Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“We ought to charge admission,” Jewel says bitterly. Seeing my quivering chin, she squeezes my arm above the elbow and says, “Tent’s on the way.”

Her small gesture of compassion cracks the armor plating I buckled over my emotions back at the foot of the ladder. Deep within me, a caustic soup of guilt and rage boils upward, searching for an outlet. Jewel squeezes my arm harder.

“Easy now.”

“We grew up together,” I whisper by way of explanation.

Jewel nods in sympathy. “I imagine this boy had a tough time growing up. I used to work with his daddy some. Never liked Dr. Jessup. Cold as an old-time scalpel.”

Jewel has cut right to the heart of Tim’s family. The corpse lying on the ground was alive for forty-five years, but the soul that occupied it until tonight never managed to escape boyhood.

“Stay in touch?” I ask.

Jewel gives me a sad smile of encouragement. “You know I will.”

I turn and walk back to the dim perimeter of the light, where Chief Logan stands talking to a man in the shadows. As I near the pair, I realize that the newcomer is Shadrach Johnson, Natchez’s district attorney, the man I defeated for mayor two years ago. The scars from our campaigns still sting, but our troubled history predates that election by five years.

“Well, look who we’ve got here,” Shad says with mocking reverence. “You’re out mighty late considering all the mayoral duties you'’ve got this weekend.”

Shad was born in Natchez but moved to Chicago while he was still a boy. He attended college there on scholarship and worked as a big-firm lawyer until he was forty, when he returned to Natchez to run for mayor. His Southern accent waxes and wanes with his moods and motives. As usual, he’s dressed to the nines, wearing an expensive suit and tie on a weekend when most people are dressed like fans at a Jimmy Buffett concert.

“Why don'’t we skip the bullshit tonight?” I ask. “Tim Jessup was a friend.”

“My condolences,” Shad says without empathy. “Seems like an odd friendship to me, the mayor of the city and a no-count blackjack dealer.”

I take a deep breath and focus on Logan. “Could I speak to you alone, Chief?”

Logan starts to step away, but Shad catches hold of his arm. “Not so fast, Chief. You need to finish my briefing here, and that might take a while.”

“I just need a minute,” I add with as much civility as I can muster.

“Well, Mr. Mayor,” Shad says with relish, “you’re just going to have to wait. I know you’re not accustomed to waiting, but I

am

the chief law enforcement officer of Adams County.”

I pointedly ignore Shad, keeping my eyes on Logan. “Did you find anything else on Jessup besides his cell phone?”

The chief shakes his head.

“If somebody stole his wallet, it seems like they’d take his phone too.”

“Seems like,” Logan agrees.

“Could I see his phone?”

“You know that’s a police matter,” Shad interjects. “You expecting them to find something special?”

The anger I felt beside Tim’s body is reaching critical mass, and the DA is too convenient a target. I need to get away from him as fast as possible.

“No, but I'm going to inform the widow in a few minutes. I’d like to be able to answer her questions and pass along any personal effects. Knowing the circumstances of his death would help.”

Logan’s alert gaze is on me again, but he says nothing further. He glances at Shad, who gives a slight nod.

“There were twentysome-odd people up on the balcony at Bowie’s,” the chief says. “Plus a couple over there in the gazebo, making out. There were probably some other people on the bluff too, but we haven'’t got them separated from the mob yet. Thank God, the big doors of the bar were closed to enforce their cover charge. “

“What did the wits see?”

“Different things, of course. Or different versions of the same thing. After listening to everybody, the best I can figure is this. A tan or light-colored SUV, probably a Lincoln Navigator, came down

Broadway from the direction of the Callon building. Nobody was paying much attention at that point. Then about a hundred feet past the gazebo, the SUV skidded to a stop. It squealed loud enough to make people turn. The guy on the gazebo saw Jessup running from Broadway toward the fence. He must have jumped out of the SUV. Then a second guy jumped out of the backseat and started to chase him. The second guy stopped in the grass. Jessup was screaming for help by then. The guy on the bandstand called 911, but we couldn'’t get here fast enough to do anything.”

Logan pauses as if expecting me to question his department’s response time, but I motion for him to continue.

“By this time people on the balcony were looking in that direction, but there are a few trees up there, so they couldn'’t see a lot. It looked like the guy chasing Jessup disappeared under the trees. He must have been getting closer because Jessup climbed over the fence and started running along the ledge toward Silver Street. Nobody’s sure whether the second guy ran up to the fence or not. Half the witnesses figured Jessup and the other guy were just drunks horsing around.”

“But the guy in the gazebo called 911.”

“His wife made him do it,” Logan explains. “Anyhow, for whatever reason, Jessup stopped on the ledge. He was twisting around like he was fighting an invisible man—that’s what the guy in the gazebo said—and then he went over the edge. That'’s it. For now anyway.”

I look up to the ledge forty feet above and try to imagine Tim desperate enough to make that leap voluntarily. If the man chasing him had been torturing him, Tim might have leapt from the ledge in the hope that he could clear the drainage ditch and hit the limbs of the trees beyond it. But the odds of death would still be high. The logical thing would have been to run back toward the tavern, or even down the ledge along Silver Street. Cars travel that hill at all hours, and he might have flagged someone down.

“Did anybody see the plates on the vehicle?”

Logan shakes his head. “The SUV got out of here in a hurry. Nobody’s even sure it had Mississippi plates.”

“Damn. What do you make of all that?” I ask, more to observe Logan’s reaction than to learn anything valuable.

“Could be a lot of things. Jessup was a known drug abuser.”

“He’s been clean for a year.”

Shad Johnson, quiet up to now, snorts in derision. “Jessup rear-ended a friend of mine a couple months back, and my friend swears he was fucked-up at the time.”

Tim was high two months ago?

“Did the police do a blood test?”

Shad shakes his head. “Wasn’t that much damage. And Jessup wasn'’t worth suing. He didn't have anything but debts.”

Logan winces. He doesn’'t like being caught between us.

“This could have resulted from any kind of dispute,” the DA speculates. “Argument over a woman. Jessup’s dealer taking the price of dope out of his ass. I expect we’ll know by Monday or Tuesday.”

“Have you done a grid search around the body?” I ask Logan.

“Best we could. We didn't find anything within throwing distance, but there’s a lot of damn kudzu and trees down there. If he threw something full force from the top of the bluff, it’ll take daylight to find it.” Logan stops speaking, but his engineer’s eyes ask me what I think Tim might have been carrying. “If he threw something with some weight, he might have thrown it all the way to the river.”

“Dope doesn’'t weigh that much,” Shad says. “Not throwing size, anyway. You’ll find his stash in the morning, if the rats and coons don'’t eat it first.”

“What are

you

doing at this crime scene?” I ask pointedly. “You usually stay away from the dirty work.”