Where Southern Cross the Dog (2 page)

The pickers moved only slightly as he settled on the outer edge, facing the passenger's side. His right leg hung off the back and his
right arm crossed his body to grab a slat for support. His other leg was tightly bent, his knee jammed under his chin. He didn't have to sit in this contorted position, hanging off the end of a truck barreling down the road. He could have, if he liked, forcibly made room for himself anywhere, with no worry of retribution. But he didn't.

The passengers were quiet, exhausted after a day spent picking cotton, and Travis tried to avoid meeting their tired eyes. Their shirts clung to their bodies like skin, sweat still oozing from their pores. Some dozed; others stared aimlessly into the darkening sky. The backbreaking work of picking cotton every day for several months every year would silence anyone. The monotonous task pared a person's acuity, robbing life of the vitality that God bestowed upon it.

“Hard day?” Travis said.

“Every day's hard, suh,” one of the men said.

The drone of the engine and the bumpy ride lulled them into a semiconscious state; a quick meal and sleep was on everyone's mind. The darkness that immediately precedes the dawn would come too soon.

The truck chugged along, halting often, slowly unraveling its tangle of riders. They jumped from the truck bed, the driver barely stopping, until only Travis was left.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the edge of town. Travis hopped down, waved an arm in thanks, and walked the last quarter-mile home. He crept in the front door and immediately made his way to the kitchen after a wave of hunger overcame him. He didn't bother to turn on the lights; after living in the same house most of his life, he could walk around with his eyes closed. He prowled the counter, searching for one of his mother's freshly baked cakes or pies and didn't notice the figure sitting at the kitchen table.

“Well?”

Travis jumped and took a step back. “Gee, Dad, I thought everyone had gone to bed early,” he said, his voice slightly shaky.

“No, everyone's not asleep,” Bill Montgomery said.

“All done. I got everything packed up and sent. I'm officially a graduate even though it took an extra summer to do it.”

“It was nice they let you go through ceremonies in the spring. Anyone ask you what your plans were?”

“No, sir. I think most everyone was ready for a quick break before fall classes begin. Campus was quiet.”

Mr. Montgomery rose and stepped to the sink. He washed the remaining milk out of his glass, dried it with a towel, and placed it in a cabinet. “Well, I'm going to bed. See you in the morning?” he said, cinching up the belt to his robe.

“You'll see me tomorrow, sometime. Good night, Dad.”

Travis listened to the creaks of the old stairway as his father climbed the stairs. He looked around for something to nibble on, then realized his exhaustion trumped his hunger. He didn't have the energy to make a sandwich or even to pour a glass of milk. He tiptoed upstairs and stopped in the bathroom to wash off the parts of Mississippi he had brought home with him. Then he went to his bedroom, undressed, and slid into bed. He stared at the ceiling, muttered the prayer he had said every night since he could remember, and reflected on the day—especially the field workers. Picking, eating, sleeping. He'd been around them all his life but still couldn't imagine how they could go through that routine, day in and day out.

His body felt heavy, and Travis sank further into the soft mattress. His mind blurred. With a last gust of breath, he slept.

Graveyard going to be my bed.

—Red Nelson

AS THE SUN CREPT OVER THE HORIZON THE NEXT morning, Sheriff Frank Collins turned his county police car off the road onto a dirt path heading toward the Sunflower, the small river that ran through Clarksdale and continued south, eventually meeting up with the Yazoo River northeast of Vicksburg. He drove straight for 150 yards, and then he veered left off the path into a pasture and drove parallel to the bank.

He continued on for another 30 yards before stopping the car. He stared at an oak in the distance. The surrounding grass had grown several inches high and started to turn a dingy brown because of the lack of rain. He turned off the ignition, squeezed his robust torso out of the car, and leaned against the roof.

Collins removed his thick-rimmed glasses and reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “This doesn't look good,” he mumbled, striking a match and inhaling.

The sheriff lumbered over to the tree. The sweet smells of late summer hanging in the air took him back to his youth in the Delta. Here at the river, just yards away, he had spent endless days as a child, swimming and playing. Today's Clarksdale was different, and like the rest of the South, it was changing. The Great War, the colored migration to the North, the Depression, and the New Deal. People liked to believe that the sovereignty of the Old South was a constant, but in truth, the only real constant was turmoil and change.

As he approached the oak, the air began to thicken with the acrid stench of melted flesh and gasoline. When he was about five yards from the tree, Collins could see a half-burned, mutilated body lying on the newly charred dirt. He took a step back, looked away, and gagged into his handkerchief. He spit to get the taste out of his mouth.

He walked back to the car and radioed the office.

Barely fifteen minutes later, Bill Montgomery, the county coroner, was standing next to the sheriff, looking down at the horrific sight.

“Kind of warm out for a suit,” Collins said.

“A little,” Montgomery agreed, removing his brown coat and placing it neatly on the grass. “How'd you hear about it?”

“Same as before. Edna told Betty, and Betty told me at breakfast.”

“Edna say how
she
found out?”

“Not really.” Collins shook his head. “Always a phone call from somebody who passed by or heard some noises or something like that. You know Edna. She's getting old. Sometimes she gets things mixed up. Heck, we're lucky she remembers anything at all.”

“So this makes four,” Montgomery said.

“In six weeks. You ain't tired of autopsies yet, are you?”

Montgomery stood motionless, Collins to his right, and looked down at the corpse. He wished he had stayed home, chatted with Travis, and had a leisurely breakfast. Instead, here he was, staring at another body that offered few clues as to what might have happened or what he should do next.

“Somebody said they saw Travis get back late last night,” Collins said, not taking his eyes off the body.

“Yeah, when I left the house this morning, he was still in bed,” Montgomery said, looking up at Collins who stood a couple of inches taller.

“What's he going to do this fall?”

“What everybody else does: pray for the price of cotton to go up.”

“What about after that?”

Montgomery shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I don't know, but he better be making money or making progress. One of the two.”

The coroner moved away from the sheriff and began to circle the body. They had done this so often lately it was routine.

“Well, we know it wasn't an act of passion over a card game or a woman,” Montgomery said, not bothering to look at Collins. “Of course, neither were the other ones. Looks like our killer spent some time making the victim pay for whatever he did. The mutilation is extensive, a real mess.”

“And nobody called me about coming out to watch a lynching,” Collins said, only somewhat kiddingly.

“Frank, if this
had been
a lynching, you know the perpetrators would still have been standing around patting each other on the back when I got here,” Montgomery said. They both smiled uneasily because it was true.

Montgomery leaned over and opened the coroner's bag he had brought with him. He took out a pencil, a notebook, and two sample jars. He continued to study the body and look for any clues while Collins leaned back against the tree and puffed away at another
unfiltered cigarette. He'd need the final report for Sam Tackett, the district attorney, as soon as Ruth could have it typed up. Eventually, the sheriff, the coroner, and the district attorney would meet to discuss the findings and develop a course of action for this and the three previous homicides.

“Recognize him?” Collins said.

“No,” Montgomery said. He assumed that, like the other victims, this one had drifted into Clarksdale looking for day work in the fields. If someone wanted to work, this was the time to do it in the Delta. This victim may or may not have found work, but he certainly found the fastest way out of the Delta. Some would say he found salvation and freedom from the chains of a dirt field. That what God hadn't given him in this life, he was sure to get in the next.

Montgomery bent over the body and carefully scooped up some charred, gas-soaked soil with a small spoon, then emptied it into one of the sample jars. He capped the jar and returned it to his bag. Then he stood up and walked around the tree. He continued to walk circles, enlarging them with each pass, hoping to spot anything that might provide some answers.

The body lay in an oddly peaceful configuration. The victim's hands were at his sides, palms facing up; his legs were stretched out as if he were dozing, and his feet were bare. His head had been battered and numerous bruises were evident. His left eye was swollen shut and his jaw was broken. Portions of his clothes were torn and burned, although his filthy charred shirt and pants covered him adequately. His left wrist showed cuts and abrasions, evidence of having been bound. It would have been nearly impossible to set fire to an untied man unless he was already dead.

Collins tossed his cigarette to the ground, mashed it into the dirt with his foot, and moved closer to the body. He peered intently at the dead man's face.

“Look at this,” Collins said. “Why the hell is there dirt in his nose?”

Whether because of the burns, the bruises, or the morning's shadows, neither man had noticed the dirt and mud until then.

“I don't know,” Montgomery said. He took a knife from his pocket and unfolded its thin, narrow blade. He knelt, placed one hand on the dead man's forehead, and gently scraped at a nostril. Then he flipped the knife and used its handle to gently pry open the victim's mouth. Dirt had plugged his nostrils and partially filled his mouth.

“What do you think, Bill?” Collins asked.

Montgomery stood up, wiped the knife with his handkerchief, folded the blade away, and returned it to his pocket. “I don't know,” he repeated. “But he certainly wasn't able to breathe very well with all that dirt in there.”

“Very well? Maybe not at all.” Collins wiped his brow and glanced up at the blazing sun as it began to burn away the morning clouds.

Montgomery walked toward the river, mentally listing what was known. Only a few similarities linked the county's four recent deaths. First, all of the victims were colored men, apparently day laborers who had drifted into Coahoma County and met a terrible end. The crimes were not of an overtly sexual nature, and the victims had been found with small sums of money, eliminating robbery as a motive. There seemed to be only one motive: to inflict a painful death. A shooting, a stabbing, a drowning, and now this—a sadistic combination of beating and burning. Four homicides in quick succession were unusual in this Depression-stricken county in the cotton patch, but not improbable. The sheriff and the coroner had considered calling the state police, or even the feds in Jackson, after the third body had been found, but they had decided against it because they didn't want the commotion of outside law enforcement officials traveling all over the county, stirring everybody up and overriding local jurisdiction.

Now, it might be impossible to keep them out.

“Are we done?” Collins called out to Montgomery. Sweat was dripping from his forehead into his eyes and trickling down his neck, staining his tan shirt.

“Just about,” replied the coroner, turning back to the sheriff. “Let me get a photograph and we'll go.”

Montgomery took a large camera from his car and carefully snapped a picture. Then he and Collins walked back toward their cars.

“Bill, why don't you stop by after the autopsy and let me know what you find,” Collins said. “Then we'll meet with Sam early next week.”

“Sure,” Montgomery said, rubbing his hand through his thinning hair. “I think we have time. Sam can't indict until he has at least one suspect.” Montgomery knew the district attorney wasn't looking forward to explaining this new development to Judge Bertram Long, the sitting county judge.

Collins reached inside his vehicle for the radio. “Yes, Sheriff,” said the dispatcher on the other end of the radio.

“Send out the body buggy. I got someone needs a ride.”

When you get to Clarksdale.

—Muddy Waters

TRAVIS WAS AWAKE LONG BEFORE THE COFFEE'S AROMA wafted upstairs. The groans and rumblings of the trucks headed to the cotton fields and the wagons hauling cotton to the gins had started shortly after dawn, rousing him from a deep and satisfying sleep. But he hadn't gotten up. Now, however, he could smell bacon, eggs, potatoes, coffee, and biscuits. He lay in his bed, enjoying visions of breakfast the way he used to daydream under the magnolia in the backyard. Then he heard his sister Rachel tiptoeing down the hall. Her footsteps slowed, and he sensed her arm rearing back with a tight fist. Three loud bangs on his door shattered the silence.

“Breakfast is ready!” Rachel yelled. “Hurry up before it gets cold!”

Travis smiled, pleased that he was already getting to her so early in the day. “Thanks, Sissy,” he said. “I'll be right down.”

Plopping his feet on the floor, Travis got out of bed and pulled on a white robe. He looked at himself in the mirror above his chest of drawers. His dark eyes stared back as he picked up a brush and pushed his thick brown hair back to the right, keeping a crooked but discernible part on the left. His walk yesterday had left a touch of sunburn on his forehead and nose, but in a day or two, the red would turn a deep brown like it always did.