Roots of Murder (41 page)

In the bottom of the next carton, Nell found a
beaten-up
old metal lock box. She tried to jimmy it open, but couldn't. It looked like it would hold things like insurance papers or deeds, papers once considered important. She set it aside and moved on to the next pile. And the next pile. When she finally finished with the last few piles, all that remained was the locked metal box. The sun was setting, and despite her exertion, Nell was getting chilly.

She picked up the metal box and headed back to the house, to see if Angie Pitts knew anything about it.

But when Nell showed it to her, she shook her head and said she'd never seen it before. Nell asked her permission to break it open.

“It's trash, ain't it?” was her answer. Then she called out, “Len? You want to come break open something for the paper lady?”

A man around Angie Pitts' age joined them in the kitchen. He said nothing, just picked up the box and examined it. Then he took a screwdriver off his belt and used it to pry the lid open. Without looking in the box, he handed it back to Nell.

She set it down on a small cleared space on the counter and pushed the broken lid out of the way. A black cloth covered the contents of the box. Nell lifted it aside.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed and let the cloth fall back.

Her reaction garnered the attention of Len and Angie. He picked up the cloth and looked.

They had found the pictures Whiz Brown's father had taken. Steeling herself with a deep breath, Nell looked again at the image confronting her. She recognized Michael, Ella, and Dora, but only barely. They were surrounded by about ten men, several of them holding guns or clubs. Michael's wrists were chained and his face bruised and puffy. Both of the women had been stripped to the waist, their breasts exposed. The background was outside, in a wooded area.

“That what you were looking for?” Angie Pitts asked. She seemed less upset than Nell, but perhaps her life made her more blasé about human cruelty.

“This is what I'm looking for,” Nell confirmed. “Can you recognize any of the men?”

Angie studied the photo, then stabbed her finger at a man in the back. “That's old Fred, I'd say. Stepdad.” None of the other faces were familiar to her. Len even looked, but he hadn't grown up in the area.

There were other pictures underneath the top one, but Nell didn't feel up to looking at them. This one told her enough.

She thanked Angie and left her to their task of trying to destroy the memories with the plates.

As she had guessed, Jacko's car was still in the lot. Nell clutched the box to her chest as if both protecting it and keeping it held down, like a creature with fangs.

Lizzie and Josh were on Carrie's computer playing a game. They saw her long enough to know their mother was alive and well, and then Nell went to her office.

She set the box on her desk, unsure of what to do next. Her impulse was to hunt down Harold Reed and hand it to him. But, this late, he might be hard to find, and she was enough of a reporter to want to see—no matter how horrible—the photos. The one picture she had seen was too brutal, but there might be one she could use in the paper, to bring the horror of it home in a way words couldn't.

Putting the box in a drawer, she went upstairs and asked Jacko if there was an update on Marcus. He was in intensive care, in critical condition, and he hadn't woken up yet. Then he asked her if she'd found anything.

“Come to my office,” Nell said and left without waiting for him.

She put the box on her desk as he caught up with her. Wordlessly, she lifted the black cloth. She didn't take the photos out of the box, instead keeping them contained there, flipping them up one by one. She tried to avert her glance from the fear and desperation in the eyes of Michael Walker, Ella Carr, and Dora Ellischwartz.

Like game hunters, they had taken pictures of their trophies. Both the woman had been raped; Ella Carr had a distant, vacant look in her eyes, as if she were already leaving the body she knew would not exist much longer. Dora Ellischwartz was still fighting, tears and anger on her face, a silent scream coming from her mouth. There was a shot of Michael on his knees, back to the camera, one leg clearly broken. One of the men had the barrel of a pistol pressed against the base of his skull. The next picture showed him lying on the ground, blood coming from the gunshot wound.

The final picture in the box was of the three of them tossed into the grave, with only the feet of the murderers visible. Nell gave a start when she realized one of the sets of feet were small. A young boy? Had someone brought his son along?

She closed the box and said to Jacko, “I'm going to call Harold Reed. And I'm going to ask a big favor of you.” She nodded her head in the direction of Josh and Lizzie. “Can you take them this evening? Pizza and a movie?” Nell dug in her purse for enough money to cover all three of them.

Jacko agreed. Nell suggested another night in their guest bedroom; that way, she could more easily update him when she got home. Plus she didn't mind having an adult male around. She
out-and
-out lied to her children and told them she had paperwork to do and was sending them off with Jacko. A movie and pizza was enough of an enticement.

Nell called Harold Reed at home. She simply told him she had to talk to him and could he come to the Crier office. Those pictures felt too dangerous to move. Then she sat and waited.

When he arrived, Nell quickly told him what had led her to the photos—leaving out Whiz Brown's part in it—and opened the box. She didn't look at them. He was silent a long time, looking at the pictures slowly and carefully. When he finally finished, he looked up at her and asked, “Any idea who these people are?”

Nell told him about Frederick Conner, how his stepdaughter had identified him. “He must know who the rest of them are.”

“Yeah, but is he going to tell us?”

“Marcus would know,” Nell said. “This was a small town back then.”

They stared at each other, leaving it unspoken that Marcus might never look at these pictures.

“That could work for us and against us,” Harold said. Pointing a finger at the pictures, he added, “It's not likely any of these men is going to be helpful.”

“Hattie Jacobs,” Nell remembered. “Marcus traced her. She's living over in New Orleans. According to him, she had a cross burned on her lawn. She might recognize a few of these men.”

“She might. A long shot.”

“Is it all right if I talk to her?” Nell asked. Even if Hattie Jacobs couldn't recognize anyone, she could still tell the story of what had happened to her. The DA's office might not be interested in something they couldn't prosecute, but Nell wanted to call the past to account.

“That's okay. Just let me know if she has anything useful to say. Can I take these?” he asked, although it was clearly not a real question.

Nell hesitated. “I'll need one to show Hattie Jacobs. And I want to run one of them in the paper.”

“That might be hard to look at.”

“I want them to look. All those silent people who let this happen,” Nell said vehemently. “Consider this—if I print a picture, someone might come forward who recognizes these men.”

“True. But it happened a long time ago,” Harold pointed out.

“Not long enough. They firebombed my building and Marcus's house. They were hunting him and now he's in a coma,” Nell said.

“Which ones do you want?”

She took the first one, for its group shot. And the one with the gun at Michael Walker's head. It was brutal, but it wasn't the obscene gore of the dead bodies, or the horror of the sexual assaults. Nell took the two pictures and hid them in the back of one of her file cabinets, then locked it.

Harold picked up the box and they silently left the building.

Nell felt heavy and tired as she headed home. She was halfway there before turning to drive by Marcus's house, with a lost sense that he might be coming home. But the house was black and empty, most of the garage burned to the ground, the house itself licked by flames. She stopped briefly by Joe's to see if they had heard anything. The bartender sadly shook his head no.

“Call me if …” Nell said. She was afraid her voice might break.

She got back in her car and went home. Jacko, Lizzie, and Josh had beat her there, by enough to have thrown popcorn in the microwave.

Nell sat with them, managing a few handfuls, but despite not having eaten since lunch, she had no appetite. She gave Jacko a brief rundown of her meeting with Harold Reed. After that, she begged off, not even bothering with a motherly admonishment of lights out by ten p.m.

Jacko got them to bed around then anyway by going to bed himself. Nell heard their shushed whispers and the squeak of the guest bedroom door as it shut. Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep was please give an old man a few more years of sipping beer at Joe's Corner.

twenty-four

With Jacko around, Lizzie
was on her best behavior. Both she and Josh were ready for school with no hurrying from Nell. Jacko was even gallant enough to drive them. I must look as tired as I feel, Nell thought.

She lingered over her coffee. The die had been cast. Those pictures changed everything. It could be easy, it could be hard, but they would find those people. It rankled her that a young boy had been there. Teaching the young to hate. Then Nell wondered, could it have been a woman? No, women should somehow be better than that. But Frieda Connor had stood by her man, whether he was beating her or another woman. Maybe she'd followed him even there. Had she turned her head, Nell wondered, as Dora and Ella were violated? Or had she enjoyed it? Or had she suffered the night before and was relieved it wasn't her this time?

Nell put her coffee cup in the sink and left for work. It would be a long day.

When she got there, she found out it would be more than long.

Harold Reed was waiting for her. “He never woke up,” he said softly. “It's murder now.”

Nell flared, “He shouldn't be dead! He shouldn't be … ” She felt as if she'd been hit with a body blow, a fresh jolt of the shattering from the night Thom died. She hadn't saved him either. Grief and fury concatenated, turning into a rage that had no words and that she could not stop. She suddenly slammed her fist against the wall. She was utterly out of control, lost in a frenzy of anger and anguish.

As she raised her fist to strike again, someone grabbed her arm. Someone else pulled her away from the wall, holding her tightly. She struggled, then collapsed, wracking sobs coursing through her. Nell realized Jacko was holding her; Harold Reed had grabbed her arm, although his grip had changed to one of comfort rather than restraint. Pam was in front of her with a box of tissues.

Nell grabbed a handful of them and wiped her face. When she finally felt able to speak, she said, “I'm sorry. That was … I'm just sorry.” She took several breaths, wiping the
still-oozing
tears. “I won't do it again. Just as long as no one else … ” She again sobbed into the ball of tissues. Then, gaining control, she said, “I'm okay. Well, not, but … will hold it together.”

They released her but stood close, as if they might be needed again. With another few breaths, she was able to keep her voice close to steady. “Tell me what you know,” she asked.

“Not much at this point. We hope we get forensics from his house,” Harold said.

“Men in ski masks aren't a very helpful description,” Nell said harshly.

“We're going on the theory that the men who torched his house are connected to the ones who killed him, so there might be something there that will provide the link.”

“To the arson,” Nell pointed out, the bitterness still in her voice. “It won't prove they murdered him, especially as the ones who burned his house couldn't be the ones following him.” As she said it, she felt chilled. It had to mean this wasn't a final bit of violence from the past, one or two madmen hanging on. What happened to Marcus had to have been plotted and planned, and suddenly Nell felt small and vulnerable.

“If we get them for one thing, we have a better chance to get them for another.”

“I heard their horn over his cell phone. Bastards played ‘Dixie' with it,” Nell remembered.

Harold just nodded.

After he left, Nell again apologized for her breakdown. She retreated to the bathroom to scrub the red off her face. Then she got a cup of coffee and went to her office. She sat at her desk and stared out the window.

Ina Claire and Dolan arrived; Jacko met them at the door and gave them the news. Nell didn't hear the words, just a short, cheery greeting as they came in, then the tone changing, voices hushed, an underhiss of sorrow and outrage.

You killed an old man but you didn't save yourselves, she silently cursed the murderers, fury coursing through her. We have Marcus's files; if we can't find a witness to name the faces in the picture, we can dredge through those documents, take the names found there, get old yearbooks, old photos from the Crier morgue, wedding shots, and painstakingly match the faces with the people. They would not escape.

Suddenly Nell decided she couldn't sit and listen to workmen pound all day. Looking through her desk, she found the address for Hattie Jacobs in New Orleans. It was in Marcus's handwriting.

She remembered to take the photo out of her filing cabinet; only the group shot, not the one of Michael's execution. The faces were the same, and it would only add to the horror.

“I'm going to New Orleans,” she told her staff. They were all assembled in the break room, Pam's temporary office. Jacko again agreed to pick up Josh and Lizzie if Nell didn't get back in time. He even offered to mind them should she stay overnight.

She thanked him, then headed for her car. She stopped by home long enough to get directions and throw a few things in an overnight bag, even though she intended to be back that evening.

It was an
hour-and
-
a-half
drive from Pelican Bay to New Orleans. Nell made good time, late enough to miss the morning rush. She knew she might not find Hattie Jacobs. She could have moved, died—or just not be at home.

Nell and Thom had come to New Orleans a number of times, including more or less keeping their vow of one romantic weekend a year sans kids, so she was familiar with the more beaten paths. The address for Hattie Jacobs was on a street Nell recognized, and, according to her map, it was just a few blocks out of the French Quarter. But as Nell turned onto Ursulines, she recognized this was a part of New Orleans the tourists didn't see. Crossing over Rampart from the official boundaries of the Quarter changed the neighborhood. The houses were the Creole cottages of the historic area, but time and money for upkeep was sporadic; some
well-kept
houses sat next to ones boarded up and abandoned.

Nell drove slowly, looking for Hattie's address, aware she was out of place. Spying the number she was looking for, Nell pulled over. As she walked up the steps to the front door, she noticed the neighbors watching her. She nodded a bare greeting at them and knocked on the door.

One of the women on the opposite porch called out, “She stepped out, be back shortly.”

Nell thought about asking if a woman named Hattie Jacobs did indeed live there, but that would tell them she was a stranger and put her into the suspect category of government agent, law, or health, hunting down an old woman.

Nell thanked the woman and said causally, “I'll be back after a few other errands, then.” She got in her car and drove off, remembering a little coffee shop she and Thom had chanced on, outside the Quarter where parking would be kinder. She took a few wrong turns but finally found the right street and, in the next block, the coffee shop. But walking in brought back memories of being with Thom, so Nell got her coffee to go and wandered around, gazing at the windows of the shops along the street but with no real notice of what was in them. What a
double-edged
sword memory is, Nell thought. How many times will I get hit with remembering the things Thom and I used to do? In Pelican Bay she couldn't avoid places they had been together, but this city should be large enough not to ambush her with recollections that cut so sharply. She discarded her
half-drunk
coffee and got back in her car, then slowly made her way back to Hattie Jacobs' block. There were no memories of Thom there.

Just Marcus Fletcher, she thought, glancing at his handwriting on the address.

She again pulled in front. Clouds now covered the sun and the added chill had driven the stoop sitters inside. Nell remained in her car, trying to decide if it had been “a little while” enough for her to knock again.

She noticed a woman walking in her direction. As the woman got closer, Nell saw she was older, her shoulders stooped, wearing a cloth coat that looked like it had seen a number of winters and carrying two small grocery sacks. Nell watched her as she turned and made her way up the steps to the door.

Nell got out of her car. When she got to the foot of the stairs, she said, “Excuse me, but are you Hattie Jacobs?” The woman turned to her, and she added, “My name is Nell McGraw and I'm a reporter with the
Pelican Bay Crier
,” to give the woman access to her name and a clue to her purpose there.

“Pelican Bay?” the woman said slowly.

“Yes, it's a small town over on the Gulf—”

The woman cut her off. “I know where Pelican Bay is.”

“Are you Mrs. Jacobs?” Nell asked again.

“Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to talk to you about some things that happened a long time ago.”

Hattie Jacobs hesitated before saying, “You'd better come in then.”

Nell followed her into the house. It was neat and well kept, the furniture old, a mix of colors and styles, as if Hattie had collected them slowly along the way.

“I'm making tea. Would you like some?” she asked. “Help take the chill off.”

“Yes, thank you.” Nell sat down on the couch while Hattie Jacobs carried her sacks back to the kitchen. From her briefcase, Nell took out the most recent copy of the
Pelican Bay Crier
, with its stories about the murders and the property theft. She left the photo where it was; it wasn't something she could show without being sure Hattie was ready to see it.

Hattie returned with two steaming cups and a small tray with milk, lemons, honey, and sugar on it. Nell added some milk and honey.

“This is the most recent edition of the paper,” Nell said, handing it to her. “The two stories—”

But Hattie Jacobs cut her off by gasping, “Oh, my God! Michael. And Ella and Dora. These are the pictures that Rufus took.”

“Rufus?” Nell prompted.

“Yes, Rufus Jackson. Farm just down from mine. Michael stayed with him, and Ella and Dora stayed with me.” She looked at Nell and said, “They're dead, aren't they.”

“I'm sorry, yes, they are.” Nell could have let her read the story, but instead she told it, leading Hattie through finding the bones to establishing the identity of Dora Ellischwartz.

When she finished, Hattie asked, “May I keep this?” referring to the paper.

“Yes, of course.”

“Something to remember them by,” the old woman said softly. “I liked both Ella and Dora. But Michael … he was a friend. I knew he didn't just leave.”

“Tell me about them.”

Hattie stared at the photographs, her hands tracing their faces, then said, “Dora was the fun, laughing one. She'd come home and say, ‘let's have a party,' and we'd put sugar on bread for cake, and she'd plug in that radio of hers, find some music and have us all dancing, spin my kids around the room until they were dizzy.

“Ella was quiet, a little too serious; she and Dora really balanced each other that way. She'd be reading a book until Dora took her by the hand and said, ‘c'mon, you have to dance,' and Ella would pretend to be annoyed, but she was the best dancer once she let loose and got going.

“Michael. Michael and I used to sit on the porch and talk. Sometimes we wouldn't talk, but just be silent with each other and it was an easy time. Sitting watching the sun set. The others worked hard,
but Michael … Michael gave me hope. Hope things would change, that my children would live in a different world. Promised me one day I'd come visit him in New York and he'd walk me down Broadway.”

Then she was silent, as if remembering all the promises and the ways they had been broken.

Nell gave her a moment, then gently prompted, “What happened with your farm? How did they get it away?”

“They said I didn't pay my taxes,” Hattie said, her voice hard. The words came slowly; the years hadn't taken the bitterness away.

“But you did,” Nell said, adding, “I tracked down Penny March, the clerk, and she remembered. They changed the records.”

“They did, they changed them. Told me I had to pay or I'd forfeit. But I had no money to pay again.”

“And that was what happened? They foreclosed with the taxes?”

“No, they would've, but Mr. Dupree bought my property. I never really knew, wasn't the place for a woman like me to ask, but I think they were fighting, each getting greedy. Mr. Dupree waited until he knew I had no choice: I would lose it for nothing or take whatever he gave me. Did the same thing with my land, the bayou camp, and the bay beach. We each got hit for taxes we'd already paid, then he came around and bought the property just before it would have been taken. We got something, he got the land.”

Andre Dupree. Nell had been hoping his hands were no dirtier than buying property that had been stolen by others. That would be painful enough to tell Aaron, but could the son ever forgive her for opening old wounds to find his father wielding the knife?

Nell took out a map of Tchula County and spread it over the coffee table. “Can you point out what was yours?”

Hattie did. Her land was most of what had turned into the posh Country Club and part of Back Bay Estates, with the other properties she had mentioned becoming the rest of it and the Marina. Andre Dupree had not only stolen from the poor and the powerless, but he had cheated his partners by buying the land before they could take it.

“According to the records we looked at, your land was bought by something called Pelican Property,” Nell said.

“I remember the name, but it was Dupree that came out and offered the deal. He was the one who gave me the money.”

“How did you know him?”

“Saw him around, his name in the paper. He was always polite, pretended to be nice. Even when he helped burn the cross, he wasn't as bad as the rest of them.”

“Burned the cross?” Nell said, taken aback, still able to be shocked.