have much choice in the matter, not unless he planned to depart Cargill on foot and without a nickel to his name. Knight turned into the parking lot of the motel and pulled up in front of Parker’s door.

  ‘You may find,’ said Knight, ‘that your bag has been opened, although its contents remain intact.’

  ‘That,’ said Parker, ‘was impolite.’

  ‘We’re hoping you might decide to overlook the discourtesy, just as we’ll elect to ignore the armaments in your room.’

  ‘They’re licensed firearms.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to sit around in a cell some more while we try to confirm that.’

  Parker didn’t reply, but got out of the car, entered his room, and closed the door behind him. He got the impression that Knight’s attitude toward him had altered, and not for the better, but he was untroubled by the change. He’d been in Cargill for thirty-six hours, and so far hadn’t met anyone he would be sorry to forget. He noted the busted lock on his case, and opened it to check on the Colt and his document file. Neither was exactly as he had left it, and the contents of the file were additionally disordered. He knelt on the floor and saw that the .38 was still in place, but the pencil mark he had made beside the barrel was now obscured. Even had the Cargill police been subtler, and Knight had not alluded to guns, plural, Parker would have known that his room had been searched.

  He showered, put on fresh clothing, and changed his footwear. Knight was still sitting outside in his patrol car. Parker was tempted to make him wait some more, but the more he delayed, the longer he’d be forced to spend in town. With no other option, he headed back out, locking the door behind him.

  ‘Hardly seemed worth the effort to lock up,’ he said, as he got in the car, ‘but old habits die hard.’

  Knight looked at him.

  ‘Do you have any friends?’ he said.

  ‘If you’re applying for a vacancy, you’re out of luck.’

  ‘When I’m that desperate, I’ll shoot myself.’

  He reversed out of the parking spot.

  ‘You won’t have to,’ said Parker. ‘I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone to do it for you.’

  And they returned to the station house in sour silence.

  24

  Tucker McKenzie dropped by the Cargill PD to consult with Griffin once the examination of the Kernigan home was complete. He didn’t have a great deal to add to what they already knew, but had pulled a variety of prints, including a number from the bedrooms of both Sallie Kernigan and her daughter. He told Griffin that he was going to return to the site of the body dump, and conduct a further search of the land with assistance from one of his fellow forensic analysts, and a couple of staff out of Little Rock.

  ‘I have a question for you,’ said Griffin. ‘Do you know a man nam
ed Charlie Parker? He’s ex-NYPD.’

  ‘Charlie Parker,’ said McKenzie, ‘like the jazz musician?’

  ‘Possibly the same spelling.’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I do.’

  ‘We had him in one of our cells last night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He displayed an aversion to providing straight answers.’

  ‘Do I detect an edge there, Evan?’

  ‘Parker was in possession of Polaroids of Patricia Hartley’s body, pictures with which even I was unfamiliar until last night. I know you sometimes use an instant camera as backup.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Did you take instant photographs at the Hartley scene?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘If these are the same pictures, did Parker get them from you?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘Any idea how he might have come by them?’

  ‘None,’ said McKenzie. ‘Is there an accusation coming?’

  ‘Not from me, and this conversation is strictly private. I just need to know the truth: Did you circulate those pictures?’

  McKenzie saw no reason to obfuscate. He had done nothing wrong.

  ‘Not widely, but some people up at the state crime laboratory are familiar with their contents. After that, they made their way to the FBI, or so I understand.’

  In addition to the field office in Little Rock, the FBI maintained satellite offices, known as resident agencies, in six other locations throughout the state. The El Dorado agency was responsible for Burdon County, but none of its agents had been in touch with Griffin about Hartley’s death. If they had contacted Jurel Cade, the chief deputy had not seen fit to share this information with the Cargill PD.

  ‘How interested are the feds?’

  ‘Officially,’ said McKenzie, ‘or unofficially?’

  ‘The first I can answer for myself. The second is more relevant.’