by Parrish, PJ
“Junior, slow down.”
Cow-splattered pastures flew by. An armadillo waddled across the highway ahead of them, coming within inches of being another Mississippi roadkill.
“Hey,” Junior said, deliberately swinging the car to scare the poor thing. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
Louis gripped the armrest. “Okay, why?”
“To show the armadillo it could be done.” Junior cackled at his own joke.
Louis smiled. True enough.
The siren wailed, an unnecessary formality since on a Sunday morning there were probably more armadillos than people on the county road.
This body, they knew, was fresh. The hunter who called it in had been nervous and the details were sketchy. The hunter, named Wilbur Hardage, was waiting for them at his farm ten miles east of town. When they pulled into his long, fenced drive. Junior finally killed the siren and slowed to a respectable speed. He skidded to a stop on the man’s gravel drive. Wilbur Hardage, still dressed in his camouflage jumpsuit, hurried over to the Blazer and climbed in back.
“Which way?” Junior asked.
“Take this here road down thataway and keep going till I tell you to stop.”
Staying on Wilbur’s farm. Junior drove across the pasture, and plunged the Blazer into a wooded area much like the land where they had found the first body, only drier. Louis and Wilbur gripped their seats as Junior bounced the Blazer over rocks and streams.
“Junior, for crying out loud, why are you so anxious to see this one when we couldn’t drag you out of bed for the first one?” Louis asked, bracing himself against the dash.
“Now I got a real taste for it, ya know? Kinda excitin’.”
Wilbur called for him to stop as the Blazer leaped into a small clearing, and Junior slammed on the brakes. The Blazer did a 180 before jolting them to a stop. Louis took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Sunlight streaked into the small clearing from behind high clouds, warming the crisp morning air. Louis slipped off his jacket, leaving it on the seat. He grabbed his bag and closed the door. Wilbur was walking toward the center of the clearing. Junior on his heels. Louis called for them to wait.
He hustled to catch up to them and then saw the body. The man lay spread-eagled in the yellowed grass, face-up, a rifle just inches from his right hand.
“Stay back,” Louis said, moving closer, careful of his steps as he scanned the ground. He knelt by the body. He swallowed hard to bury the bile rising in his throat and took short, steadying breaths.
It was a white man, fortyish, with gray hair and a chubby face. The eyes were still open. He wore standard hunting apparel, camouflage shirt, hat, pants, and a thin tie-around orange vest. There was thick mud on the heels of his black boots. In the center of his forehead was a round, black hole, about the size of a dime. The cap was tipped back off his head, stuck in the blood that had coagulated beneath the skull. Parts of the hair and scalp lay globlike on the grass.
Louis touched the corpse’s skin. It was cold. He bent down, put his nose to the barrel of the rifle and sniffed. It did not appear to have been fired.
“Junior, grab the camera and the tape and call this in,” Louis said. “I want Davis out here within the hour. No Sunday bullshit this time, either.” Still on his knees, Louis looked around the pasture. The man’s head lay toward the forest they had just driven through. His feet lay to the north, fifty yards from where the forest resumed. Louis looked up at the trees and back at the dead man.
Junior came up behind him and caught sight of the hole in the man’s head. “Oh, man,” he muttered. “That’s terrible, that’s really god-awful, Louis. I guess maybe I ain’t got a taste for this shit after all.”
Louis glanced up at him, surprised at the display of emotion. “You can’t do anything for him,” Louis said quietly. “Rope off the clearing.”
He turned back to the body. The man had fallen backwards, shot from the trees to the north. The wall of pines that circled the clearing was thick and dark.
“Louis,” Junior said. “I called for Davis. He’s on his way. Reckon we’ll need an autopsy on this one?”
Louis nodded as he circled the body.
“You want a real medical examiner?”
Louis stared at him. “As opposed to what?”
“As opposed to old Doc Reichard.”
Louis couldn’t believe what he was hearing and his expression must’ve showed it.
Junior hesitated. “I guess that means you want a real one. I’ll call the funeral home.”
“What for?” Louis asked.
Junior stepped forward, seemingly pleased to be explaining something techical. “Rotatin’ mortuaries,” he said. “Each gets a turn when we get a dead body, you know how it goes. The body goes to whoever’s turn it is and then some guy from Jackson comes up and does his stuff.”
Louis hung his head.
“Detective,” Wilbur called from the truck. “You think someone got ‘im by accident?”
Louis hesitated, forcing his attention back to the body. The wound was from a large-caliber gun, .30-.30 maybe. A likely caliber to hunt with but how the hell could another hunter not see someone in the clearing? There wasn’t a tree or bush within fifty feet of the body. But then again, the shooter could’ve been a good distance away, back in the trees, unaware his shot claimed a life.
“Junior, you alive yet?” Louis called.
“I’m okay, Louis. I got the tape.”
“Start with the perimeter. The trees form a neat circle. And watch your step. Tm going to those trees over there.” He stood up. “Mr. Hardage, do you recognize this man?”
“No, sir.”
“I do,” Junior said, looking away from the body, unrolling the tape. “I didn’t realize it at first, but it’s Earl Mulcahey.”
“He got family?” Louis asked.
“Wife, two kids, grown now, in school, over at Mississippi State. I grad-jeated high school a few years before his son, Lever-ette. Louis, this is gotta be an accident. I mean, ain’t nobody wanna kill Earl.”
Louis walked toward the north trees, following a set of worn tire tracks, scoping the grass for anything of significance. He tried to stay in line with what he perceived as the path of the bullet, checking his progress over his shoulder. He reached the thicket and ducked into it, turning every few feet to maintain eye contact with the body. It would be impossible to find a casing in this brush. He could be off only by inches and miss it. And with all the hunters who frequented these woods, it would be impossible to determine anything specific. But still he looked.
About fifteen feet into the forest, still in line with the tire tracks, he came to another clearing, this one much wider and longer. A different set of tracks spanned this area, stopping at the edge of the forest where he stood. These were fresh. The grass around them was smooth and untouched. He ventured out a few feet. He would cast these tracks, he decided. It had not rained since Friday and they appeared to be the freshest set.
He looked up. In the tree above him was a platform, what hunters called a deer hide. He backed up to get a clearer look at it. It was just large enough for two people. He reached up and grabbed a limb, hoisting himself up. It wasn’t until he climbed his way to the platform that he saw the one-by-twos nailed to the other side, forming a tenuous stepladder.
Louis kneeled on the small structure, facing the first clearing, alert not to touch anything. He could just make out the spot where Junior and Wilbur stood. Louis could see the bright yellow tape Junior was draping around the scene. Louis turned to face the larger pasture. He could see a highway off in the distance.
Louis climbed down and walked back to the body. Junior was taking pictures now and Hardage was sitting in the truck.
Louis stood at the head of the body and walked away from it, measuring his steps, stopping to look back at the hide and at the body several times. The head was blown open so wide in back, the bullet must have passed straight through. Where was it?
Louis walked back to the Blazer and keyed the mike. It was Larry.
“Louis, a fellow by the name of Jacob Armstrong’s on the line. Says he’s an M.E. outta Jackson. Says your lab work and the report on your bones are in. Do you want him to overnight it, or will regular mail do?”
Louis paused. He thought of the skimpy report on the book and medallion. Maybe if he went to see this guy Armstrong at the state lab, he could find out more. He glanced at his watch. “Tell him I’ll drive down to pick it up later today,” he told Larry. It was early. Once he was finished with the Mulcahey scene, there still would be plenty of time to make the trip to Jackson.
The road to Jackson was wet and slick. Rain sprinkled the Blazer as it whipped along the Natchez Trace, once an ancient trail, now a blacktop lined with heavy shade trees and spotted with sneaky state troopers. Louis turned on the red light to avoid unnecessary delays.
Junior lit a cigarette. Louis looked over and sighed. “Please open the window.”
“It’s rainin’, and it’s fuckin’ cold,” Junior replied. The smoke curled around the car with nowhere to go. Louis cracked his own window and the smoke slithered out.
“Why we going down here anyvay?” Junior asked.
“I told you, I want to talk to him in person.”
Junior shook his head. “You don’t really think you’re gonna solve this bones case, do ya? Sheriff don’t think so, you know. He tole me jus’ the other day, he said. That old Louis there, he gots high ideas about this case, but he’s wrong.’”
“Oh, he did. What else did he say?”
“Jus’ that you got these fancy ideas about gettin’ your name in the papers and all. Nobody really cares about some long-dead nigger. No offense, Louis.”
“Junior, what do you have against me?”
“You think I got something against you ‘cause you’re black. You’re wrong there. Black folks, they have rights, too. They have a right to go to school and git jobs. They—you—whatever, are just part of our society, see? We get along all right, but it’s a lot easier if everybody, you know, keeps their place, Louis.”
“And Where’s my place. Junior?”
“That’s just it, Louis. Folks like you, maybe they ain’t got no place. Cain’t hang with us, cain’t hang with your own. That’s what we keep tryin’ to tell you folks. You’re a living example of what happens when you break God’s laws of nature. Now, black folk in general, I got no problem with. I mean, black folks gotta have someone who can walk into their part of town and kick ass, without gettin’ his head shot off.” Junior paused, ruminating. “I got no problem at all with black folk ‘cept those that think it’s okay to mix. That’s what my daddy taught me, and that’s the way it should be. If’n I ever had a son, I would teach him the same thing.”
“What if you had a daughter. Junior?”
“Whatcha mean?”
“What if you had a daughter who found herself a black man?”
Junior shrugged. “Well, I’d just have to shoot the fucker, Louis.”
God knows, the bastard probably meant it, Louis thought.
The car fell silent. For the rest of the drive to Jackson, the only sound was the rain beating on the windshield. Downtown, Louis found the county building and parked. They hustled through the rain to the entrance.
They found Jacob Armstrong in the medical examiner’s lab. He was young, not much older than Louis, dressed in green scrubs and white Nikes. His sandy-blond hair matched an amateur goatee, and he had eager blue eyes behind brown horn-rimmed glasses.
“Glad you could make it, Mr. Kincaid,” Armstrong said, rising from his stool as they came in. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I know you’re in a hurry. You know how long these things take sometimes, especially this type of—”
“You mean a lynchin’ like this?” Junior interrupted. He stuck out his hand with an air of self-importance. “Officer Resnick.”
Armstrong peeked over his glasses at Louis then tentatively shook Junior’s hand. “No, not the style of killing, but the age of it,” he said. He looked back at Louis and smiled. “Most of the staff is wrapped up in that big case on the Gulf, triple homicide, so this kind of fell in my lap. Lm new, proverbial low man on the totem pole, and usually end up twiddling my thumbs on the big ones. But I found your case fascinating.”
Louis followed Armstrong across the room, glad the bones had fallen into the hands of someone who cared. Junior yawned and leaned against the wall, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Armstrong stopped at a box. Inside were the bones, ready to be shipped back to Greensboro County. Louis reached in and picked up a long, discolored one, gently holding it in his hand.
Armstrong smiled. “There is nothing quite as disquieting as the feeling that comes when you hold another human’s bone in your hand, is there?”
Louis turned. “No, there isn’t. He was black, wasn’t he?”
Armstrong looked at Louis oddly. Louis fingered the curve in the femur, then glanced at Junior. “You guys have straight ones,” he said.
“Is that how come you all can jump higher?”
SmiHng, Armstrong moved on to the report. “Although I can’t prove it, I’d say you were right on the cause of death,” he said. “It would seem to be a hanging. The neck wasn’t broken, though. The rope had minute particles of human skin. Even found a strand or two of African-American hair. It was a male, probably fifteen to twenty years of age, about five-ten or -eleven.” He was reading off his report. “One arm was broken—my guess is at the time of death—and he had a deep wound in the skull. And a fracture along the jaw. The teeth were in good shape at the time of death, which also indicates a young man: wisdom teeth unerupted. No dental work. Didn’t need any. And…oh, we have a congenital anomaly in the left hand.”
“Like a deformity of some kind?” Louis asked.
“Yes, present from birth,” Armstrong said, “At first glance, the third and forth digits would appear as if they ended at the knuckle.” Armstrong adjusted his glasses to read the report. “Other bones were missing, but that’s expected in wilderness bodies. The clothes…” Armstrong paused. “Or rather the threads, were unremarkable. Denim pants, judging from the studs, and a cotton shirt. T-shirt material, I think. I don’t believe he was wearing a jacket. The zipper or buttons would have been here. By the way, that tarp saved us a ton of evidence, you know. So, if the T-shirt is any indication, he was probably killed in the warmer part of the year.”
“How long ago?”
Armstrong sighed. “To be sure, you’d have to do a carbon-date on him.”
“I don’t guess there’s a university here with that capability?” Louis asked.
“No,” Armstrong said. “It’s Washington or nothing. And last I heard, the turnaround is four to five weeks. We can send something and try it, if you want.”
“Yeah, do that,” Louis said.
“That cost money, Louis?” Junior asked.
“No, Junior. Slow as it is, it’s free.” Louis turned back to Armstrong. “Mr. Armstrong, what’s your guess?”
“My guess is twenty years or better.”
Twenty years. 1963…64, Louis thought. Not a good period to be poking around in. “Anything else?” Louis asked.
“I was hoping for a wallet or keys. Or even jewelry. But no such luck. No ID whatsoever.”
“Just the necklace and the book, ” Louis said.
“I didn’t handle that. You have the report on that yet?”
Louis nodded. “Nothing there, either.”
“Too bad. Nothing here that would help you identify him. Most of the marks on the bones were perimortem.” Armstrong looked back at Junior. “Inflicted at the time of death. I’d guess the guy was pretty
healthy before he was murdered.”
“Did you run any tests that could determine disease or any other unusual condition?” Louis asked.
“No, we didn’t. We could, but I doubt it will show anything.”
Louis sighed, thinking about the vagueness of the lab report on the book and medallion. “I was just hoping for more.”
“Listen, I just had a thought,” Armstrong said. “I know a woman in Florida who does forensic sculpting. You know, reconstructing a face from the skull.”
Louis turned to face him, excited. “I’d like to talk to her.”
Junior rolled his eyes. “Louis, man, the sheriff—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take responsibility. Can you give me her name and number?”
“You take all the names you want, Louis,” Junior said, “sheriff ain’t never going to approve this move, no sir.” Junior nodded at Jacob Armstrong. “You ship those bones right back to Greensboro County, and Louis and I are outta here.”
Armstrong looked at Louis then back at Junior. “Well, what is it going to be, gentlemen?” he asked finally.
Louis jerked his detective shield out of his jacket pocket and slammed it on the stainless-steel counter. “I’m in charge here and I say the skull gets a holiday in sunny Florida.”
“Look here, Mr. Armstrong,” Junior said, pushing himself off the wall and coming forward, “Louis here don’t know it, but that badge don’t mean shit. You do yourself a favor and just pack them bones up nice and neat and Fed-Ex ’em to Black Pool.”
Armstrong bit back a smile. “Sorry, Deputy. Last time I watched Hill Street Blues, detectives outranked deputies. I’ll call her today, Mr. Kincaid, and arrange it. I should tell you, sometimes this takes quite a while. And it can be expensive. Like I said, this isn’t a high-profile case.”
“I understand,” Louis said. “And thanks for your help.”
They were barely out the glass doors before Junior grabbed Louis’s shoulder. “What the hell you think you’re doing?” he demanded.