I looked from one to the other, bewildered. Welton explained, “The Hobbs Act outlaws robbery or extortion that interferes with commerce. It was passed back in 1946 to keep the Teamsters Union from taking over the trucking industry.” I appreciated the history lesson, but I wasn’t sure whether I was getting less bewildered or more. “Marijuana cultivation isn’t legal commerce,” he went on, “but I think we can make the case that in Cooke County, it’s established commerce. A pillar of the underground economy, in fact.” I was beginning to see his reasoning, but could it really be possible that Orbin’s crime was obstructing drug trafficking? “By the way,” he added, “speaking of pot patches, if your friend Vern has booby-trapped his, the way a lot of these backwoods guys do”—I felt a rush of panic on Waylon’s behalf but tried not to show it—“he could be looking at ten years in federal prison for that alone.” I made a mental note to warn Waylon at the first opportunity.
“So tell me about colorful law,” I said. “What’s that?”
“Excuse me? Oh, color of law. The ‘color of law’ statute is something we’ve found useful in prosecuting corrupt law enforcement officers. Basically, it says that if a public official deprives a person of their rights under what’s called ‘the color of law’—that is, using their position and power to commit the crime — it’s a federal offense. By swooping down in that helicopter and committing assault, extortion — hell, even shooting the dog, which probably falls within the technical definition of ‘taking’—this chief deputy has stepped way over the color-of-law line.”
Price nodded. “So maybe we haul in Sky King, hold a ten-year sentence over his head, and get him to turn witness against big brother?”
“Maybe,” cautioned the lawyer, “but be sure you do it right. As a law enforcement officer, the deputy’s considered a highly sensitive source. You’ll need to bring headquarters into the loop before you do it. Probably means you need to create a formal task force.” Price frowned, and I recalled her earlier description of the mountain of paperwork involved.
“Excuse me,” I interjected. “Do you mind if I ask a couple more things?” Price frowned but assented. I turned to Morgan. “Steve, did your TBI techs find anything at my office? Any prints? Any other evidence that might point to the sheriff — or rule him out?”
Morgan shook his head. “As we expected, mostly your prints. Some we haven’t ID’d yet — probably students — but definitely not the sheriff’s or either deputy’s. Your prints on the doorknob were smeared, which means that whoever broke in was wearing gloves.”
“Can’t you get a search warrant and go look for the skeletal material?”
“Look where?” he said. “The sheriff’s office? His house? His brother’s house? The other deputy’s house? The sheds at the cockfight pit?” He shook his head, the former student now reprimanding his professor. “We can’t just go fishing all over Cooke County for it, even if we wanted to. Any judge in the state would hand me my head if I asked for a multiple-choice search warrant.”
I hesitated; this was not going quite as well as I’d hoped. But I had to ask one more question. “There’s another thing I’m wondering about. Concerned about.” I’d promised Morgan to keep our stairwell conversation to myself, but I hadn’t made any such promise about what I saw from the bushes after my first meeting here. I looked at Price. “The last time I was here, I saw a Cooke County sheriff’s deputy coming in as I was leaving.” Price looked daggers at Morgan; he reddened, eyes locked on his notepad. “I assume Deputy Williams is another one of your sources for this investigation. Does that mean I can consider him one of the good guys? It sure would be nice to know that kind of thing.”
Price’s voice rang like case-hardened steel. “Dr. Brockton, this investigation is a matter of strictest confidence — or should be, at any rate.” She shot another glare at Morgan. “You are not, under any circumstances, to speak with any person about any matters under discussion in this room. I thought I made that clear at our first meeting.”
“You did. I just assumed—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t assume anything, about anything or anyone. If you do, you could jeopardize this entire investigation, you could jeopardize your own safety, you could jeopardize the lives of other people. Is that one hundred percent clear this time, Dr. Brockton?”
“Yes, ma’am,” was all I could muster. She spun and left the room, and with that, it seemed, the meeting was adjourned. I got a few awkward glances and head nods as I walked out, but not much more. Morgan silently escorted me past the glassed-in receptionist and as far as the elevator, then left me without a word.
Down in the lobby, Officer Shipley gave me a smile and a wave as I stepped off the elevator. “Hey, Doc, you hear the one about the CIA interviewing people for an assassin’s job?” I held up a hand to fend him off, ducked my head, and got out of the federal building as quickly as I could.
CHAPTER 30
Just seeing Cave Springs Primitive Baptist Church gave me the willies all over again. Even the mortar between the stones seemed to ooze menace.
I swung the truck wide in the parking lot so I could glimpse the opening of the cave. The heavy steel grate remained in place — secured with a shiny new padlock, which seemed odd, since the cave-in had left the tunnel impenetrable anyhow. Although it was midday, I switched on my headlights and flipped to the high beams. Within the blackness of the opening, the light grazed the fringes of the rubble pile that had nearly entombed Art and me.
Circling back to the other side of the parking lot, I parked the truck near the house that adjoined the church. Art and I had guessed that this was the parsonage, where Reverend Kitchings and his wife lived. Most Knoxville ministers these days lived miles from their churches, in upscale suburbs where they blended invisibly with the doctors and lawyers and accountants, but I suspected Cave Springs had more in common with nineteenth-century Knoxville than twenty-first-century Knoxville, and that the pastor—“shepherd,” the word originally meant — still hovered close to his flock. I wasn’t sure I’d catch Reverend or Mrs. Kitchings at home, and if I didn’t, I’d have made a long drive for nothing, but it seemed risky to phone ahead and announce my arrival — either to the couple or to their two excitable sons.
The house reminded me of my grandparents’ home, a simple wooden farmhouse built in the 1920s. A broad covered porch ran the full width of the front of the house. The angle of the roof changed, the slope lessened, where the tin flared above the porch. A dormer window broke the roofline above, letting light into an upstairs bedroom or, judging by my grandparents’ house, an attic crammed with musty furniture and fading mementoes. I wondered if any of those mementoes were of Leena.
The wooden steps had once been gray, but now the paint — where paint remained — had turned the murky color of used mop water. The ends of the porch’s floorboards projected an inch or so beyond the joist that supported them; each weathered end tilted and warped with a mind of its own, giving the edge of the porch the appearance of a mouthful of crooked teeth.
Two rockers — a high ladderback and a lower, spindle-backed one — flanked the front door on either side. The rockers of the ladderback were worn and blunted at their tips, suggesting years of vigorous rocking. The other chair’s rockers were worn in exactly the opposite pattern, ground nearly flat in their central region.
The screen door was slightly ajar, having sagged enough over the years to drag across the floor, etching a pale, paintless quarter-circle to mark decades of comings and goings. I imagined some of them: The family headed to church every Sunday, Tom and Orbin first as toddlers, then as rambunctious boys, then as sullen teenagers. A procession of troubled parishioners — philandering spouses and injured parties, problem drinkers, delinquent youths. A movable feast of roasts, stews, casseroles, cakes, and pies, tasty enough to offset the long hours and low pay that define a country parson’s life.
I tugged open the screen door, adding my own modest mark to the history etched on the floor. The do
or’s rusty spring screeched at exactly the same hair-raising pitch my grandmother’s screen door spring once wailed. My knock on the front door rattled the pane of glass, whose glazing putty was shrunken and cracked with age.
There was no response, so I knocked again, then closed the screen door so as not to seem too pushy. After a pause, I heard slow, creaking footsteps. A lace curtain was pulled back a fraction of an inch, then released, and I heard the click of an old-fashioned lock being opened. An elderly woman frowned at me through the dusty screen.
“Yes?”
“Are you Mrs. Kitchings?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I was hoping I might talk to you for a few minutes. My name is Dr. Bill Brockton, and I’m up here helping your son Tom with a case.”
“What kind of case?”
“Well, it’s an old case that’s just now come to light. The death — the murder — of a young woman I’m told was your niece.”
“Oh, yes — Evelina. Tommy told me Leena had been found. Strangled. After all these years. What a shame.”
“Yes, ma’am. Would you mind if I come in and talk to you about it?”
“Well, I’d have to think about that. Tommy’s the sheriff, and I done told him everthing I know. She just run off one day. We never did know why at the time. Tommy says you figgered out she was expectin’. I reckon that explains it. We never did see her again. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Mrs. Kitchings, I know it’s been a long time, and it might be hard to remember details, but if you wouldn’t mind a few questions, you might just remember something that will help us.” The flimsy screen door was like an impenetrable force field between us.
“Would you mind if I come in for just a few minutes?”
She shook her head. “Not meaning any disrespect, Doctor, but my husband ain’t home, and I don’t let strange men in my house when I’m alone.”
“I’m not quite as strange as I look, and I promise I don’t bite.” She was not amused. “Tell you what — it’s a nice day; how about if we sit out here on the porch in these rocking chairs?”
She frowned, but she pushed open the screen and stepped onto the porch. I headed for the ladderback chair, to leave the smaller one for her, but she reached out a bony hand and stopped me. “That-un’s mine,” she said. “You can sit in Thomas’s there.” She settled into the big chair and launched a series of huge, swooping arcs.
“You sure do get the good out of those rockers,” I said.
She never wavered. “Rock your troubles away, that’s what my mama always told me.”
“Does it work?”
“Don’t know. Ain’t never tried not rocking. Gives you something to do while you worry, leastwise. Keeps you legs strong, too.”
I laughed. “Reckon I better buy me a rocker when I get back to Knoxville.” I tried to find a rhythm in the spindle-backed chair, but I’d no sooner get some momentum in one direction than I’d hit the flat spot heading back the other way and grind to a halt. “I think maybe this one needs a tune-up. I can’t seem to get up a head of steam.”
“Thomas, he ain’t much for rockin’. He kindly goes through the motions, but his heart ain’t in it.”
“What’s he do with his troubles?”
“Prays ’em away. Preaches ’em away. Coon hunts ’em away. Everbody’s got their own ways.”
“Tell me about Leena.”
Her white hair bobbed up and down with her arcs. “Leena was my sister Sophie’s girl. Leena was a Bonds, not a Kitchings, but she was still my blood kin. Her daddy was one of them Bondses over to Claiborne County.” She seemed almost entranced by the rhythm of the chair. “Leena come to stay with us when her mama and daddy died. Our boys, Orbin and Tom, was three and five then. Sometimes she was real good with ’em, sometimes not. Leena was what you might call high-spirited, which ain’t far removed from mule-headed. But she was good-lookin’, just like her mama, I’ll give her that.”
“Tell me about her mama — Sophie, you said her name was?” The old woman gave an oversized swing of her head. “Sophie was your sister?” Another big nod. “Older or younger?”
“Younger. Three years? No, four.” She looked down at the spotted hands clutching the arms of the rocker. “Sophie always was the pretty one of us two. I think Thomas really fancied her, but when she took up with Junior Bonds, Thomas started courtin’ me. Reckon he figured if he couldn’t have Sophie, he’d make do with me.” I recalled what O’Conner had told me of the preacher’s sternness, and I felt sorry for the woman who had been his second choice in a wife.
“How’d Leena’s parents die?”
“House fire. Chimney caught one night after they was asleep. Leena jumped out the window, only thing saved her. Sophie and Junior wasn’t so lucky.”
“How old was Leena then?”
“Thirteen, fourteen, maybe. Leena was kindly a late bloomer, but when she finally started to blossom, she was a beauty. If they was a church social or a wedding or even a funeral, you couldn’t fight your way through the boys around her.”
“Was one of those boys Jim O’Conner?”
She cut me a quick look. “Well, sure. He weren’t the biggest feller around, but he was good-lookin’, and he had a lot of gumption. Like a little banty rooster, struttin’ around the barnyard, but somehow you didn’t mind it.” She smiled, briefly and sadly. “He was real sweet back then. He’s turned a mite hard since, but I can’t say as I blame him. Maybe all of us do, once we get some hard lessons in the way of the world.”
She paused — verbally and physically — and I waited awhile before asking my next question. “Mrs. Kitchings, were she and Jim O’Conner sweethearts? Serious sweethearts?”
She began rocking, and nodded. “Yes. Yes, they was. They was talking about getting married once he come back from Vietnam.” She put the stress on “Nam,” making it rhyme with “ham.”
“And how did you feel about that?”
“Oh, I thought that would be all right. I liked Jim, and I could tell she was crazy over him. Not too many girls up in these mountains gets a man like that. It’s pretty slim pickins, and you take what you can get, or else you make your peace with being a old maid.” It sounded like she was talking about herself now. “I wanted Leena to have a good life and a good husband.”
“So you and your husband gave them your blessing.”
There was a momentary hitch in her rocking, but she quickly found the rhythm again. “Well, we would have. I cain’t say Thomas had took the same shine to the O’Conner boy what I had. Thomas was like a daddy to that girl, so for him, no fella was ever going to measure up.”
I knew what I needed to ask, but not how to ask it. “Did he try to discourage her? Or him?”
Her pace quickened. “They mighta been a discussion or two. Thomas has always spoke his mind straight out. Not one to mince his words. He could be right sharp, and he said some strong words about the O’Conner boy to her once.”
“And how did Leena respond?”
“Why, that girl lit into him like—” She ceased rocking and turned a suspicious eye on me. “Why you asking me these things? That’s thirty years ago, and we ain’t never seen her since. Not since she got herself in trouble and run off. Never heard from her, neither — not so much as a by-your-leave or fare-thee-well or thankee-kindly. That girl made her bed, and I don’t know who she laid in it with, but it weren’t us. So good riddance, I say.”
Inside the house, a phone began to ring. It was a harsh, metallic jangle, the likes of which I hadn’t heard in years. I expected to hear an answering machine pick up, but the phone rang without ceasing. The longer it rang, the more nervous I got about who might be calling Mrs. Kitchings, and what might ensue if she said she was talking to me. She began worrying at the fabric of her housedress, and I could tell she was about to answer the phone. I didn’t want to risk staying through the conversation, so I pushed myself up from the flat-rockered chair. “Sounds like somebody re
ally wants to talk to you. Reckon I should let you go do it.”
She looked startled at the swiftness of my departure. It was customary down South to spend a half-hour or more saying good-bye, but I myself had never embraced the extended leave-taking, what I called the “Southern good-bye.” I thanked her for her time and hustled down the stairs.
She hesitated at the screen door, as if to make sure I was really leaving. As I turned back to wave, I noticed something I’d missed earlier. A faint path led from the back of the house, which probably contained the kitchen, a back door, and a utility porch. The path hugged the treeline at the base of the hill, and it led straight to the blasted entrance of the cave.
CHAPTER 31
District attorney Bob Roper looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. Burt DeVriess looked like he’d just won the lottery. We were convened in the chambers of Judge Barr to review the exhumation results. “Gentlemen, let’s proceed,” said the judge. “This is most unusual, but given that Mr. Roper asked for this conference, and Mr. DeVriess agreed, I’m willing for us to have an informal discussion about this case. I’ve got a hearing in ten minutes, so we need to cut straight to the chase.”
DeVriess was happy to oblige. “Your Honor, I think the exhumation results speak for themselves,” he crowed.
“Then why are you talking, Mr. DeVriess? Kindly be quiet.” I suppressed a grin, or at least tried, halfway. “Dr. Brockton, I’ve read your report, along with Dr. Carter’s; thank you for your quick and thorough examination.” I nodded, figuring I shouldn’t speak unless asked to. “Mr. Roper, have you read the report?” Roper nodded miserably. “And what is your response? Does your forensic anthropologist take issue with Dr. Brockton’s conclusions?”
Roper hedged. “Your Honor, much as we respect Dr. Brockton and Dr. Carter, there is other evidence in this case that strongly corroborates the state’s case.”
Carved in Bone bf-1 Page 22