The Secrets of Taylor Creek

by Michael Merson

  Once again, he drove down the driveway leading to the home on the water. On the porch, Stormie and Will sat, appearing as if they were waiting for his return. Jaxson walked onto the porch holding the journal.

  “My father couldn’t let the truth die. He told me before he died that he’d written everything down. I just didn’t know where he’d left it,” Will admitted.

  “Can I have the truth that goes with the journal?” Jaxson asked.

  “I think you already know the truth,” Stormie answered.

  “I think I do. I found it this morning in this photo,” Jaxson explained as he handed her a copy of one of the evidence photos. In his very brief investigation, Agent Jaxson Locke believed he had found the truth in the photo, the journal confirmed it, but still, there were unanswered questions.

  Stormie looked at the red circle that Agent Locke had made on the copy, she smiled, and then looked back up at Agent Locke.

  “Start reading, and Will and I can fill in the blanks.”

  Jaxson sat down in a chair across the table from the two of them. He opened the journal, took a deep breath, and started reading from the beginning.

  PART II:

  THE SECRET TOLD

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, July 1, 1965

  FBI Agent Nathan Emerson found himself in Charlotte, North Carolina sitting in the waiting room of the office of the Special Agent in Charge, Nicolas Smith. He enjoyed a corner office on the second floor of the federal building with views of the city. Special Agent in Charge was a difficult position to achieve in any city within the bureau, and it was usually reserved for hardworking, decorated, and committed agents of the FBI who were in their final years of service.

  Emerson pondered how Smith had received the corner office and the title of Special Agent in Charge since he was not and had not achieved anything close to those requirements in his short ten years of service. He had actually just transferred from Florida to North Carolina within the past month. This was the second meeting Emerson was going to have with Agent Smith.

  Their first meeting was very brief and had been down in Florida where Agent Smith oversaw the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. In Miami, Agent Emerson found himself working with five corrupt federal agents who were selling marijuana and pocketing the money. He also suspected they’d had a hand in killing three people. Two of the five agents were out of his own office in Charlotte.

  When Agent Emerson filed his report, the agents had been taken off the case and placed on desk duty to include Agent Emerson, pending an investigation. It was while he was on desk duty that the other two agents began conspiring against him and spreading rumors within the bureau. Agent Emerson learned just recently that the other agents had accused him of being the one who was corrupt in Miami. During the past few months, many people were reassigned to include Agent Smith. Many other agents distanced themselves from Agent Emerson and would not speak to him.

  Agent Emerson didn’t know what to expect from his second meeting with Agent Smith. The previous Special Agent in Charge, with whom Agent Emerson had a better relationship with, was suddenly transferred to Mississippi without an explanation to anyone. Agent Emerson was the one who had requested today’s appointment with the new supervisor a week ago.

  He was told this morning by Smith’s secretary, Sharon Bunting, that he was being squeezed in between 9:00 and 9:15. Sharon had been with the bureau for a very long time. Rumors swirled, as Emerson was now very aware of, that she had once dated the legendary leader of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover himself. No one really knew for sure, and no one dared to ask her. Sharon was nice; very formal, and very businesslike. She was tall, thin, wore a lot of makeup to cover up her wrinkles, and smelled of smoke. It was believed that she was in her sixties, but once again no one dared to ask unless they wanted to find themselves checking for communists at the North Pole.

  It was the common belief that the men in the Bureau ran the office, but the agents in the office knew that the secretaries decided who would be assigned where and for how long. Sharon sat behind her desk most days running interference and making excuses for Agent Smith, just as she had done for the previous nine or ten other Agent Smiths before him.

  In the waiting area, Sharon had directed Agent Emerson where to sit and then used the intercom to inform Agent Smith that Agent Emerson had arrived. Sharon made no attempt at conversation nor any pleasantries whatsoever toward Agent Emerson. She just began pecking on her typewriter after announcing his arrival. Nathan sat there quietly looking at the portraits of the various men on the wall. If an agent ever wanted to know where he was in the bureau food chain, he simply just needed to look at the wall. At the top was President Johnson and at the bottom was Agent Smith and somewhere much further down was Agent Emerson. Not pictured, of course, he thought to himself.

  “Send Agent Emerson in please, Sharon,” Smith’s voice resonated from the intercom.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You may go in now.”

  Emerson stood up, walked over to the door, and stopped to straighten his suit coat before walking into Smith’s office. Inside, Smith was standing behind his desk looking out over the city with his back to the door. He was a small thin man, with wire-rimmed glasses, and he wore an expensive three-piece suit.

  “I don’t care for this view much. I had a view of the ocean in Miami,” Smith commented as he lit a cigarette before turning around to face Emerson.

  “Nathan, I understand you’re worried about some colored girls that have died over in Beaufort, North Carolina and...”

  “Killed,” Emerson interrupted.

  “Yes. They’re all dead, and those deaths have been ruled accidental,” Smith responded, visibly irritated by the interruption.

  “The local sheriff has apparently investigated those deaths, and he has cleared them all as accidental. And now, from this memo you sent me, it seems that a colored preacher by the name of Turner has contacted you and has requested a formal investigation by the FBI.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well, I understand that you’ve only been here a short time, but still, I’d think that you would know that the FBI is not some local radio station.”

  “I don’t understand Sir.”

  “In other words, we don’t do requests. Especially from non-law enforcement officials, Agent Emerson,” Smith remarked sarcastically.

  “But, with all due respect, with everything that’s happened in the past few years regarding Civil Rights violations, I thought that Mr. Hoover wanted us looking into cases like this.”

  “Cases… There are no cases nor one single case for that matter. These deaths have been cleared by the local law enforcement agency. They haven’t even asked for our involvement.”

  “So, we’re to do nothing?” Emerson asked disgruntledly.

  “No,” Smith answered sharply and then exhaled the cigarette smoke from his lungs as he walked from behind the desk. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned with the internal investigation that you started?” Smith asked as he picked up a thick file off his desk.

  “To my understanding that investigation will be over soon, and I would be eligible for field assignment again,” Emerson stated in his defense.

  “Agent Emerson, it’s never over in the FBI, especially if I’m in charge. You, after all, have made accusations against your fellow agents. All of whom just happen to be very close to me.”

  “I saw corruption, and I reported it,” Emerson said defensively once more. Other agents would have backed off by now, but Emerson never understood the meaning of the word ‘tact’ when it came to saying what was on his mind, nor did he have a filter, or a disposition of listening to nonsense.

  “Yes, I know, but I also know that you used your fancy law degree to help yourself in your defense throughout this investigation and...”

  “Defense! Agent Smith, as I said once before, I wasn’t the subject of that investigation until those other agents conspired after I reported them!” Emerson stated loudly interrupti
ng Smith.

  “In my opinion, any other agent would’ve already been out of a job. Possibly in prison by now. I’ve read the investigation, and I think you’re dirty,” Smith said and then sat on the corner of the desk waiting to see if Emerson would take the bait.

  Smith wanted Emerson to lose control, so he could be done with him. He needed his men back to work in Miami, making him money, but Emerson had to go away first. All of the accused agents were working for Smith. Smith needed Emerson gone before one of his men tried to avoid a lengthy prison sentence by cutting a deal for themselves. It took a lot of favors to get assigned to Charlotte, and he was determined to get rid of Emerson in one way or another.

  Emerson stood there without saying a word. He knew he was being lured into a losing argument that could have disastrous consequences.

  “You know something Emerson, why don’t you take some time and go on down to Beaufort and see what you can find,” Smith said as he stood and walked over in the direction of the window once more.

  “I don’t understand. Are we opening an investigation or not?” Emerson asked aggrievedly as he moved toward the desk.

  “No. Not at this time. I mean we really don’t have anything to go on, now do we?” Smith answered while continuing to look out the window.

  “Then what am I supposed to do?” Emerson asked. He didn’t understand the direction Smith was going with his indirect answers.

  “I’ll tell you what Emerson; you go to Beaufort, take your own car, and make it look like you’re there on vacation. If you find something, then let me know. I’ll give you 45 days to find something.”

  Emerson stood there confused and then said, “I guess I’ll send in weekly reports as usual.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Just contact me if you find evidence. You know what that is, right? I mean evidence, not accusations. The kind of stuff that is used in a court of law to convict someone of a crime. I’m sure you learned about evidence in law school.”

  “Yes, Sir. I believe I did,” he answered in frustration.

  “Besides, 45 days is the amount of leave you have saved up. That will give the bureau plenty of time to complete its investigation and me plenty of time to get you transferred out of here. I don’t think I like you much Agent Emerson. I really don’t think you’ll find anything in Beaufort and at the end of 45 days one of two things will happen; I’ll have you transferred out of here, or you’ll find nothing in Beaufort, and I’ll have you terminated for being incompetent. Either way, the bureau, and I will be done with you.”

  “And if I find evidence?” Emerson asked before opening the door to leave.

  “Then I’ll transfer you somewhere else after the official investigation into whatever you find.”

  “So, I’m on my personal leave investigating this case?”

  “You’re not really investigating anything. You’re burning 45 vacation days. If you find something, then I’ll give you back the 45 days, but you’ll still be transferred out. It will be a win for both of us.”

  “It’s a deal,” Emerson said as he walked out the door and slammed it shut.

  Chapter 4

  Friday, July 2, 1965

  Nathan spent the morning packing for the trip. At first, he put together a few suits, shirts, and ties, but then decided to only bring the things he needed for one business suit. After all, he was supposed to be on vacation, and people on vacation usually didn’t wear business suits near the ocean during the summer. In the end, he decided on a few slacks, shorts, a few V-neck t-shirts, and a few short-sleeved Camp shirts. All the shirts he picked were perfect for carrying his gun concealed while wearing shorts or with slacks. He also made room for one bathing suit, although he doubted, he would get to use it.

  After spending the day getting his things ready for the trip, he sat down over a hot pastrami sandwich and a nice cold beer and began reading over the file that was sent to him from the local sheriff’s office. Nathan had requested the records from the sheriff’s office before speaking to Smith, but after the hostile meeting with Smith, he decided there was no reason to tell him about it. The files included the victim’s names, a map of where the bodies were found, and the coroner’s report.

  Sheriff Dwight Carter was very brief in his reports, and as for the coroner’s reports, they appeared to mimic the sheriff’s reports. Apparently, one girl drowned. She was in the water for so long that her body was infested with various marine life. The water scavengers mutilated her body beyond recognition. One girl was struck by a boat propeller after drowning, and one girl had been attacked by an alligator after entering the water where there were known to be alligators. In all the reports, two things were consistent. The girls had met their deaths while intoxicated, and all of them were found near Taylor Creek. Delia was last seen Saturday, April 17, 1965. Rose Melton was found on May 1, 1965, and no one knew when Ida Freeman was last seen.

  Agent Emerson found a few other things that all the reports had in common, but it wasn’t what was in the report that he found the commonality. It was what was not in the reports that piqued his interest. There were no photos of the deceased, nor were there any witnesses listed, and no information on next of kin.

  Surely, someone had found these girls other than the sheriff. In a small town, someone must have known them! Nathan thought to himself as he finished off the sandwich.

  Lastly, all three girls were immediately cremated after the coroner had completed his examination. Why?

  Nathan sat back on the couch, placed his feet on the coffee table, and tilted the beer bottle back quickly, finishing it off. He had spent the better part of the evening looking over the file and had lost track of time. On the end table the clock read twelve-thirty and next to the clock he saw the picture of his parents.

  He smiled for a moment, and then suddenly, he missed them both. He missed the times he’d called his dad for advice or just sat down with the two of them for dinner when he would come home from college during the holidays. He remembered getting his college ring, which he still wore, the summer before his senior year was to start. The ring was expensive, but they insisted that he have it. He looked down at the ring and twisted it back and forth as he recalled other fond memories of his parents.

  His parents were good people, and they were taken away from him way too soon. He contemplated whether he was doing what they would have wanted him to do in life. They had always supported him in his endeavors. Would they be proud of me today? He asked himself before standing and walking his plate into the kitchen.

  They’d be proud of me for anything I did.

  ***

  Saturday, July 3, 1965

  Nathan noticed that the early morning sun was bright, and it was slowly making its way higher into the sky. It was a beautiful day for a drive toward the coast. Nathan rolled the window down and detected the fresh smell of nature, and then noticed that everything was green and blooming along the road. The Shelby’s 350 roared as Nathan pressed the accelerator down and entered the oncoming lane to pass a slow-moving tractor that was being driven by a local farmer. The sports car was expensive and was a spontaneous purchase after he sold the family farm earlier in the year. There were many attributes that Nathan inherited from his parents. He had his mother’s spontaneity and his father’s need for cruising down the highway in a fast car with the radio blasting.

  As he passed one farm after another, he allowed his childhood memories to consume his thoughts. One farm, in particular, had a barn that resembled the one his parents had on their peanut farm. It was red and brown with a high-pitched roof. He and his father rebuilt a 1940 Ford pick-up in that old barn of theirs, and that pick-up truck was Nathan’s first introduction to independence and freedom. He was driving it around the farm at the age of fourteen, scaring the chickens and geese. When he was seventeen, he drove it to his high school prom with Betty Lou Martin. Nathan smiled at the thought of Betty Lou, who was another first in his life.

  The 350 was a powerful motor, and Nathan wo
ndered if his father ever drove a car so smooth and so fast when he was running moonshine down the backroads of North Carolina during prohibition. Nathan never really knew if his father’s stories of being a bootlegger were true or not. Maybe they were just stories. Stories that kept a young boy’s attention in the evenings during one summer after a certain twelve-year-old boy broke his leg jumping out of a tree on a dare just to impress one Betty Lou Martin.

  Nathan’s attention was brought back to the present as he heard the announcer on the radio talking about the future of space and how it was just one month ago today that Edward Higgins White had made the first spacewalk. The announcer then introduced someone else to the show, and the two began a conversation about the Russians and what their next step might be concerning the future of space travel. The topic grew boring, and Nathan changed from station to station until he found one that was reporting the baseball scores. He was disappointed to hear that the Pirates had beaten the Braves, as he was a Braves fan, so he once again searched the airwaves for something else and finally stopped on the Rolling Stones singing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” The song was all he needed to go faster with the radio blaring.

  ***

  The drive from Charlotte to Beaufort usually took most people nearly six hours, but Nathan made it in just over five. After asking residents where 231 Ann Street was located, Nathan soon found himself parking in front of an old Victorian that appeared to be built in the late 1800s. It was three stories; painted white with a brick foundation and large windows. The building sat on the edge of Taylor Creek and provided easy walking access to most places in town. Nathan had booked the room earlier in the month after he had received the letter from Pastor William Turner or simply ‘Preacher’ to his friends. Preacher was also the person who had recommended the Beaufort Bed and Breakfast that Nathan now found himself at.