Gone to Ground (15 page)

Her dark eyes bounced between Tully and me. She licked her lips, and words tumbled out. "'Circumstances may accumulate so strongly even against an innocent man, that directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him.'"

Tully's face screwed up. "Huh?"

"Charles Dickens."

I blinked at her. More car engines started. The whole scene felt surreal.

Cherrie Mae's shoulders flexed back. "They got your brother, Deena. But they got the wrong man."

She said it so firmly. My chin rose. "How do you know?"

"I know."

"
How
?"

Cherrie Mae's gaze slid to Tully. "Baby,
you
know somethin too?"

Tully froze, then nodded once. This was not a woman she would go up against.

"Well." Cherrie Mae mushed her lips. "Ain't this a turnabout."

I raised both hands. "Will somebody please tell me what's goin on?"

Cherrie Mae waggled a finger. "Tully know somethin.
I
know somethin. She cain't possibly know what I know. So the way I sees it—the three a us got some talkin to do."

http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2010-Feature-Writing

2010 Pulitzer Prize

Feature Writing

The Jackson Bugle

Gone to Ground

What happens to a small, quiet Southern town when evil invades in the form of a serial killer?

By: Trent Williams

October 29, 2010

(Excerpt)

Martha Edgars, the Closet Killer's first victim in the spring of 2008, lived in Amaryllis all her 62 years. Born Martha May Baxley to a seamstress and a manager at Bradmeyer Plastics, Martha grew into a boisterous child, then a life-embracing adult. She married Tom Edgars at age eighteen and doted on him until the day he died.

"Martha never saw a stranger," her neighbor Lawrence Wilkins claims. "First day me and the wife moved next to her and Tom, she showed up on our porch with a chicken casserole. Nicest woman you'd ever want to meet. Do anything for you. We lived next door to her for over twenty years. I was a pall bearer at Tom's funeral." Lawrence hitches his shoulders, the right side of his mouth quirking. "One thing about Martha. Don't tell anybody, but she wasn't that good of a cook."

A year later, fifty-seven-year-old Sara Fulgerson was murdered. Sara had been a widow for eighteen years, her husband, Blake, meeting an early demise from a sudden heart attack. The Fulgersons had no children. Friends of Sara remember her spiraling into depression for the first year after Blake's death. She would be seen nearly every day that year kneeling at the Methodist Church's altar, begging God to help her survive. God seemed to hear her petitions. After twelve months, Sara picked herself up and looked around town for those in need. She found single mothers on the verge of poverty, struggling to care for their latchkey children. Sara volunteered to watch the kids after they came home from school. Three boys and two girls ended up "going home to Aunt Sara" every day after class, where she'd meet them with fresh-baked cookies and hugs. When Sara Fulgerson died, those five children sat on the front row at her memorial service along with Sara's family members.

Six months after Sara's death, Sonya Stelligman, an African-American who played the organ at the Victory Baptist Church, became victim number three. Sonya was 61. She "lived and breathed music," according to her daughter, Marquetta. "Mama was always singing in that loud voice of hers. I can remember that way back to when I was little. In summer with the windows open, neighbors could hear her clear down the street. They loved her voice—a rich alto. They'd come to the house and say, 'Sing
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,
Sara. Sing
Summertime.'
But me and my brothers, we were just plain embarrassed something fierce by it all." Marquetta falls silent, a faraway look gleaming in her eyes. "Wish I could hear Mama sing now."

Tully Phillips, Deena Ruckland, and I sat in my livin
room starin at each other.

We'd gotten here in a rush, Deena talkin a mile a minute, Tully draggin her feet, and me just tryin to keep everbody movin along. I managed to get us all in my car. I swear, we let Tully go, she woulda pulled on toward home. I said we could go to her house if she wanted, but her eyes got all wide. "No, what if Mike finds out?"

Strange thing to say. Why she so scared a her husband? Deena didn't want to go to her own house cause a Trent maybe showin up. I sure didn't want to be seein Trent myself.

So we ended up at my place.

I tol Tully to sit in my armchair and put her feet up, but she said no, thank you. I think she was too nervous to get that comfortable. So I sat in my chair, and the two a them took the sofa, Deena on the end close to me, and Tully on the other side. One awkward trio. I'd closed the curtains at the front window. Neighbors seein the three a us would surely get to wonderin.

Suddenly nobody wanted to say nothin, includin Deena. Clearly she had as much to hide as Tully and me. Another thing I thought strange. Wasn't Deena as convinced as me her brother was innocent?

"All right now, we got to get this out in the open." I gave Deena my best piercin look. "You have some reason to think your brother may a done these murders?"

"Oh, no you don't.
You
came runnin after
me
. You go first."

My eyes bounced from Deena to Tully. The poor young thing sat with her arms round her huge belly, lookin like a deer drug to headlights. I took a deep breath. I brung these women here. Now I had to lay myself bare. What if I couldn't trust em?

I leaned forward and clasped my hands. "First, we gon pray." They hesitated, then bowed their heads.

My eyes closed. "Dear precious Jesus, we need Your help tonight, Lord. We all got things on our hearts. We all scared. But I do believe You brought us together and will protect us. So lead our talkin now, Lord, and most of all, show us what to do. Amen."

"Amen," they both murmured.

We looked at each other.

I crossed my ankles. "All right. First—we got to agree on somethin. Whatever we say don't go nowhere else. No matter how bad we want to tell it. I promise that myself. You, Tully?"

She nodded.

"Deena?"

"Okay." One a her legs started bouncin. "So what do you know, Cherrie Mae?"

"Wait a minute, let's not get ahead a ourselves." Despite my prayer, I was still feelin my way. Once I let out my story, there was no takin it back. "I'll say this first. I do think I know who killed Erika. Which means he killed the rest a our women. And it ain't Stevie."

Deena's back went ramrod straight. "
Who
?"

I held up a finger. "Tully. You think you know who the killer is?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

I let that sink in for a minute. "Deena, you worried Stevie might a done this?"

She bit her lip.

"We all promised to tell the truth."

Deena looked away. "I . . . thought so. Maybe. But the police have always been after him. And they barged into his house. He didn't know how to tell them no. So I don't know.
Please
tell me—who is it?" Deena leaned toward the younger woman. "Tully! Tell me
right now
. "

Tully's face began to shiver. Whatever she was holdin back, it was bad. Real bad. What could she possibly know bout the mayor? Then Tully jus plain came apart. "It's Mike." Her head fell into her hands. She started to sob.

What?

Deena's mouth dropped open. "Your
husband
?"

Tully just kept on cryin. Her sorrow stabbed me right through. No wonder she was frightened to death, her bein so young and pregnant. Whatever would make her think such a thing? "Tully, baby, it ain't your husband killed Erika. It's Mayor B."

Deena whipped toward me, and Tully raised her splotchy face. "Mayor
B
?" They echoed the name.

They gaped at me, then at each other, and I eyed em both right back. The moment felt so odd, like we was at the Tower a Babel and suddenly speakin different languages.

"Cherrie Mae, you're crazy." Deena held up both hands. "No way it's Mayor B. How can you even think that? Everyone loves him. And he's one person who's never been mean to my brother. He even gave Stevie a job when no one else would. If it weren't for Mayor B, Stevie couldn't support himself."

"Maybe I'm crazy, maybe not." More likely not, what with Erika's ring sittin in Mayor B's drawer. "It's time we tol our stories. And remember, we made a pact."

They nodded. Deena licked her lips. "You first."

So I took a deep breath—and told em. Just laid it on the line—all bout openin Mayor B's drawer and seein the awful pictures. And the ring. About bein with Erika the night she died and knowin that ring was on her finger.

Deena listened like her life depended on it, her mouth cracked open. Tully liked to tie her hands in knots. Halfway through my story she started to cry again—whether from sadness or relief, I didn't know. I had to stop and fetch her some tissues.

"Okay, Deena." I figured Tully needed some time to get herself together. "Your turn. Why you think Stevie might a done this?"

She sprang to her feet and started to pace. "I think . . . What that ring means, Cherrie Mae, I don't know. What I
do
know is, that blood on Stevie's uniform is probably Erika's. He came to my house the night she was killed with fresh blood all over him."

Tully gasped. "You
knew
that?"

Deena ignored the comment. She walked to the window, then swiveled around and headed toward me. That girl didn't miss a step, back and forth, back and forth, while her story rolled out a her. Bout Stevie comin to her door at midnight after tryin to wash off in Turtle Creek, and sayin, "I fixed her."

Chills went down my back when I heard that. "But Stevie wouldn't harm nobody."

"I don't know, I don't
know.
" Deena pressed her hands to her temples. "You don't see him let out his anger like I do. He gets tired of people makin fun of him." She swung toward Tully. "Like Mike, you know that? He's teased Stevie for years. Stevie hates him. And Erika teased him too. So when he told me, 'I fixed her . . .' And he's got blood on him. And the next day I hear she's dead . . ." Deena pulled to a halt, her shoulders droopin. "Plus all that built-up anger. And the fact that after every killin he's been all antsy and out a sorts." She stuck her hands in her hair. "I actually wondered before if he could be guilty. Didn't want to really look at it, but in my heart I wondered . . ."

She stopped, sucked in a big breath, then stumbled over to the couch and sank down on it.

Sure enough, a lot a what she said fit. But some was just conjecture. "Stevie—out a sorts after each murder? Who in town wasn't? Maybe the deaths a those women frightened him, especially after losin his own mother."

Deena gave me a long look. "Yeah. Maybe."

"And how bout this. We know the stab wound on each woman was precise and exactly the same. Could Stevie do that?"

Deena wrapped her arms around her stomach like it hurt. "Yes."

"Really? How?"

She focused on her knees. "It's one of Stevie's quirks—his methodical way of doin things. I think it's because he
can't
do much that when he finds a way to get somethin done that works, he sticks to it. He'll use that way over and over. No thinkin outside the box for him. It's why he's good at his janitorial job. Mayor B showed him what to do to get things clean, and Stevie does it by rote. Same method every day—same results . . ."

Deena fell silent.

I glanced at Tully. She was listening intently. Deena leaned over, gaze fixed downward.

I shifted in my chair. "So you sayin with the murders . . ."

Deena lifted a shoulder. "That if Stevie killed these women, the first time was just dumb luck." She winced at her own words. "One knife to the neck, and the woman dies. Next time, he'll do it the exact same way."

Tully stared at Deena, her face full a longin and total despair. I could see she so wanted to believe Deena—but somethin held her back.

"Tully?" I kept my voice gentle. "What you have to tell us?"

The young gal turned away and focused toward the curtains. For a minute I thought she was gon change her mind, not say a word. She brought a fist up to her chin. Her mouth trembled. "He was having an affair with her." She spoke so quietly I could barely hear. "Erika told me she was pregnant with his baby. That she was coming into some 'big money,' and they were going to run away together. Mike said he'd kill her for telling me. And that night she was murdered."

Deena's mouth fell open. "You're kiddin me."

Tully hiccupped a swallow. "And he came home late that night, and he was wearin the wrong uniform, and he left blood on the door."

Mercy.

Tully hung her head.

"Wait, don't stop now," Deena said. "You've got to start from the beginning, tell the details."

After a minute Tully nodded, like she accepted her fate—and started talkin. We heard bout her meetin with Erika, her husband comin home late, the blood, his threats. He'd
choked
her. Even when her words run out I knew there was more.