Jimbo smiled and squinted one eye as he looked at the man next to him. His eyes were off the road for a long time and it took Levine a moment to realize that the road, being as straight as a twelve-gauge shotgun barrel, didn’t need a great deal of attention. “You believe that, Mr. Levine, or are y’all shinin’ me on again?”
“I’m not tracking here, Deputy, do I believe what?” He could see his own face reflected in the green tear-dropped-shaped lenses of Jimbo’s glasses, and he found it unsettling. He wondered if his inexperience with homicide cases was as obvious as he sensed it was. Stenciled on his forehead for all to see.
“That there Klan bullshit. Y’all don’t really think the Klan was responsible, do you?”
The FBI agent now shifted in his seat so that he was more directly facing the deputy; if Jimbo wasn’t going to look at the road, neither would he.
“Shit,” Jimbo continued. Most of the words that came out of his mouth seemed to have a surplus of syllables, or at least required an uncommonly long time to get them completely sounded out. Cuss words were no exception. “Your people see boogie men everywhere.”
“My people? You mind telling me whomy people are?”
Jimbo finally bounced a quick glance off the road, verified that he needed no midcourse correction, and returned his attention to the museum curiosity sitting next to him. “Wouldn’t think I’d have to.”
“Maybe you do.”
Jimbo smiled. “Big city.” He checked the road again. “That’s what I meant. This here’s east, now-don’t-you-go-botherin’-me-and-I-won’t-be-
botherin’-you Arkansas, Mr. Levine. Y’all got to go clean acrosst the river to find yourself a real Klansman in these parts.”
“I’m not sure I’m hearing you correctly, Deputy Bevins, you’re telling me that there’s no Klan activity in this area? None?” Deputy Bevins wasn’t far off the mark. Like most northeasterners, Michael Levine religiously believed everyone living south of the Ohio River had a spare bed sheet or two that they reserved for midnight recreational wear.
“Not like y’all mean, no, sir.”
“And how do I mean, Deputy?”
“Shootin’s, lynchin’s, crosst-burnin’s, whatever you’re a-thinkin’ in that brain of yours. Not here. No, sir. We don’t take to that here. Don’t think we ever really did neither…not to speak of, no, sir. Some of the old-timers were John Birchers, for sure…”
“But there is Klan activity in the area? Or was at one time…in the 1960s at least…you aren’t denying that?”
“I’m not denyin’ nothin’. All I’m sayin’ is that guys sometimes get together to drink beer, tell about the fish and women that got away from ’em, argue about SEC or Devil football. Call it what y’all will. The guys that do that ’round here are too lazy to get into any real trouble. That’s a fact, for sure.”
Now it was Levine’s turn to study his companion’s face. “You make them sound like a civics club…kind of like the Rotarians.”
“Well…kind of like a gentleman’s club, exactly,” Jimbo replied, seemingly oblivious to the irony wickered in Levine’s voice. Now he turned to face the federal agent as he slipped the cruiser into park and killed the engine. It took Levine a second to realize that they had stopped. He looked out the window to see what appeared to be a recently constructed red-brick and white-clapboard house with a sign in the front yard that readPacific Funeral Home. “We’re here, Mr. Levine,” Jimbo said.
The wall of heavy, wet heat that met Levine when he opened his car door caused his lungs to catch. He forced a breath. He couldn’t fathom how anyone could live and function in such an environment.
Jimbo noticed Levine reading the sign in front of the house. “Kind of a hoot, ain’t it?” Jimbo stated more than asked. He was seating his hard, waxed-cane cowboy hat onto his head by working it back and forth. It made his ears look particularly enormous.
“What is, Deputy?”
“That there sign,” he indicated with a small jerk of his head. “Here we are, about—what? I dunno—maybe like ten thousand miles from the ocean, and they go and name itPacific.” He smiled broadly.“Pacific, Donnie just hates it.”
“It means peaceful.” Levine closed the door. He instantly regretted saying anything that would prompt unneeded small talk, and he closed his eyes hoping to reel his comment back in before there was a bite.
“Yeah, maybe, but we’re still a long way from the ocean.”
“Sure are, Deputy, sure are. So, who’s this Donnie character?” Levine wanted to change the subject as much as anything else. The lawn was green and obviously well-watered, and some bright, late-summer yellow dandelions were equally distributed amid the grass. Crepe myrtle bushes stood sentry beside the walkway, their color mostly gone but still looking healthy despite the heat.
“My cousin, Donnie Hawk, the coroner. He owns this here place.”
Levine wasn’t surprised that the coroner was an undertaker. He’d almost expected as much, but for some reason that he couldn’t figure, he hadn’t expected to come to a funeral home to do business. “Why’s he call it that if he hates it?”
“Pacific?Some dang company policy; Donnie says they pulled it out of their corporate ass, don’t you know? It was Hawk Mortuary and Funeral Home all while I was growin’ up. Hell, been that since old Granddaddy Hawk started the business almost a hundred years ago. But ’bout two years ago, Donnie Junior—he owns it now that his daddy’s done gone—he went and sold part of the business to some big undertakin’ franchise down in Texas. He said it seemed like a good idea at the time. Good marketin’, he said. Not sure he still feels thataway no more. Anyhow, they’s the ones that renamed it.” Jimbo smiled broadly again, obviously enjoying his cousin’s frustration. “And Donnie just hates it.”
They mounted the front steps two at a time. The front porch, though new, was designed to be Old South. It wrapped around the front and two sides forming a gallery, and there were three spindle-backed rocking chairs patiently waiting for either company or a breeze to give them movement. The tongue-and-groove decking was hard and firm and painted a shiny battleship gray, and there was sand mixed in the paint by the steps and front door to keep it from getting slick in the winter.
A heavyset, jowly man opened the door for them. His complexion was red with splotches of off-white folded in unevenly, and his skin glistened. He probably was only about fifty years old but appeared to be working as fast as he could on sixty. Dark-framed glasses magnified his brown eyes to twice their size, and the part in his hair had migrated south over the years. It now abutted his right ear and could go no farther. The hair that still showed up for work was grown long and was applied to his crown in a swirling fashion that made him resemble a sticky cinnamon roll. He was wearing a pair of Sansabelt chocolate-colored pants that were of a glossy sort of fabric that Levine didn’t recognize, and a half-sleeved white shirt. His dark-wine-colored tie was far too wide for the part of the country where Levine was from.
“Hey there, Big Jimbo,” the man’s tone was loud and cheerful and the complete opposite of that of every funeral director Levine had ever encountered back east. His voice betrayed a lifetime of exposure to cigarette smoke and volatile chemicals. “Long time…now, how long’s it been, again?”
“Hmmm,” Jimbo made a dramatic show of pondering this query, pulling off his sunglasses and going squinty eyed for the purpose. “Hmmm, now I think that would be…hmmm…that’d be last Friday night.”
“Boy-oh-boy,” the jowly man said. “Time sure flies for the wicked, and you’re a wicked one, that you are, Jimbo. Mercy me.”
Both men good naturedly punched and shadow-jabbed each other’s arms like they were in high-school gym class and the coach was out sick. It continued until Jimbo’s eyes flashed and he struck his cousin on the shoulder so hard that it made a popping sound. The fat little man winced, rubbed his shoulder, and distanced himself from the deputy before turning his attention to Levine.
“Donnie Hawk, Junior.” The f
at man shot a hand in Levine’s direction, causing the FBI agent to flinch in anticipation of being punched in the arm. “Now, what can I hep you with today?”
Hawk’s hand looked like it had been inflated with a bicycle pump, but it was soft and pliable. “I’m Special Agent Michael Levine, FBI, temporarily out of the Memphis Field Office.” Levine briefly thought about getting his credentials out, but realized that the presence of Deputy Bevins was all the identification he needed in this setting.
“This here’s Mr. Levine of the F-B-I,” Jimbo added anyhow, as if one introduction might not inoculate properly and a booster shot was required. His eyes had returned to their soft, clear blue, and there was also a hint of this-is-my-brush-with-greatness in his voice.
“F, B, and I, mercy, don’t get many of them types around here, no sir. No sir. F, B, and I. Mercy. Hope you’re not here to arrest someone I done buried, they got a right to be silent, ya know…” Donnie shot a glance at Jimbo, who smiled and threw a lazy jab at Donnie’s shoulder. Donnie forced a smile and returned a tentative feint.
“Actually, Mr. Hawk, I was hoping to ask you a few questions. You are the Locust County coroner, is that correct?” Levine shifted the tone of his voice in an attempt to impose an air of professionalism on what had become a porchside fraternity party. He swore to himself that he’d cap the first one of these bastards that tried to punch him in the arm.
“Surely am. Took over 80 percent of the vote last three elections.”
“Yeah, and what he ain’t tellin’ you,” Jimbo chimed in quickly, his voice failing to suppress his enjoyment, “is that he was unopposed in two of them.”
“Now, Jimbo Bevins, that ain’t right, and you knowed it.” Donnie Hawk shot a glare at Jimbo.
“And he ran against a man with a glass eye in t’other.”
Donnie Hawk turned quickly and invited them both into the funeral home before his big-mouthed cousin could continue. “Lettin’ all the cool air out, we are. Come on in here, Mr. Levine. Mercy, it’s a hot one today, that’s to be damn sure.”
Damn sure,thought Levine.
The interior was cool and dark. The floor was carpeted in a conservative wheat-colored short-napped carpet that was emotionally comforting but also easy to clean. The walls were a sensitive dull tan with cream-colored trim. There was a large grandfather clock ticking rhythmically beside the door, and beside that was a waist-high, walnut-stained wooden stand with an open guest book. The top page was empty.
Donnie Hawk directed them to the visitation parlor off to their right. It too was cool but brighter thanks to a wide, twelve-paned window that opened onto the gallery. Along the wall under the window was a plumped-up sofa, and opposing that were some comfortable-looking padded chairs covered with a flowery pattern. The remaining space was occupied by vases of gladioli and roses and mums, and the walls were covered with spiritually uplifting mass-market pictures of Jesus Christ and rainbows and clouds rent by gracious shafts of light. Along the back was a dark, lacquered, cherry-stained bookcase filled with Reader’s Digest condensed books, various Bibles, and volumes of contemplative poems—all arranged quite carefully and reverently around a twenty-seven-inch Sony Trinitron television with on-screen programming and picture-in-a-picture capability. Currently, but presumably temporarily, parked in front of the bookcase was a big-boned young man with sandy brown hair and a disagreeable complexion. He was slumped deeply into one of the overstuffed chairs, and the tattered black bill of his red Arkansas Razorback cap was pulled down low over his brow. He was utterly hypnotized by an attractive young couple who appeared to be arguing on an afternoon soap opera. The volume was too loud.
Donnie Hawk, Jr., walked over to the young man, picked up the remote from the arm of the chair, and muted the television; he then grasped the back of the boy’s neck—pinching it firmly but affectionately. “Skeeter Boy, why don’t you run across the street there and get us a six-pack of ice-cold Coke Colas?” he directed the youth. “Coke Colas ’right with you boys?” Donnie asked his visitors.
Both men nodded.
The boy responded immediately but without an outward sign of acknowledgment, and apparently not without some practice, walked backward out of the room, never taking his eyes from the TV despite the now absence of sound. As Skeeter Boy stood, Levine noticed that his T-shirt was too short and exposed a light-brown leather belt with the name “Donnie” ornately tooled into it.Another Donnie. Donnie Hawk the Third? Sure beats Skeeter Boy, he thought.
With a generous, sweeping wave of his arm, the elder Donnie Hawk indicated that his guests should have themselves a sit. Jimbo took the chair vacated by young Donnie, scooting it around a quarter-turn so that it faced the other two a bit more and the television a bit less. He leaned back and crossed his legs, ankle to knee—properly, as he’d been taught a man should. He had on ribbed white socks, and as he sat back, he adjusted his gun belt so that he wasn’t sitting on it.
“Now, Special Agent Levine, what can I do for you as Locust County coroner? You don’t seem to be all that dead.” He flashed a grin at his cousin. Donnie seemed intent upon keeping within Jimbo’s good graces, but he also clearly had shifted occupational hats and was speaking now as an elected official.
“Mr. Hawk, the FBI has decided to take a fresh look at the Leon Jackson murder case, do you recall it?”
Donnie shot another quick look at his cousin. Levine didn’t follow his look but kept his eyes focused on the coroner.
“Why, of course I do, Mr. Levine,” he said. He pronounced the name slowly and with the wrong stress, the same way that both Deputy Bevins and Sheriff Elmore did—LEE-vine. “I was in elementary school then, of course, not the county coroner, but I reckon just about everyone around here remembers it quite well. Big news it was, in its day…but then that was in its day.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about everyone remembering it, Mr. Hawk. Your esteemed Sheriff Elmore seems a bit rusty on some of the details—most of the details, really.” Levine couldn’t avoid the “esteemed” part of the comment. He still had a piece of that jerk-off sheriff stuck in his teeth and felt the need to publicly floss. Besides, he doubted Donnie Hawk caught the tone of sarcasm.
Donnie Hawk smiled. Maybe he did; maybe he didn’t. This time his eyes didn’t leave Levine’s. But he also didn’t answer.
“What I was really hoping you could help me with…Mr. Hawk…is locating some evidence. As you will recall, there was a second body found with Mr. Jackson’s. A young Caucasian male. That individual was never identified, and the Bureau is hopeful that new technologies available might prove useful in this case. We’ve already submitted some blood-stained clothing recovered in association with the body for DNA analysis and we’re hoping to test the remains as well.”
“That’s very interestin’, Mr. Levine,” Donnie Hawk responded. “Me and my boy watch all them forensic science shows on the cable television, and I know all about the new technologies and gadgets y’all got at your disposal. Quite impressive what y’all can do. Mercy.”
“So, you can provide the Bureau with some assistance?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Levine, you just tell me who, what, where, when, and the by-God how. Not every day that the Locust County coroner gets to hep the F, B, and I. Mercy.”
“Well, you can help by allowing me access to the remains.”
“You bet, Mr. Levine. Y’all bring your remains here, and I’ll hep in any way I can.”
“I appreciate the offer ofhep, but I think we may have a disconnect here, Mr. Hawk. I was hoping you’d tell me you had the remains here.”
“You mean of that white boy that got hisself killed along with that Jackson fella?”
“That would be the one.”
“No.” Donnie Hawk looked genuinely confused to be asked such a question.
“Do you know where they might be? The remains…”Why don’t we see if we can pull these teeth out one at a time, shall we? Aside from putting the barrel of his Sig Sauer to his head and ending his miser
y, Levine felt his options waning by the second.
“Hell no, Agent Levine, I assumed you did. No, sir, don’t know nothin’ about any remains.”
“But Mr. Hawk,” Levine’s patience still hadn’t had an opportunity to scab over from his meeting with Sheriff Chucklehead, and now this guy was doing his best to gall it up again, “this is an open homicide—as in never solved—as in no killer ever caught. That body is evidence. The main evidence, technically. Evidence in an open homicide that occurred in your jurisdiction. You don’t simply lose evidence in open homicides.”
“I didn’t lose no dang evidence, Mr. Levine, and I’m not at all sure that I take kindly to what you seem to be implyin’—hell’s bells, you’re not even implyin’ you’re sayin’ it direct to my danged face, ain’t ya? Don’t know y’all from Job’s one-eyed cat, but you’re a’sittin’ here in mine own business and sayin’ it to my danged face.” Donnie Hawk had bowed-up in his chair, his chest crowned out aggressively, and he now cast a look at the silent Deputy Bevins, making sure his support could be counted on.
Levine also turned to see whose side of the fence Bevins was on, as if he had to guess, but to his surprise he found that the deputy had inched his chair away and now was intently watching the muted television, seemingly oblivious to the conversation in the room.
“No offense intended, Mr. Hawk—I assure you.” Levine quickly softened his tone, realizing that backing the waxy little coroner into too tight a shoebox was bound to be counterproductive. “However, since this is in your jurisdiction, I simply thought that you might have some ideas as to what could have happened to the remains. That’s all. You know, like where they might be?” He made circle motions with his hands as if trying to conjure up an answer. “What’s the normal procedure for storing of remains? Protocols? That sort of thing.”
“In that case, I won’t take no offense.” Donnie Hawk seemed eager to back down, and he gauged Levine, trying to get a handle on whether he was being sincere in his apology. “To answer your question, there ain’t no normal procedures, as such, Mr. Levine. Fact of the matter is that we don’t get many unclaimed remains down here in Locust County. Not many open homicides neither, but you’re correct, if it is an open homicide, then it falls square within my jurisdiction as the duly elected coroner of this county—at least with regard to cause and manner of death. And to that end I will take all measures prudent and proper in the lawful execution of my duties, so hep me God.” Donnie’s tone and vocabulary had ratcheted up a professional notch, but he was still ready to bow-up for a fight if necessary. “The actual responsibility for any homicide investigation in this here county, of course, falls to the Sheriff’s Department.”
One Drop of Blood Page 5