One Drop of Blood

by Thomas Holland

  “You would, wouldn’t you? Unless—” he took a sweeping glance around the restaurant and saw that everyone was properly preoccupied with their greasy burgers—“unless you—and by that, I mean you personally, Big Ray Elmore—had a damn good reason to keep a lid on it. I did some researching myself when I was in Memphis last weekend. This is what I was going to tell you the other night. The Bureau had a big COINTELPRO looking into the Klan in the middle to late sixties. Ahhh, sorry, that stands for Counterintelligence Program. It was an attempt to get inside groups like the Klan.”

  “I’m aware of it.”

  “Well, this one was code-named WHITE HATE. Most of it was focused in Mississippi and Alabama, places like that. Arkansas wasn’t really on their scope—kinda on the margin—but the Klan was here, despite what Deputy Bevins and others might like to remember nowadays. Couple groups: Imperial White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Order of the United Knights of the Ku Klux Klan…”

  Kel nodded weakly but otherwise listened without response.

  “We know that over in Mississippi and elsewhere,” he gestured in the approximate direction of east, “some police and government officials were members of one group or another—or at least very sympathetic to their goals.” Now he shifted his rear back and forth, settling into his chair more firmly—either for comfort or as a way of discreetly scratching, Kel wasn’t sure which. “There’s been something kinda gnawing at me, and I couldn’t figure it out. Both Deputy Bevins and Chief Forrest made mention of ‘social’ clubs and groups. Remember, the chief told us about Big Ray catching Jimmie Trimble’s father ‘after a meeting’ and beating the crap out of him with a pick handle? What kind of meeting was it, do you suppose? PTA? You usually take pick handles to PTA meetings in Hawaii? I know I don’t.”

  “You’re sayin’ you think Ray Elmore—Big Ray, the father—was a member of the Klan?”

  “Yeah—that’s exactly what I’m saying. His ticket to reelection and prestige in the community.”

  Kel leaned back and exhaled slowly, emptying his lungs. He paused before refilling them. There was a happy tink and rattle of china and the buzz of pleasant evening conversation all about them. He took the room in. Finally he looked back at Levine and shook his head to convey that the significance wasn’t clear to him. “Maybe, maybe not, but what does that change? Your son is still your son. Despite what you may have heard, Klansmen still love their kids. You don’t just let his killer go scot-free to get yourself reelected. Not in New York and not down here neither.”

  Levine thought back to his first meeting with Sheriff Elmore. What had he said?What makes you think a killer can ever sleep, Mr. Levine? “No, I don’t suppose you do, Doc. But then again, what if it was an accident? Suppose…stick with me, here…what if something went so wrong that there wasn’t an easy way out? Nothing’s going to bring your son back; the only thing you have to decide is how much more of your life is destroyed. Damage control. C-Y-A, right? Cover-Your-Ass. People do it in New York, people do it down here as well. Remember Cain trying to bullshit the Lord? Brother, what brother? I don’t see a brother. Been going on for a long time.”

  “Thought you didn’t know the Bible.”

  “Old Testament, Doc. Even I know the basics.”

  “How fortunate for Cain that Special Agent Levine wasn’t assigned to his case.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Okay, so tell me what went wrong. I guess I’m still not trackin’. What is it exactly that you’re sayin’?” Now it was Kel’s turn to lean in close and hush his voice. “Are you sayin’ that the father and son had somethin’ to do with Jackson’s death? The chief of the goddamn police—here in little Split Tree, Arkansas?”

  Levine nodded. “Yeah. Wake up and join the real world, Professor. Shit like that happens. And here’s another piece of the puzzle. Leon Jackson had been rousted by Daddy Ray a couple of months before he turns up dead. Arrested him on what appears to be some trumped-up charge of drunk and disorderly. Bullshit harassment, I’m guessing. ACLU got involved, sent some real drum-beaters down from Memphis and Little Rock to turn over some rocks. Jackson was very vocal about wanting Big Ray fired. Big stink. Capital-S type stink. The city fathers seem to have gotten a lid on it somehow, and so nothing ever happened, but there was bad blood between Big Ray and Mr. Jackson; that much is clear from the record.”

  “And?”

  “And I think that some of that bad blood was spilled out on that levee one night. And I think Ray Junior was involved. Maybe he was avenging his father. Maybe it was the son all along. Hell, I’ll even give the daddy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Big Ray was there to try to stop Junior from doing something rash, I don’t know—but I do know that when it was all over, there were two bodies out there. Jackson and young Ray Elmore, Junior. Two bodies and one big problem for one Big Ray.”

  Kel was vigorously shaking his head. “No, no, no, no…I just…I can’t see it. Remember what Edd Forrest, the police chief, said? Remember? He says Big Ray idolized his son. Why would he…howcould he let his son be buried like that—in an earthen levee, for God’s sake—even if it was an accident? All the more reason if it was an accident. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, Doc, it’s the only thing that does make sense. Don’t think today. Put yourself in Big Ray Elmore’s shoes in 1965. You lived here then, you ought to remember even if you were a kid. You harass a black civil rights leader; roust him on some trumped-up D-and-D charge; the ACLU’s watching the case; all eyes are on you and Split Tree thanks to what happened over in Neshoba County; and here you are, a card-carrying member of the KKK…”

  “You don’t know that—about the KKK.”

  “True, but I suspect I’m right. Think about it. Who was indicted in theMississippi Burning case?”

  Kel shook his head. “You mean originally?”

  “Yeah. Back in the sixties. Guys named Lawrence Rainey and Cecil Price—the damn sheriff and deputy sheriff of Neshoba County—that’s who. And who was convicted a few months ago in the same case? Edgar Ray Killen,The Preacher . An unsuccessful candidate for sheriff.”

  “Still…”

  “Still this. You’re Big Ray Elmore. You’re a member of the KKK and this same civil rights putz that’s been a thorn in your side for months ends up beaten to death on the outskirts of your town—not any old town, mind you, but in your old town. The one you run. Coincidence? Maybe, but where do you think the finger’s going to be pointed?”

  “Yeah, but to bury your son’s body in a levee? Unmarked? No way.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do the burying.”

  Kel shook his head to indicate that he wasn’t following the logic.

  “Look, maybe he didn’t bury him. Maybe someone else cleaned up the mess. His good lodge buddies, maybe. Think about it, the white boy’s body wasn’t buried next to Jackson’s, was it? Think about it. It was some distance away, like maybe a racial thing—segregation—don’t want the body buried too closely to that Negro, after all. And it was shallow, remember? Not permanent—almost as if maybe someone was intending to come back and move it to a more suitable location as soon as things had calmed down a little, and they had time to think. A more suitable location—like maybe a relatively obscure grave in the family cemetery.”

  Kel had continued to shake his head. As much as he didn’t believe it, Levine had a way of making it seem perversely sensible. “Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?” he said quietly, almost to himself.

  “What?”

  “King Henry. The Second, I think. Remember? Thomas à Beckett was a thorn in his side. Story goes that Henry is supposed to have said, ‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’ or somethin’ like that, and a couple of loyal Sir Bubbas took care of the problem.”

  “Yeah, I like that. Henry, huh? Well, maybe that’s what happened here, I think. Something similar anyway. And don’t forget, not long after that, what does Big Daddy Elmore do? He sends all the working girls living out near the l
evee packing, that’s what he does—outside his jurisdiction, yet he decides the area needs cleaning up and he’s a one-man scrubbing bubble.”

  Levine paused when he saw that Kel was working up a response. “Go on,” he prompted. “But what? I know you’ve got a ‘but what?’ in you.”

  “Notwhat, butwhy? Why didn’t he move the body? You say it was buried there temporarily, okay, so it’s temporary. I can buy that, sort of. But why’d Big Ray not move it? Why’d somebody not move it?” Kel asked. “Why’d they leave it to be found?”

  “Bothered me, too. I don’t think he, they, whoever, got the chance, is why. I checked the records at the library and at the National Weather Bureau in Memphis. Funny thing about these rural areas—Ma and Pa Kettle don’t know who the president is on any given Sunday, but they can tell you every drop of rain that fell in the last two hundred years. According to the official weather bureau records, the day after Leon Jackson was last seen, one of the worst thunderstorms of the century blew in. I mean biblical stuff. Hail, frogs and toads, almost hurricane winds. Storm lasted the better part of a day and a half, but even then the rain continued in torrents for almost a solid week. After that it rained off and on for almost another month. Very unusual for August, they say. Levees failed all the way from Alton down to Baton Rouge. More important, the fields all along here were flooded and never got a chance to dry up. Wettest August on record. Newspapers were filled with pictures of people out stacking sandbags; cows on roofs; front-page stories about whole crops being ruined. I’m betting he, they, whoever, didn’t have a chance to move anything. The burial was supposed to be temporary, but then Jackson’s body washes out and suddenly all eyes are on the area…too late then to be seen anywhere near the place. Just didn’t have a chance.”

  Both men sat quietly, Levine watching Kel closely, Kel looking inward at his own past. He thought of his father and the last time they had visited Split Tree. He’d been younger than his two boys were now, yet parts of that trip he could remember with glasslike clarity: the strangeness of the people and the places mixed with an easy affection that his father exuded. He thought of his own two boys.

  “You’ve got two children. Is that right, Mike? Girls, you said?”

  Levine nodded. “Yeah, girls. Both of them…both in high school.”

  Kel nodded slowly. “I’ve got two boys—twins. They’re still pretty young.”

  They sat silently. Kel stared at the table. Levine watched him, waiting for him to speak. Neither man touched his food.

  “God. What it would take to allow your son to be buried and forgotten…like that,” Kel said after a pause.

  “Yeah,” Levine said, and there was a note of understanding that surprised Kel. “Must have torn him up.”

  Chapter 39

  Split Tree, Arkansas

  TUESDAY, AUGUST23, 2005

  As they passed the green sign that announced the city limits, Kel asked Levine what the next step would be. Even if Levine was correct, he was a long way from proving anything, and they needed to plan the next twenty-four hours. Despite his burnout with work, Kel was missing his family and growing anxious to return home. After a moment’s thought, Levine replied that nothing would happen until the pathologist had arrived and gotten a chance to analyze the remains—they hoped that would be sometime in the morning. After that, Levine indicated, it was his intention to pick Sheriff Elmore up for questioning. He admitted that W. R. Elmore might or might not have been involved in his brother’s death—a speculation that for Levine had crystallized to fact—but Elmore certainly knew a great deal more than he was sharing, and it was time to shake the tree a little more vigorously than he had been doing up until now and see what sort of fruit was ripe. If this were a bank fraud case, Levine would bring charges even if he knew they wouldn’t stick. It certainly had worked with the senator from Pennsylvania—at least until the Bureau had told Levine to back off the investigation and flush the files. Even the threat of charges often loosened tongues. Levine had already made tentative arrangements with a federal judge in Little Rock to issue an arrest warrant on an accessory to murder charge if necessary, but he admitted that that was probably premature. The judge’s support wasn’t rock solid. Ideally, they’d get some DNA from the remains and confirm Levine’s suspicions about John Doe’s real identity. That would be the nail he needed.

  It was almost eight o’clock when they got back to their rooms at the Sleep-Mor. Levine said he wanted to go to Donnie Hawk’s first thing in the morning; he was anxious to see the remains and have Kel go over his findings with him in detail. Then, with any luck, the pathologist would arrive.

  They decided to shoot for seven-thirty in the morning.

  Kel latched his motel-room door and booted up his computer. He opened up the shell of his report and typed for a few minutes, but his head wasn’t into it. Instead he lay down on the bed and stared at the dented ceiling and imagined his children jumping up and down, popping their heads against the acoustic tiles and giggling.

  But mostly he thought of Levine’s vision of the world. He tried to imagine an alternative that accounted for the facts in a more parsimonious way. Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. He tried to imagine a father having to abandon his son like that. What would he feel? Would he salve his sorrow with a biblical epitaph? What would he feel?

  Shame?

  Fear?

  Or simply some bowel-deep sense of loss?

  Something wasn’t right. He pictured the skeleton laid out at the funeral home. He went over it again—bone by bone, curve by curve, landmark by landmark.

  What was it?

  Was it the injuries? Maybe.

  A thick alternative was starting to form—to carve and mold into something almost tangible. He knew he should share his thoughts with Levine, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the Gonsalves case and the undue criticism that his Lab had suffered. As much as he wanted to trust Levine, he couldn’t bring himself to be fully open and exposed with his suspicions. Not yet.

  He put his forearm over his eyes, shutting out the light that was fueling his thoughts.

  There’s plenty of time,he thought,plenty of time .

  His mind drifted laterally. He thought of growing up in Arkansas. Of the secure, calm warmth of his father’s even-tempered voice. He thought of Big Ray—that raw-boned, smiling man that he’d seen in the photo in Grace Trimble’s living room. That visit to her home seemed a lifetime ago.

  Before long he dozed off.

  The dream returned. The strange one he’d had several nights earlier. It was the same, but different. He was walking through waist-high cotton, the sharp leaves of the drying, dying plants cutting through his pant legs. Little flecks of bright-red blood flowered on his skin and blossomed on his clothes. His wife was there again, still young and pretty. The sun was behind her and the outline of her slender body was visible through her light summer dress. His boys were still there as well, grown exactly like before. They kept their backs to him the whole time as if they were hiding something. It was a hot summer day, but rain was in the air; you could smell moist earth on the breeze, and moldering pecans, and late-season honeysuckle. The rain was coming, blowing in from the southwest. Kel smiled at his wife as he walked toward her, but when she raised her eyes to his there was nothing but a weary sadness. Her hands were empty where before they’d been holding a sleeping bird. He realized that one of his sons—he wasn’t sure which one—was holding the big-barreled ten-gauge shotgun that Kel’s father had taught him to hunt with as a child. When Kel looked at the ground he saw the black-and-white mockingbird. His wife wasn’t scolding this time; it was more of a quiet keening. He didn’t understand why no one would wake the bird this time—to make it sing. He knelt and touched it. It was cold and wet, and when he looked up to his wife she had changed. It was still her—he knew that somehow—but she’d changed. Her face was old and grayed and webbed by years. It was the face of Grace Trimble.

  The first two s
hots caught him by surprise. He jerked his head up to see which of his boys had fired the shotgun—instead he saw the brightly lit motel room and the indentations in the ceiling. His head was filled with the thick, stringy molasses of shallow sleep, and he blinked hard. He glanced at his wrist and saw that it was almost eleven-thirty.

  Then he heard it again.

  Bam, bam. Followed by, “Will you open the goddamn door.” It was Levine’s voice. He had been pounding on the door.

  Kel blinked again. Not gunshots.

  Bam, bam, bam. “Goddamnit, Doc—wake the goddamn hell up.”

  He managed to clear his head and go to the door. He opened it to find Levine, shirttail untucked, about to pound his fist against the door again. He had his cell phone out and was talking animatedly to someone. He stopped himself from hitting the door and glared at Kel. To the phone he said, “I need it now…it’ll take me two hours—I want it ready to go when I get there…” He grabbed Kel by the front of his shirt and pulled him roughly to the sidewalk as he talked. “…And I want two uniformed troopers as well…I don’t give a flaming shit, do it…I don’t care how…You’re a special agent, aren’t you? So do something special.”

  Kel watched his face and listened to his words, trying to piece together what was going on. Levine saw his look and understood his confusion. He impatiently pointed across the parking lot to the northwest as he continued speaking into the phone. Kel followed his outstretched finger. There was an orange glow to the night sky, like a great cloud of luminous dust blowing up.

  “Yeah, yeah, just get it done…two hours.” Levine snapped his phone shut and looked at Kel. “I’m going to get that cracker-ass schmuck. I’m going to chainsaw his nuts off and hang them from my rearview mirror like big fuzzy dice. Goddammit, goddammit to hell. I was right. I was right.”