Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7)

by Tom Lowe

  A reporter shouted, “Do you think that’s Andy Cope’s grave?”

  I looked toward Caroline. She stared stoically, watching the forensics staff continue sifting through dirt and bones.

  The investigator said, “We don’t know that. In view of what Mrs. Harper has gone through the last fifty years, if this is her brother’s grave, we hope it’ll help bring closure to her and her family. As you know, we have a suspect in custody. And now we have a body. Is it that of Andy Cope? We don’t know, but you can quote me on this…we’ll find out, and we’ll do it quickly. The state will rush DNA testing to determine if these are his remains. And if so, I’ve been authorized to let you know the state will pay all costs for removal of the body and a new burial, wherever Mrs. Harper requests. At this time, we’ll conclude the news conference. Thank you.”

  I glanced over to Caroline Harper, reporters forming a semicircle around her and Jesse. One reporter asked, “Mrs. Harper, if this proves to be your brother’s remains, what will that finally mean to you?”

  She inhaled deeply, looked toward the excavation and turned her head to face the reporter. “It’ll mean that my brother was murdered. And if he was, how many more are buried in here? And whom do we hold accountable for allowing that horrible situation to go on so long and no one to step in and stop it. In my brother’s memory and for other children like him, the monsters who did this and those who do it today…you will go to a place even worse than what you made it for these children. I’ll anxiously await the DNA finding. I don’t have anything more to say. Thank you.” She turned and walked away, Jesse’s arm on her shoulder. He shook his head each time a reporter asked another question. They walked toward her car, the sound of digging behind them, and the mockingbird lifting its head up and singing from an oak tree in front of them.

  EIGHTY

  Maybe it was a case of half century’s worth of bottled up guilt. Maybe it was because he was old, frail and thought he was on the verge of meeting his maker. Whatever it was, Zeke Wiley showed investigators where the “black boys were buried.” He said he’d read and followed the case of Elijah Franklin. When Jeremiah Franklin was killed, Wiley told detectives he was horrified by a dream he had the next night—a dream where he said he saw little Eli Franklin still breathing when they tossed him in a shallow grave fifty years ago, the dark earth writhing, a small black hand clawing through the loose dirt.

  He remembered Hack Johnson laughing, walking up to the grave and standing in his big boots at the head of the grave, the spot where Elijah’s head was under the topsoil. In less than half a minute, the squirming beneath his boots stopped. They tossed another shovel full of dirt over the boy’s hands, got off work, and went into town to hit their favorite bar.

  Forensics investigators unearthed a shallow grave that Wiley distinctly remembered as that of Elijah because of the wicked death the boy had suffered. Some of the skeletal remains were rushed to the same lab that was testing for Andy Cope’s DNA. Detectives paid a visit to Mrs. Franklin, telling her what had happened and took her DNA sample with them.

  And now we waited. With the intense national and international interest in the case, the state of Florida accelerated the DNA testing faster than I’d ever seen. I stayed in Marianna for a few days, like much of the news media, waiting for the results.

  The Florida Attorney General’s office was working with Lana Halley and a strong-willed grand jury to deliver numerous indictments against almost every male adult member of the Johnson family, facing charges of running one of the largest drug operations in the Florida Panhandle to racketeering, arson and murder.

  Jeff Carson was indicted for withholding evidence in potential felony cases involving Johnson family members, and causing innocent people to take the fall and be sentenced to prison. In a news conference, the Attorney General said, “Mr. Carson was involved in this egregious misconduct because he knew he could probably get away with it, which he did…until he got caught. His decision to be above and beyond the law is a flagrant abuse of powers that the people in his district had entrusted in him as chief prosecutor. He will be dealt with and prosecuted to the maximum extent of the law.”

  Detective Larry Lee, facing charges of bribery and accepting payoffs for selective law enforcement, took an unpaid leave of absence from the sheriff’s office pending the outcome of the charges. The judge slapped him with an ankle bracelet and a stern warning not to leave the county.

  Cory Wilson had tried in vain to secure an interview with the CEO of Horizon and Vista Properties, James Winston, after the corporation rescinded the offer to buy the reform school property. His Gulfstream jet left in the middle of the night, the pilot somehow failing to file a flight plan.

  I was filling my tank with gas when Lana called. “Sean, it’s a match. The mitochondrial DNA testing came back. The body in the first grave is Andy Cope. And the child in the second grave is Elijah Franklin. I’m calling Caroline and Mrs. Franklin with the news. Hack Johnson is facing first-degree murder charges. In the meantime, the university forensic anthropologists are conducting ground penetrating radar testing. At first pass they say they’ve found at least a dozen unknown graves. Could be more. Looks like that property won’t be on the auction block for a long time, if ever.”

  “Normally, I don’t like attending funerals. But these are two that I wouldn’t miss.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to join you. They’re funerals, but they’re also two reasons to celebrate. We can celebrate because heinous crimes, murders never even on the investigative radar, are seeing justice because you received that letter.”

  EIGHTY-ONE

  The Shiloh Baptist Church couldn’t hold the crowd. Some people gathered near the open doors to the front entrance, using hand-fans to circulate the motionless air. Although it was only 11:00 in the morning, the Florida sun was hot, the air humid. Other people stood in the shade of leafy oaks, listening to the service on a loud speaker wired to the pulpit. Attendees, black and white, packed the old church to pay their respects to the family of a murdered child.

  I stood in the back of the church with Lana and listened to the Reverend Joseph Hart deliver a passionate eulogy for Elijah Franklin. Caroline and Jesse sat in a middle pew. Caroline would bury Andy’s remains at 4:00 in a cemetery less than five miles away. I could only imagine what was going through her mind.

  Reverend Hart talked about the injustice and shortness of little Elijah’s life. How God has a special place in heaven for children, especially those abused and killed by adults. He added, “Last week we buried Elijah’s brother, Jeremiah. Killed, just like Elijah, by the hands of others, the influence of Satan. Let God be the judge, and brothers and sisters he will! Amen!”

  Half the congregation said, “Amen,” people nodding and using hand-fans. Elijah’s mother and other family members sat in the front row. Mrs. Franklin staring at the small white casket, the diminutive size reminding the crowd just how little Elijah was at the time he was killed. When Reverend Hart invited family members to share their thoughts, Sonia Acker stepped behind the podium.

  She looked out across the packed church, a baby crying in his mother’s arms, the mother comforting the child. Sonia talked about the uncle she would never know, except for the pictures in her grandmother’s house and the stories from aunts and uncles. She said her grandmother spoke of Elijah often, and how much she still missed his smiling face. Sonia told the audience that she did know Elijah’s brother Jeremiah and how he had been a special uncle. Kind and considerate. But all his life, he carried the scars from the months he’d spent in the Florida School for Boys, the same place where Elijah had died.

  When the eulogies were done, the congregation, and those waiting outside, walked behind the old church for the burial. Members of the Franklin family carried the small casket down the church steps and to the gravesite. Carefully. Step-by-step. Tears flowing. Reverend Hart said a short prayer, nodded and the cemetery workers slowly lowered the coffin into the hole. It was very close to a
fresh grave, sandy soil still piled in a small mound. Jeremiah Franklin’s name on the headstone.

  Five members of the Franklin family tossed yellow roses into the open grave, Mrs. Franklin sobbing softly. She just buried two sons in one week. When the service concluded, people embraced the family again, offering condolences and prayers. Wet faces. Tears. Jesse and Caroline spoke with Mrs. Franklin, both giving her long hugs. I watched Jesse walk over to Jeremiah’s grave. He bowed his head. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders quivering as he wept.

  Lana and I stepped up to offer Mrs. Franklin our sympathies. “My name is Lana Halley. This is my friend, Sean O’Brien. I want you to know how deeply sorry we are for you and your family.”

  The old woman looked up, variegated sunlight popping through the magnolia trees. It was her eyes that struck me. Compassionate eyes. Wise eyes. Eyes reflecting a deep longing—a sadness cutting to the bone. She studied Lana a moment and said, “Thank you. That’s kind of you.”

  “Mrs. Franklin, I’m one of the prosecutors in the district. I will do everything in my power to find justice for Elijah. I just want you to know that, ma’am. We have a man in custody who we believe killed Andy Cope, and he probably was responsible for Elijah’s death.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. Like the preacher said, our Lord will deliver the real justice. Here on earth, wit’ the wickedness and the hate, I don’t know if I have ever experienced real justice. Lots of judgment, but not a whole lot of justice.”

  I said, “Mrs. Franklin, the man who took Jeremiah’s life is dead. I suspect that real justice you mentioned has already happened.”

  She nodded, looked up at me, looked at the cuts and stitches on my face. She touched my hand. “Mr. O’Brien, I recognize your name from the stories on the TV news. I cain’t read the papers much on ‘count of my vision, but I can hear the TV, ‘specially on Sundays when I cain’t get out to Reverend Hart’s church.” She smiled. “I don’t get on the road much no more either. The only road I travel is cemetery road, and that’s a real lonely place to be.” She patted the top of my hand, smiled and used her cane to walk toward family members.

  Even after my military service in the war-torn Middle East, after working homicide in the dark vice sewers of Miami, I couldn’t remember attending two funerals the same day. But here in Jackson County, in view of the unearthing of two graves, graves of children who died close together in time and place, it seemed fitting to have two funerals a few hours apart. Many of the people would attend both services. They began arriving at the funeral for Andy not long after Elijah was laid to rest. I estimated that at least 150 people had come. Black. White. People all here to say goodbye to a little boy who’d suffered horribly so many years ago.

  A large white tent was erected over the gravesite. Dozens of flower arrangements near the casket, maybe fifty chairs supplied by the funeral home. The vast majority of people would stand near the grave in a cemetery filled with live oaks, pines and maple trees. A place filled with sorrow. Caroline and Jesse sat in the front row. There were other people there, too. A woman in her forties, and a man about her age. They had two teenage children, a boy and a girl. I assumed the woman was Caroline’s daughter, the man her daughter’s husband, and the kids their children.

  The minister was a tall man who resembled Abe Lincoln without facial hair. He spoke eloquently about life, death, and the absolute power of faith at all times, especially dark periods and times of doubt. He talked about the unconscionable and senseless death of a child—Andy Cope, a child taken by violence. The comfort, if it could be found, was in knowing that Andy Cope went to a much better place than what he inherited. The minister invited family and friends to speak a few words about Andy.

  Caroline stood slowly. She stepped to the casket, placing her hand on it. She bowed her head in silence and then turned to address the people. She looked exhausted, her face aged in the last few days. She wiped a tear from her cheek and said, “It’s been many years since my brother was sent to the Florida School for Boys. His crime? Truancy from school. He was just a kid. When he was never released, when he never returned home, we were told he’d run away. And now, all these years later, the forensic investigators found buckshot in Andy’s remains. They say he was shot in the back.” She couldn’t hold back the flow of tears. Her hands trembled. Lips quivering.

  “My brother was a good boy, a good son, and he would have become a good man, had he been given the chance. I’m so grateful to those people who helped me find and bring Andy home. I wish my mother had lived to know what happened to her son. But that was not to be. As Reverend Lawton said, Andy’s in a better place…I just so wish he could have had more time in this place.”

  Jesse stood, nodded at Caroline and stepped beside her. He held a white rose in his hand. Jesse cleared his throat. “I grew up with Andy…at least I grew up with him until he never came back from the school. He was a good guy, always grinning. Andy wouldn’t even play boyish pranks ‘cause he didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. He was that way. Sort of wise beyond his years. Even though he was just a kid when they killed him, he had a wiser soul than any of us boys. So maybe Andy was already halfway to heaven because of who he was and what he did for others. What he stood for, even as a boy, I wish as a man I could have combined more of those qualities that Andy showed me. If he’s lookin’ down here today…”

  Jesse glanced up, his voice breaking, eyes watering “If you’re looking down at us today, Andy, I want you to know you had a positive influence on me. And I swear to God, for what ever time I’m allowed to remain on this on earth…my intentions will be for good—for others.” Jesse wiped tears from his face, handing the rose to Caroline. She touched him gently on the shoulder. They turned and together set the rose on the casket.

  I could hear gentle sobbing coming from family and friends. Crying that was long overdue. The release of buried emotion. A painful wail. A sniffle. A soft cry. A cardinal warbling from a mimosa tree, the scent of magnolia blossoms in the warm breeze. I stood with Lana near the back row of chairs. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. I lifted the small black and white picture out of my pocket again, looking at it and then looking as they lowered Andy Cope into his final grave.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  It was late afternoon the next day when I arrived back at Ponce Marina, the breeze over the mangroves laced with the scent of salt water and baitfish. I felt like I’d been gone for years, everything in the marina seemed refreshed, or maybe I was just more aware of what I missed—the sounds of gulls overhead, the dinging of halyards jingling in the breeze against sailboat masts, fishing captains laughing and swapping stories at the Tiki Bar.

  I walked down L dock, longing to see little Max and her unbridled passion for all things living. My face was still bruised and stitched from the beatings I’d undergone, first with Deputy Parker on the trail, and then with Solomon Johnson in his barn. I hoped Max would recognize me. I walked past a forty-foot Bertram, rigged for fishing, just easing away from the dock, two guys in golf visor hats going out the inlet and into the Atlantic. A Leopard catamaran entered the marina, its sails down, one man at the helm, a tanned woman in a white bikini sipping a drink next to him.

  It felt good to be back. And it would feel better doing some sailing.

  I didn’t know if Max would be on Dave’s trawler or on Nick’s boat. It usually depended on who was cooking. When I got a whiff of grilling fish, spotting the white smoke swirling from Nick’s grill on his cockpit, I knew. A few more steps and a furry reddish-brown head popped up from a deck chair, ears perked, and then she looked down the dock my way.

  If a dog can smile, Max grinned. She jumped from one of the canvas chairs, spun in a circle, barking three times, her tail moving like a hummingbird’s wing. I approached. “Hey kiddo, you really recognize me?”

  Another bark. A tilt of her head and another full circle turn. I stepped from the dock onto the St. Michael and scooped up Max, holding her against my chest. She flattered me with kisses. Considerin
g my face, it was the true example of unconditional love. “I missed you, Max. Have you been helping Nick and Dave? Picking up food that Nick drops, not getting into Ol’ Joe’s whiskered and scarred cat face? Maybe I’ll start looking like that darned cat.” I rubbed Max behind her ears as Nick came through the open cockpit doors, dressed in a faded blue swimsuit, a tank shirt, a towel in one hand, a Corona in the other.

  “Hey, Sean!” he grinned, lifting his beer in a toast. “Did you check yourself for ticks before you walked on my boat? Sounds like you’ve been so far out in the country even the Internet won’t go there. Maybe that’s where the World Wide Web stops.”

  “I’m clean.” I smiled.

  He raised both bushy eyebrows. “Dave said you had to face some tough dudes. Looks like they did a helluva drumroll on your face. Tell me the other guy’s in worse shape.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’d say that’s beyond worse shape.”

  “Where’s Dave?”

  “Should be back on Gibraltar. He went to restock his bar.”

  “Is that because he knew I was coming back?”

  “Could be. Or maybe because he’s generous, and I don’t have to stock mine as much. I have the beer, Dave has the craft beers. He has the premium booze, which means I’m less likely to get a hangover hangin’ with Dave. We have a lot more in common than you might think.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I smiled. “What would that be?”

  “Basra. He’s damn good. He’s the only non-Greek that can beat me with the cards.”

  Dave stepped from Gibraltar’s bow onto the dock. He wore a red and blue tropical print shirt, shorts and sandals. “The prodigal friend returns from the west.” He looked at my face in the setting sun, shook his head. “Well, you’ve undergone a physical transformation of sorts. Let’s have a drink and hear about the psychological ramifications. Nick, do you have any more bounty from the seas?”