Natchez Burning

  “I’ll do the talking.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “SLOW DOWN, GODDAMN IT!” Snake ordered. “Ain’t nobody chasing us.”

  Sonny Thornfield eased off the gas as he approached the shore of Old River, where he maintained a fishing camp that almost no one in the world knew he owned. Though it stood only a few miles from where Glenn Morehouse had died, no one could find them here in ten years of searching.

  The clammy sweat of panic still soaked Sonny’s shirt, which made it miserable inside his coat. He and Snake had been only halfway to the tree line behind Wilma’s house when the ambulance came barreling up the gravel road, red lights flashing. Sonny worried that in the chaos of the death scene, Wilma might break down and tell the paramedics everything. Snake disagreed.

  “She handled it pretty good, I thought,” he said. “Wilma’s a tough old girl. You wouldn’t think it to look at her now, but she was a fine-lookin’ thing back in her day.”

  “I remember,” Sonny said dully. “I can still see her in her bathing suit out by Lake Bruin.”

  Snake grunted. “She was a decent piece of ass, in a pinch.”

  “I never got to find out.”

  “You’re about the only one.” Snake stuffed his hands into his pockets and sucked at the cigarette clamped between his teeth.

  “I wish I hadn’t seen Glenn that way,” Sonny said, peering into the darkness to the left of his headlights. All the camp houses here were built on thirty-foot stilts to escape the perennial flooding from the backwaters of the Mississippi.

  “Yeah,” Snake said, toying with his heater vent. “But damn, he fought like a demon at the end, didn’t he? Sumbitch picked me right up off the floor!”

  Sonny tried to suppress the awful memory. “Remember back in the summer of sixty-four, when we tested that C-4 during those family picnics?”

  Snake laughed. “Hell, yeah! I’d wrap that Primacord around a stump and cut the top right off, like slicing sausage for jambalaya. The kids loved it.”

  “Glenn loved that even more than they did. He was like a kid himself.”

  Snake nodded in the dashboard light. “He always was the weakest of us, though. But he’s gone now. Best forgotten.”

  Sonny wished this were possible. All he could see was his old friend’s last moments on earth. After his sister injected the PICC line’s port with fentanyl, Snake and Sonny had held the emaciated giant down for another twenty seconds. Then his arms had gone limp, and he’d sagged back against the mattress, breathing only once every fifteen seconds or so.

  “Can he hear me?” Wilma had asked in a cracked voice.

  Snake leaned over their old comrade, then stuck a finger under his jaw. “If you’ve got anything to tell him, you better say it quick.”

  She shoved Sonny out of the way, then climbed onto the bed and lay beside her brother. Cradling Glenn’s head against her breasts, she began to sing, so softly that Sonny couldn’t recognize the tune. He thought it might be a hymn, but the more he heard, the more it sounded like a children’s song. Snake was shouting from the door that they should go, but Sonny couldn’t pull himself away.

  “Get out,” Wilma said coldly. “Get out, you bastards.”

  After a last look at the eerie tableau, Sonny bolted and followed Snake through the back door at a run. He could still hear the screen door slam in the night, its screeching spring like the howl of a tortured soul.

  “Looks like the water’s rising,” Snake said, staring out over the moonlit backwater. “Temperature’s dropping, too. Might be good fishing tomorrow.”

  Sonny had always known he was different from Snake, but in that moment he wanted to leap from the truck and run until he’d forever separated himself from this man who had led him into so much violence. But it was far too late for that. He was bound inextricably to Snake, as surely as to his own blood.

  “Might be,” Sonny said, his throat parched with fear. “Maybe we’ll go out early.”

  CHAPTER 23

  HENRY SEXTON AND I sit locked in his war room, waiting for an escort from the Concordia Parish Sheriff’s Office. It took me a couple of minutes to reach Sheriff Dennis, who sounded as amazed as the 911 operator to get a call from the mayor of Natchez. I said nothing to him about the possible murder of one of Henry’s sources, but I did tell him I was concerned for Henry’s safety. The sheriff agreed to send a cruiser around to escort us home within ten minutes.

  “They really killed him, didn’t they?” Henry says in a dazed voice.

  “I’d say so. After decades of silence, this guy decides to open up to a reporter investigating unsolved murders in which he was involved. Then he dies that very night?”

  “His cancer was terminal,” Henry says halfheartedly. “Maybe the stress of today pushed him into some fatal event. I mean—”

  “Henry, wake up. They killed him.”

  The reporter looks at me like a sailor who doesn’t want to admit that a hurricane is headed his way. “They must have found out he talked to me today. Which means I killed him.”

  “Don’t even start down that road. He lived by the sword, he died by it.”

  He squints at me as if trying to decide whether we’re two different kinds of men.

  “Do you have any idea who might have blown your source to the Double Eagles?”

  Henry stares blankly at the cracked tile floor. “I know Glenn didn’t trust his sister.”

  “Glenn?”

  Henry shakes his head at the absurdity of trying to keep a dead man’s name secret. “Glenn Ed Morehouse.” Rising from his chair, he stabs the heaviest of the men in the group of pictures he tapped only a few minutes ago. In the photo beneath his finger, a man with the corn-fed build and flattop haircut of an offensive lineman from the golden age of Ole Miss football stares out with irrepressible good humor.

  “One the four founding Double Eagles,” Henry says. “Frank Knox gave him his gold piece five days after the Neshoba County bodies were found. I saw that coin this morning, Penn. The man was in torment over the things he’d done.”

  “Well, he’s at peace now. You need to think about yourself for a change.”

  “There was so much I still needed to ask him.”

  Don’t go there, either, I say silently, cursing Henry’s failure to record the answers to the questions he did ask.

  “Are you sure we can trust Sheriff Dennis?” he asks worriedly. “Ever since Huey Long’s time, the sheriffs have run this parish like a third-world dictatorship. At one point, there were no jury trials for nine years straight. And the Kiwanis types didn’t care, so long as the country club stayed white and blacks moved to the other side of the street when a white man walked down it. Things have changed on the surface, but that Magnolia Queen mess you exposed back in October makes me wonder.”

  “You’re being paranoid, Henry. The old sheriff and six deputies have been indicted. Walker Dennis was the one deputy that everybody in this parish agreed was clean. That’s why they appointed him.”

  Henry doesn’t look convinced. “But they’re all out on bail right now. And all that dogfighting and prostitution … how could Walker Dennis not have known about that?”

  “Maybe he did,” I concede. “A lot of people probably knew about it, on both sides of the river. But it’s pretty hard to fight the current when everybody else is swimming downstream.”

  “And the meth stuff?” he asks, looking far from reassured. “How could the Knoxes be moving that much stuff without Sheriff Dennis’s knowledge?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me more about their operation.”

  “Morehouse said it’s a big-time drug ring. They supply dealers statewide, and possibly in Arkansas and Texas as well. Crystal meth is their main product, but God only knows what else they’re into.”

  “Meth trafficking carries heavy mandatory sentences. A DA could pressure the hell out of the Double Eagles by offering immunity on the trafficking charges in exchange for information on the old civil rights crimes—not to mentio
n Viola’s death. We need to keep that in mind as we go forward.”

  Henry nods skeptically.

  “Who leads the Knox organization now?”

  “Morehouse said Billy Knox runs the drug ring.”

  “Who’s Billy Knox?”

  “Snake’s son. About your age. He’s a legitimate businessman, according to his 1040. He’s into everything from timber to TV production. He uses old Eagles in the meth operation, probably because he knows he can trust them. Guys like Snake and Sonny Thornfield own front businesses that shield the operation. Car dealerships, Snake’s crop-dusting operation, that kind of thing.”

  “Perfect for laundering drug profits. Also for purchasing and moving precursor chemicals. We might just have to give this operation a little scrutiny, depending on how things go.”

  Henry shakes his head like a man trying to come to grips with a new world. “We’ll have to be damn careful. Morehouse said the drug operation has powerful protection.”

  “From whom? Brody Royal?”

  “In part, maybe. You may not know this, but the district attorney of this parish is married to one of Brody Royal’s nieces.”

  “Oh, God. Have you checked the court record for any signs of corruption on his part?”

  Henry shrugs. “He seems pretty clean. I don’t think he’s the heavyweight protection for the meth trade. The Knox people are never even arrested.”

  “Who’s shielding them?”

  Henry’s eyes lock on to mine. “Remember Forrest Knox?”

  This takes me a minute. “The kid who witnessed the plane crash? Frank’s son?”

  “Right. You know what he does for a living now?”

  “No idea.”

  “He’s a lieutenant colonel in the Louisiana State Police. Director of their Criminal Investigations Bureau.”

  This seems too absurd to believe, yet it must be true. Henry’s eyes are shining with perverse satisfaction. “How the hell could Forrest Knox rise so high in law enforcement with his family pedigree?”

  “This is Louisiana, brother. The land of Edwin Edwards and David Duke.”

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  “No. Forrest was a war hero, for one thing. Vietnam, Silver Star. For another, he worked his whole life to distance himself from his relatives—at least in public. The Double Eagle connection always dogged him, but his political instincts are so good that he managed to rise above it. Forrest and Snake supposedly hate each other, and have no recorded contact except at family funerals. But Billy and Forrest sometimes get together at a fancy hunting camp they own in Lusahatcha County. And it seems awful coincidental that a big-time drug dealer never seems to get arrested in a state where his cousin is chief of the most powerful criminal investigative agency.”

  “Bottom line, if we push the Knox family, they’ll push back.”

  Henry nods slowly.

  We sit in demoralized silence for a bit, but beneath my disappointment about Morehouse’s death, I can’t help but feel anxious to speak to both Shad Johnson and my father. If Henry is right, and Lincoln Turner mistakenly believes he’s my father’s son, then I know what Shad is using as motive to make the case for premeditated murder. He actually believes my father killed Viola to hide Lincoln’s paternity. This theory has more than one hole in it, but I can see how Shad would latch on to it. I need to explode that notion as soon as possible.

  “You’re thinking about your father, aren’t you?” Henry says, almost accusingly.

  “I am. You’ve been a tremendous help to him tonight, Henry.”

  “Are you still going to confront him about the Brody Royal connection?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And will you tell me what you find out?”

  “If it bears on any of these murders, I will. I promise you that.”

  He gets up and pours what’s left of the coffee out of the carafe, his right hand trembling. “The sheriff sure seems to be taking his time sending that deputy. You think we’re okay?”

  “I’d feel better if I had a pistol. But I think we’re all right.”

  He nods dispiritedly.

  “Henry, I’m not going to abandon you on these cases. Not even if I get Shad to drop the case against my father.”

  No response.

  “Tell me something,” I say, trying to distract him. “If there was one thing you could have tomorrow, as if by magic, what would it be? I don’t mean Glenn Morehouse brought back to life. I’m talking about the realm of the possible. What would be most valuable to you? Nonredacted FBI files?”

  The reporter pooches out his lower lip, then rubs his mustache. “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “I’d want the Jericho Hole drained. Or dragged, anyway.”

  This surprises me. “Tell me why.”

  “If we had the missing bodies, the FBI would be forced to reopen all the cases and go at them full bore. The political pressure would be unbearable if they didn’t. I consider two dump sites ground zero for these cases, forensically speaking. One is the Jericho Hole. The other is a place called the Bone Tree, in the Lusahatcha Swamp. The Bone Tree is probably the better spot, and there’s some chance that it might stand on federal land.”

  “That would mean federal jurisdiction. That’s always the better path in these kinds of cases.”

  “I know, but we won’t find the Bone Tree without a battalion of National Guard troops. And today Morehouse told me I’d hit pay dirt at both places.”

  “Who do you think was dumped in the Jericho Hole?”

  “Luther Davis’s Pontiac was never found after he and Jimmy vanished. I’ve often wondered if the Eagles didn’t sink one or both boys somewhere in that car. Why not the Jericho Hole? Joe Louis Lewis could be down there, too. Given the mineral content of the water, I wouldn’t be surprised if those bones had stayed preserved all these years. We might just get lucky. The problem is, the Jericho Hole’s on private property. But why did you bring this up? Do you think you can get the FBI to search that hole?”

  “Not without more concrete evidence. But I know a guy who used to work as a commercial diver. An ex-marine. He’s got some sonar-type equipment. I’ll see what he can do for us. But we’re not going to mention this to anybody. Not unless we find something. Then I think we’re obligated to share it with the Bureau.”

  “I’m fine with that, so long as we can get a good look at it first. Take some pictures.”

  “You’ll get all the time you need, Henry.”

  Rather than look relieved, the reporter splays both hands on the worktable and leans over it, his face pale. “Penn, I need to tell you one more thing.”

  My stomach clenches in dread. “About my father?”

  “No. You may think I’m crazy, but I have to say this. Glenn Morehouse told me something else about the Robert Kennedy operation. He said that Snake refused to stand down when Royal ordered him to. Snake still wanted a public death for Jimmy Revels, something that would bring RFK or Dr. King to town for the funeral. He said that if the Eagles stood down, then Frank had died for nothing. Snake refused to toe the line until Ray Presley delivered a personal ultimatum from Carlos Marcello. Whatever Ray said did the trick, but Snake still didn’t like it. That’s why Jimmy and Luther suffered so terribly before they died. Anyway, according to Morehouse, Snake never let Frank’s plan drop. He swore he was going to finish the job for his brother. We know Sirhan killed Bobby two months later, like you said. That was a close-range hit, and even conspiracy theorists agree on who was in that kitchen that night. And that was L.A., of course. Another world.”

  “But …?”

  “Martin Luther King died just four or five days after Jimmy and Luther did. Snake Knox was in a homicidal rage. And Dr. King was one of Frank Knox’s original targets, dating back to 1964.”

  I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “You’re not seriously suggesting that Snake Knox killed Martin Luther King?”

  Henry gives me a look that brings a rush of heat to
my face. “Hear me out, will you? I know of three different people Snake told that he fired the fatal shot in Memphis that day.”

  “Oh, that’s just whiskey talk.”

  “That’s what I’ve always figured, too. But it’s not like Snake has been bragging about this all his life. The first time he claimed it to anyone but an Eagle was only three years ago. But he told Morehouse a long time before that. After Glenn called me back, I did a quick read-up on the James Earl Ray case. Dr. King’s own family doesn’t believe Ray killed him. And I took a look at some of the crime scene evidence before you came over. There’s a real possibility that King was shot from the roof of the nearby Fred P. Gattis Building.”

  “Jesus, Henry. And?”

  “Well … Memphis is only six hours from Natchez by car—two by air. Snake was a crop duster. He could have flown up there and back with no one the wiser. And he was a trained sniper.”

  I’m shaking my head even before he finishes speaking. “All circumstantial. Do you have anything concrete?”

  “Nobody knows where Snake was that day. He didn’t report to work at Triton, but nobody made a fuss because Frank’s funeral had been the previous Sunday. Everybody figured he was laid up drunk somewhere.”

  “Have you asked the FBI about Snake’s claims?”

  Henry shakes his head. “They wouldn’t tell me anything even if they knew. And if they don’t know, they’d think I’m a nut job.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So? What do you think?”

  “I think this is a distraction. And it’s unprovable. Even if Snake confessed, you’d never know whether he was telling the truth or just trying to get on TV. Besides, my gut says the time window is too short. For two gunmen to have been there implies a conspiracy. Snake couldn’t have thrust himself into a conspiracy in four or five days, no matter how angry he was. The alternative is coincidence, and I hate coincidence.”

  Henry looks like he wants to let go of the idea, but can’t quite do it. “What if Snake had hoped to lure King down to Jimmy’s funeral as well as Kennedy? When it all went bad, he decided to take revenge on the closest target of opportunity.”