He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “I miss you,” he said out loud into the stillness of the room. There was no answer. He knew there wouldn’t be.
Setting the cigarette down on the rim of the ashtray, Hick again picked up Grant’s notes. Alphonsus “Alphie” Smith’s folder was thicker than most, and Hick sat back in the chair and began to peruse the contents. Alphie Smith had been arrested for the murder of an eleven-year-old playmate in Little Rock. Although he was seventeen, he was said to have the mental capacity of an eight-year-old and the little girl, Lillie Mae Spencer, and Alphie were good friends. She and Alphie had left her house one summer morning to go fishing and when she didn’t return, her mother went to find her.
She was discovered half-clothed and face down in a creek. Because she had left with Alphie Smith, suspicion immediately fell upon him and he confessed to the crime of murder, not fully understanding, in Grant’s estimation, to what he was confessing. Grant had kept page after detailed page of the trial. He had followed this trial closely and, as he did with Abner Delaney’s trial, Grant had even gone to the courtroom.
Hick’s eyes widened as he read the name of the defense attorney. He sat up straight, continuing to read until his heart stopped when he came upon a familiar name. At the back were more notes, and Hick’s pulse raced as he scanned them. He slammed the folder down and stared off into the distance. Disbelief washed over him Then the phone rang and he jumped and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hillbilly, it’s me, Carol. I got the call from Washington.”
“And I just read something we need to talk about. Where are you?”
“I’m at the motel now. Lowell was here looking through the register when the call came through, and I need to talk to you. How soon can you get here?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t move.”
“I won’t. I can’t believe it. I have so much—”
The line went dead.
“Miss Quinn?” Hick said into the receiver. “Carol? Carol?” he repeated, with urgency in his voice. But there was no answer. He grabbed the folder and raced to the car. He opened the glove box and hesitated. He stared at the gun he and Carol had found buried behind the church. “It may be we need it,” she had said as she placed it inside. Hick hadn’t fired a gun since returning from the war. He took a deep breath and double-checked to make sure there were still bullets inside, and then he placed it beside him on the seat. He started the car, and raced to the motel.
26
Friday, September 9, 1955
With gun in hand, Hick rushed to Carol’s motel room. “Miss Quinn!” he shouted, pounding on the door. “Miss Quinn! Carol!” After another moment, he stepped back and then with all his strength, he kicked at the door near the knob. It swung open, and he rushed inside, gun aimed.
Inside, the room was empty. The phone sat on its cradle, the bed was made, and there were no signs of a struggle or any kind of disagreement. It was almost as if Hick had imagined the whole thing. As if, in spite of the urgency in her voice, Carol had never called and had simply left for her date with Dr. Lyman as planned. But Hick knew what he’d read, he knew what was in the file, and he believed Carol had learned similar information.
If Carol and Dr. Lyman were out for dinner, where would they be? The choices were limited in Birch Tree, so Hick got into the car and drove to the café where he spied Dr. Lyman’s car in the lot. Making sure the gun was safe in his pocket, he hurried across the the muddy gravel lot. The hostess smiled as he entered, but he barely acknowledged her as his gaze swept through the crowded café. Relief washed over him as he spied Carol, chatting with Dr. Lyman.
“Hello,” Hick said, approaching the table. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Dr. Lyman smiled and rose from the table to shake Hick’s hand. “Not at all. Please. Have a seat. We haven’t ordered yet, so your timing is perfect.”
The waitress came over and handed Hick a menu.
“One more iced tea,” Dr. Lyman said to her.
“I’m sorry to be a third wheel—” Hick began.
“Think nothing of it,” Dr. Lyman said, pleasantly. “Please, let this be my treat. Miss Quinn tells me you’ll soon be leaving.”
Hick glanced at Carol but her face betrayed no emotion. “Yes. I think we’ve done all we can do here.”
“A shame we had to meet under such circumstances,” Dr. Lyman said with a shake of the head. “I assure you the violence that brought you here is not indicative of Birch Tree.”
“I don’t know,” Hick said, taking in the full café around him, his glance lingering on tables with families and small children. “It’s been my experience that violence occurs everywhere, even in the most quiet, peaceful places.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Dr. Lyman agreed, after a moment.
The waitress brought Hick’s glass of sweet tea, and he took a long drink to wet his dry mouth. “I think the difference is that violence in cities is often purely chance,” he said after another long swallow of tea. “It’s an affair between strangers. In places like this it’s a personal, more intimate violence. There are no strangers and few secrets in small towns.”
Dr. Lyman leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “An interesting notion. But I would have to disagree with you. All violence is personal, or as you put it, intimate. The setting makes no difference. It only effects the randomness of the act.” He paused and then smiled. “For example, let’s talk about war.”
A little girl went laughing past their table, skipping on her way to the restroom and Hick’s gaze followed her. He felt a tightening in his chest that he struggled to control. “What about war?”
At that moment the waitress walked over, pad in hand. “What can I get ya’ll tonight?” she asked with a wide smile.
“I’m happy with just iced tea,” Carol said in a tight voice.
“That won’t do at all,” Lyman said with a shake of the head. “I want you to look at this as your last meal, since you’ll soon be leaving.” Glancing at the waitress, he asked, “What’s good tonight?”
“The fried catfish is fresh and the hushpuppies are the best yet.”
Lyman glanced around the table and said, “Make it three, then.”
The waitress left with the menus, and immediately Carol began to rise, “Will you excuse me to use the ladies—”
“Sit down, Carol” Dr. Lyman said, in a mild voice.
Carol sank back into her chair, and her eyes met Hick’s. In an instant Hick knew that they’d both learned the same information regarding Dr. Kenneth Lyman. Scanning the busy café, filled with families, Hick’s palms began to sweat. His heart pounded as he glanced at the happy people milling about, blissfully unaware of what kind of person sat in their midst.
“Now where were we?” Dr. Lyman continued, regaining Hick’s attention. “Oh, yes. War. I remember when we had our little conversation back at the jail after Deem Skaggs committed suicide. You said you did what duty required.”
Hick nodded, the knot in his throat making it impossible to talk.
“Now don’t be offended,” Dr. Lyman continued. “I don’t know you or any of your personal circumstances, but let me say this, even in war violence is personal. Soldiers don’t kill ideals, they don’t murder the political machinations that started the war. They kill every day people and even though they may rationalize that they’re doing it for God and country, in their hearts they know better.”
As it had on many occasions, the face of a young, Belgian woman, cold and frozen in death loomed up before Hick’s eyes. He sucked in his breath to try and calm his pounding heart.
Lyman took a drink of tea and eyed Hick closely over the rim of the glass. Setting down the glass he asked, “Do you remember any of the details about our discussion? We spoke of the prevailing theory that many who kill feel exonerated from immorality because they destroyed something they believed to be less than human. Do you recall?”
Hick’s heart
was pounding so loudly he wondered if Lyman could hear it. He nodded.
“But let me ask you this,” Lyman said, wiping the condensation from his glass of iced tea with a napkin. “Do you really think someone as primitive as a Deem Skaggs need go through all those mental gymnastics in order to justify in his mind what he did?”
“I couldn’t say,” Hick choked.
“He would not,” Dr. Lyman said, with certainty. “At the end of the day, human beings are brutal, primitive animals. The more ‘enlightened’ animals may try and justify their actions. They will rationalize their harsh treatment of others, and conclude it is imperative to defend what belongs to them at all costs. But after all these years, we have not evolved. No. At the end of the day it boils down to the fact that human beings will fear, hate, and destroy anything that does not fit in with the rosy picture they’ve painted of the world and their own future. If anyone gets in their way, they will kill without regret, without remorse. Just like Deem Skaggs.”
“But that’s not what happens in war,” Hick argued. “There is no personal hatred or vendetta against the enemy.”
“Not true,” Lyman countered. “You try to put the killing of human beings into abstracts terms. But I disagree. You may not personally know those you label as an “enemy,” but they stand in the way of you returning to the life you feel entitled to. It is very personal. It is done with an innate knowledge that the quicker they die, the quicker you return home. And so, soldiers do the math and kill, not because of any inflated sense of moral rightness or duty, but because, as in the animal world, it becomes survival of the fittest.” He sneered. “Soldiers are no better than any other killer.”
“No,” Hick said, with a shake of his head. “Soldiers do not kill with some personal agenda. They don’t benefit financially from being in war. They answer the call of duty often to their own detriment.”
Lyman nodded and said, “I do understand that, the detriment. The despair that comes with the knowledge that what happened there was real and will never go away.” He paused and eyed Hick. “I wonder, have you ever heard of battle fatigue? Shell shock?”
Hick nodded.
Lyman continued, “It happens because soldiers know they’re killing people, not ideologies. Many people have a difficult time getting past this. I believe you’re one of those people. In fact, unbeknownst to her, your friend, Carol here has given me a great deal of information about you.”
Carol gasped and Hick glanced at her. She shook her head.
“Carol,” Dr. Lyman said, covering her hand with his. “It’s okay. You only wanted to help a friend. But, really, I’m not stupid. All of this ‘hypothetical talk’ you kept bringing up. I saw through it pretty fast. The war, the trauma,” he glanced at Hick, “the drug addiction.”
Hick watched as the little girl exited the rest room and paused at their table. “Hello, Dr. Lyman.”
Dr. Lyman turned to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “How are you today, Janey?”
“Swell,” she said, smiling and showing a wide gap where permanent teeth had not yet grown in. “See ya.” She skipped back to her table.
A glint from the setting sun reflected brightly in the window drawing Hick’s notice. As he looked up, from the corner of his eye, he noticed the hostess turn a family away at the door. And out the front window, he saw the flashing red light of Sheriff Bob Lowell’s car.
“Yes, I like it here. I like it here a lot,” Dr. Lyman said with a contented sigh, drawing Hick’s gaze back from the window. “My daughter is happy, my practice is thriving. I don’t intend to leave any time soon.” He blinked and then said, “Now what were we talking about? Oh, yes, war.”
The waitress arrived carrying three plates on her arm. Hick noticed the smile from earlier was gone. She quickly delivered the meal and asked, “Can I get you anything else?”
“It looks wonderful,” Carol said. “Thank you.”
The waitress skittered back to the kitchen and Hick noticed the room was emptying of patrons.
“So what kind of information do you believe Carol gave you about me?” Hick asked, trying to keep Lyman’s attention.
Dr. Lyman took a bite of hushpuppy and chewed. Finally, he said, “Here is what I’ve gathered. Please, correct me if I’m wrong. I believe you’ve experienced some war-time trauma. I believe this because of your physiological responses when I bring it up. Like now, I can see that your respiration has increased. You’re perspiring. I can tell by the amount you’re drinking that your mouth is dry. You seem nervous and you’re swallowing more than is normal.”
Lyman continued, clearly pleased with himself. “But it’s more than that. I have observed that you don’t carry a gun. Now, let me ask you, in your experience with all the sheriffs you’re acquainted with, is that typical?”
Hick opened his mouth, but Lyman interrupted. “No need to answer because we both know it’s not.”
Hick licked his lips. The sound of an infant crying filled his ears and a woman walked past taking a baby into the restroom. Dr. Lyman’s face became a blur and a sudden rush of heat traveled through Hick, making him queasy and unable to breathe.
Dr. Lyman’s eyes were fixated on Hick and he said, “I believe you’re a textbook case of shell shock. And, believe me, I’ve read all the books. But the one thing that doesn’t fit what I’ve read and understood is that you’re a sheriff. Tell me, have you shot anyone since the war?”
Hick’s heart pounded and he shook his head.
“I thought not. You see, it’s more than just the fact that you don’t feel like you need to carry a gun. I believe you are physically incapable of using one. It’s not that you don’t know how to aim and shoot, it’s just psychologically impossible for you to do so. They’ve opened up entire hospitals trying to help people with your condition.”
The woman with the infant rushed back past the table and whispered to her husband. They rose and left the café.
“Maybe everything you’re saying is true. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t shoot someone if I had to,” Hick said with narrowed eyes.
Dr. Lyman laughed out loud. “I suppose you believe that. But that’s not what studies show. And I believe you’ve also had the added trauma of losing your wife recently. Is this correct?”
Hick’s chest constricted and he felt like someone had crushed the air out of him.
Dr. Lyman smiled. “Yes, Carol wondered how added post-war trauma might effect someone suffering shell shock. So many pointed questions made it easy to understand she must be talking about you. At first I was flattered when she kept accepting my invitations. But I soon saw through her. You can imagine how that made me feel, being forced to talk about you when all I wanted to do was talk about me.”
“Hillbilly—” Carol began. Hick turned to her and saw she was pale.
A slow smile grew on Lyman’s face. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Sheriff. Having friends who care about you. Yes, I’m sure Carol was trying to help you, but in the process she helped me understand you more than she could possibly imagine.” He looked down at his plate and then up at Hick and then Carol. “But enough of this. Let’s not play games any longer.”
27
Friday, September 9, 1955
Lyman picked up his fork and said, “Please, eat. Your food is getting cold. We can continue this discussion after dinner.” With that he dug into his catfish.
“While you’re eating, let’s go back to secrets,” Hick said, half-heartedly poking at his catfish. He noticed Carol hadn’t moved. Her food sat untouched, growing cold.
“By all means,” Lyman said busily eating his dinner.
“You’re new to small town living,” Hick said, his eyes fixed on the doctor. “Perhaps you don’t understand how hard secrets are to keep.
Lyman appeared to ponder Hick’s words. Finally, he nodded. “I understand what you’re asserting. But let me counter that assertion with the fact that it really doesn’t matter what people know about someone. All that your
so-called ‘secrets’ do is give folks ample fodder for gossip and judgment. Take Deem Skaggs. Everyone knew he was an abusive man. He treated his wife and children horribly, and yet no one bothered to step in. No one bothered to stop the beatings and neglect. For that matter, let’s talk about you. Do you think no one knows about your … problems? And, yet, your doctor continues to prescribe medication that is addictive. Why is that, do you suppose?”
Before Hick could answer, Lyman raised his hand and continued. “Don’t bother answering because I already know. People do not want to get involved, so they don’t. They are comfortable and happy in their complacency and in turning a blind eye to whatever doesn’t effect them personally. What others do is not their concern.” He smiled and glanced around him. “One can get away with a great deal in places like this if one knows what they’re doing. Even if people know something is wrong, small-town folks are unwilling to get involved, unwilling to take a stand. Add to that the poorly equipped and often poorly trained law enforcement, and there you have it.” He took a drink of tea. “In small towns, secrets matter little.”
“Perhaps,” Hick said. “But Father Grant said the truth has a way of catching up with you. I’ve always found that to be the case.”
Kenneth Lyman frowned. “Father Grant?” He shook his head. “What would he know about anything? An insignificant cleric with an inflated sense of justice.”
“Father Grant knew quite a lot and was willing to risk everything to make the truth known,” Hick said. He placed his fork on the edge of his plate and leaned forward. “We both know that.”
Lyman slowly smiled. “I see you believe you’ve learned a thing or two. I wonder what that might be.”
“I’ve learned that you and Father Grant have a history.”
“I’m not sure ‘history’ is the correct word,” Lyman said with a shrug. “I’ve never actually spoken to the man. Let’s say we have a shared acquaintance.”
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