Roots of Murder (17 page)

As Nell pulled into the parking lot, she noticed Jacko and Dolan were back but Carrie's car was still missing. She managed to glance at her watch before letting the irritation build. It was only a quarter to four, so there was a good possibility that the Harbor Commission meeting was still going on.

“All quiet on the Crier front,” Pam greeted Nell as she entered.

“And no ax murderers made off with my children, so we're all happy.”

“Where are Lizzie and Josh?” Dolan asked. “Seems like they should be here celebrating with us.”

It did, but Nell was also glad they were finding ways back into the rhythms of their lives. The staff was celebrating getting the paper out, but there was also an unspoken celebration—Nell would and could run the paper without Thom.

“Josh is more worried about his
bent-up
bike, but he's used to the paper getting out every week. And Lizzie is manning the bike shop counter, which I've just learned is prime
boy-cruising
ground. Kate Ryan at the bike shop is looking after them.”

“You did a good job, Nell,” Dolan said quietly, the only acknowledgement of the real celebration.

“Thanks. We can go ahead and take a slow afternoon, but by next week's edition, I want to know a lot more about those three skeletons.” She was speaking most directly to Jacko, as he would be helping her with the research, but she also wanted everyone else to know, and to see what their reactions would be. “Who are they? How did they end up in that lonely grave?”

“Think we can do what the authorities can't?” Dolan asked.

Nell held his eye for a moment, but saw only a question, not a barricade. “Possibly. We can probably do a better job of searching for old newspaper stories. Three young people missing should have made news somewhere.”

“You're right,” Jacko said. He'd been leaning back in his chair, but he sat forward as he said that, almost reminding Nell of a hunting dog that's sighted its quarry. “But a lot of this stuff is only going to be in paper archives.”

“Probably, but three bodies, two
African-American
, discovered in a small Mississippi town is a big enough story to get some looking through morgues in exchange for information. And even if we can't do more than the authorities, we can at least make sure the bones don't become as forgotten as their grave has been until now,” Nell added.

“I'll keep looking in our own morgue,” Jacko said. He stood up as if he were about to head downstairs.

“You can do that tomorrow,” Nell told him. “We've already done a good day's work.”

“Too big a story,” he said, shaking his head. “I can look at what we have tonight, and tomorrow during business hours I'll contact other sources.”

“Okay,” Nell agreed. He clearly wanted to get started. “I'll take the sheriff's press conference. I don't think we'll learn anything, but someone needs to be there.”

“Oh, right. You can do the archives and I'll do that,” Jacko gallantly offered. They both knew the statement from the sheriff would involve at least half an hour of waiting. When he finally appeared, Sheriff Hickson would read a half page of paper in a monotone and answer any questions with “the investigation is ongoing.”

“No, get thee to the basement,” Nell told him.

Jacko grinned his gratitude and trotted down the stairs. He had an affinity for digging in old files, and if things were slow, he would be down there, looking over papers decades old.

“You want me to try the grandmaw network?” Pam asked.

“The grandmaw network?” Nell queried.

“My grandmother calls her friends and asks them if they remember if anyone disappeared about
fifty-plus
years ago,” Pam explained. She added softly, “Might be the black community would remember that.”

“That's a good idea,” Nell said. “When the newspaper hits tomorrow, that'll get some talk going.” She started to go back to her office, then turned to Pam and faltered, unsure of how to say what she wanted to say. “Let them know … I will do what I can to make sure what happened won't be forgotten. As best this paper can, we'll write the story of those years.”

Pam nodded but said nothing. Nell again turned to her office, wondering if she'd just made a liberal idiot of herself or if she'd conveyed anything close to what she wanted to.

After checking her phone messages, calling a few back, and in turn leaving messages, Nell glanced at her watch. Time to head off to the sheriff's press statement. She'd noted that Carrie still wasn't back. She threw on her jacket; the days were still warm, but the high humidity made the slight cooling of the evening chill enough to require an extra layer.

As she passed Pam's desk, Nell asked, “Can you think of any subtle way to call and see if the Harbor Commission is still meeting?”

“Not a problem. Angelita, one of my best buds from school, works there.”

“Thanks, I'd appreciate that. When Carrie does get back, tell her I want her to have a
write-up
of what she was working on this morning, as well as the
write-up
from the Harbor meeting on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

Pam nodded, then said, “Gran is burning up the phone lines. She didn't know anything, since we moved here in '72, but she'll be on the phone all night if I know her.”

“Good. The more sources, the better,” Nell told her as she headed out the door.

Getting in her car, Nell told herself this wouldn't be a waste of time. Even though she knew what the content would be, the subtext would be illuminating. One thing she might find out was whether or not the sheriff had a real interest in seeing justice done. He couldn't ignore three bodies found in the woods, especially when the editor of the paper already knew, but he could go a long way to making sure they were reburied with little notice.

The courthouse parking lot was mostly empty; it was late in the day, the tickets had been paid, the criminals were in jail, and the judges and lawyers were either home or at a local bar. As she suspected, the sheriff's press conference wasn't going to be well covered. That in itself wasn't a good sign. Three murders should have had every local TV station in attendance; they needed the visuals, even if the sheriff himself wasn't very visual.

As she walked around the courthouse to the building that housed the sheriff's department, a TV van pulled up. Nell was almost disappointed—she had been girding herself for a lone battle and now she was relegated to being a mere print journalist. She hurried up the stairs into the building. She could at least get a better seat than the TV crews.

That turned out to not be a problem, as the seats were plentiful and unfilled. Nell took one in the front row, claiming the seats beside her with her camera and notebook. A glance at her watch told her the press conference was still ten minutes away, if it started on time. She used the stretch to hastily scribble down possible questions, including the ones she knew she couldn't ask. How did these three people disappear so completely without someone in power knowing? How did the white establishment here handle the unrest of the civil rights movement and the violence it sparked? She looked at that question and realized it was one she would have to ask about the
Pelican Bay Crier
. Jacko was going to have some more things to research in the morgue.

The TV crew arrived, trailing their equipment. They took the entire front row on the other side of the aisle. Nell noticed it was only a camera crew, not a reporter. They were just going to get some footage to use—or not use—later.

Either he wanted to get home or one lone reporter and a single camera crew wasn't enough sport to keep waiting, but the sheriff appeared at the appointed time. As he hadn't changed into a bright, shiny uniform, he seemed to know this wouldn't get major coverage.

Without even looking at the camera or Nell, he propped his written statement on the podium and started reading. “The skeletonized remains of three persons were discovered in a remote area of Iberville State Park. Cause of death yet to be determined. Identity of the deceased has yet to be determined. Information concerning these persons should be given to the Sheriff's Department.” He folded up the paper, paused, then added, “Any questions, I'll take them now, but the investigation is ongoing and there's not much I can say.”

The TV camera crew clearly had no intention of asking questions. They'd already snapped off their bright light, leaving only the lesser lights of a government office. The room seemed smaller, diminished without the high wattage of TV.

“I have a few questions, Sheriff,” Nell said.

“Miz McGraw. Good to see you out and about,” he replied.

There wasn't enough warmth in his voice for Nell to believe he really was glad to see that the widow McGraw was getting on with her life. Even when she was present, the sheriff had always dealt with Thom, as if only a man should be running a newspaper. She wondered if he was employing the usual civilities or if he was subtly reminding her she was a lone woman out in the world.

Thom would have thought of something polite to say back, but Nell couldn't, so she went to her questions with only a slight nod of acknowledgement. “I've had several sources indicate there's evidence these people were murdered. Are you investigating this as a homicide?”

“Your sources are pretty quick. I haven't seen any official reports yet, so I can't comment. We're viewing this as a suspicious death and treating it accordingly.”

“Is your investigation looking into the fact the property was owned by the father of the mayor at the time of the murders?”

He didn't like that question; the downturn in his heavy jowls made that clear. Nell doubted he would answer it, but, given the story was already rolling off the printing press, she wanted to ask it.

He finally replied, “As I said, we're in the early stages. So far there's no connection we know of between who owned the land and how the bodies got there.”

“Are you ruling out investigating that avenue?” Nell persisted.

“We haven't ruled in or out anything.”

“My sources have also indicated that two of the victims were
African-American
and one was white, and—”

He cut in. “Wish your sources would report back to me, so I could know this stuff.”

Nell didn't suggest to him that reading the reports on his desk in a timely manner might be the crux of the problem. Instead she asked, “Is it possible that these deaths were linked to the civil rights struggles?”

Sheriff Hickson gave her a hard look, then rubbed his jaw in his hand as if trying to make the heavy jowls behave. “Look, Nell—Miz McGraw—it's late in the day. I don't have the answers to any of your questions. We can stay here and you can ask them, but nothing is going to make me have answers until I have the answers, okay? This here,” he said, waving the bare
half-sheet
of print, “is all I got.”

“When do you anticipate having more?”

“When we get it,” he answered unhelpfully. “You got my phone number. You can call it as often as you like.” That seemed to be his declaration that this was over.

Nell decided to throw down the gauntlet. “Sheriff, three young people were killed, almost certainly murdered, and left in a hidden grave. I will be calling you and I will be following up on this story for as long as it takes to find out who they were and if there's a way for them to finally go home. And for justice to finally be meted out.”

He seemed to think for a moment, then said, “We're on the same side here. I'd be sad to put those bones back into some poor grave with no name on it. I just can't pull answers out like they do on TV.”

“I understand reality, Sheriff. But it's hard not to wonder if these hidden bodies aren't tied to the violence of the civil rights era. And there may be a lot of people who'd prefer that history remain buried.”

“You sayin' I might be one of them?” he challenged.

Now it was her turn to be coolly professional. “Not at all, Sheriff, but it's something the Crier will be looking into.”

“Well, you won't find anything. It's not just the white folks of Tchula County that voted to
re-elect
me.”

“I'm not on a witch hunt, Sheriff, but it's hard to see how three people could have disappeared with so little evidence in the official record. Three bodies dumped in the woods, and so far we haven't found a single missing persons report that's even remotely likely to be relevant.” Nell let the heat seep into her voice; her anger at their lonely grave.

“Oh, hell, I'd hate that to be. Don't you write this down,” he quickly added.

“What if it's the truth? Can you be sure some former sheriff wasn't in on this?”

“No, damn it, I can't. But it'll open all sorts of wounds. We spent all those years getting over that stuff and then all the national press will be back down here and we'll be just another stupid, bigoted Mississippi town.”

“Better to let the murders go unpunished than have that happen,” Nell said acerbically.

“I'm not sayin' that. Just … just, if it's gotta be, then that's that. But I'd prefer some regular old murder, one that don't reopen all that stuff.”

“But we don't get a choice, do we?”

“No, ma'am, we don't. You can call my office every day. You find out something, you let me know. You think I'm not doing what I'm supposed to, you call me first before you put it on the front of the paper. Least let me get my side in.”

“Fair enough, Sheriff,” Nell said.

“And give some of the good stories a little play, too.”

“Like the
long-lost
cousin who is donating a squad car?” Nell replied.

“Exactly. The good stuff about the South, like that. How family matters, that blood connection makes you do the right thing.”