Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

‘That true, Reverend?’ said Cade.

After only the shortest of pauses, Pettle nodded.

‘It’s true,’ he said.

Griffin figured Pettle could make his peace with God later, and the lie contained a modicum of truth: no official pronouncement would be offered until a member of Donna Lee Kernigan’s immediate family had made a positive identification of the body.

Cade knew he was being played, but he was outnumbered, and arguing further would only make him look bad. So he took the softer option: he retreated, knowing that ultimately, as chief investigator, he still held most of the high ground. If Griffin insisted on investigating the killing, Cade would do his damnedest to block the involvement of any outside agency, aided by his family’s contacts in Little Rock. For now, Griffin and the Cargill PD were operating alone.

‘I look forward to that coffee,’ Cade told Griffin. ‘Deputy Arkins here will stay at the scene, in case you need any assistance. Call it professional courtesy.’

Griffin didn’t wait for him to drive away. He gave Cade his back, and watched Sadler and his daughter prepare Donna Lee Kernigan for her journey to Little Rock, and a meeting with another blade.

19

There was no response when the police knocked on the door of the Kernigan residence, and Colson and Naylor saw no car in the drive. The house was a single-story dwelling, with a kitchen and living room at one side of the hall, and two small bedrooms at the other, with the bathroom in back. Like most homes in Cargill, it could have done with more TLC and some serious repairs to the shingles, but a fresh coat of paint wasn’t as essential as putting food on the table, and plastic patches to the roof had managed to see it through winter.

This section of Cargill was officially known as Eastville, but it wasn’t uncommon to hear it referred to as Blackville. It was home to more than a thousand people, of whom ninety-five percent were black, the remainder being whites and a handful of Hispanics living on the periphery.

The arrival of a pair of police cruisers inevitably attracted attention, and one of the neighbors confirmed to the officers that Sallie Kernigan had not been seen at the house over the weekend, or at least her car hadn’t been parked there, which meant she probably hadn’t returned to town after work on Friday. When Colson asked if this was common practice for Kernigan, the neighbor just shrugged. His name was Thomas Wesley Grant. That was how he identified himself: not as Thomas Grant, or Wesley Grant, or any diminution of either, but Thomas Wesley Grant. Colson vaguely recalled his face from around town, but couldn’t have put a name to it. After all, Thomas Wesley Grant had never been in trouble with the police, or come to them for aid, plus Colson had been with the department for only a year and was still getting to know the people she needed to know, which was mainly the criminals, the malcontents, and the lunatics. The rest, she had decided, could wait for more opportune circumstances.

‘What about her daughter?’ asked Naylor. ‘Have you seen her around?’

Thomas Wesley Grant scratched at the stubble on his chin. ‘She the one you found?’

Colson had resigned herself to the fact that no amount of discretion was going to prevent the dissemination of the news of another killing. The whole town would know about Donna Lee, by and by. She checked her watch and wondered what was keeping Pettle. He should have been with them by now, because they’d all left the scene at more or less the same time.

‘Can you just answer the question, sir?’ said Naylor. ‘It’s important.’

Thomas Wesley Grant thought for a while, his eyes fixed on the Kernigan house across the street.

‘No,’ he said at last, ‘I can’t say that I have.’

‘Do you recall when you last saw either of them?’

‘I saw Miss Sallie go to work shortly after seven on Friday morning, and I saw Donna Lee leave for school not long after. I eat my breakfast at the same time every day, and my table overlooks the street, which is how I know.’

‘Did you see Donna Lee return that afternoon?’

‘No, but I was out for most of the afternoon. I only know about the morning for sure.’

‘And did you notice anyone else come by the house?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you have a key to the Kernigan residence?’

‘No, sir, but I believe the Howards might. They live on the right. Mrs Howard and Miss Imogene, Donna Lee’s grandmother, are cousins.’

They thanked Thomas Wesley Grant for his time. Colson used her cell phone to get a number for the La Salle Paper Company in Malvern, and called to check if Sallie Kernigan had reported for work that morning. After some back-and-forth, a woman who sounded like she smoked sixty a day before gargling the ashes confirmed that Sallie hadn’t shown up yet, and was now nearly two hours late.

‘Is she often late?’ Colson asked.

‘People who are often late get fired,’ said the woman.

Colson thanked her, left a number for the Cargill PD, and requested that the secretary call should Sallie Kernigan appear.

While Colson was on the phone, Naylor was checking with Hindman High School to find out if Donna Lee had made it in on Friday, and if so, when had she left. Hindman was the only high school in Cargill. Its student body was black by a small majority, even though the school was named after Thomas Carmichael Hindman, an Arkansas congressman who commanded the Trans-Mississippi Department during the War of Northern Aggression – incurring the dislike of the state’s citizenry in the process due to his methods – but was guilty of a tactical error at the Battle of Prairie Grove that effectively resulted in Arkansas falling to Union forces. Hindman fled to Mexico, and was murdered upon his return to the state, probably by a former Confederate. All things considered, Naylor thought, the institution’s founders could have come up with a better eponym. But Hindman was a good school, and generally untroubled by racial tensions. It was only when its students traveled farther afield, usually on sporting occasions, that color became an issue and its players were subjected to taunts.

Naylor got through to the school principal, Mr Quarles, and informed him of Donna Lee’s death, although he stressed that they were still waiting for a family member to make a formal identification. Quarles passed Naylor to the school secretary, Mrs Huson, who confirmed Donna Lee Kernigan’s attendance the previous Friday, and also noted that the girl had band practice after class – she played the flute – and so had stayed until after 6 p.m. The secretary didn’t know how Donna Lee got home, but she checked with the music teacher, who informed her that he’d seen Donna Lee waiting at the corner and being picked up by someone in a truck, although as the evening was dark he didn’t notice the make or color, nor could he have identified the driver.

Once the officers had concluded their calls, Colson called Griffin to update him. The chief was on his way back to the station house, and told them to get the key to the Kernigan residence from the Howards and check it out, but to wear gloves and try not to disturb anything. Tucker McKenzie was grabbing some breakfast, but he’d be over there within the hour to conduct the forensic examination.

Mrs Irene Howard was an elderly, stooped woman, with a similarly stooped husband. Colson thought they looked like characters from a fairy story. Like Thomas Wesley Grant, they hadn’t seen any sign of Donna Lee or her mother since Friday, but Mrs Howard was more vocal in her disapproval of Sallie Kernigan’s lifestyle.

‘She drinks too much,’ she said. ‘She makes Miss Imogene worry for her.’

‘Uh-huh,’ agreed her husband.