Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) (25 page)

Of these six young men, one would be dead within a year or two, taking with him the will to live of the companion whose hand was on the gun. Another would turn to a life of crime, exploiting his own people and providing them with the means of their self destruction. The eldest among them would die a violent death at the hands of an assassin, and the youngest would be sent to die or rot away as a prisoner of war in the jungles of Vietnam.

Yet, as I had this last thought, I realized that I only knew of Edward Posey’s death or being missing by hearsay. While I don’t hold to the high level of proof the courts require, I do believe in being thorough. I made a mental note to check Posey’s family background and military record if I could, but the first thing I had to do was get his full name and date of birth from Vital Records. Then I had the thought it might be easier to check the courthouse records since I was already in the county where he was born. The hospital records might have what I wanted to know, too, as might the church. Baptists are not like Anglicans or Presbyterians when it comes to keeping records, but I might get lucky.

Since I needed to see Albert Jones anyway, I decided to ask him about it. It was just past one and I thought church services should be done. I drove to the parsonage, but no one was there. So I walked to the church. Neither the pastor nor his wife were there, but there was an elderly couple cleaning the place. They told me the pastor and his wife had gone to Nashville, taking Luther Adams’ mother to make the arrangements for his funeral. I was surprised to hear she was still alive until I remembered that Luther looked far older than he was. His mother could easily be alive and in good health in her eighties. Most people of color in rural Arkansas don’t reach such an age, but it does happen.

On a whim, I asked the couple if they knew anything about Edward Posey or his family, and my luck turned. It turned out they were his aunt and uncle and they were able to give me enough information to save a lot of time with Vital Records. They were even able to tell me just when he was born, dating this the way country people do by connecting it to other events.

I tried to ask them more about Edward, but the man told me they needed to finish their cleaning so the church would be ready for Luther’s funeral. I could see there was little use pushing the issue, so I thanked them and asked if I might come back and talk to them when they were not so busy. They looked at each other for a long moment, then reluctantly agreed. When I asked where they lived, they looked at each other once more before the man pointed with a frail, thin arm and told me how to find their place. He said they were usually there in the evenings except Wednesday, which was church night, and Monday night, when their favorite shows were on television.

There was little more I could accomplish in Oak Grove at the moment, so I decided to head back to Nashville, intending to take a shower and review my case notes again. As I drove, I thought about the case. I had a growing sense that the solution lay somewhere in the history of those six young men in the choir. I had no idea what the connection might be, but I had a strong sense it was there waiting for me to uncover. The silence at Smiley’s place had apparently told me more than I sensed when I stood listening.

6. Vital Records

When I arrived at the courthouse in Nashville on Monday, there was not much left of the morning. Nellie surprised me on Sunday afternoon by driving down from Fort Smith and waiting for me in my room. I was glad to see her and glad for a break from the case. Not much was open Sunday evening, so we drove down to Hope and ended up checking into the motel there. They had a hot tub, and Nellie thought to pack my swimming suit and a change of my clothes along with hers. Nor did we rush our farewells the next day.
       

I was able to find the office I needed fairly easily, but there my luck turned again. The records were guarded by a curmudgeon with the looks and the disposition of an ill-tempered bulldog. When I asked to see the index of birth records, he demanded to know why I needed the information. I produced a photo ID issued when the CID designated me as a reserve peace officer and told him I was investigating the murder of Wilbur Jones. I also reminded him what he already knew: that the records I needed to see were public records that were available to anyone on request.

He took exception to that and refused to let me see the records. Normally, I would back off and try to work around someone like that, but that day I was fed up. I told him again I was investigating a murder and if he did not produce the records, I would charge him with obstructing justice.

I was very careful to be very polite when I said all that, but it made no difference. The bastard was just being petty, and while that’s not a crime, I was fed up. I warned him again, but he dug in his heels and told me not only what he thought of us city boys from Little Rock, but also what I could do with my state ID card. He went on to say that one less black bastard in that county was fine with him.

That was too much. I was over the counter like a cat and slammed him down on his own desk, cuffing his hands behind him before he realized what was happening. I stood him on his feet and walked him out of the courthouse and down the street to the jail, with him cursing me all the way and telling me what he would do when he got loose. As we crossed the street, we attracted a crowd and I spotted several people trying hard not to grin.

It was not one of my finer moments, but it was effective. There must have been fire in my eye because the deputy on duty booked the curmudgeon without question, ignoring his curses and threats and taking him away to a cell. Then, when I got back to the records office, a nervous clerk emerged from a back room and quickly produced the index I requested. She smiled nervously and jumped like a startled deer every time I asked a question.

There were a number of birth records for people named Posey, but none for Edward or Edwin or Ed. Judging from the age of the pastor, I figured Eddie must have been born in the late forties, and there were records of twelve Posey babies born between 1945 and 1950. I asked to see those records and weeded out seven of them right away. Arkansas lists race on birth records, and those children were born to white parents. With children of mixed ancestry, race is always shown as the same as the minority parent, although the race of both parents is given.

I looked over the other five records carefully. I set aside the first three because the name of the mother was different from the one spoken of by Eddie’s aunt and uncle. When I saw the fourth one, I felt a rush of excitement. The aunt and uncle had come very close in remembering the date, and the mother’s name was the same as they had given me. What was interesting was what they had not said, for on March 15, 1948, a child was born to an unwed young woman of fifteen at her parents’ home in Oak Grove, Arkansas. The child was named Wilbur Edward Posey, and his father’s name was listed as Wilbur O. Jones.

I thought about that for a while, wondering why this information was not common knowledge among people in Oak Grove. Then I glanced at the bottom of the registration and found my answer. The birth was not recorded until three years later, and it was the child’s grandfather who had come in to swear to the accuracy of the information given.

At that point, there was no doubt in my mind that Edward Posey was the love child of Smiley Jones. What I did not know was whether Eddie knew this. Were he not dead or missing in action, this would be a classic motive for murder if he knew. So the next step would be to confirm his death.

I thought about that a moment and realized I was feeling very sad. While I was glad to have the information about Edward Posey, the same information was a two-edged sword. Getting it, I lost a personal hero, for I knew a lot more about Wilbur Jones now, much more about the real man behind the famous smile. I know we all have feet of clay, and I try to judge the action, not the actor. Yet, finding this out about Smiley was like finding out about Santa Claus. It left an empty place inside me.

It also changed the way I looked at things. I found myself giving a lot more credence to what Slide had told us about Smiley’s theft of the song Edward had written. Nor did I think that knowing Eddie was his son would have made much difference. Like any other habit of soul, crime grows out of human character and reinforces the very traits that give rise to it. So it was not surprising that Smiley did the same to his son as he had done to his son’s mother. He was consistent in his modus operandi. He gained their trust as children then betrayed them and destroyed their innocence.

With Eddie’s mother, his crime was rape of a child.There was no other way of putting it. Whether that was statutory rape or actual sexual assault did not matter. Wilbur Jones had violated his victim, and with Edward, it was no less a violation. It struck at his sense of being. So in my eyes, this made Smiley Jones the worst kind of criminal, and I wondered what the response would be if that was made public. There would be outrage and then denial. Then the messenger would be pilloried by character assassination. I had no doubt of that.

Then another thought struck me. Assuming Louella was telling me the truth about being Smiley’s love child, Smiley had done the same to her mother. This also meant Louella and Edward Posey were siblings.

The clerk coughed nervously. I suddenly realized I must have been sitting there like a statue for some time, frowning at Edward’s birth certificate like a God of wrath, lost in those reflections. I thanked the nervous clerk, causing her to jump again, and walked out of the records room. As I did, I ran into Sheriff Tanner who greeted me politely and asked if we could have a word in private.

When we stepped outside, Tanner grinned. When he did, his kinship to the Jones family was evident. There are people who would kill for teeth that bright and perfect. “You sure do pick them, Jazz. It’s been a long time coming and way overdue, but no one around here had the balls to bust Jim Smith.” He laughed again. “Don’t get me wrong. You done the right thing, but I just think you ought to know who it was you busted. I’d like to know what happened, too. You know folks will ask.”

I told him how it went down, stressing the fact I had tried very hard to be courteous the whole time. When I told him what catapulted me over the counter, Tanner’s smile disappeared, and his face grew grim. He nodded. “That fits, all right. What you probably don’t know is Jim Smith is one of the head dragons in the state Klan. I come across it myself by accident just recently. I don’t think no one knows. Not even CID.”

“Why not make it public, then?” I asked. “These guys are cowards. They’re nothing but terrorists. They operate in the dark with hoods. Take away the hoods and you take away most of their power.”

“Too dangerous. Remember, we all have to live around here. If I leaked it, Jim Smith would know by morning, and you’d be here investigating my killing next. Maybe some of my family, too.” John Tanner’s face was as solemn as a grave.
 

“Are you saying Smiley’s death was a Klan killing?” I asked. “That would fit the facts we have very well. It would also explain why the killing looks like a professional hit. Some of those guys are professional.”

Tanner shook his head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. All I’m saying is my leaking his being in the KKK would be dangerous for me and for my family, too. They’s no connection I see to Smiley getting killed. Smiley didn’t get crossways with the Klan. Least, not so far as I know.”

I looked at him. “Well, since I’m out of the good graces of Jim Smith, already, maybe I can be the one to leak it. I could do it so no one would find out where I heard it.”

“That’s up to you,” Tanner told me. “For us here, it would probably be best if you made the leak in Little Rock.”

I gave him a grin. “John, I would be honored to take a leak on Little Rock any time.” He laughed more than the quip was worth.

We talked about this some more, and then he asked me where the case stood at the moment. I told him that Slide Jones was still my favorite for the shooter, but that Edward Posey would interest me if he were still alive. I told him why.

“Eddie’s dead, Jazz,” Tanner told me. “At least, that’s what I think. They was some kind of news story few years back, about them MIA guys. He was listed as one of them that got took prisoner. He never come back. I think they must of buried him at Arlington or some place like that if they brought the body back at all. It sure wasn’t around here.”

I made myself a note to check this out with the cemetery register and then stuffed the note in my pocket. Tanner chuckled when he saw me do that. “Short pencil better than a long memory?”

“This time of life, it sure is,” I agreed. “Look, I don’t really want to pursue the charge against Jim Smith unless it would be helpful around here.”

“Wouldn’t make no difference here,” Tanner assured me. “Wouldn’t get no conviction, noways.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. With his connections, he’s probably out on bail by now, anyway.”

“Nope,” Tanner grinned. “Won’t be ’til late evening day after tomorrow, neither. His honor went up fishing on Buffalo River. Said he was on the way when I got Luther’s warrant. No phone, no radio, no contact for three days. Told me if somebody died, don’t send no posse. Pack them in dry ice!” He laughed.