Between the Lies Read online

“You sell much this week?” Hick asked.

  Willie puffed up. “I sold dozens of jars this week. We’s in the sweet spot of our run and all the county knows it.”

  Hick and Royal exchanged glances. It was clear they would not be able to figure out who bought the moonshine from Willie Taylor.

  A large pop followed by cascading logs distracted Willie from the two lawmen. He went to the fire and quickly kicked the wood back into place and built the fire back to his liking. Turning again to Hick and Royal he said, “Iffen you ain’t got no more questions, I got work here.”

  Royal held out his hand. “Thanks for talking to us, Willie. Be careful out here and steer clear of the revenuers.”

  Willie laughed. “Ain’t worried. My boys there know how to deal with revenuers. You may stumble over the resting place of one or two on your way out.”

  In spite of his laughter and friendliness, Hick did not doubt Willie’s word. He was sure Dewey and Dink had used that pistol before.

  The four men turned back toward the marshy woods. The full moon was waning, but there was plenty of light to see now that it was above the treetops.

  “Ya’ll think you can find yer way out?” Dewey asked.

  “I reckon so.” Royal shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for taking us, Dewey. Dink.” The two men melted into the darkness as Hick and Royal made their way back through the fallen timber and thick underbrush.

  Hick was grateful to see the car still parked beside the dense woods. Brushing burrs from his pant cuffs, he lit a cigarette and surveyed the lonely place.

  “Sorry we didn’t find nothing out,” Royal said as he scraped the mud from his shoe across the gravel.

  Hick fanned a mosquito away. “We may not know who bought it, but we definitely know who didn’t. It’s a start.” He paused. “What was Willie talking about back there? He said his son didn’t do something.”

  “It was back when I was a boy,” Royal said.

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody broke into the general store and robbed it. They hit ol’ man Johnson over the head with a bottle. He ain’t been the same ever since.” Royal leaned back against his car and stared up at the starry sky. “They arrested Hap Taylor and sent him to the prison farm. I reckon it’s been nigh on ten years he’s been there.”

  “And Willie thinks he’s innocent?”

  “To be truthful, most folks think he’s innocent.”

  Hick stepped in front of the deputy and looked him in the eye. “Who did it?”

  Royal shrugged. “Honest to God, I don’t know. There was talk it was one of my cousins, but nobody ever proved nothing.”

  “This seems to be a goddamned habit with ya’ll over here in Broken Creek,” Hick said. “Locking up the easiest pickin’s you can find without any regard for truth.”

  “I don’t like it neither. I’m hoping to take over after Uncle Earl retires.”

  Hick’s heart pounded, and he took a long drag to calm himself. “How many other men been put away for crimes they didn’t commit?” Royal looked down at his shoes and said nothing. Hick snorted in disgust. “It’s time to put a stop to this.”

  “Tell me what to do,” Royal said. “I can’t stop it on my own. I only been deputy for a few weeks.”

  Hick closed his eyes to think. “Did you see where that vagrant was killed? Did you go to the crime scene?”

  “No. Uncle Earl don’t take me places like that. He took my Uncle Don. That’s his brother.”

  “The coroner?”

  Royal nodded.

  “Jesus,” Hick swore under his breath. “You see the police report or any of the evidence?”

  Royal shook his head.

  Hick ran his hand across his chin. “Brewster at the station tonight?”

  “He likes to sleep at home. I stay at the station most nights.”

  “Good,” Hick said. “We’re going back out to the crime scene, and then we’re gonna take a look at that report.”

  6

  Saturday, July 17, 1954

  County Road 14 was a narrow line of gravel lined by ditches and enormous cotton fields that stretched to the distant tree line, beyond which lay still more cotton fields. The exact spot where the accident occurred was still obvious as the skid marks had stripped away the dark gravel to reveal the light-colored sand beneath. And where the gravel gave way to grass and weeds on the side of the road, a dark track bore witness to where the tires had torn into the dirt as the truck struggled to a stop. Hick shone his flashlight across the accident scene and stopped at the dark stain where the vagrant had bled out his last moments.

  Royal stared down at the blood-stained road, and in an awed whisper said, “I didn’t realize the accident occurred here. What are we looking for?”

  Hick used his flashlight beam to trace the skid marks from the road into the grass. “I don’t know. Anything lying on the road, anything that seems out of the ordinary.”

  Royal squatted to get a closer look at the skid marks.

  “Looks like the driver was headed that way,” Hick pointed with the light.

  “That’s toward Sutton’s place.” Royal straightened up and stepped back into the grass as a car drove past without slowing, its driver oblivious to the men standing at the side of the road, or to the dark spot where a man had died just days earlier. “This here is close to where Pack Barnes stays,” he added, shining his own flashlight into a clump of scrawny trees yards away from the road.

  “Pack?”

  “Pack Barnes has been in Broken Creek as long as I can remember,” Royal said. “I don’t recollect his real name. He’s lived in his Packard for so long that that’s just what folks took to calling him.”

  “Lead the way. Let’s find out if he saw or heard anything.”

  Hick followed Royal as they picked through the brush and toward the stand of trees. Soon they came to a clearing where a darkened car sat by a cold, blackened fire pit. They shined their flashlights through the car windows, but the car was empty. Hick knelt by a pot of pork and beans sitting on the ground next to the fire pit. The beans were dried and crusty, but a spoon was still in the pot, as if someone had been interrupted in his dinner.

  “Well, where is he?” Hick asked.

  “Hell if I know. He usually don’t go far.”

  They opened the car door and peered inside. There was an extra pair of shoes, some under clothes, checkered shirts, several pairs of socks, and some denim trousers all folded neatly on the front seat. A pillow and blanket lay across the back seat and in the back window sat a plastic comb, shaving cup, and razor.

  “This car run?” Hick asked.

  “Not to my knowledge. I don’t think its run in years.”

  “It’s strange,” Hick said, looking around him, “it looks like Pack hasn’t been here for several days but wherever he went, he didn’t take his things with him.” He paused. “You see him since the accident?”

  Royal’s eyes widened. “Now that you mention it, I ain’t.”

  Hick shown the flashlight up toward the road. “You think the fella killed could be this Pack?”

  Royal drew in a sharp breath. “I sure hope not.”

  “You haven’t seen him, but you haven’t heard he left town for any reason?”

  “I ain’t heard nothing about Pack leaving town and that would have been big news. He’s a regular fixture in these parts.”

  Hick shone his light around the darkened campsite and up the ditch toward the road from where the sound of another passing car could be clearly heard. “Pack do any drinking?”

  “His drinking is why he’s living in a Packard.”

  “Seems funny him up and leaving without a word …”

  Royal nodded and peered into the surrounding darkness as if Pack might turn up somewhere unexpectedly.

  “How’s he usually get his moonshine?” Hick asked.

  “He walks,” Royal answered. “There’s a juke joint down the road a piece where Willie sells it. It ain’t far. That’s why
Pack settled in this spot.”

  “How far is Sutton’s field?”

  Royal pointed. “No more than a mile that way.”

  “And where do they sell the hooch?” Hick asked.

  “Two or three miles in this direction,” Royal said, again pointing.

  “The opposite way?”

  Royal nodded.

  Up on the road, another car sped by. “It always this busy out here?”

  “It’s one of our busier roads.”

  “And you haven’t heard anything about Pack going on a trip?” Hick asked again.

  Royal pushed his hat back and scratched his head. “Not a word. Don’t know where he’d go anyway.”

  “Why would he leave in such a hurry, and without his belongings? His shaving kit’s still here. His bedroll.” Hick pointed at the pot of beans. “Hell, even his dinner’s still here. And why so secretive?” He panned his flashlight around the campsite for any clue. He gazed up toward the now-silent road. “Would it make sense for this Pack Barnes to walk a mile out of his way to borrow a truck?”

  Royal frowned. “Not to my way of thinking. He ain’t never done it before so I can’t think why he’d start now.”

  Hick’s light fell on a coal oil lamp tipped over in the dust. He bent down and studied it. “That’s strange.”

  Royal knelt beside him. “What?”

  “Look at this,” Hick said. “The wick’s not been turned down.” He sniffed the air. “I smell coal oil. The lamp wasn’t extinguished. It fell over and the oil leaked out.”

  Royal looked at Hick. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hick said. “But I don’t think Pack Barnes left his campsite for a casual trip.” He rose and glanced around him. “He took no clothes and didn’t extinguish his light. It was knocked over. Was it knocked over in his rush to leave, did an animal do it, or was there a struggle?”

  Hick studied the dirt, but finally shrugged. “There’s no way to tell. But it all seems a little off.”

  “Pack ain’t ever been one to do things the way other folks do them,” Royal said. “Maybe he just up and walked away.”

  “Maybe.” Hick considered. “Still, something’s not right about him disappearing so soon after that man was killed. If he wasn’t the victim, where is he?” He pointed the flashlight into the clump of trees and looked for footprints. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he turned to Royal. “Ask around and see if anyone knows anything. Maybe he’s sick and someone’s taking care of him. Check with the doctors.”

  Royal nodded and they continued their search of the campsite and then returned to the road and looked around for a few more minutes. “I reckon Uncle Earl picked up just about everything that was out here,” Royal finally said.

  “I reckon you’re right.” Hick flicked off his flashlight. “Let’s get to the station and take a look at the case file.”

  The door to the Broken Creek police station squeaked on its hinges when Royal Adkins opened it.

  “Who’s there?” a sleepy voice called from the back.

  “It’s just me, Thad,” Royal answered him, flipping on his desk lamp. “Go on back to sleep.”

  Hick squinted through the darkness and saw Thad’s shadowy figure standing uncertainly at the cell door. The boy hesitated and then returned to a small cot beneath a window.

  Royal pulled open a drawer from a long row of filing cabinets and handed Hick a folder. They sat at Royal’s desk and Hick opened the file. The crime scene photos were gruesome and Hick struggled briefly with nausea and dizziness. He was slowly learning to deal with emotions that rose up with unexpected force—feelings so strong and vivid that often he forgot where he was. Habitually, his trembling hand reached into his shirt pocket and grabbed a cigarette. He lit a Lucky Strike and breathed in deeply, exhaling a ragged breath that he hoped Royal didn’t notice.

  Hick’s eyes fixated on the deep, bloody neck wound, so severe the man had been nearly decapitated, fat showing through the long gash. The victim was Caucasian and thin, but his face was so swollen and disfigured that it was hard to place his age. He turned the photo toward Royal. “Could this be Pack?”

  Royal shrugged. “That could be anyone.”

  Unable to look at the photo any longer, Hick picked up the police report and began to read.

  At 0400 hours on 14 July 1954 received phone call from Mr. Grover Sutton at my residence regarding the theft of a work truck from his cotton field. Stated keys left in vehicle. Stated on previous day, Thaddeus Burton, Negro, had expressed curiosity in regards to truck.

  Located truck in ditch on County Highway 14. Several yards away lay an unidentified male victim. Judging from injuries to victim and damage sustained to truck, victim was struck by vehicle. Perpetrator subsequently fled on foot. Coroner, Mr. Donald Brewster, declared victim dead at scene. Truck impounded at station for evidence.

  —Sheriff Earl Brewster

  Behind the report was the Arrest Record which said only: “Subject Thaddeus Burton found at Lincoln School (colored) and brought in for safekeeping to await Judge.”

  “The only facts in this whole file are that Sutton’s truck was stolen and that an unidentified man was killed,” Hick said, his voice tight. “Everything else is nothing more than wild speculation. There is no way a jury could convict on such flimsy evidence.” Hick looked at the police report again. “Do you know this Sutton well?”

  “Oh, sure,” Royal answered. “Everybody knows Deacon Grover.”

  “Any reason why he’d implicate Thad? He have something against the boy or his family?”

  Royal shook his head. “It ain’t like Grover to tell tales. He’s as honest as a preacher. I don’t reckon he’d point fingers unless he was pretty sure.”

  “Why would he call Brewster at home and not phone you here at the station?”

  Royal blushed. “Ain’t many in town that have much faith in me. I reckon he figured he might as well go straight to the sheriff.”

  “Sutton and Brewster friends? Is there any reason to believe that Sutton would implicate Thad at Brewster’s bidding?”

  Royal shook his head. “Uncle Earl and Deacon Grover don’t get along. Uncle Earl calls Sutton a sanctimonious piece of horse shit.”

  “Well, your Uncle Earl sure has a way with words.” Hick took another long drag of his cigarette and then picked through the crime scene photos again, studying them closely. “Where are the victim’s belongings?”

  “Back in evidence. You want to take a look?”

  “Yeah. Let’s see what Brewster’s got.”

  Located at the back of the station, the belongings were in a windowless room used for both storage and evidence. Royal went to a shelf and carried a box to a small table. Removing the top, he tipped the box toward Hick to show the few items inside.

  “You dust any of these for prints to try and identify the man?”

  Royal shrugged. “Uncle Earl just tossed ’em back here.”

  Considering the fact that Brewster had already manhandled the items, Hick realized good prints would be hard to come by so he dumped the items out and sorted through them. A beat-up leather satchel contained a few items of worn clothing and an extra pair of shoes, but no wallet. He flipped open a small leather notebook hoping to find identification. There was some scribbling in black ball point ink, but nothing of interest. A photograph of a young man and woman with two small children was paper clipped to its cover. “Did Brewster see this?”

  “Doubtful. He didn’t seem concerned with any of it.”

  Hick studied the picture and recalled the crime scene photo. “The poor bastard. I can’t even tell if this is the guy that got killed or not. If it is, he may have family looking for him.”

  A thoughtful look appeared on Royal’s face. “Seems logical now that you mention it.”

  Hick studied the rest of the items. There was a hat, crushed pocket watch, harmonica, pocketknife, a couple of handkerchiefs, a compass for drawing circles with a well-used penc
il in its clamp, and a Gideon’s Bible. Nothing indicated where the man may have come from or what he did for a living.

  “Any of this look like it could be Pack’s?”

  Royal squinted. “I don’t think so. Pack’s clothes were still in his car and he don’t know how to read or write.”

  “This photo anyone you know?”

  Royal shook his head.

  “Where’s the poor guy buried?”

  “Brewster had him buried in the cemetery right outside of town by the train tracks. He rushed it pretty good. Didn’t even embalm him.”

  Hick pulled the photo from beneath the paper clip. “I’m sending this in to the state police. They can check it against missing persons reports.”

  The personal effects lay spread on the table, random items that meant nothing alone, but together told the story of an unfortunate soul.

  “Wait … what’s this?” Hick said as he noticed something snagged in the folds of a handkerchief. He shook the handkerchief and a metallic object clattered onto the table.

  Royal gasped and picked it up. “I’ve seen this before.”

  Hick took the item from Royal’s hand. “It’s a Citation Star.” He squinted “Where’ve you seen it?”

  “I think it belonged to Pack.”

  Reaching back into his pocket and pulling out the photo, Hick, again, looked at the family. In the background was a sign that read Memphis, Tenn., Mid-South Fair, September 30, 1951. Hick shook his head. “It sure as hell didn’t belong to this guy. It’s got some age to it—the newer ones are bigger. This looks like it’s from World War One and this guy’s not near old enough.” He turned to Royal. “And you’ve seen Pack Barnes with a medal like this one?”

  “Pack was mighty proud of it. He kept it with him all the time.”

  “That means Pack was near the scene of the crime. This could have just been lying around since he lives nearby.” Hick turned the medal over in his hand. “We know the picture and the belongings aren’t his. It’s unlikely your Pack is the victim, but he could still be the perpetrator. At the very least, there’s a chance he’s a witness.” He looked up at Royal. “We need to find him.”

  They shut out the light and closed the door to the storage room and Hick returned to the crime report to look, once more, at the crime scene photos. “Poor bastard.” He closed the folder and handed it to Royal. “Don’t say anything to anyone about us looking in here or this picture or why you’re looking for Pack Barnes. Just say you noticed his car was empty and you’re worried about him. I gotta get home. Besides finding Pack, talk to Sutton and figure out why he pointed the finger at Thad.”