Roots of Murder

by R. Jean Reid

  Nell wanted to know who had been so callously left in an unmarked grave. It was almost a commingling of grief. They had died young, died hard. She couldn’t bring Thom back, but she could give these nameless bones rest.

  If Marcus was anything like Jacko, he could be lost in his archives until tomorrow, Nell realized. Or maybe he was being a good reporter and wanted check his facts. She again glanced at her watch. It had been less than a half hour since she had dropped her children at the library. Suddenly, she decided she wasn’t going to just wait around.

  Getting up and grabbing her jacket, she left the office and headed across the square to the police station. She had a right to know what was happening to the investigation into Josh’s assault. And she might see if she could find out anything about a certain act of vandalism that had happened over the weekend. Maybe even manage a few questions to Whiz Brown about his family ties.

  Luck—she wasn’t sure if it was good or bad—placed both Whiz Brown and Boyce Jenkins right inside the main entrance of the police station.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Nell greeted them. To start with the most legitimate topic first, she said, “I’m here about the investigation into the assault on my son Josh.”

  The two men looked at each other. Chief Brown remained stolidly silent. Finally Boyce Jenkins spoke up.

  “Still looking into it. I hear your son is back in school, doing fine.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that next time, when he’s maimed or dead, then maybe you’ll actually do some real police work.”

  “Listen, Miz McGraw, I know how to do police work,” he said heatedly, more heatedly than a cop who dealt with an irate public should.

  “You’ve never interviewed my son, save for the brief time I was here. Or my daughter, who was also a witness. Or Billy Naquin, a third witness.” Nell didn’t know that for sure, but it was a reasonable guess. “When I went to get my son’s bike the following day, the broomstick was still lying in the gutter, almost twenty-four hours after I reported the crime. I used to cover the police beat, and most cops I knew would have at least tried to fingerprint it.”

  Boyce Jenkins looked both abashed and angry. “Look, I’ve been busy on other things.”

  It was a public enough place, with several other people milling around. Nell decided to chance it. “Yes? Like making sure that no one finds out Chief Brown’s father was in the Klan and made a lot of money swindling land from poor black people?”

  “That’s not true!” Whiz Brown shot back. Then he added, “He wasn’t in it that long! And he never took me to any meetings!”

  What the guilty reveal, Nell thought. “Just took your brother. Was that why you were left out of the will?”

  “No, you got it all wrong!” Whiz’s face had taken on a greasy sheen of desperation. “It wasn’t us. We didn’t do it. We—”

  “Shut up!” The voice rang across the room. Nell turned to see Alderman Festus Higgins striding over to them. His face was hard, an edge of hate showing through. Then abruptly, he changed, like a perfect chameleon, his face now a polite smiling mask. It made Nell wonder if he had any soul, or just a series of masks.

  “Whiz, I’ve got some good news,” he said. “Since you’re here, Mrs. McGraw, you get to be in on it, too. We’ve just hired a replacement for you, Whiz. His name is Douglas Shaun, coming here from North Carolina. Quite an impressive resume, but says he wants warmer winters and better fishing. So you get to take it easy for the next few weeks. Hardest thing you’ll have to do is clean out your desk.”

  The polite mask didn’t hide his message. Nell wondered if Festus Higgins thought she was fooled. She realized it might be best if he did.

  “Well, that is good news,” Whiz said shakily. He had admitted something he shouldn’t have, and his shaking hands meant he was scared of what the consequences might be.

  “I thought so,” Alderman Higgins said. His body language dismissed Whiz Brown. He turned to Nell and said, “Mrs. McGraw, I left a message for you at your office. Obviously one you haven’t gotten yet.”

  Nell didn’t disabuse him of that notion.

  He continued. “What’s your theory on those bones in the woods?”

  She wasn’t going to play his game. “I don’t really have any theories, Alderman Higgins. Just a few facts. Three people were murdered, buried in a hidden grave, and, save for lightning literally striking, would never have been found.” She left it at that.

  “Hard to think people could be killed like that here,” he said, with enough concern in his voice to make it sound like he was troubled; another mask slipping into place. “But there was a time, back in the forties and fifties, when there was gambling and smuggling going on down here. Probably some gang thing.”

  Nell didn’t point out there was certainly gambling and most likely smuggling going on right now, but proving those two things existed didn’t automatically lead to multiple bodies being dumped in the woods.

  “Why don’t you come to my office? I could tell you some stories, give you some ideas,” he offered, his polite politician’s smile firmly in place.

  “I’d love to, Alderman, but I have to pick up my children. If you do have ideas, you might want to bring them to the sheriff. He’s doing the investigation. I just report the facts.”

  Nell made her escape. As she walked back across the square, she saw Marcus entering the Crier building.

  He noticed her and stood at the door, waiting until she caught up. They cut through the newsroom to Nell’s office.

  He pulled up a chair beside her desk. She took his cue and sat down. Placing a thick folder in the space between them, Marcus removed an old, yellowed newspaper.

  He showed Nell a headline—“Claims of Missing Interlopers False”—and then read the brief story. “‘The allegations that three so-called civil rights workers are missing have been dismissed as false by Tchula County Sheriff Bo Tremble. ‘Witnesses saw them at the bus station hightailing it out of here, on their way back home. There’s no cause for alarm. They were healthy enough to get on a bus. If anything happened to them, it happened back in Yankee land.’ The sheriff elaborated further, saying that the false reports were an attempt to stir things up and ‘their outside agitation isn’t working, so they’re getting desperate to make it look like things are bad down here.’”

  Marcus looked up at her and placed the paper on the desk. Nell glanced at the masthead, guiltily relieved that it wasn’t the Pelican Bay Crier. Marcus pulled out another old newspaper, but this one was a much smaller sheet. He again showed Nell the headline: “Sheriff Claims Civil Rights Workers Left on Bus.” The story was much longer. Marcus summed it up for her. “As you know, back in those days bus stations were segregated, so I thought it was suspicious only white people noticed them leaving. I asked the porters, janitors, the people who watch, but no one noticed them. They’d been staying with some local folks and hadn’t told anyone they were leaving, hadn’t packed a bag, and they left everything behind but the clothes they had on. Now, it was possible they faced the choice of either getting on the bus or having something much more unpleasant happen than leaving everything behind. But three scared outsiders, no baggage, waiting at the Pelican Bay bus station, and only some unnamed witness for the sheriff notices them?”

  A silence hung, letting his words sink in, and then Nell asked, “Who were they?”

  In answer, Marcus pulled out another newspaper article. It was the same kind of paper as the one he’d just showed her. Nell suspected it was his paper. He pointed to a picture of several people. Moving the tip of his finger to a young man in the middle, he said, “Michael Walker. From New York City.” The finger moved slightly, to a white woman. “Dora Ellischwartz. From Boston.” Again the finger moved, to another woman, a petite black woman. “Ella Carr. Grew up outside McComb, a student at Jackson State.”

  Nell picked up the paper and closely examine
d the photo. It was hard to make out individual features; it was a group shot, with the caption “Welcome given to three new arrivals from Mrs. Hattie Jacobs, Mrs. Ruth Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. John Neely, and Mr. Rufus Jackson.” The three young people Marcus had pointed out were spread among their welcoming committee. Nell read the date on the top of the paper: “June 15, 1963.”

  “What else can you tell me?” she asked softly.

  “What do you know of that time?”

  “The basics,” she admitted. “The riot at Ole Miss on admitting James Meredith. Freedom Summer, the voter registration drive in …”

  “The summer of 1964,” he supplied.

  “The challenge at the Democratic Convention that same year,” she added.

  “I was a young man back then. Married, kids, working as a teacher at Elizabeth Keys School, the segregated one. Using my spare time—and unused talents—to put out my monthly paper for the black community. Yeah, you’ve got the big ones, but there were so many other things going on.” He took another sheet from his folder and handed it to Nell. It was a faded purple mimeograph. She had to hold it close to the light to read it. The heading was “Freedom Classes,” and it had a list of several sessions, on topics ranging from how to register to vote to freedom theater. Nell noted that the address for these classes was the same as the place where she had heard Marcus speak. Under the register-to-vote class, Michael’s name—just his first name—was listed.

  “Mississippi had just changed its voting laws from ‘read or interpret’ to ‘read and interpret’ the state constitution. Too many blacks had learned to read, so now that had to have something more subjective as a standard. A man I knew, a PhD in history, flunked interpreting the state constitution, at least according to the eighth-grade-educated secretary who handled his registration. Forty percent of the population of Mississippi at that time was black. Five percent of them were registered to vote. So voter registration was a major focus of the groups down here, mainly NAACP and SNCC, but some others. We had to train people on what would happen when they tried, from how to read and interpret the Mississippi constitution to what to expect, what their rights were. We even had something called the Freedom Vote in the fall of 1963. It was a mock—odd term for something as serious as this—election to prove that black citizens wanted to vote, and would vote if given a chance.” He paused, then continued. “I don’t know if I can explain the fear, the hopelessness we had to overcome. If a black boy looked at a white woman the wrong way, he could be lynched, no consequences for his attackers. Voting, maybe even having blacks elected to office, that sounded like … like a revolution. That’s what these three young people came to change.”

  “And they paid for it with their lives,” Nell said.

  “You and I know that. But can we ever prove those three skeletons were once these two women and this man?” His finger again rested on the picture.

  “We can do our damnedest.”

  They both sat silently. Finally Nell said, “What else might you be able to find out about them? Would there be anyone around who remembers?”

  “Always possible, although it’s been a long time. There will be those who remember, like me, but who only knew them in passing. They’ll be as helpful as I am,” Marcus admitted ruefully, as if what they needed to know should have become emblazoned in his mind all those years ago.

  “You’ve helped considerably,” Nell pointed out. “Find out as much as you can. I’m certainly willing to go with the story on Friday about the coincidence of three civil rights workers leaving on a bus with nothing, and three sets of bones being found in the woods fifty years later. That might stir some memories. See what else you can find, especially anything that might help prove the identity of the skeletons. Also for anything that might have led to them being killed.”

  “Other than daring to demand equality?” Marcus queried.

  “That especially. We have to keep an open mind. This might be some family grudge …”

  “A white and black family,” Marcus reminded her.

  “Or some bizarre lover’s quarrel. And, yes, white women had sex with black men, even back in those days.”

  “Two women and one man?” Marcus replied.

  “Wife has a ‘kinky’ ménage-a-trois, and husband kills all three of them. Unlikely, I know, but we can’t totally discount other explanations. But do most of your work on the theory their murders had something to do with the unrest of the civil rights era.”

  “The violence of that time,” he corrected her. “Murder was the worst, but beatings, shootings, were common. Blood flowed, lots of blood.”

  “Let’s hope no more does,” Nell said.

  There was another silence, then Marcus said, “This has been a long day. I was hoping to leave my so-called archives for some poor graduate student to plow through. Wasn’t figuring on doing it myself. I think it’s time for a brew at Joe’s. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Me and my kids?”

  “Ah, that’ll be the advantage of having them grown and of drinking age.”

  “Maybe some other time,” Nell said.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Nell,” he said as he stood to go.

  She waved goodbye, made another pass at the press release that had been sitting on her desk, and after getting through it and a few more, decided to try one of those ideas that was either foolish or a brilliant leap of intuition.

  Ellischwartz wasn’t a common name. It was possible that anyone in the Boston area with that same name might be a family member. She got online and searched the white pages for Boston and the vicinity. She found three listings. Nell glanced at her watch; it was just after five, which meant it would be six in Boston. People might be home from work. She dialed the first name on the list. The phone rang several times, then the voicemail picked up. Nell put the receiver down; she would try the other numbers before leaving a message that sounded bizarre: “Some bones were found in the woods here and they might be related to you. Call me back.”

  She tried the second number. Someone who sounded much too young to have been alive fifty years ago answered. She identified herself and then said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for anyone who might have information on Dora Ellischwartz. This would be going back a long way, fifty years.”

  There was a rather long pause before the young person (and Nell couldn’t quite tell if it was a high-voiced man or a low-voiced woman) replied, “Well, Ellischwartz isn’t exactly a common name, but that’s not familiar to me. Have you tried my cousin Derek?”

  Nell admitted she didn’t know Cousin Derek and was rewarded with the phone number attached to the previous voicemail.

  She thanked the young person and again stared at the two numbers in front of her. Back to Cousin Derek, or on to the unknown Ellischwartz? She decided on the voicemail number, since she almost had a proper introduction to Derek. She did a quick run to the bathroom to give Derek a few more minutes to get home—or out of the facilities himself.

  Nell dialed again and at the last minute, the phone was picked up. She introduced herself.

  “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?” a man asked.

  Nell again identified herself and repeated her request.

  “Dora. I once had an aunt named Dora, but only until I was around ten or so. Never knew what happened to her.”

  At his words, Nell felt the excitement. How many Doras could there have been who disappeared a long time ago?

  “Can you tell me anything else about her?” Nell asked.

  “She was a fun aunt, kind of a free spirit. Once let all us kids skip school and took us to the zoo. But her sister, my aunt Gwen, could probably help you better than I can.” He gave her Aunt Gwen’s number. It didn’t match the final number Nell had gotten from the directory; it was possible Aunt Gwen had married and taken another name.

  Taking a deep breath to c
alm herself, Nell dialed the number. The phone rang and rang. Nell was about to give up when an older woman answered it.

  “Please, if you’re selling something, I’m not interested,” the woman immediately said.

  “No, I’m not selling anything,” Nell affirmed. “My name is Nell McGraw and I’m the editor of a paper located on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Did you have a sister named Dora Ellischwartz who disappeared about fifty years ago?”

  For a moment, only static came over the line. Then the woman softly said, “Dora?” as if the name was so old, she could barely say it. “I had a sister, my younger sister, named Dora.”

  “I’m sorry. The news I have might not be easy to hear,” Nell said, preparing her.

  “She’s been gone for too many years to count. What can be worse than that void?”

  “Recently, several skeletons were found in our woods. It’s possible one may belong to your sister, as well as two other civil rights workers she was with.”

  “Oh, my God, Dora!” the woman suddenly gasped. Nell heard the sound of tears; then the woman mumbled, “I’m sorry. I just … never thought I’d hear her name again. Please give me a moment.” Nell heard the phone put down, and, in the distance, the woman blowing her nose. After another moment, she came back on the line.

  Nell gave the kindest version she could of what she knew about the bones and why she suspected they might belong to Dora. When she finished, she asked, “What can you tell me about your sister?”

  “I suppose you’re wondering how we could have just let her disappear?” the woman replied.

  Nell had, indeed, been wondering, but she could think of no way to ask. Guilt both hides and reveals.

  “I was the staid one, never moved more than twenty-five miles from where I grew up,” the woman began. “But Dora was the free spirit. I don’t know if I can explain her in just one phone call.” She hesitated, then added, “And I’m afraid you’ll judge her.”

  “Judge her? In what way?” Nell asked.

  “When she was sixteen, she hitchhiked to Cape Cod. When she returned, she was … in a family way.”