The trees, p.14
The Trees, page 14
“Not forgiving enough. You?”
Gertrude brought out a tray with tea and crackers.
“Thank you,” Mama Z said. “You can leave us to talk now. Okay, my dear, sweet great-grandbaby.”
Gertrude left.
“I was asking after your religion,” Mama Z said as she poured the tea. “Are you a Christian?”
“I might be. I haven’t decided,” Hind said. “I’ll make up my mind when I’m as wise as you.”
“No one has ever called me ancient in a nicer way.” Mama Z smiled.
“Did we get off on the wrong foot or something?” Hind asked. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“There seems to be a tension here, between us. Like you perhaps don’t trust me. Do you trust me?”
Mama Z said nothing.
“Why not?” Hind asked.
“You’re from the FBI.”
“I’m also a Black woman,” Hind said.
“So you see my problem.”
“But I take it you don’t have a problem with Agents Morgan and Jones.”
“They’re not FBI.”
Hind sighed. “No, but they’re MBI. It’s all just letters, right?”
Mama Z looked at Hind for a couple of seconds, then called back into the house. “More hot water!”
“Is there reason for you to fear the FBI?”
“Is that rhetorical?”
“I suppose it is.”
“My father was lynched.”
“I’m sorry,” Hind said.
“Is that an official apology from the United States government?”
“From a Black woman.”
“Again,” Mama Z said, “you see my problem. That’s practically nothing. I’ve heard nothing, and it sounds just like that.”
“Don’t you think there should be some of us in places like the FBI, CIA, Congress?” Hind said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Bad company. I don’t keep bad company.”
61
The apartment house was nondescript insofar as it looked exactly like every other house on the block, a block that looked exactly like every other block in the neighborhood. Inside, the only distinguishing feature of apartment 3, upstairs to the right in the front of the building, was the yellow police tape stretched across the door and the red 8.5″ x 11″ green notice stapled to it. Moon let Davis step into the apartment first. Jim looked first at the light coming through the open blinds of the bay window on the street side, then around the room, recalling the crime scene photos.
“The body was over there, on the floor in front of the sofa,” Moon said, pointing with an open hand.
Jim nodded.
“It was gruesome all right, but the weird thing was just how clean everything appeared to be. I mean, there’s dust here now, but not so much then. And he’d been dead for over a week when he was discovered.”
Jim nodded. He studied the dried black blood on the throw rug and wood floor. “Why did it take so long to find him?”
“Nobody liked him, I guess. As for the stench, everybody thought a rat had died in the walls somewhere.”
“That makes sense,” Jim said. “Your gut tell you anything?”
Moon shook his head. “It was just ugly. The way that barbed wire—and it was nasty, old, and rusty barbed wire—was wrapped around his neck, it cut almost all the way through. You know what kind of force that would take?”
“I take it you do?”
“The guys in the crime lab say that two men pulling on either side couldn’t do it. What do you think of that?”
“I’m trying not to.” Jim stepped over and looked in the refrigerator. “Three cheap beers and a bottle of mustard.”
“The same as found.”
“Gourmet.”
“What’s your gut tell you?” Moon asked.
“Not a damn thing.”
“Where you going now?”
“Believe it or not, a place called the Acme Cadaver Company of Chicago. Want to come along? Actually, I’d like you to come. Your badge will be more impressive than my Mississippi shield.”
“Yeah,” Moon said. “I’m there.”
62
Ed Morgan stood outside the home of the coroner’s assistant, Dill. He knew him only as Dill. The man lived with his mother, whom everyone referred to always with her first and last names, Mavis Dill. The yard of the house was overgrown, shabby, and in need of water. There were several concrete benches in front of the house, more that seemed necessary or useful, one broken into a V. The midseventies Buick Riviera sat in the drive, close to the garage door, the right rear tire flat for some time. The trunk and rear bumper were covered with stickers: If Guns are Outlawed then Only Outlaws Will Have Guns; There Would Be No First Amendment if there was No Second Amendment; Defend America, Vote Republican; His Pain, Your Gain; When the Trumpet Sounds, I’m Outta Here; WHTE AM Radio; TRUMP for Precedent; My Other Car is Also a Buick. Behind the Riviera was a rusted-out midseventies Datsun B210.
Ed knocked.
Dill came to the door. He did not appear surprised to see the detective. “Which one are you?”
“The Black one,” Ed said.
Dill let out a snorting laugh. He stepped back to allow Ed to enter. “I heard y’all was funny,” he said.
They sat in what Dill called the front room, both on the sofa. Ed was beginning to get used to sitting beside the person he was interviewing. “Is your mother here? Seems everybody talks about her.”
“Yeah, they do. She’s asleep. Mavis Dill.” He said her name and let it hang in the air. “Why is she so well known?”
“I guess because she seems to know everybody’s business. Whether it’s her business or not. She’s the town gossip.”
“And everybody calls you just Dill. Do you have a first name?”
Dill nodded, sheepishly. “It’s Pick. My middle name is Leon.”
“Pick L. Dill? Okay, I see.”
Dill chuckled slightly. “School was tough.”
“I’ll bet.” Ed looked out the window. “Tell me about your boss.”
“He’s dead.”
“Before that.”
“Before that I wished he was dead. But I didn’t kill him. He was a piece of human shit, but I didn’t kill him.” Dill was unblinking.
“What didn’t you like about him?” Ed asked.
“There was nothing to like about him. He was an uneducated, faux-religious, bigoted fool who fell into the office of coroner and nested there. He assigned causes of death on a whim, never based on science. He was a criminal.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, he’s dead now, it’s not like you can arrest him, right?”
“I might try,” Ed said.
Dill laughed.
“Between you and me, I don’t even care who killed him. I just want to figure this mess out. It’s sort of my job.”
“You want some coffee? All I got is instant.” Dill was fidgety now. “No coffee, thanks. Something wrong?” Ed asked.
“No.”
“Give me an example of one of Fondle’s crimes.”
“Here’s the thing.” Dill leaned forward. “I’m worried about implicating myself. I mean, I did do what he told me to do. I didn’t want to lose my job.”
Ed offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Like I said, you could have killed Fondle yourself and I wouldn’t care. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on. Disappearing bodies is a new thing.”
“You got that right.” Dill took a long, deep breath. “About four years ago, a deputy called in to report a dead body in back of the old icehouse. It’s all abandoned now. Somebody tried to turn it into a dance hall some time back, but this is Money, Mississippi. No dancin’.”
“No?”
“You know why Baptists don’t fuck standin’ up?” Dill asked.
“Tell me.”
“They’re afraid somebody might think they’re dancin’.”
Ed nodded.
“Anyway, this Black man was dead in a dumpster, been shot in the back of his head. Thirty-eight or maybe a forty-five. Big hole.” Dill put his hand on the nape of his neck to show. “The deputy, he’s gone now, Jetty fired him, I think. He seemed real nervouslike. He talked to Fondle for a long time. And do you know what Fondle did?”
Ed shook his head.
“He typed suicide on the cause of death line. Just like that! Who shoots himself in the back of the head in a dumpster?”
“What was this deputy’s name?” Ed asked.
“I should have said something at the time. But who would I have said it to?”
“The deputy’s name?”
“Mustard or Ketchum? I remember it reminded me of a condiment. Mayo, that was it. Mayo. Don’t remember his first name. If I ever knew it.”
“He still around?”
“Gone for a long time.”
“The victim, what was his name?”
“Garth Johnson. I remember because I thought, Garth, that sounds like a White name, even though I know there ain’t such things as White and Black names, but you know what I mean.”
“I guess.”
“Like if a White guy had the name LaMarcus, you’d remember that, right?”
“I guess I would. Who identified the body?”
“We all knew him. He worked at the gas station. Lived in the Bottom, of course.”
“Did he have any family? Anybody come in to officially identify him?”
Dill shook his head. “If he had family, I didn’t know about them.”
Ed loosened his tie. He was angry.
“I’m sure that wasn’t the only time Fondle did something like that.”
“Other than you, who do you think might have wanted to kill Fondle?”
“Everybody, I guess.”
“How did he stay in office?” Ed asked.
“It’s hard to lose if you’re the only name on the ballot.”
“Do you know anyone who would have wanted Wheat Bryant or Junior Junior Milam dead?”
“They weren’t no prizes, but no.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dill.”
“You know I only came back to this shithole town to take care of my mother.”
Ed nodded.
63
Gertrude left before Special Agent Hind and Mama Z concluded their meeting. She drove Mama Z’s pickup because she had left her car in town to ride with the FBI woman. She drove south to the Bluegum. Though it was closed, she pressed a code into the keypad on the front door and entered. She walked through the dining room, then the kitchen, and then into a large well-lit room. Bright sun shone through an array of skylights. The walls were stark white, windowless, and the floor was covered with mats or varying thicknesses and colors. On the mats some twenty men and women dressed in black gis practiced martial arts. Two women sparred with long spears, heads swiveling wildly as they dodged the pointed weapons. Three hooded men practiced kicking rope-covered posts. Another man practiced disappearing. Gertrude knew this only because she had witnessed one of them fade into the shadows another day. Chester broke brick after brick with his forehead off in a far corner. Gertrude inhaled the sweat-filled air, smiled.
“Who let the White girl in?” a small woman asked.
“All right now,” Gertrude said. “Are we looking sharp?”
“Sharper than frog’s hair.”
A tall man walked over to Gertrude. He scratched his beard and said, “If it isn’t Dixie and Pixie.”
The shorter woman said, “You know I can kick your ass.”
“I wish she was joking,” the man said to Gertrude. “So, are we making a splash out there?”
“Yes.”
64
Damon Thruff wrote with a number 3 pencil sharpened with his Phi Beta Kappa penknife again and again. He scratched out names on a yellow legal pad. He scratched and scratched:
Bill Gilmer
Shedrick Thompson
Ed Lang
John Henry James
Charles Wright
Henry Scott
Arthur Young
George Dorsey
Mae Dorsey
Dorothy Malcom
Eugene Hamilton
Paul Booker
James Jordan
W. W. Watt
Lemuel Walters
George Holden
Will Wilkins
John Ruffin
Henry Ruffin
Eliza Woods
Anderson Gauss
Huie Conorly
Dago Pete
Laura Nelson
William Fambro
Isadore Banks
unknown male
Tony Champion
Michael Kelly
Andrew Ford
Henry Hinson
unknown male
Charles Willis
William Rawls
Alfred Daniels
Manny Price
Robert Scruggs
Jumbo Clark
Jack Long
Henry White
unknown male
Rev. Josh Baskins
Bert Dennis
Andrew McHenry
Stella Young
Abraham Wilson
George Buddington
Albert Martin
unknown male
unknown female
Richard Puryear
John Campbell
John Taylor
Ernest Green
Charles Lang
Ed Johnson
Andrew Clark
Alma Major
Maggie House
Nevlin Porter
Johnson Spencer
James Clark
Levi Harrington
Jack Minho
Elbert Williams
Will Brown
Wyatt Outlaw
John Stephens
Perry McChristian
Felix Williams
unknown male
Bartley James
John Campbell
Eugene Williams
Robert Robinson
Bob Ashley
Cleo Wright
Lemuel Walters
Benny Richards
Lloyd Clay
Henry Prince
Jim Waters
Frank Livingston
William Miller
Berry Washington
James Chaney
James Jordon
George Armwood
Sydney Randolph
George Taylor
James Carter
Emmett Divers
Smiles Estes
Dick Lundy
Jennie Steers
unknown male
16 adult men
John Peterson
Frank Morris
James Byrd Jr.
Albert Young
James Reeb
Frazier Baker
James Scott
Joseph Smith
Francis McIntosh
George White
Zachariah Walker
Tom Moss
unknown male
unknown male
Calvin McDowell
Elias Clayton
Elmer Jackson
Isaac McGhie
Will Stewart
John Holmes
Thurmond Thomas
Elijah Lovejoy
Amos Miller
Jim Taylor
Elwood Higginbotham
Wade Thomas
Nelson Patton
David Jones
Ephraim Grizzard
Samuel Smith
11 adult men
Angelo Albano
Ficarotta Villarosa
Lorenzo Saladino
Arena Salvatore
Giuseppe Venturella
Francesco DiFatta
Giuseppe DiFatta
Giovanni Cerami
Rosario Fiducia
Sanford Lewis
unknown male
Miles Phifer
Will Temple
Robert Crosby
John Heath
Matthew Williams
David Walker
David Walker’s wife
David Walker’s 4 children
George Grant
Raymond Gunn
Henry Lowry
Sam Hose
Jan Hartfield
Bunk Richardson
Lee Heflin
Mrs. Wise
Dave Tillis
George Hughes
William Shorter
Joseph Dye
Orion Anderson
H. Bromley
Allie Thompson
Charles Craven
“Well, the fuzz is gone,” Mama Z said as she entered the records room. She observed the open dossiers and Thruff’s disheveled appearance.
Damon looked up.
“The FBI lady,” Mama Z said. She studied Damon’s red eyes and then the pages in front of him again. “What are you doing?”
“I’m writing their names by hand.” Damon sharpened his pencil over a sheet of white paper.
Mama Z pulled the pad toward her and looked at the list. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“When I write the names they become real, not just statistics. When I write the names they become real again. It’s almost like they get a few more seconds here. Do you know what I mean? I would never be able to make up this many names. The names have to be real. They have to be real. Don’t they?”
Mama Z put her hand against the side of Damon face. “Why pencil?”
“When I’m done, I’m going to erase every name, set them free.”
“Carry on, child,” the old woman said.
Benjamin Thompson
John Parker
Joseph McCoy
Magruder Fletcher
Adam
Abraham Smith
Joe Coe
Emmett Till
Anthony Crawford
Leo Jew Foo
Leo Tim Kwong
Hung Qwan Chuen
Tom He Yew
Charles Wright
Claude Neal
Dick Rowland
Mar Tse Choy
Leo Lung Siang
Yip Ah Marn
Leo Lung Hor
Leo Ah Tsun
Leans Ding
Eli Persons
Fred Rochelle
Henry Smith
Jim McIlherron
Yuen Chin Sing
Hsu Ah Tseng
Chun Quan Sing
Jesse Washington
John Carter
July Perry
Leo Frank
Mary Turner
Rueben Stacey
Sam Carter
Slab Pitts
Thomas Shipp
