The trees, p.3
The Trees, page 3
“I don’t like being cramped,” Ed said.
“Then you need to lose seventy pounds. What about me?”
“Okay now.”
Ed and Jim were not officially partners, but they were often paired because they were both difficult for others to work with. They actually liked each other, though it was unclear if either liked anyone else. More important, they trusted each other. Each knew the other was not only a good cop but street savvy and quick to take action if a situation became dicey or dangerous.
Jim put a cigarette in his mouth but did not light it; he was trying to quit. “We’re going to confuse the hell out of these crackers. Driving into town in your mom’s car like this. You ever been to Money?”
“Fuck,” Ed said, “I never even heard of Money, Mississippi, until this morning. And lay off my damn car. It’s comfortable. I don’t care what you say. This motherfucker’s got three hundred thousand miles on it.”
“A thousand miles for every pound of your fat ass.”
Ed cut Jim an evil look. “Open up that damn file and remind me what we’re getting into.”
Jim pulled the thin blue folder from his hard-shell briefcase and opened it. “It appears the local yokels have lost a body. Murder. All pretty gruesome if these photos are real. A White man named Milam was killed in his home. Found by his wife. Body of a dead Black man found at the scene.”
“Same person kill both of them?”
“Doesn’t say. Does say that the White man’s testicles were severed and clenched in the fist of the Black man.”
Ed whistled. “Ouch. Kinky, though. Maybe they killed each other? Whose body is missing.”
“The Black man’s. Or, as it says here, ‘the Afro-American individual’s body appears to have been misplaced.’”
“COD?”
“Not specified. For either. Both were badly beaten,” Jim said.
“Do you think?” Ed said, looking from his driver’s seat at the photographs on his partner’s lap.
“Hey, I’m just reading the report, motherfucker. And keep your eyes on the road. The Black man’s corpse from the city morgue. Apparently there was no sign of anyone breaking into the place.”
“Obviously, the brother wasn’t dead,” Ed said. “Did he still have the cracker’s nuts in his hand when he left?”
“Does not say.”
Ed put down his window a bit. “You’re right, it is just a little close in here.”
“Goddamn, though,” Jim said. “The Black dude was really fucked up. That is the deadest-looking motherfucker I’ve ever seen.”
“God, I hope we don’t have to spend the night in this little peckerwood village,” Ed said as they rolled past a once-colorful sign that read Welcome to Money, It’s worth a visit!
“Keep your fingers crossed.”
The next sign was a billboard that read Pull a catfish out of the Little Tallahatchie! They’s good eating! Visit the Dinah!
“Save me, Jesus,” Ed said.
“You know you want you some,” Jim said.
“Shut the fuck up.” Ed glared at his partner and then they both laughed. “Yeah, you’re right.”
9
“Come on, Wheat, there is other folks in this house gotta use the toilet!” Charlene shouted at the closed door. “What you doin’ in there?”
“Tell that fool to get out of there,” Granny C said. She was on her walker now. The chair wouldn’t fit through the bathroom door. “Tell that dang fool I gotta pee and go number two.”
“Hot Mama Yeller, I gots to pee real bad,” little Wheat Junior said.
“Go on outside and piss in them bushes,” Charlene barked. She banged on the door again. “Wheat?”
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Granny C said.
“Somethin’s wrong,” Charlene said. “You children go on outside,” she said to her three daughters. She then went to the closet by the front door and grabbed a wire hanger. “Wheat, I’m coming in there.” She straightened the curve of the hanger and pushed the rod into the hole in the knob. Click.
“You got it,” Granny C said.
Charlene pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “What the hell?” she said. “It won’t open.”
“Push harder, girl,” Granny C said.
“I only weigh so much,” Charlene said.
“You weigh plenty.”
“Bitch,” Charlene let out under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Never mind.” Charlene put her feet against the opposite wall for leverage and was able to push the door open several inches.
“There’s blood on the floor!” Granny C said. “Oh, Jesus!”
“Wheat!” Charlene shouted. “Wheat, baby.” She managed a couple more inches and got her head inside to look. She screamed, “Oh, my fucking gawd!”
“Language!” Granny C said.
“Fuck you, old lady. Wheat is dead!”
“What? Oh, Lawdie!”
Charlene fell over herself getting to the phone on the wall in the kitchen. “My husband is in the shitter and he’s dead,” she said. “I live at the end of Nickel Road. I don’t know what happened. He’s just dead in there. I think he’s dead. He looks dead, sho ’nuff. They’s blood all over the place!”
Granny C was leaning on the bathroom door, one hand still on her walker. “Wheat? Get up.”
“What’s wrong, Hot Mama Yeller?” one of the daughters came in and asked. “Something wrong with Wheat?”
“Stay yo ass outside, Lulabelle!”
Charlene ran back to the bathroom door and pushed some more.
“Push harder, girl,” Granny C said.
“Why don’t you help me?” Charlene said.
Granny C let go of her walker and placed both palms against the door, but it didn’t help. “Oh, Lawd Jesus.”
10
Delroy Digby and Braden Brady hurried out of the police station. Brady ran into and bounced off Ed Morgan. He became momentarily angry and then regarded the size of the man who’d sent him sprawling.
“Come on, Brady,” Delroy said. “We gotta go.”
Ed and Jim walked on into the poorly lit station. They were greeted by a tall, small-shouldered woman with cat’s-eye glasses on a chain. “May I help you gentlemen?” she asked.
“We’re here to see Sheriff Jetty,” Jim said.
“I’ll see if he’s in.” She walked over to the open door of the sheriff’s office and said, “Two men here to see you. Are you in?”
“Well, I guess I have to be now, don’t I?” Jetty said. He stepped into the doorway. He was momentarily surprised by the appearance of the men, but recovered quickly. “You two from Hattiesburg?”
“I’m Special Detective Jim Davis and this is Special Detective Ed Morgan. We’re from the MBI.”
“Special detectives,” Jetty repeated.
“And that’s not just because we’re Black,” Jim said. “Though plenty true because we are.”
This put Jetty off-balance. The receptionist, whose name was really and from birth Hattie Berg, spat out a sudden chuckle.
“Go on back to the phone, Hattie,” Jetty said.
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“Well, come on in.” Jetty stepped aside to let the men into his office. “I wish I could offer you something, but I won’t.”
“What was all that excitement out there?” Ed asked. “Your deputies nearly ran us over, they in such a hurry.”
“Don’t know yet. Call just come in.” Jetty gestured for them to sit.
“Let’s just get to it,” Jim said. “What do you have?”
“Nothing. That’s why the big shots sent you two hotshots here. I assume you’ve read the file.”
“We’ve read it,” Jim said.
“Obviously, the African-American individual was not dead,” Ed said.
“You didn’t see him,” Jetty said.
“I’ll grant you he looked dead in the photo,” Jim said. “But looking dead is not the same thing as, well, being dead.”
“Thank you for that,” Jetty said.
“You did fingerprint the man,” Ed said.
“Yes, and we come up empty.”
“Anybody fitting his general description reported missing?” Ed asked. “You know, five-six Black man, blue suit, dead.”
Jetty shook his head. “It seems everybody around here is accounted for, living and dead. Not that there was much of a general or normal description to report.” Jetty looked at Ed and then at Jim. “Would you special detectives like to go out to see where these crimes took place?”
Jim looked at Ed. “Well, we’ve come all this way.”
Jetty lit a cigarette. “You know, because you never can tell what us hillbillies might have missed.”
Ed looked at Jim, said, “He does have a point.”
“A good point.”
“Smart-asses,” Jetty said.
“He wanted to say uppity. Didn’t he want to say uppity? I could hear it even though he didn’t say it,” Jim said to Ed.
“Yeah, he did,” Ed said. “That’s not all I heard him say. Sheriff, you didn’t say what I think you didn’t say, did you?”
“You guys got an attitude problem,” Jetty said.
“At the very least,” Jim said.
11
“He’s in the bathroom,” Charlene told the deputies.
Granny C was now sitting on her wheelchair in the front room, crying, shaking, rocking back and forth.
“You think he’s dead,” Brady said, following Charlene.
“He’s on the floor blockin’ the door, and I cain’t budge him,” Charlene said. “He was in there for so long.”
At the door, Delroy tried to get his head inside for a look. “There’s a lot of blood, but I can’t see shit. Help me push, Brady.”
The deputies put all of their weight against the door. There was stiff resistance at first, then the door moved quickly, almost like Wheat’s body just broke and fell over. The room smelled of shit and toothpaste.
Delroy stepped fully inside. “Fuck me,” he said.
“What is it?” Charlene asked, pressing forward.
“Don’t let her come in here,” Delroy said to Brady.
Brady held Charlene back. “What is it?” he asked Delroy.
“Fuck me,” Delroy repeated.
“Stop sayin’ that and say somethin’,” Brady said. “Is he dead?”
“Oh yeah, he’s dead.”
Charlene screamed. That caused Granny C to scream in the other room. “What happened?” Charlene cried.
“Jesus,” Delroy said.
“Come the fuck out of there and let me look,” Brady said.
Delroy backed out and took Brady’s place holding Charlene back.
Brady took a deep breath, like he was going underwater, and entered the bathroom. “What the fuck?”
“What is it?” Charlene screamed.
“Call the sheriff, Delroy. Call him now.”
12
Hattie called to the sheriff as he was leading the MBI agents out of the station. “It’s Delroy,” she said. “He says you need to get out to Wheat Bryant’s place pronto.”
“He say why?”
“No, but he sounded plenty excited.”
“He gettin’ shot at?”
“I don’t think so,” Hattie said. “Didn’t say nothin’ about gettin’ shot at. I didn’t hear no gunfire.”
Jetty turned to Ed and Jim. “Why don’t you boys go down the street and grab some lunch? I gotta tend to somethin’.”
“You want us to come along?” Ed asked.
“No, that’s all right, Special Detective, I think we bumpkins can handle our situation,” Jetty said.
“He sound a little sarcastic to you?” Jim asked Ed.
“Little bit,” Ed said. “I wouldn’t mind eating.”
Jim smiled at Ed.
“Here’s my card,” Ed said to the sheriff. “Cell number is on it. Call us when you’re ready for us.”
“You can believe I’ll do that,” Jetty said.
13
Behind the cash register in the Dinah at the near end of a long counter was a large photograph of a large White woman dressed in white pants and a white apron that looked like a tent. Her apron was embroidered with a big red letter D, and under that was embroidered Fat and Happy.
The place was fairly full. A Black couple nodded to the men as they entered. Ed and Jim sat at the counter and grabbed menus.
A slender, smiling waitress came to them with a pot of coffee. “Y’all want some of this?”
“Please,” Ed said.
Jim pushed his mug toward her. “I take it that’s Dinah,” he said, nodding toward the photo.
“Naw, that there’s Delores. She opened this Dinah a long time ago. Before I was born. She could fry a hell of a catfish, they say. Couldn’t spell worth a damn.”
“Understood,” Ed said.
“So, what will you two sophisticates have?” she asked.
“I think I will have to have the catfish,” Ed said. “Tell me, is it fried?”
“Fried? It comes with a side of angioplasty.”
Ed and Jim laughed.
Jim looked at the waitress’s name tag: Dixie. “For some reason, I don’t think that’s your name.”
“And you’d be right,” she said. “Dixies get better tips than Gertrudes.”
“Well, Gertrude, you seem appropriately out of place here,” Jim said. “I’m hoping we seem out of place too.”
“Well said,” she said. “And what will you have?”
“How is the chili?” Jim asked.
“Do you like chili?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then you will hate the chili here. Catfish or burger?”
“Cheeseburger,” Jim said.
“Do you like cheese?” Gertrude asked.
“Burger.”
“Wise choice. And what about you?” she asked Ed.
“Catfish.”
“Coming up.” She turned and walked back into the kitchen.
“She’s cute,” Jim said.
“May I remind you that we’re in Money, Mississippi. Maybe I should say that again: Money, Mississippi. The important part of that is the word Mississippi. You do understand what I’m saying?”
“This is the twenty-first century,” Jim said.
“Yeah, well, tell that to those fuckers back there in Trump caps.”
“At least there’s some color in this joint. I mean besides us.” Jim looked at the walls. They were covered with photos from the fifties and sixties and old tin product signs: Nehi soda, Blue Ribbon biscuit mix. There were also weirdly colorized photographs of Elvis Presley and Billy Graham.
“So, are we clichés too?” Jim asked.
“No, we’re dinosaurs, but we’re not clichés.”
Gertrude came back with the food.
“That was fast,” Ed said.
“Luckily we’d already caught the fish,” she said. “So, what are you two doing here in Money?”
“I hate to tell you, but we’re cops,” Jim said.
“Why do you hate to tell me?”
Jim sipped some coffee and put down his mug. “Because people either love cops or hate them. It’s been my experience that most interesting people hate them. Hell, I’m a cop and I hate them.”
“Me too,” Ed said. “I especially hate him. Hate myself too, on occasion.”
“So you think I’m interesting?” Gertrude said to Jim.
Jim, caught, looked at Ed, then said, “I guess that’s right.”
“I’m going to get you some extra fries.”
“I’m telling you to be careful,” Ed said.
“I can’t help it if I exude charm.”
“Well, do me and yourself and maybe Dixie there a favor and try not to do so much exuding.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jim said. “You just control your intake of fatty foods.”
14
Delroy was waiting in the front yard when Jetty crunched to a stop on the gravel. The deputy was visibly agitated as he walked out to meet the sheriff.
“What’s so damn urgent?” Jetty asked.
“Another one.”
“Another what?”
“Another murder. Wheat Bryant.”
Jetty shook his head and stared at the house like it was on fire. “What the freegone fuck is going on?”
“That’s not all,” Delroy said.
“What else?”
“You just have to see.”
“Don’t be playin’ games with me, Digby.”
“Really, Sheriff, you just gotta see this.”
Jetty followed Delroy through the front door and past the still-wailing Granny C. Charlene leaned against the wall outside the bathroom.
“It’s Wheat, Sheriff. Wheat is dead,” Charlene said.
“I’m sorry,” Jetty said. “Go on outside and tend to your babies. We’ll take care of things in here.”
“I reckon I’ll do that. That’s Wheat in there, Sheriff. That’s my husband in there. I’m so cold.” She folded her bare arms over her yellow halter top. “I’m gonna go get me a sweater and go outside with the babies like you said.”
“You do that,” Jetty said. When she was gone he stepped into the bathroom. His boot skidded just a bit in the blood, and then he froze.
“See,” Delroy said.
“What kinda fuckin’ pig shit is goin’ on here?” Jetty said.
Wheat was certainly a disturbing sight, dead and bloody as he was, barbed wire around his neck just like Junior Junior. But in the tub, sitting back to faucet knobs, was the same Black man they had found with Junior Junior Milam. The same battered-beyond-recognition Black man in the same dirt-encrusted blue suit, holding another set of testicles in his bloody, stiff, Black fist.
“What’s goin’ on, Sheriff?” Brady asked.
“I do not know.” Jetty stepped out of the room and looked long at Delroy. “Get Jethro out here to dust for prints and take pictures again. And call Fondle.”
“And tell him what?”
“Jesus, Delroy. He’s the coroner. I think he’ll know why we want him.”
“I mean do you want me to tell him about the, you know, the nigger being back?” Delroy said.
