Stephen White - Blinded

Who had arrived at the scene first? Was it the Baptist preacher, the twin sisters, or Sterling Storey?

According to the police report, the preacher who had witnessed Sterling’s disappearance into the river was Reverend Nathaniel Prior, who served the faithful at a church in Meigs, a little town a short stretch northeast on Georgia 3 from the accident scene.

That’s where I would start.

The drive from the river to Meigs passed through thick woods that alternated with fields harvested clear-I was guessing-of cotton. I didn’t see much else that would support the local economy. I assumed I was in a poor county.

I drove up to a recently whitewashed church and asked a young man who was out in front raking leaves on the ragged lawn if he knew where I could find Nathaniel Prior.

“You’ve already found him. I’m Nathaniel Prior,” he told me. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Nathaniel Prior was no more than twenty-five years old. He was smaller than me by a few inches but matched my weight pound for pound and then raised me a few for good measure. He had a voice that resonated like a diesel in a tunnel. The pile of leaves at his feet covered him up to midcalf.

He had big ears.

He tugged off a canvas glove, and we shook hands. I said, “Sam Purdy. Shall I call you Reverend?”

“That’s fine, or Nate’s fine, too. There are moments when I’m convinced I’m called worse things behind my back, but you’ve barely met me, so what reason would you have to insult me? What can I do for you this fine day?”

It was a fine day. The afternoon sun was shining, and the moisture in the southern air had already softened up my cuticles and the tender skin inside my nose. Those are the first parts that turn to papyrus after even a few days in the Colorado high desert.

“Do you have a minute to answer some questions about last Saturday? The accident at the bridge?”

Prior looked over my shoulder at the Cherokee. He said, “Mr. Purdy? Do I have that right? Why don’t we sit a spell and get a glass of tea? I have a feeling you’ve come a long way to ask me these questions, and these leaves are probably more than content to wait to be imprisoned in Hefty bags.”

“Sam,” I said. “Some tea sounds great.” I sat on the wooden porch of the church while the reverend retrieved the tea from inside. At least three people walking down the quiet lane waved hello to me while he was gone. I waved back to every one of them.

The tea was sweet, flavored with mint, and was delivered in painted glasses fat enough to hold a Big Gulp with room to spare.

“Thanks,” I said after a long draw.

“Colorado, huh? You ski?”

“Snowboard, actually, if you can believe it. I have a kid I try to chase around as much as I can. The snowboarding is his idea. He thinks skis are dorky. For his benefit, I try not to be any dorkier than comes naturally.”

“Copper? Winter Park?”

I didn’t expect somebody in Meigs, Georgia, to be asking me about ski resorts on Colorado’s Front Range. “Winter Park and Breck, mostly. You know-”

“I did a semester in Denver. At the Denver Seminary. Went up skiing whenever I could afford it, which wasn’t very often. A bunch of us got those cheap Buddy Passes at Copper. That was a good winter.”

I almost said, “No shit.” But I didn’t; I was on God’s front lawn. “How long you been in Meigs?”

“A couple of years. I’m loving it. I have a wonderful congregation. My family’s in Atlanta, close by. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do. Life is as sweet as this tea.” He placed his glass between his feet. “So what caused you to drive all this way to ask me what happened at the bridge?”

“The man who disappeared? I’m assisting his wife. I told her I’d try to figure out exactly what happened to him.”

“You an investigator of some kind?”

I considered lying to him but didn’t want to lie to a preacher. I don’t know why, exactly; in most circumstances I’d be happy to lie to the pope to advance an investigation. “Yeah, I am. I’m actually a police detective in Boulder. But I had a heart attack a while back and I’m on medical leave. So technically, at the moment, I’m nobody. Just somebody trying to help a friend.”

This was the moment in conversations with strangers-the moment they learned I was a cop from Boulder-when they asked the did-you-work-on-the-JonBenet-case? question. I steeled myself for it.

“You don’t look like Boulder.”

I smiled at him, grateful that we’d skipped right past the Ramseys. I replied, “You don’t look like Meigs.”

“Touché,” he said. “Fire away. What can I tell you?”

I took a battered notepad out of my pocket, flipped it to the next empty page, and clicked open my pen. “When did you arrive at the accident?”

“I was the last car to stop before Mr. Storey disappeared in the water. When I arrived, he was already there, the two sisters from Ochlockonee were already there, and of course, Mrs. Turnbull’s minivan was already down the bank.”

“Pretty dark that night?”

“As Satan’s heart.”

“Raining?”

“Buckets.”

“And you saw Mr. Storey go into the river? Personally?”

“I’d parked my car so my headlights were pointing toward Mrs. Turnbull’s minivan, so even with the rain there was some light down there. Though most of the beam went above her car. She was hung up on a tree branch on a steep section of the bank. It was leaning-at least thirty or forty degrees would be my guess-”

“Mine, too. I saw the river this morning. That bank is like a slide. The other side, where the tree was, there was more vegetation over there.”

“Exactly. Well, Mr. Storey was already easing his way down toward Mrs. Turnbull when I first saw him. He was only a couple of yards away from the minivan when his feet went out from under him and he slid down the bank.”

“You saw that?”

“Sure. The whole thing happened in the blink of an eye. I didn’t see him go into the river. There was no light down that far.”

“But he slipped, and then he slid? That’s definite?”

“Absolutely.”

“He was on the mud side of the car, not the tree side?”

“Correct.”

“Did he call for help?”

“He did not. We-the Wolf sisters and me-guessed he was in the water before he knew what happened. He could’ve been downstream a hundred yards by the time he inhaled. Or tried to inhale. It’s awfully easy to hit your head in raging water like that.”

“You think he’s dead, Reverend?”

“In my heart? Yes, I do. I prayed for his soul that night before I left the riverbank. I felt death around me while I prayed.” He gritted his teeth as though a fleck of ice cube had come to rest right on top of a cavity. “You don’t, do you? Think he’s dead.”

“I’m not convinced, no.” What I didn’t add was that if Sterling Storey was dead, my whole trip to Georgia would dissolve into futility. I wasn’t in the South seeking justice; I was in the South seeking understanding. Sterling was going to be my unlikely professor.

I placed my empty tea glass two steps below my fat butt.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“I pray for Mr. Storey daily. Please tell his wife that. He sacrificed himself doing a Christian act of mercy.”

“I will pass that along. She’ll be comforted, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.”

I think he could tell I didn’t mean the part about Gibbs being comforted. I sat silently for most of a minute reviewing my questions and the reverend’s answers, looking for omissions. I couldn’t find any.

“If your church has a bathroom, I’d love to make a pit stop. Then I’ll be on my way. I’m grateful for your generous help. And for the fine tea. Meigs looks like a pleasant town; the people are friendly.”