Between the Lies Read online

  Also by Cynthia A. Graham

  Beneath Still Waters

  Behind Every Door

  BETWEEN THE LIES

  BETWEEN THE LIES

  a Hick Blackburn Mystery

  by

  CYNTHIA A. GRAHAM

  Blank Slate Press

  an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group LLC

  Saint Louis, MO 63116

  Copyright © 2018 Cynthia A. Graham

  All rights reserved.

  A Hick Blackburn Book

  Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. While some of the characters and incidents portrayed here can be found in historical accounts, they have been altered and rearranged by the author to suit the strict purposes of storytelling. The book should be read solely as a work of fiction.

  For information, contact

  Blank Slate Press at 4168 Hartford Street, Saint Louis, MO 63116

  www.amphoraepublishing.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Cover Design by Kristina Blank Makansi

  Cover Art: Shutterstock / IStock

  ISBN: 9781943075447

  For Sandy Crane, the sister of my heart.

  Gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

  1

  Friday, July 16, 1954

  Waves of heat danced above the asphalt as Sheriff Hick Blackburn turned onto the highway and headed out of Cherokee Crossing. The call from Father Jefferson Davis Grant, pastor of the small Catholic Church in Broken Creek, had been a surprise, and Hick’s decision to pay the priest a visit hadn’t set well with Adam. As both Hick’s deputy and his brother-in-law, Adam Kinion was the older, and sometimes wiser, friend Hick relied on for advice. And in this case, Hick thought, Adam was probably right. Hick knew he probably couldn’t be much help with whatever problem Father Grant was facing in Broken Creek, a town located clear over in another county and run by a sheriff that didn’t look kindly on outside interference in local affairs. Adam had been against the visit, but it seemed wrong to ignore the man’s request for help. “Help with what?” Adam had asked. Hick had no idea, but figured he ought to at least find out.

  “I’m just going to talk to him and see what’s on his mind,” Hick said as he picked up his hat.

  Adam plopped his feet up on the desk and settled in for the night shift. “You’re wasting your time. Why would he call you, anyway?”

  “That’s what I’m gonna find out.”

  It had been four years since Hick and Father Grant had discussed the governor’s refusal to posthumously exonerate Abner Delaney, a man unjustly executed for the murder of a young woman in Cherokee Crossing, and since then they had neither seen nor spoken to each other. Why now? Hick wondered. By the time he pulled into the parking lot, the late-evening sun was sinking toward the horizon, painting the sky gold and pink on its way. Behind the church, struggling cotton plants spread out in neat rows giving the scene a timeless feel, as if Our Lady of Sorrows was stuck in the kind of painting that used to hang along the hallways of the Cherokee Crossing High School.

  It hadn’t rained in weeks and the lot was dusty and rutted. On the porch, wilting red geraniums stood in cracked, flaking flower pots. Hick climbed the crooked steps, hesitated and then pulled the door open and stepped inside. The office was just as he remembered—the same pictures on the wall, the same shabby neatness. But the desk of Miss Esther Burton was empty and Father Grant’s office door was open. Hick removed his hat and started toward the office when the priest appeared in the doorway. Four years had done little to change the man, other than sprinkle more gray in his beard. He was still an imposing presence, tall, with dark, intense eyes.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d really come,” the priest said, extending his hand.

  Hick shrugged. “Like I said on the phone, I doubt there’s much I can do.”

  Without another word, Father Grant disappeared into the office, leaving Hick to follow. At the threshold, Hick paused. The young secretary, Esther Burton, was in a chair, weeping quietly into a handkerchief. The office was not as chaotic as Hick remembered, though no one would call it neat. The What Is Man That Thou Art Mindful Of Him? sampler had been replaced with one that read, For he that loveth not his brother, whom he seeth, how can he love God, whom he seeth not? The amber colored decanters were no longer on the credenza, but the radio still played softly in the corner. On the desk lay a newspaper.

  “Sit. Please.” Grant waved at a chair. “You remember my secretary, Esther?”

  Nodding, Hick sat and glanced at Esther who studied him as she dabbed her eyes. “What’s this all about?”

  The priest sat behind his desk and handed Hick a newspaper. “Negro Runs Down Vagrant,” the headline read. Hick looked from Esther to Grant then put the newspaper back on the desk.

  Grant tapped the paper. “Something’s not right about this.”

  “Go on,” Hick said.

  “The young man accused is Thaddeus Burton.” Grant cocked his head toward the young woman. “Esther’s little brother.”

  “And?”

  “We don’t think he did it.” Grant paused and then added, “In fact, we know he didn’t do it.”

  Hick had seen this kind of denial before. It was the same when Claire Thompson had been arrested six years ago for the murder of an infant. It was the same when Elizabeth Shelley had been arrested. It was always hard for folks to understand that the heart of a killer could lurk beneath the kindest face.

  Grant must have read the skepticism in Hick’s eyes because he added, “He’s only twelve years old.”

  Twelve. The same age as Hick’s nephew, Henry. Hick picked up the paper and scanned the report. It stated that the accused, Thaddeus Burton, had stolen a truck and that, unable to see over the steering wheel, had negligently hit an unidentified vagrant and subsequently panicked, fleeing the scene. “Tell me why you think this is wrong.”

  “Sheriff, these kids get little to eat and hardly no meat.” Grant kneaded his temple and then ran his hand through his hair. “He’s small for his age. I don’t think he’s strong or tall enough to even push in the clutch.”

  Hick shrugged. “The story corroborates what you’re saying about the young man’s size.”

  Grant leaned toward Hick, a bitter smirk on his lips. “Thaddeus Burton wouldn’t know how to start a truck or even put it in gear. I’m telling you something’s wrong with this whole thing. They’re saying he went to school on July 13, like every other Tuesday, and that in the night he slipped out of his house, got into this truck, somehow figured out how to drive the thing, and ran over a man miles away. Then, he was so ‘panicked’ he simply went home, climbed into bed, and fell into a deep sleep.”

  The summer session of school was a cotton belt peculiarity, a way to enable the kids, both black and white, to be out of school during cotton picking in October. Hick never worked the cotton fields, but he remembered how much he hated attending school in the heat of the summer when he could’ve been fishing.

  Esther interrupted his memories of stifling school rooms. She stood and looked down at Hick. “Sheriff, our colored school is fourteen miles away. Thad has to be out the door by six o’clock of a morning.” Her eyes held his. “That boy was sound asleep when I went to wake him up. He was clean, he hadn’t been walking on no dirt roads or through no fields. He didn’t have as much as one burr on his pants.” Her lips trembled. “He was in his bed all night. I know it. Thad is a good boy. There ain’t no way he’d a snuck out at night. He chattered away over his breakfast like every other day and then climbed on that bus without a care in the world.”

  Hick looked again at th
e newspaper. The unidentified man was killed on the outskirts of town sometime in the early hours of the morning on Wednesday. Even with an almost full moon it seemed highly unlikely that, in the state described, the young boy could walk all the way home, fall sound asleep, and behave completely normal the next day.

  “Where’s the truck now?” Hick asked.

  Grant glanced at Esther, then looked back at Hick. “It’s impounded at the station.”

  “And where’s Thaddeus?”

  “Also at the station.”

  Hick turned to Esther. “Has your brother been charged?”

  “No,” Esther said, her voice tight with anger—and fear.

  “Brewster told the family that Thad has been brought in for ‘safekeeping’,” Grant said.

  Hick frowned at the mention of Sheriff Earl Brewster, a man he regarded with contempt and one he’d prefer to avoid. The two men had a strained professional relationship since Brewster dismantled one of the first cases of Hick’s career. The older man had taken great pleasure in pointing out the defects of a case against Mule and Hoyt Smith, two men with whom Brewster had a family connection

  “The boy hasn’t been charged, hasn’t had a hearing,” Grant continued, sarcasm lacing each word. “The judge and the prosecutor are both out of town on a fishing trip and won’t be back until next Wednesday, so for a week he’s expected to sit in that jail and wait.”

  Hick shook his head. “What about a lawyer?”

  “I suppose he’ll have an attorney appointed if it goes to trial.”

  Hick looked up. “What do you mean, ‘if’?”

  “Sheriff Brewster told my daddy that the best thing for Thad to do is to plead guilty,” Esther said.

  Hick’s brows knitted together. “Why would he plead guilty if he’s innocent?”

  Grant leaned forward in his chair. “Sheriff Brewster has been riding the family hard to get a confession.”

  Hick picked up the newspaper and scanned the story one more time. “Why would Brewster think Thaddeus is involved in the first place? What would be the motive for taking the truck?”

  “Thad chops cotton for Grover Sutton after school and it was Sutton’s truck that ran over the man,” Esther said. “He was sitting on the running board after work on Tuesday, and Mr. Sutton had to shoo him away.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Truthfully, Thad knew the keys were kept in the truck, but so did everyone else. It was common knowledge.”

  “And somehow, that’s enough for Sutton to implicate Thad in the theft.” Grant grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “The only motive mentioned was a joy ride. As ludicrous as this whole thing is, that was all the proof our sheriff seemed to need to drag Thaddeus out of school first thing Wednesday morning in handcuffs.”

  In the paper, Hick had noted, the victim was struck by the vehicle and died instantly at the scene. “When was the truck reported missing?”

  “Sheriff told my daddy that Sutton woke before dawn and noticed it was gone. Sutton called him and Sheriff went looking for it. Says he found the truck outside of town, in the ditch.” She shuddered. “And that man’s body was just lying on the road.”

  “The poor guy was hit with a half-ton pickup.” Grant shook his head. “He didn’t have a chance.”

  “What did Brewster say happened next?”

  “He told the Burtons he’d called the coroner and they went over the scene,” Grant said. “Then they took the body to the undertaker, and drove the truck to the station.”

  “Well, the truck is contaminated then. They can’t use any prints from it as evidence.”

  “You’re wrong,” Esther shot back, her eyes flashing.

  “If the police or coroner contaminated—” Hick started to explain.

  “Sheriff Blackburn,” Esther interrupted, “the first thing Brewster did after dragging my brother out of school was to have him sit in that truck to see if he could drive it. I was there. I watched. I assure you there are plenty of Thad’s prints in that truck, and I won’t be a bit surprised if Brewster finds a way to use them.” She walked to the window and stared out. Hick could see her shoulders rise and fall as she sobbed quietly.

  “That boy couldn’t even push in the clutch,” Grant said in a low, quiet voice. “We suspect Brewster put Thad in that truck to make sure the boy’s prints were there.”

  Hick’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

  Father Grant rose and flipped off the radio. He turned to Hick and said, “I wish someone could explain to me how a boy could go home from work, get up in the middle of the night, go back to Sutton’s place, steal a truck he can’t drive, run over a man, abandon the truck, and have the presence of mind to walk home in the dark, go to bed, and simply get up the next morning, have breakfast, and go to school as if nothing ever happened.” He paused. “The truck was found way out on County Road 14. Clear on the other side of town.”

  Hick tossed the newspaper back onto the desk. “So, no witnesses and no physical evidence to tie Thad to the scene, except for highly questionable fingerprints. There’s the improbability of the timeline and questions about his physical ability to drive the truck. This all adds up, by definition, to reasonable doubt. The charge would be unlikely to stand in court. It simply doesn’t make sense. No judge on earth would send this to trial.”

  “That may or may not be true, but the fact of the matter is Brewster will get Thad to plead. I’ve seen it before. Sheriff Brewster has worked hard to convince the family it’s in Thad’s best interest to say he’s guilty. The fact that he’s a minor weighs heavily. He’ll only go to the juvenile farm until he’s eighteen. Brewster’s already told the family that if they fight the charges Thad could be charged with vehicular manslaughter as an adult, and Brewster can be very convincing. You know as well as I do how the system works for Negroes.”

  Hick exhaled, his arguments deflated in an instant. “Why would he accuse the boy if it’s so obvious he couldn’t have done this?”

  Father Grant returned to his chair. “Someone killed a man with that truck, but I guarantee Brewster doesn’t believe for a minute it was Thad Burton. Perhaps it’s as simple as the fact that Thad’s a convenient scapegoat. That would not be unusual here in Broken Creek.”

  “So you think Brewster doesn’t want to put in the effort?”

  Leaning forward, Father Grant held Hick’s gaze. “Unfortunately, I think it’s worse than that. I think Brewster might actually know who did this.”

  Hick stared. “You accusing Brewster of a cover-up?”

  Grant glanced at Esther who had turned her back on the window and was watching the two men. “Sheriff, I know, as do you, that Brewster is as corrupt as the day is long. I have watched him arrest colored folk time after time with little or no evidence, and I have seen judges sentence them for crimes they did not commit.” A muscle along Grant’s jaw clenched. “Brewster and I are not friends. He knows I know what he does, but he also knows there’s nothing I can do about it. He lords that over me every chance he gets. You recall that as a Catholic I’m an outsider in this town, and Brewster’s been clear from the day I arrived that I’m not welcome.”

  “Have you talked to the boy?”

  “I’ve been to the jailhouse several times, but they won’t let me near him.”

  Hick knew what the family was up against and that there was little he could do to help. Still, he couldn’t just walk away. He turned to Esther. “You know they don’t have to talk with me either and probably won’t. I can make a professional call and see that your brother is being treated well.” He glanced at Grant. “Will that ease your minds?”

  Esther’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying and the look she gave Hick told him his gesture was appreciated, but that it clearly wasn’t enough.

  “There’s a young deputy by the name of Royal Adkins who just hired on with Brewster,” Grant said, drawing Hick’s attention back from Esther. “He knows the Burton family well. Hopefully, Brewster hasn’t had enough t
ime to corrupt him. Maybe he’ll help us.”

  Hick looked at Father Grant in surprise. “Help us?”

  “I can’t do this alone. I need you.”

  2

  Friday, July 16, 1954

  Hick turned off the car, blew out a trail of cigarette smoke, and stared at the building across the street. The Broken Creek Sheriff’s office was a carbon copy of the office he occupied in Cherokee Crossing, but this place seemed dingier, like a penny that had lost its shine. The last rays of the setting sun glinted on the front windows and reflected back a harsh glow, almost as if the place was on fire within. Maybe it was. Maybe the whole world was on fire and always would be. He ran a hand down his face and scoffed at his philosophical frame of mind. Yet he knew that corrupt lawmen were dangerous and Sheriff Earl Brewster, who had operated largely at will for years, was more dangerous than most. It was tempting to put the car in gear and drive straight back to Cherokee Crossing. But then he thought of Henry. And Thaddeus Burton sitting inside. Alone. Only twelve years old.

  Sighing, Hick tossed the cigarette out the window and pulled his hat down over his eyes, ready for the battle ahead. He pulled the door open and relief flooded through him as he quickly noted that Sheriff Brewster was not in the office.

  The young deputy looked up and smiled. “Howdy. I’m Deputy Royal Adkins. What can I do for you?”

  “Just passing through,” Hick said pleasantly. “Thought I’d pay a call on Sheriff Brewster and see how he’s doing. He in?”

  “No, Sheriff,” the deputy answered after a quick glance at Hick’s badge. “He’s gone home for the day. You want me to try and call him back?”

  “No need for that. I expect I’ll catch up with him another time.” Hick was only twenty-eight and the deputy looked even younger. Adkins had dark, unruly hair, a long, straight nose, and a thin face. Hick looked around the office until his gaze fell on the cell in the back of the building. In it a small black boy stared despondently at his bare feet. His hair was cropped close to his head, most likely to keep him cool as he worked the fields, and he was wearing denim overalls and a white T-shirt from which emerged thin, but muscular arms. He didn’t look to be as tall as Henry and most considered Henry short for his age. The boy seemed to be physically cared for, but Hick could sense his fear clear across the room.