Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Kel Knight pulled into the parking lot of the Cargill PD at almost the precise moment that Reverend Pettle was being led by Evan Griffin to the body. As ordered, Knight had taken a circuitous route back to town because he, like Tilon Ward, was anxious about crossing the path of Jurel Cade or any of his deputies. In the trunk of Knight’s cruiser was a box containing the evidence collected by Tucker McKenzie at the scene, along with all the film from his camera. Usually McKenzie would have taken the film to be developed, but on this occasion he was content to relinquish everything to Kel Knight once Knight had signed all the relevant paperwork.

Knight removed the box from the trunk and headed inside. The box didn’t weigh much, but that didn’t make its contents potentially any less valuable. Billie Brinton emerged from behind the reception desk as he appeared, brandishing a sheaf of faxes and handwritten notes. She’d been tempted to call Griffin at the scene to inform him of what she’d discovered about Parker, assuming she could even raise him on his cell phone, before deciding that he and the rest of the officers had enough to occupy them with a murdered girl.

‘Kel—’ she began, but he quickly cut her off before she could proceed.

‘One minute,’ he said. ‘I need you to witness this.’

The department didn’t have an evidence locker per se. What it did have was a big old safe from the turn of the century, manufactured by the Victor Safe & Lock Company of Cincinnati, Ohio. It had previously formed part of the furnishings of the Arkansas Loan & Thrift Corporation, a notoriously fraudulent operation that left more than two thousand investors, including a number of churches, poorer to the tune of $4.2 million when it collapsed at the end of the 1960s. No one was entirely clear on how the safe had finally come to reside in Cargill or, more particularly, with the town’s police department, but it served a useful purpose on occasions such as this, which was all that mattered.

Kel Knight and Evan Griffin were officially the only members of the force with access to the safe, and Billie made a show of turning away while Knight fiddled with the combination, even though she knew the numbers by heart. Once the door was open, Knight showed her the itemized evidence list from Griffin, including the rolls of film, and asked her to countersign each item as it was placed in the safe, with the exception of the film canisters. These he entrusted to Billie herself: her son Craig was an amateur photographer, and made some money on the side taking pictures at local weddings, retirement parties, and sporting events. Craig had his own darkroom, and – having learned well on his mother’s knee – knew how, when, and why to keep his mouth shut.

‘You want me to take them over to him now?’ she asked.

‘I do, just in case Jurel Cade comes calling.’

‘We got to talk first.’

‘We don’t have a lot of time.’

‘It’s about the prisoner, Mr Parker.’

Knight noticed the addition of the honorific.

‘What about him?’

She thrust the bundle of papers at him.

‘I think you ought to let him out. And fast.’

Reverend Nathan Pettle stood over six feet tall, and had formerly weighed more than three hundred pounds before his physician advised him to lose weight or die. He now tipped the scales at one-sixty, having shed the equivalent of a person in the last two years. But a man who loses that kind of mass in his fifties is likely to end up with a certain quantity of skin surplus to requirements, and so Nathan Pettle had become a creature of creases and folds, with a wardrobe of old clothes that had been heavily nipped and tucked to fit in a manner that, had he been vainer or wealthier, might profitably have been applied to his integuments as well. His hair had been gray for as long as anyone could remember – it was gray in his wedding pictures, and they dated from the early seventies – lending him an air of dependability and wisdom that, depending on one’s opinion of the preacher, either accentuated or belied reality. For his part, Griffin had always considered Pettle a weak, unimpressive individual, one who relied on the inherent dignity of his position, rather than any notable personal qualities, to bolster his leadership credentials among his flock, aided by the absence of any significant competition. But Pettle was useful at election time, representing a block vote that could be courted by candidates, and he monitored his community closely.

Now, Pettle stood over the body of the dead girl and whispered a prayer.

‘Do you know who she is?’ said Griffin.

‘Her name is Donna Lee Kernigan. She lives – lived – over on Montgomery Road.’

‘She have people?’

‘A mother, Miss Sallie, and a grandmother, Miss Imogene.’

‘Where’s the father?’

‘Long gone. I don’t believe Donna Lee ever even knew his name.’

Griffin looked puzzled.

‘We estimate that she’s been dead at least two days,’ he said. ‘Strange that no one should have reported her missing.’

‘Miss Imogene is in the hospital. She got the emphysema. Miss Sallie, well, she works, but she’s unsettled.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I believe she abuses alcohol and narcotics.’

‘What about the daughter?’

‘She was a good girl. Miss Imogene always said so, and she wouldn’t lie about such matters.’

‘Where does the mother work?’

‘Paper mill over by Malvern. She cleans there.’

Malvern was a good thirty miles away.

‘How does she get to work?’

‘She drives. She got herself a little Toyota.’

‘Does she come home each night?’

‘Mostly.’ Pettle let this hang. ‘Donna Lee attended school. She didn’t go hungry.’

Which was more than could be said for a lot of kids in the county, black or white.

‘Is the mother at home now?’

‘I couldn’t say, but I assume she’s on her way to work by this hour.’

Griffin would send Colson and Naylor to check. Maybe Pettle could go with her as well, just in case.

‘Anything else you can tell us?’

Pettle shook his head.

‘These are just children,’ he said, and Griffin knew that he was referring to both Donna Lee Kernigan and Patricia Hartley. ‘Who would do something like this to a child?’

Pettle’s eyes were growing wet with tears. He took out a large red handkerchief and used it to wipe them away.

‘I don’t know,’ said Griffin. ‘Who would do something like this to anyone?’

‘We can’t stay quiet any longer. If these were white girls …’

‘I hear you.’

Pettle looked hard at him. ‘Do you?’

Griffin stared back. ‘We’re going to find whoever is responsible.’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘Our department.’

‘Not the state police?’

‘They may become involved, but that won’t be up to me.’

‘And who will it be up to?’

‘You know the answer to that question.’

Which was when, from over the rise, Jurel Cade appeared.

Billie Brinton was gone, and Naylor had been called out to help Lorrie Colson, leaving Kel Knight alone at the station house. He was rereading the faxes, and Billie’s notes, for the third time, and contemplating the pain that colored some men’s lives. If it had been his call, he’d have released Parker immediately, apologized for the misunderstanding, and offered his condolences. But releasing him would be Evan Griffin’s decision, and Knight thought the chief might first wish to speak with the prisoner again, especially in light of the morning’s events. And it still wasn’t clear what had brought Parker to Cargill, although Knight guessed that he was trying to establish, and rule out, connections to his own loss.