Where Southern Cross the Dog (8 page)

“
Having to
? Are you sure that's what he said?”

“That's what I heard. Sounds a little crazy to me. But get down there and see what you can find out. We'll need to run a story by tomorrow at the latest. You can drop everything else you're working on. I'll get Buddy to finish up your other stories.”

Lewis hurriedly gathered his notebook, pencils, and a couple of files and stuffed them into his briefcase. He slipped on his jacket, slung his camera over his shoulder, and then set out by foot for the county jail. He assumed Luke would still be there.

The inmates were just starting to stir when Lewis slipped into the jail. He walked to the guard's window and recognized one of the jailers by sight, but not by name.

“Mornin',” Lewis said casually. “I'm Lewis Murphree from the paper.”

“Good morning, Mr. Murphree,” the guard said. “Isn't it a little early to be visiting the jail?”

“Maybe,” Lewis said, the man's name nowhere near his tongue. “Anybody brought in late last night?”

“Let me check the log.” The guard took out a large book and scanned it, searching for any new names. “Here's a new one. Came in 'bout midnight.”

“What's the name?”

“Ah, let's see,” said the guard. “Luke. Luke Williams.”

Lewis steadied himself to ask the next question smoothly. “Can I see him?”

The guard looked back in his book. “The note says no visitors. Sheriff Collins hasn't had a chance to talk to him yet. No, can't let you see him.”

“Oh, I don't want to talk to him. I just want to look at him.”

“Look at him.” The guard was puzzled. “What for?”

“Do you know why he's here? What he's in for?”

The guard looked at the logbook again. “No, it don't say.”

Lewis decided to play his trump card. “They think he might have killed a bunch of people. You know, the ones in the paper.”

Suddenly the guard was interested. “All by hisself? That's a whole lot of killin' for one man.”

“Sure is. I want to see the face of a man who killed that many people. That's a lot of hate.”

“Well, let me call the sheriff's office and see if we can go peek at him.”

“No, no, no,” Lewis said hastily. “Let's don't bother the sheriff with this. Let's just go down and see him. You and me.”

“I don't know if I can do that. Who's gonna watch the door?”

“We'll only be gone a minute.” Lewis could feel the guard's ambivalence. Duty was battling with curiosity. “If someone shows up, we'll tell 'em you went to the toilet. Come on, let's go.”

The guard put the book away, walked out of the admitting office, and locked the door behind him. “We've gotta hurry. I'll get in trouble if I'm gone too long.”

They walked quickly through a set of double doors, the guard leading the way, then down a set of stairs and into a hallway. The jail was old and dingy, and even so early in the morning it was hot. The thick, dank air, mixed with stale smoke from an endless supply of cigarettes, choked Lewis; he could scarcely breathe in the airless hall. It took him a couple of minutes to get acclimated to the smell.

They walked down the hall, and Lewis looked out of the corner of his eye into several cells. Most men were still asleep, but a few stood in the dim light staring at the guard and Lewis. They didn't make a sound, but Lewis felt their stares.

“He's around the corner,” the guard said.

Lewis peeked around the corner, and saw a cell occupied by a motionless man. Luke Williams was awake, sitting on the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest. His eyes were open; he stared straight
ahead, cigarette smoke hanging heavy around his head. Luke was pale, like he had never worked a field. He also looked like he hadn't slept—perhaps hadn't even moved from this position—for days.

Lewis stared for a few seconds and tucked his head back around the corner. He looked around the corner a second time. If Luke heard Lewis, he made no sign. “Let's go,” Lewis said to the guard.

As they retraced their steps, a voice rose in the half-light of the jail. The raspy chant echoed down the hall, seeming to come from the walls themselves.

Been down this old road before,

Been down this old road before,

Don't want to go there anymore.

Look up and I can see the sky,

Look up and I can see the sky,

Look up 'cause I'm sure I'm gonna die.

Oh Lord, there's things I gotta tell,

Oh Lord, there's things I gotta tell,

Those things they'll send me straight to hell.

When they reached the front door, Lewis thanked the guard for his kind assistance and headed over to the courthouse, which was just beginning to come to life. The hallways were filling up, and people were lingering outside their offices, chatting over their morning coffee.

Lewis spied Sam Tackett outside his office.

“The reason we called you down, Lewis,” Tackett started, “was to make sure that what went on this morning gets reported accurately. We don't want to read anything in the newspaper that is conjecture or speculation. We want the facts stated clearly and precisely. We have a lot of people in the county to think about, Lewis. And making sure they clearly understand what has transpired is important.”

“You know I always try to report objectively and to research stories thoroughly.”

Tackett grinned as he looked Lewis in the eye. “Now, you know,” he continued, “that we're holding Luke Williams in the county jail.”

“Yeah, I heard that.”

“He came in late last night and gave a short statement to the deputy on night shift. The deputy wasn't sure whether he was confessing or just telling what he knew about the murders. But he's willing to give a full statement today and to be questioned about the events and circumstances. This is our first break, and we need to be careful how we ask the questions and what he admits to. We don't want him to walk, because he's the only thing we have except a bunch of dead bodies.”

“I'll do the best I can.”

“I hope so, for your sake, Lewis, because we can always do this without you.”

The interrogation room was hot and lit by a string of lights suspended over a square table that was surrounded haphazardly by several rickety chairs. Four other chairs were pushed against a wall near the door.

Collins was seated at the table by the time Bill Montgomery arrived. The deputy from the night before took a seat near the door, and Dan Mulevsky and Bob Thompson from the FBI, who had rushed up when they heard the news, were also in attendance. The Feds couldn't be accused of meddling if a suspect was already in custody. Lewis sat in the back by the deputy.

They chatted amiably until Luke was escorted into the interrogation room. He was handcuffed, and a deputy led him to a seat in front of the sheriff.

“Take the cuffs off,” Collins said, thinking that if they got him relaxed maybe Luke would talk all day.

The deputy removed the handcuffs, placed them on the table, and stood against the wall directly behind Luke's chair.

Luke rubbed his wrists over and over again where the handcuffs had dug into his skin a little too hard.

“Luke, you know why you're here, don't you?” Collins asked.

“Yeah.”

“You're our only witness, Luke, and we want to get your full statement today. Do you think that'll be okay?”

“Yeah, that's fine.”

“There's no reason to be worried or concerned. We just want to find out what you know.”

“Got a smoke?” Luke asked.

Collins drew a cigarette from a pack on the table and handed it to Luke. Montgomery slid some matches across the table.

“Now, you still don't want an attorney, is that right?” Collins said. “You mentioned that last night, remember?”

Luke shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe later.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Ask me again in ten minutes.”

Collins didn't think this would take long. They knew most of the details because they had seen the bodies, been to the crime scenes. They needed a confession. Collins started with the basics. “State your name and address, Luke.”

“Luke Williams. I live outside of town, northwest, toward Stovall. No address to speak of.”

“And your occupation?”

“You know what I do. I'm a sharecropper. I'm what you city folks call a peckerwood. But don't call me that.”

“Married?”

“Yeah.”

“Kids?”

“Three.”

“Ever killed anyone?”

Everyone perked up.

Luke didn't respond.

Collins thought he'd catch him off guard.

Luke continued to puff.

Collins pushed his notepad across the table to Luke. “Read the top line for me, Luke.”

“I don't read.”

“Anyone in your family read?”

“No. The reverend reads. Maybe if I did read, I wouldn't be farmin'.” Luke pushed the notepad back to Collins.

“We want to hear,” Collins said, “in your own words, what you know about the murders. Just like you told the deputy last night. Why don't you start with the first one?”

“Ain't much to tell. I know this guy was walking along the side of the road. Maybe he was hitching a ride, maybe not. Somebody asked him if he needed a ride, and he said sure. So he hopped in, and they drove down the road aways. Stopped after a little while, then they got outta the truck. The hitchhiker waited by the truck while the other one was doing something or other.”

“Where'd the truck come from?” Montgomery asked.

“Borrowed,” Luke said. “From a neighbor, maybe.”

“Then what?” Collins continued.

“Then the driver walked up behind him and shot him in the head.”

“What'd he do with the body?” Collins asked.

“Dumped him where you found him, behind the gin out near Mills Road.”

Collins scribbled some notes while Luke took a drag from his
cigarette.

“What about the second one?” Collins said.

“Which one was that?”

“Stabbing.”

“Oh, yeah,” Luke said. “Another guy looking for a ride, I heard. The driver and him disagreed about something, and they fought pretty hard. The driver left the guy lying on the ground then grabbed a knife from his truck and went back and stabbed him.”

Collins looked over at Montgomery in disbelief. “Any witnesses? Someone who drove by maybe?”

“No.”

“How many times was the victim stabbed?” Collins asked.

Luke smiled. “Once, that's all it takes.”

Collins sat back and pulled out a cigarette for himself. He motioned at Luke for another, and Luke grabbed two.

“And number three?” Montgomery said. “Do you know anything about that murder?”

Everyone waited. Luke paused to recall what he had described the night before. His lips moved, but he didn't say a word as he used his fingers, which nimbly held the cigarette, to figure which two he had already discussed and which two he hadn't.

“We got a shooting and a stabbing, Luke,” Collins said. “Who was next?”

Luke looked coolly at Collins then finally said, “Drowning.”

“What happened?”

“I heard this guy was fishing and a black fella came up and started talking to him and carrying on. He was loud and wouldn't stop talkin'. Just kept yammerin' 'bout nothing. The sky, the weather. I guess the guy got fed up and shut him up for good.”

“Where'd he drown?” Collins asked.

“In the Sunflower.”

“Why?” Montgomery asked.

Luke waited a while, slowly inhaling and blowing smoke into the air.

“Why the Sunflower?” Luke repeated.

“Yeah,” Montgomery said.

“I guess 'cause the Mississippi was too far away,” Luke said. “You guys ask some funny questions.”

Collins glanced around the room. Everyone was waiting on him, but they had all heard what they needed to about the murders. He needed a confession, not a summary.

“And the last victim, Luke.”

“Somebody beat and burned him. Just that simple.”

“Do you know why he had dirt in his mouth?” Montgomery asked.

“To keep him quiet,” Luke said, his voice louder than before. “Man don't scream so loud with a mouth full of dirt.”

Collins got up and stretched, then paced around the room. Luke had spoken in the third person the entire time. He hadn't confessed to anything yet, just admitted knowing some of the facts. Was it enough to get the indictments? Maybe, if Tackett could convince the grand jury that only the murderer or an accomplice would know these details. But a confession would seal it. “Why do you think these men were killed?”

“Could be to get some respect,” Luke said. “Could be them Negroes thought they were better than other folks. Better than white folks, better than you and me. But that just ain't so. I'd say we're all the same, but that ain't true neither. They're dead. No way they can mouth off again. Gotta watch yourself in Clarksdale, especially if you ain't from here. No tellin' what can happen to a man that disrespects.”

“Did they disrespect you, Luke?” Collins said.

“Maybe. Can I get another cigarette?”

Collins passed him the whole pack. “What else do you know?”

Luke stared down the length of his cigarette. “I know that killing a man doesn't make anything any better. It doesn't take away the pain or make your life any easier. And I know that sometimes it's bad luck to be where you are. Like those poor bastards.”

“Did you think it would?”

“Would what?”

“Take away any pain.”

“I don't know,” Luke said, staring off in the distance, smoke swirling around near the light just over his head.