Where Southern Cross the Dog (4 page)

“Morning, Ruth,” Travis said. He thought her white hair made her look much older than she was, although he had no idea how old that might be.

“Oh, hi, Travis. How are you doing this morning?” Ruth asked, looking up at him with a smile.

“I'm fine, thank you.” Her posture was so erect it looked painful.

“Why don't you have a seat in your dad's office? He'll be up in a minute. He's finishing an autopsy. You want some coffee?”

“No thanks, I'll just wait inside.” Travis slipped inside and left the door cracked so as not to be rude.

“Holler if you need anything,” Ruth said, turning back to her typewriter.

“Yes, ma'am, thanks.”

Travis circled his father's desk idly, stopping to look at the diploma on the wall. “Millsaps College,” it read, and underneath, “Bachelor of Science.” It was dated June 1914, twenty-four years before Travis's own graduation. Travis had followed in his father's footsteps at the small liberal arts school, earning a bachelor's degree with a double major: English and chemistry. He knew his parents wanted him to attend either medical or law school. Travis wasn't so sure about either, but he hadn't come up with anything more promising.

A door opened in the outer office, and Travis heard his father's voice. “Ruth, I'll have the autopsy results ready for you by the end of the day.”

“Copies for Sam and Frank?” Ruth asked.

“Please,” Montgomery answered.

“Travis is waiting in your office,” Ruth said, as Montgomery pushed open his office door. “He hasn't been there long.”

Travis was surprised to see his father looking so grim at this early hour. “Good morning, son, did you get Rachel to work all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Travis said. “I'll pick her up tonight on my way home.” His father's pants were dirty, and his shirt had sweat stains. “Are you doing an autopsy today?”

“Almost done,” he said. “Another strange one. Young colored fellow, burned and beaten. Somebody made a special effort to prolong his pain. Poor man.”

“Was he badly burned?”

“Mostly on his arms and legs. But I don't think that's what killed him.”

The county coroner sat down at his desk, while Travis continued to stand.

“Recognize him?” Travis asked.

“No,” replied his father, “but he was a field hand. Strange thing, though, there was dirt packed into his nose and mouth.”

“Where was the body found?”

“By the river.”

“What killed him?”

“It looks like he might have gone into shock. He must have been alive after the beating. If not, why burn him? The killer probably put dirt in his mouth to shut him up, keep him from screaming, but it may have suffocated him instead. Let's hope so. Considering the evidence, it's the least painful alternative.”

Travis pondered his father's world: nothing but deaths, and so many of them. Why would anyone want this job? He couldn't do it.

“Well, what have you got for me today?” Travis asked, leaning against the desk as his dad shuffled papers and made some notes. Although Travis thought having to perform autopsies was revolting, there was a part of his father's job that appealed to him: driving around the county and delivering and retrieving documents from county officials and other prominent citizens. Sometimes he even traveled to other towns. He enjoyed being outdoors and working independently; it sure beat a desk job.

Mr. Montgomery handed Travis a slip of paper on which he had listed tasks for the day. “Here, son, you go ahead and take the car, and I'll meet you at home tonight. Judge Stamps said he'll leave the package outside his front door, and Mrs. Yule needs the past three years of some county property records. She said you could leave it with Celia.”

Travis carefully reviewed the list, making sure he had no other questions for his father. “Why does Mr. McPherson want a list of the county's registered voters?”

“I don't know. You can get the list downstairs from Gene.”

“And what do you want me to do at Mr. Hollingsworth's?” Travis asked, looking back at his list.

“Hollingsworth wants you to pick up some paperwork. Why don't you ask him if he wants me to send over the new John Doe we picked up today?”

“Yes, sir, will do.” He folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “See you at home.”

Travis dispatched his duties easily throughout the late morning and afternoon. He drove out to Friars Point and then to Bobo. In Stovall, at the home of Mrs. Ruby Simpson, he ate two pieces of pie, drank a large glass of milk, and enjoyed a good half hour of conversation just for delivering a will. Everywhere, people asked him about his future plans and aspirations. Travis's last stop of the day was at Hollingsworth Funeral Home in Clarksdale. No cars were parked outside, so he assumed no families were gathered to discuss funeral arrangements. Relieved that he would not be disturbing any mourners, he parked the car and went inside.

Travis knocked lightly on Hollingsworth's office door.

“Yes, good afternoon,” a familiar voice rumbled from within. Travis opened the door, and George Hollingsworth rose from behind a filing cabinet and stepped toward him. “Oh, Travis.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Travis said. “Dad sent me over to pick up some paperwork?” Travis stepped forward and extended his hand. He knew better than to make this gesture in public, but, in the privacy of the funeral home, he felt protected. And it was just good manners.

“Yes, yes,” Hollingsworth said in a voice hoarsened by a lifetime of smoking. He leaned toward Travis and the two men shook hands.

Hollingsworth didn't have to lean far; his body had begun to stoop, the result of too many formative years spent in the fields. His step was still youthful, however, for a man in his sixties.

One of the county's most respected and successful Negro men, Hollingsworth had grown up in Clarksdale, sharecropped with his father, and also worked in the funeral home of a family friend. He turned out to have a knack for the business and eventually opened his own funeral home, which became very successful.

One reason for that success was the prevalence of burial insurance among the colored population of Coahoma County. Poor as they might be, whether sharecropping a patch of land out in the country or working as a domestic in town, everyone who could afford it—and most everyone could—paid a small premium of 20 or 30 cents every week for burial insurance. It was the first thing bought and the last given up. Most of the South's Negroes had few earthly possessions; their final reward, like Heaven itself, was a nice $100 funeral.

“How have you been, Travis?” Hollingsworth asked, moving to his desk and shuffling through some papers. “Very well, I hope.”

“Fine,” Travis said. “I'll be busy this fall with my county work, and possibly back in school by the spring, or at the latest, next fall. My dad prefers spring.”

“Well, that's an excellent idea, Travis. Sounds like your father has the right idea. You should heed his advice and guidance, because most people don't have someone like your father helping them plot out a steady course. Where are you applying?”

“The—” Travis began, breaking off his answer as he heard the front door open and then two timid knocks.

“George? You here?” a voice asked.

“We're in the office, Richard,” Hollingsworth called.

A rather imposing man soon appeared from around the corner, striding gracefully into a hallway leading to the office. He stopped abruptly, some ten feet from Travis, and looked from Hollingsworth to Travis and back.

“Afternoon, George, I didn't know you were busy.” The man was dressed impeccably, defying heat and dust in a dark gray wool
suit and a white shirt. He obviously had not expected to see a white man in the office.

Travis immediately stuck out his hand, “Good afternoon. My name is Travis Montgomery. I work for the county coroner.”

“It's all right, Richard,” Hollingsworth said quickly. “Travis and I are old friends. He's just picking up some paperwork.” He cast a wink at Travis.

The man lifted his arm to shake hands with Travis. “Hello, I'm Richard Morgan. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Richard's in the insurance business, Travis,” Hollingsworth said, “so we see each other quite a bit. And since Travis works for the coroner, well, I see him quite a bit, too. ”

Travis nodded his acknowledgment as he shook Morgan's hand.

“We're almost finished,” Hollingsworth said to Morgan.

“Please take your time,” Morgan said. “I'm in no hurry.”

“Speaking of your father, Travis, how is he these days?” Hollingsworth asked, turning back toward the younger Montgomery.

“Oh, he's fine,” Travis answered. “Very busy. I don't know whether you heard or not, but there was another murder last night. He conducted the autopsy today.”

“Yes, I certainly did hear about that,” Hollingsworth said. “When Mr. Winston stopped by to drop off a suit, he mentioned it. Do they have any idea who did it?”

“Well, if they do, nobody's saying anything,” Travis said, resting against the back of a chair. “I think they're still unsure. I didn't hear anybody talking much about it at the courthouse this morning.”

“What about those other murders? Doesn't anyone suspect they're related?” Morgan asked, folding his arms and joining in the conversation.

“I think Sheriff Collins does,” Travis said. “But there doesn't seem to be any evidence to support it.”

“It would be pretty surprising if they weren't somehow connected,” said Hollingsworth, placing his gathered paperwork neatly in a folder and turning to Travis and Morgan.

“What about the Klan?” asked Morgan.

“Could be, I guess,” Travis said. “They just don't know.”

Hollingsworth sat down in a chair and sighed. “I wonder if we should have a meeting, Richard. Get a few folks together at the church and decide whether we should discuss the situation with the sheriff. We don't want people thinking there's some murderer running loose.”

“Wouldn't hurt,” Morgan agreed. “Folks could become too scared to go outside or walk to work. Clarksdale might shut down. And during harvest time, that would affect everyone.”

“We'll talk about it Sunday after church,” Hollingsworth said. “Maybe ask the reverend what he thinks.” He held out the folder for Travis. “Here you go, Travis. Thanks for stopping by to pick these up.”

“No trouble at all,” Travis said, taking the folder. “And if you want my opinion, I think you should let the sheriff know about your concerns. You don't want him thinking you're just getting people stirred up.”

“That's a good thought, Travis,” Hollingsworth said with the barest trace of a smile. “We'll do that.”

Travis shook hands with both men. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Morgan,” he said.

“It was nice meeting you, too.”

Travis walked down the hall but turned back to the men just before stepping out of sight. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Hollingsworth. Do you want my dad to send over the new body?”

“By all means, Travis. Everybody's got to be buried.”

Down in sweet old Dixieland.

—Robert Lee McCoy

EARLY MONDAY MORNING, DIVISION CHIEF RUSS Kalman opened one of the two heavy doors to a large old building in downtown Jackson. Inside, he greeted those he knew and continued to a spiral stairwell in the center of the first floor. He ascended the stairs to the second floor, turned right, and walked halfway down the hall to a door that was half wood and half opaque glass. The first line of lettering on the door read: “Federal Bureau of Investigation”; beneath it were the words “Mississippi Division.”

Kalman opened it and went inside.

“Good morning, Russ,” said the secretary who greeted everyone who entered the office.

“Morning, Sally. Where's Bob?”

“They're all in the conference room. Been there fifteen minutes already.”

Kalman hurried past rows of desks to the back of the office. He could hear muted voices as he approached the conference room.

“Hey, there he is,” someone said as Kalman opened the door. He breathed in the familiar smells of coffee and cigarettes. The door was solid oak; there were no windows. The bulb in the single overhead fixture provided fewer watts than the room needed. Around a square table in the center of the room sat Bob Thompson and Dan Mulevsky. Their chain-smoking didn't help with the illumination.

The division chief approached a second table in the corner of the room, poured himself some coffee, and took a seat with the others. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, tapped it on the table, and lit it. All four men stared at their coffee cups and blew smoke in the air. No one spoke.

Kalman looked at his senior agents, both G-men. All dressed—just as he was—in a white shirt and dark tie. It was the uniform that wasn't a uniform. Finally, he asked, “What have we got today?”

“Well, Chief, where should I start?” Thompson said, the number two, yet oldest, man in the office.

“I don't know, how about the first one?” Kalman sighed, his cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Robbery in Vicksburg,” Thompson said. “They got away with $3,000 and killed one uniformed officer. Local authorities have no idea where to start the search.”

“That's not too bad.”

“I'm just getting started, Chief. There were two other robberies in Natchez and Meridian.”

“Large amounts?”

“No,” Thompson said.

“People are still hurting, boss,” Mulevsky said. “And it doesn't look like the economy's getting any better.”

Kalman rubbed his temples, as if it would somehow enlighten him. These cases could make or break his career. He had come a long way from the police department in Wheeling, West Virginia. A long way from the striking miners who had killed the police chief and from the mother who had sent her young son out on a frigid night to make sure it was true.