“Sounds like a lynching to me. Why don’t y’all call it what it is?”
A rush of anger colored Hoffner’s cheeks. He watched as the fat reporter’s cameraman moved forward and adjusted his lens. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Darrell Tooley, from Channel Nine in Stanton.”
“Well, Darrell, the term lynching implies that some form of vigilante justice was enacted upon the victim. We’re still gathering facts about Mr. Whitehead’s death and can’t say for certain whether vigilantes were involved.” The hefty reporter opened his mouth again, but Hoffner leaned closer to the three microphones attached to the podium and carried on. “I would ask anyone who visited The Whitehead Store on Wednesday afternoon to contact the sheriff’s office. We’d be interested in your observations about Calvin Whitehead on that day, and to know whether you noticed any suspicious activity.”
Hoffner pointed to the weaselly local reporter and noticed a new figure making its way up the sidewalk.
“Wally Pugh, Sheriff, reporting for the Forney Cater and KOIL. Is it true that one of your officers was targeted by a killer on Wednesday night, and that the shooter got the wrong people?”
“From our investigation so far, we don’t believe that Officer Moses Franklin was Wednesday night’s target.”
“Then it was his mother or brother they were after?”
The figure reached the cluster of reporters and stood staring at the sheriff, a slight smile on his lips. Hoffner drew his attention back to the question. “We’re still investigating, Wally. Joseph Franklin, Officer Franklin’s brother, was recently released from prison in New York. He served time for computer related crimes. We are considering the possibility that one of his former associates is the killer.”
“If that’s the case, Sheriff,” Wally asked, “why would the same person target Donna Moore, one of the accountants here in Arcadia, and the nurse, Emmet Hedder?”
The reporters exchanged glances and jotted notes.
Damn it, Hoffner thought. There’s a leak. “That’s something we’re investigating.”
Wally Pugh looked down at his notepad and then up at the sheriff. His pointed features twitched. “How are Joseph Franklin, Donna Moore, and Emmet Hedder connected?”
“At this point, we’re not aware of any connection between all three families. Neither the Franklin family nor the Hedders did business with Miss Moore. She attended a private school; the Franklin boys and Hedder went to public school here in Arcadia. Again, we’d ask the public to help with this matter by sharing information about their relationships, if any.”
The big reporter spoke up. “If there’s no connection between Franklin and Moore, does that mean the murders were random?”
Start a panic, why don’t you, fat boy? Hoffner thought, sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. “If this killer is targeting people randomly, and I don’t believe that he is, then he’s putting himself to quite a bit of trouble. The Franklins and Miss Moore live in opposite parts of the county. Once we find a connection between the victims, we’ll find the person who killed them.”
The reporters were silent and Hoffner was preparing to draw the press conference to a close when the fat reporter adjusted his glasses. His lips were pursed in a prissy moue, and Hoffner fought the urge to sneer. “Sheriff, is it possible that another of your officers is dirty?”
Hoffner’s blood ran cold. “What did you say?”
“Dirty cops happen. Even in a place as lovely as Arcadia. Two of your own officers were linked to that cult a few weeks ago. Is it possible that Officer Franklin is dirty and that the killer shot his mother and brother in error? I mean, I’ve heard he wasn’t such a nice guy.”
Hoffner stared at the fat reporter, wondering if whoever was sending letters to him was also sending them to the press. Mayor Rusted cleared his throat, and Hoffner spoke in a low voice, his tone razor sharp. “Moses Franklin is a highly respected officer on the Forney County force. He’s been with us for twenty-six years, and has served in a courageous and professional capacity during that time. Whatever you’ve heard, from whatever source, is wrong.”
“I’m just saying, Sheriff,” the fat reporter continued. “If there’s no connection between the Franklins and Moore, and there’s nothing in Joseph Franklin’s background that makes him a target, Moses had to be up to something. Are you investigating him?”
Hoffner’s bowels contracted and he flushed a deep red. The man hovering at the edge of the small crowd stepped fully into view. Hoffner’s eyes narrowed as he struggled to place the face. The man pointed a finger at him and mimicked firing a shot from an imaginary gun. With a wink, he turned and sauntered away. It happened in a matter of seconds and Hoffner watched him go while leaning into the microphone. “Be careful what you report, Mr. Tooley. Officer Franklin could have a suit for defamation on his hands. This press conference is over. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
Turning, Hoffner bumped into Mayor Rusted, and the rotund man shuffled out of his way.
“Wait, Sheriff,” Jim Long called.
Hoffner stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“When will you hold another press conference?”
“It won’t be today, boys,” Hoffner answered. “Visitation for Officer Franklin’s family is tonight. And to be clear, the press is not invited.”
____________
THE LOBBY WAS COOL and quiet when Sheriff Hoffner and Mayor Rusted stepped inside. The mayor’s eyes, dark indentations in his pudgy face, were curious as he spoke. “Who was that, Bill?”
Hoffner swept the hat from his head and tried to smooth his hair into place. “Rob Conroy. Remember him?”
“He’s out?”
“My detectives have talked to him about the Franklin shooting, but his alibi is solid.”
“Are you anticipating trouble? He threatened you, remember?”
Hoffner smirked. “No, I’m not worried about Conroy. It won’t be long until he’s cooking again and sampling his own product. We’ll send him back to Huntsville.” He headed for the entrance to the police station. A leadership lesson hit him, gratitude, and he turned back to Mayor Rusted. “Thank you, David Wayne, for joining me out there. Talking to the press in a situation like this is never easy.”
Rusted stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Is it true, Bill? About Whitehead? Was he lynched?”
“Frankly, I hadn’t made the connection between the way Whitehead died and lynching.” He seemed to choose his words carefully. “I don’t see how one person could’ve killed Calvin Whitehead. His injuries, David Wayne, were severe.”
“He was beaten?”
Hoffner’s voice was almost a whisper. “No. But he was shot through the leg, had a swastika carved in his chest, and his killers made certain that he was alive when they hung him.”
“So that he would strangle to death?”
“So that he would feel the pain of being burned alive.”
The mayor took a small step back. “That’s horrible.”
“That’s some kind of anger. I think that reporter’s right. Lynching describes perfectly what was done to Calvin Whitehead.”
CHAPTER 85
MUNK MET KADO AS he stepped into the department’s main hall. “There’s something hinky about Calvin Whitehead,” Munk said, motioning for Kado to follow him to the conference room.
“You’re not kidding,” Kado said. “It’s after two o’clock. I’ve got to have lunch. Aren’t you hungry?”
Munk stopped in his tracks. “Now that’s a first.”
“What is?”
“I’ve never been so absorbed in anything before that I didn’t notice I was hungry.”
Kado grinned. “That must be some serious hinky. I sent Truman to get food. Let’s see who’s in the squad room.”
They found Mitch still on the phone, Cass working through Moore’s paperwork, and Martinez making notes on the interview with Celia Hedder. Truman poked his head around the door. “Catfish is in the conference r
oom. I was going to get barbeque, but I’m not ready for that. Munk, I moved your stuff to the counter.”
They congregated around the scuffed table, passing cartons of cole slaw, beans, fries, hush puppies, and fried catfish between them.
“Carlos,” Cass said. “What did you find out from the quilting club?”
“They only served desserts at the meeting Tuesday night,” Martinez said, looking over at Kado, “so that’s not where the tomato stuff on Joseph’s shoes came from.”
“What about the gasoline on his clothes?” Mitch asked. “Find a receipt in his or Mrs. Franklin’s things?”
“Nope,” Munk answered. “No receipts dated Wednesday.”
Kado shrugged. “Maybe it’s nothing, like Carlos says. If they paid cash, they might not’ve taken a receipt.”
“Where is Mojo?” Cass asked.
“He went home to get ready for visitation at the funeral home.” Mitch answered. “It starts at six.”
“He’s been so stoic,” Martinez said. “Almost like he’s half a Mojo.”
“He was like this after his divorce, remember?”
Martinez nodded as he chewed. “Yeah. He kind of withdrew. The worse she behaved, the quieter he got.”
“I think he’s still in shock. Who wouldn’t be?” Mitch said. “But he’s focused. The work he did following up on crimes similar to Whitehead’s murder was useful.”
“What did you find?”
“Out of the sixty-four hits, we’ve got seven that are reasonable matches.”
“In Texas?” Kado asked.
“All over the South within the last three years. The law office in each jurisdiction is faxing the files to us.”
“Will you ask Mojo to help you go through the files?” Cass asked.
“Maybe,” Mitch answered. “Having something to do seemed to help him today.”
“Getting them buried will be good for him,” Munk said. “He can move on. Will everybody be at the visitation tonight?”
“I think so. Even the officers on duty are planning to stop by.”
Kado took a long drink of iced tea and looked at Munk. “Calvin Whitehead. What’s hinky?”
“Who searched the house and store?” Munk asked.
Martinez swallowed. “Me. Truman, too. Why?”
“How many safes did you find?”
“One. It was beneath the cash register,” Truman answered.
“There’s another one under the floor, somewhere in his shop or house,” Munk said, wiping a smear of tartar sauce from his shirt.
“His house is pier and beam,” Martinez said. “It would be easy enough to hide a safe beneath the floor there. I think his shop is on a slab. What do you think we’ll find, Munk?”
“Cash, possibly some links to his life before Arcadia,” he answered, reaching for the container of beans and plopping a heavy spoonful onto his plate. He wiped a brown streak from his uniform’s shirt.
“Whitehead’s life before Arcadia?” Kado offered before Munk could continue. “You’re not going to believe this. His name was originally Calvin Whitman.”
He filled them in on his conversation with the forensics examiner from Alabama, about Whitman’s alleged death in 1978, and his role as the sheriff of Thayerville for almost twenty years.
Munk choked as Kado stopped talking. “Where?”
“Thayerville, Alabama. Why?”
“Unbelievable,” Munk muttered, shoving back from the table and squatting on popping knees in front of a towering column of boxes. “Where did I put that thing?”
The others watched in bemused silence as he found the box he wanted and bumped Truman from his spot at the end of table, sat the box down, and extracted a file. Munk wiped his hands on his shirt, opened a folder, and flipped through the aged papers inside. He selected a piece of yellowed newspaper and placed it on the table. “There has to be a link between the Franklins and Calvin Whitehead.”
They passed the article from person to person, faces somber as they read about the lynching of Charles Franklin, Robert Hedder, and Ben Silverman. Kado looked at Munk as he passed the paper to Detective Martinez. “Charles Franklin was Moses and Joseph’s father?”
“Yes. I found a marriage certificate for Martha and a Charles Franklin, and a death certificate for Charles dated May 9, 1967, same as that first article,” Munk said, turning several more pages. He handed Kado the small slip of newspaper glued to an index card. “This must be a paragraph clipped from a later article. It quotes a sheriff. I assume that it’s the sheriff of Thayerville and the article refers to the men who committed the lynching.”
“Cause of death?” Kado asked.
“‘Asphyxia due to obstructed airway’,” Munk quoted.
“That’s an understatement,” Truman whispered.
“You think Calvin Whitman was Thayerville’s sheriff when Charles Franklin was lynched?” Kado asked.
Munk nodded. “If he was sheriff for twenty years and disappeared in late 1978, then he was in charge in 1967.”
“How in the world did the Franklins and Whitehead end up here? In the same town?” Kado asked.
“Not just the Franklins,” Cass said quietly. “Emmet Hedder’s family, too.”
Mitch scanned the articles again. “Mojo said they were childhood friends with Emmet. But he didn’t mention that both families came from Alabama, or that this,” he motioned to the clippings, “had happened.”
Martinez stirred. “He may not know. Some families never discuss the terrible parts of their past.”
“Seriously?” Truman asked.
A bleak smile crossed Martinez’ face. “There are some things about my ancestors that my parents didn’t want us to know. More to protect us than anything.”
“What about the Silverman family?” Cass asked. “Who are they?”
Nobody answered.
“Okay, what bearing does any of this have on our murders? Whitehead’s or the Franklins’ and Moore’s? And does it have anything to do with Emmet’s disappearance?”
“The fact that most of these people came from the same location could be coincidence. The Whitehead Store is in the middle of nowhere. The Hedders and Franklins probably didn’t know it was there,” Mitch said. “And since he changed his name from, what was it, Kado?”
“Whitman.”
“Whitman to Whitehead, the Franklins and Hedders probably had no idea the sheriff of Thayerville was here in Arcadia. And if Whitehead might’ve been Klan at one point, he probably wouldn’t have been in the same places the black folks were. I talked to our neighboring counties about Klan activity. Where they’ve had any, Whitehead’s name hasn’t come up. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t been active here, but we have no indication that he has been. So let’s go back to Thayerville.” Mitch leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “Calvin Whitman needed to disappear. Why?”
“Maybe somebody he arrested got out of jail and came after him,” Truman offered.
“Possible,” Mitch conceded. “But why not re-arrest them? Why run away?”
The conference room door popped open and Elaine’s heart-shaped face appeared. “Mitch, I’ve got paper coming through the fax machine non-stop. I’ll get it to you when everything’s out. Carlos?”
“Hey, Elaine. What’s up?”
“I know you’re busy and I’m sorry to do this to you, but another senior citizen has gone missing. One of the neighbors asked for you since you worked the Iris Glenthorne case. Bring me some catfish when you come through.”
He groaned but pushed away from the table. Munk filled a plate for Elaine and handed the detective two glasses of iced tea. Martinez turned at the open conference room door. “Once these murders are solved, I’m proposing a catch and release program to put GPS tags in everybody over sixty-five. Anybody else game?”
CHAPTER 86
MAYOR RUSTED PULLED HIS office blinds closed and sat rigid in the cool, silent room. He fished the cell phone from a pocket with trembling hands, and pressed
a speed dial button.
“News, Mayor?” the old man asked.
“I don’t believe that Calvin was randomly targeted.” The mayor heard the old man puffing on his pipe, and pictured a flame dipping into the bowl and then gobbling at the matchstick. An image of Whitehead’s burning body flashed across his brain, and he shuddered.
“Go on,” the old man said.
“Someone shot him in the leg and carved a swastika in his chest. Hoffner said they took care not to kill him before they hung him, so he’d be sure to know that he was being lynched.”
“Lynched?”
“Hoffner held a press conference a few minutes ago.”
The pipe clacked against the old man’s teeth. “Damn it, David Wayne. Why didn’t you call?”
The mayor waited until the clacking stopped. “He came by my office on his way outside, and I had no opportunity.”
“You said ‘they’ took care while they were lynching him. More than one person killed him?”
“Hoffner said he didn’t think one person could murder Calvin like this. It would’ve taken more than one to subdue, torture, hang, and burn him. What do you think it means?”
The old man was quiet for a time. “If Hoffner’s right and multiple people came after Calvin, then I believe that reduces the odds that they are targeting members of The Church. This sounds more like a Klan killing than anything, but Calvin wasn’t involved with the Klan. Not since he’s been in Arcadia, anyway.”
The mayor’s body relaxed into the wide desk chair, and it groaned beneath his bulk.
“But you need to keep an eye on this investigation, Mayor. I’ve been wrong before, and whoever committed a murder this brutal deserves our watchfulness and respect.”
CHAPTER 87
“HOFFNER WOULD KNOW WHAT would make a man run from his responsibilities,” Cass said as the conference room door slammed open before it could fully close behind Martinez.
“Watch your mouth, Elliot,” Hoffner barked, barging into the room. His face was flushed and a drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. “You think I’m a coward?”
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