by Tom Lowe
“No…no…I didn’t do it. I didn’t shoot that boy.”
“I never said he was shot. How’d you know he was shot?”
He wiped the grease from his thin lips with the back of his left hand, the narrow yellow wedding band worn dull.
“Did you ever tell your wife what happened?”
“She’d died…long ago.”
“So did Andy, longer ago. If you didn’t do it, who did? Who pulled the trigger that night, Zeke?”
He said nothing, staring down at his hands—in the background, a contestant on Jeopardy answering a statement with a question in the background, a dining room server bussing tables behind us.
“Zeke, it’s time that Andy and the others boys had two things: recognition and justice. You can give it to them. At this point in your life, you can change things—make a difference. Help close old wounds. Not only for the families who never saw their children, again, but for the grown men living today who still carry those emotional scars.”
“Go…go…away!” his voice a littler higher, his left hand trembling.
The attendant bussing the tables, a middle-aged Hispanic man, approached us. He had a round face, a diamond in one earlobe. “Ever’thing all right?”
I smiled. “I should learn never to talk politics with family. Even after all these years.”
The man shrugged. “We are who we are.” He grinned, patted Zeke on his back and pushed a cart filled with dirty dishes out of the room.
I leaned forward, closer to the old man who folded his thin arms across his chest, harboring a conscience of deception. I lowered my voice. “Zeke, you may be in a senior center now, but if you don’t help bring closure to the deaths of Andy and the others, you’ll live your final days in a cell. And even at your ripe old age, the inmates pay closer attention to pedophiles and child murderers.”
He reached for the remote control to his wheelchair. I lowered my hand across his hand—bones like wooden pencils, skin malleable and crusty. “Zeke, I’m going to leave an envelope and a sheet of paper with you. You’ve got a choice. You can write down the name of the person who killed Andy…or you don’t. If you feel in a talkative mood, you can write down what happened. If you do nothing, if you continue your silence, then you’re an accomplice to a child’s murder. And when I come back, it will be with the police and a warrant for your arrest. If you do the right thing, make sure you sign your name, seal the envelope and give it to the receptionist. ” I reached in my coat pocket for the envelope, paper and pen, setting them on the table. I wrote across the envelope. “My name is on the front of the envelope. They’ll hold it at the desk for me.”
I stood. He looked up at me, an opaque liquid dripped once from his right nostril. I stepped to the table with his dirty dishes, lifting the glass by the bottom, pouring the remaining water into the shallow rubber tub with other dishes. I walked away with the glass and the greasy fingerprints on it, looking back at Zeke Wiley who stared at the paper and pen in front of him, the haggard and frayed appearance of a man about to write his last will and testament.
In the parking lot, as I was unlocking my Jeep, the phone in my pocket buzzed. Dave Collins said, “I thought I’d give you a heads-up on the GPS tracker with the most movement—the one you hid in Jesse Taylor’s car.”
“What do you have?”
“I can calculate time and space with his movements. He’s driving fast, I’d estimate close to ninety. He’s on Highway 276 or Bump Nose Road—and that is the name. He’s headed north, almost running parallel to the Chipola River.”
“He’s going to meet the only eye witness to Andy’s shooting. He’s in a race to meet with Jeremiah Franklin. And I have a late start.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
Jesse glanced down at the speedometer, the needle below the ninety MPH mark. He eased up on the accelerator just as blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror. He looked into the mirror. A state trooper was not far behind, gaining. “Shit! Shit!” Jesse pounded the steering wheel with an open hand. He slowed down to the speed limit, sweat popping on his forehead, heart pounding. “I don’t need this crap now.” He scooped the spilled Vicodin pills off the seat, palming them back into the prescription bottle.
He tossed the bottle of pills under his seat, looking up into the rearview mirror at the trooper’s car. It was less than two hundred feet behind him. Instinctively, Jesse touched the pistol strapped and holstered above his left ankle. He pulled off the highway, slowing and stopping in a small clearing next to the road. The trooper pulled behind him.
Jesse could see the video camera mounted on the car’s dash. The shotgun barrel vertical next to the trooper. Road dust settling. The trooper put his hat on, opened his door cautiously. He had the lanky body of a pro basketball player. Long arms. Long neck. He walked up to Jesse, the trooper’s right hand very close to his holstered pistol. He said, “What’s your hurry?”
Jesse looked up, sweat trickling into the bandage on his forehead. “I got a bad damn prostate. Gives me fits. Gotta pee real bad.”
The trooper stared at him. “Plenty of woods around here. What happened to you?”
“Got jumped in Marianna.”
“They catch the guys who did it?”
Jesse said nothing for a few seconds. “You said guys. How’d you know it was more than one?”
“I didn’t. Lucky guess. You been drinking?”
“No.”
“You smokin’ weed?”
“No.”
“I need to see your license and registration.”
Jesse nodded. “In the glove box.”
The trooper rested his right hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, watching Jesse lean over to the glove box, opening it and fishing around loose papers. “I know it was in here before I left from home.”
The trooper pulled his pistol and aimed it at Jesse. “Get out of the car! Now!”
“What’s the matter with you? Why’d you pull a gun on me”
“Out of the car!”
“So you can shoot me?”
“I’m not telling you again!”
Jesse slowly opened his car door and got out. He raised his hands. “What do you want? Who you workin’ for? Is the whole damn county on the take?”
“Shut up! We’re gonna go for a little walk into the woods. Move!”
Jesse glanced back at the trooper’s car. “On video, they’re going to see you pulled your gun for no reason, drew down on an unarmed man.”
“Not if my dash-cam has a loose wire. Picture comes and goes. Move!” He grinned.
Jesse walked around the back of his car. In the distance, a truck filled with logs was coming down the highway. The trooper lowered his gun, moving his body between the approaching truck and Jesse. He said, “You act normal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean when you’re holding a pistol on me?”
The trooper said nothing, waiting for the truck to pass. As it blew by, he watched it for a second, looking at the truck’s side-view mirrors. Jesse lunged for the trooper’s pistol. He used both his hands. Grabbing the man’s wrist. Twisting hard, tendons popping. He dropped the gun, Jesse picking it up and rolling to the ground. The trooper charged. Jesse raised the pistol, aiming at his chest. “Stop! Another step and you’ll die. Hands up!”
The trooper slowly raised his long arms. “You broke my wrist.”
“You’re damn lucky I haven’t broken your fuckin’ neck yet. Walk to your car. Now!”
The trooper turned and walked to his car, Jesse following. “Open the door. Get inside.” The trooper did as ordered. “Toss the keys out the door.”
“They’ll hunt you down.”
“The keys!”
The trooper removed the keys from the ignition and threw them to the ground. Jesse picked up the keys, never taking his eyes off the man. “Now, take your cuffs and slap one on your left wrist first. Then you’re gonna stick your right hand through the steering wheel and you’re gonna cuff yourself to the wheel.”
“You’re a dead man. You’re just too dumb to know it.”
“Do it!”
The trooper complied, mumbling under his breath.
Jesse jogged to his car, pain shooting from his rib cage. He tossed the trooper’s gun on the seat beside him, started his car and squealed tires, pulling away. He was less than ten miles from the Bellamy Bridge. And at that moment in time, with a trooper’s car in his rearview mirror, it felt like he was a hundred miles from the old bridge and old friend.
SIXTY-NINE
I followed the directions Dave gave me, heading for someplace on the Chipola River, somewhere I hoped to find Jesse and Jeremiah. I called Lana Halley. She answered, her voice just above a whisper. “Sean, I have a deposition in five minutes.”
“It won’t take me that long to tell you something about your boss.”
“What?”
“He’s mother is confined to the Cypress Grove senior care. Her name is Julie Carson. She worked at the reform school the time Andy Cope was killed. Hack Johnson was working there at the same time. I believe he raped her. I believe Jeff Carson is his biological son.”
“What? You say you believe. What do you mean?”
“Johnson has a tattoo on his right arm in the shape of the Southern Cross. I drew the cross on a napkin and showed it to Julie. She had a very adverse reaction, like a PTSD flashback when someone holds up a frightening picture of your past. If Jeff Carson is Johnson’s illegitimate son, and if he knows it, maybe that’s one of the reasons the Johnson clan gets away with…murder.”
“But if Jeff’s mother was raped by Johnson, why would Jeff do anything for them?”
“We don’t know the history—the dynamics, the lies, the greed.”
“What led you to approach her?”
“Jeff Carson’s chin.”
“His chin?”
“The cleft is unique—sort of makes a slight upside down Y pattern. When Hack Johnson’s son, Solomon, approached me in front of Ruby’s Coffee Shop, I saw an almost identical cleft in his chin. It was so similar it made me wonder if there could be a blood relation. Considering the circumstances—an apparent rape, Julie Carson may never have told Hack Johnson he’d fathered her child. Maybe she did years later. I don’t know. I do know that the clan gets preferential treatment in Jackson County. I saw it the night the grandson, Cooter Johnson, tangled with Jesse Taylor at the bar. Detective Lee had no interest in Jesse’s story.”
“A DNA blood test with the old man will speak volumes.”
“And if one of his fingerprints match that from the shell, I’d say you have more than enough for a grand jury. Speaking of prints, I lifted one from a guy named Zeke Wiley. He’s a resident of the senior center too. He was working at the reform school the time Andy was killed. He says he didn’t do it, but he does know Andy was shot, something I didn’t tell him. I’m going to give the print to Deputy Ivan Parker. If it matches the one from the shotgun shell, Deputy Parker will have an easier arrest. If not—he might need some help.”
Jesse drove north, heading for Jacob Road—the road that would take him to an old trail leading to the Bellamy Bridge. He punched in the numbers to Jeremiah Franklin’s phone. After six rings and no answer, Jesse disconnected. “Hope you’re still there.” He tossed his phone on the passenger’s seat and drove faster. The road wound through thick forests, oak and pine trees. He turned right onto Jacob Road. He remembered the old trail through the woods that would lead him down to the river and the bridge. He hoped that he could still find the entrance to the trail.
After another mile, something positive. Jesse mumbled, “I’ll be damned. A sign of the times.” The state has erected a sign marking the head of the trail. Jesse pulled off the road, driving behind a thicket of trees on the opposite side of the road, the undergrowth hiding his car from passersby. He picked up the trooper’s pistol, sliding it beneath his belt, trotting across the road, one hand pressing against the binding around his ribcage.
He followed the path into the woods, thick trees on both sides, birdsong coming from beyond the perimeter of foliage. The humid air smelled of pinesap and wet moss. Clumps of ferns grew along the edge of the trail. He wanted to run, to jog down to the river to meet Jeremiah. Mosquitoes orbited his head, whining in his ears, probing his neck. He swatted them, rolling down his sleeves, the burn on his arm stinging.
Jesse walked as fast as he could on the path, sweat rolling down his back, the taste in his throat was like gunmetal. He passed two rustic benches, longing to sit for a few seconds to catch his breath. He continued. Around the final bend, the trail opened up to a bridge he remembered as a boy. The Bellamy Bridge always had a spooky look, he thought. Rusted iron and cables straddling the Chipola River. The floor had rotted away long ago. He remembered one of his teachers telling the class it was the oldest bridge of its kind in Florida. It replaced wooden bridges that had carried settlers and soldiers from one side of the river to the other. The old metal bridge still stood, crippled but a testament to another era.
Jesse stopped at the bridge, looked down at the slow moving river, cypress trees lining its banks, a white heron hunting in the shallows of cypress knees poking above dark water. He couldn’t see Jeremiah anywhere. Not by the old bridge, underneath it, or along the riverbank. He’s gone. Too damn late.
“Hey, man…what took you so long?”
Jesse turned around. Jeremiah stepped out from the thicket, smiling. “Skeeters would eat me alive if I hadn’t brought some spray. Looks like you could use some too. Jeremiah pulled a small bottle of insect repellent from his pocket and handed it to Jesse.
Jesse sprayed his hands, face and neck. “Thanks. I forgot how bad the bugs could be down here.”
“They ain’t bad on the river, wind and whatnot. Just walkin’ through the woods is a bug love fest.” He grinned.
“I didn’t see your car. Where’d you park?”
Jeremiah pointed to the right of the bridge, to the water. A johnboat with a small outboard motor was tied to a cypress tree. “I came in my boat. I always preferred rivers to roads, anyhow. Caught me two fat catfish while waiting for you.”
“I’m damn sorry I’m so late. Lot of shit happened on the way here.”
Jeremiah nodded. “You look all tattered and tore, Jess. Like a scarecrow got a thumpin’ by the crows.” He smiled.
“Have sure as hell been better. I’m hoping what you tell me will make a lot of folks better. Caroline Harper…your mother…and a lot of guys like us who’ve been carrying this weight far too long.”
Jeremiah blew out a long breath. “I hope so. Maybe that former policeman friend of yours, Mr. O’Brien, can do something. He seems the real deal.” Jeremiah looked at the river, the cry of a limpkin coming from across the water, an anhinga standing on a cypress stump, wings extended, drying feathers in the warm sunlight. “Jesse, I think you know who it was that kil’t Andy. I used to see him occasionally when I’d go in to town for things. He’d always give me a hard stare. If pure evil can be seen in a man’s eyes, you can see it in his. Windows to hell, I call his eyes.”
“Who was it, Jeremiah? Who shot Andy?”
Jeremiah swatted at a mosquito in the air, looked up at Jesse and said, “It was—”
His shirt exploded in a bright red flower of blood. The sound of the shot came a millisecond later. Jeremiah fell to his knees.
Jesse ran to his fallen friend, taking him under the arms and dragging him behind a tree. A second bullet echoed through the forest. Jesse pulled out the pistol, firing once in the direction of the shot. The forest was quiet. He could hear the trickle of eddies swirling around the cypress knees. A fish jumping in the river. There was no human movement. Nothing but the sounds of Jeremiah trying to breathe. Jesse knelt beside him, pressed his hands to the bloody wound. “Hold on! Just breathe. We’ll get through this together.”
“It’s…it’s…okay…”
“Don’t talk. Rest. I’m callin’ 9-1-1. We’ll get you to a hospital.” The sweat loosen
ed the bandage on Jesse’s forehead, the bandage flapping. Jesse tore it off.
Jeremiah coughed, blood trickling out of his mouth.
“Hold on! Don’t you think about dyin’ on me. We’ve been through too much. You’ll make it.” Jesse tried to smile. He found his phone, hands bloody, shaking. He was trembling so bad he could barely hold the phone. He punched the numbers 9-1-1. No signal. “Fuck!’ No!”
Jeremiah coughed again, his chest rising and falling. “Hold on buddy. I’ll carry you outta here.” Jesse wiped the blood from Jeremiah’s mouth.
“Come closer.”
“Please…hang in there.” Jesse looked in his old friend’s eyes, the light leaving, death approaching. Jesse’s eyes welled with tears. “No…
“Closer…”
Jesse lowered his head, turning his ear to Jeremiah’s lips, a rustle of breath, like the sound from a seashell, coming from his lips and in the whisper came the name of the man who killed Andy Cope. And then Jeremiah let out his last breath on earth.
Jesse sat up, holding his old friend’s head in his hands, tears spilling down both cheeks and dropping onto Jeremiah’s face. Jesse looked up through the outstretched limbs of ancient cypress trees, patches of blue sky in the distance, feathers of white clouds floating in the sky. He screamed to the heavens. “Nooooo…”
His voice traveled over the old bridge, into the deep woods, echoing and fading, the sound of a woodpecker drilling into a dead tree across the river.
SEVENTY
I calculated that I was less than ten miles from Jesse’s location when Deputy Parker called. “Sean, we found Jesse Taylor. It’s bad. Hikers in the vicinity of the old Bellamy Bridge heard shots. They flagged down one of our units in the area. The deputies found Taylor walking out of the woods covered in blood. He was carrying a pistol. Taylor was arrested for murder.”