The Rivers Webb (5 page)

Funny thing about backwoods counties and country towns, roads were always an afterthought. John Webb couldn't have known this, so he assumed that the quickest route between any two points would be by road. Dan Merrill knew better. For every winding, nonsensically designed road in Georgia there were a hundred horse tracks, laid out as straight as an arrow's path. When Webb turned left on Funeral Line Road, he knew there wouldn't be another turn or stop for another twelve miles. Plenty of time to “borrow” one of Ed Nelson's horses and make his way toward Creek Bed Road, which was the next crossroads.

Sure enough, Dan beat the good detective and traced him just another mile further, where he pulled off and made his way down to the very spot where Dan had first met Webb, just shy of the bridge where Reverend Rivers had been shot. Dan hadn't planned on spying on anyone today; otherwise he would have had his field glasses to see up close. As it was, he had to content himself with peeking out from a safe vantage point. But he could still make out Webb, still clutching that damn paper, working his way along the edge of the river towards Parrot River Bridge. He was looking down at the rocks. Looking, as though the whole fate of the world was down there. He waded into the river, got down on his knees. Dan didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for, but it was important.

Dan watched for a few minutes, until Webb froze in place. His hands were clearly trembling, even from this distance, as he plunged his fist into the water and brought up…

Dan had no idea. Webb moved around so that his back blocked the view, and whatever it was that he found, was tucked into his jacket before Dan could see it. And then the show was over. Webb got out of the water, walked up to the car, and drove off toward town. Leaving poor Deputy Dan to wonder. With more questions than answers, Dan worked his way back up to the horse, then headed back to old Ed Nelson's to return the horse.

*

Had he stayed but a few minutes longer, Dan would have had yet another question to add to his list, because within moments of driving away from that quiet stretch of water, John Webb coasted onto the Parrott River Bridge. With Dan now gone, no one was there to bear witness as John got out of the car and came over to the edge of the bridge.

The weather had done a fine job of clean up, but John's trained eye was still able to make out the brownish discoloration that he knew to be dried blood. Placing his hands on the wooden rail, he took a moment to contemplate what might have been going through Carl Rivers' mind before the end. Then, reaching into his left pocket, he brought out Sam's note. The contents of his right pocket, which he had just found in the river, was too disturbing to even think about right now.

John read and reread that note, as if searching out a loophole in the language. Maybe he could find some bizarre grammatical error that would change what it meant, somehow. Perhaps there was some trick or double meaning that would alter the course set before him. In the end, however, he resigned himself to its reality. With a heavy sighing breath, he put the note back, and eased himself over the edge of the rail to peer down.

He saw what he was looking for after a few moments of hard looking. It was no surprise that no one had seen it thus far. The paper was caught in a wood joint set far back into the bracing of the bridge, where shadow concealed it from all but the most scrutinized observation.

It took a bit of doing, and not a few close moments, but John managed to work his way down to where the scrap was lodged and freed it. He didn't wait to climb back up, but slowly, fearfully opened the paper to see what was written on it. His face was a leaden mixture of anger and regret as the words played out. For a moment, it seemed that all the strength left him, and his arms began to lose their grip on the bridge supports. The drop down to the river probably wouldn't kill him, but the current would certainly finish whatever part of the job remained.

Before it came to that, however, he managed to collect himself enough to haul his body back up and into the car. He sat there for a good solid hour with that note clenched in his hands. Then, with a grim look on his face, he started the car, and headed back to the funeral. John Webb tried to clear his head and focus, realizing that he would have to face everyone back at the cemetery, and then at the dinner to follow. He had already decided he could not show this evidence to anyone else, but he also knew what it meant, and he knew that his work in Coweta County was far from over.

Chapter 3

Wednesday, May 25th, 1942

“Nobody ever said that solving crime was easy.” Those were the words that came unbidden to John's lips as they stared down at the second body. They had been spoken to him on his first homicide case several years earlier, when he and the senior detective were examining the mutilated corpse of a teenage girl in a back alley, smelling of urine and abandonment. It was a memory that would forever remain burned upon his mind, and those words along with it.

“Does Wilhelmina know yet?” he heard Dan whisper to Roy. The two stood far back, as though coming nearer to the corpse would somehow make it more real, or that crossing that last distance might seal the deal, and George Rivers would be irretrievably lost. John looked back to lock eyes with Roy.

“She's been in her room all mornin'. She knows somethin' bad's happened.” Roy broke the look and started to take in the familiar scene. They were standing on the Rivers' own estate. Roy was standing in a nicely tailored dressing robe, looking oddly operatic in its striking contrast to the painfully angered look on his face.

“Nobody heard nothin'! Not one damn peep,” Roy commented angrily.

Nodding, John forced himself to look back at the body.

It was messy.

That was the most appropriate word for it. Messy. George did not die easily or quickly. His body had been mutilated, and from the looks of it, the killer had not waited until George was dead to do it. Leaning in close, John placed a tentative finger into a fresh groove just under the remainder of George's left arm. It was about three inches deep.

“The killer started out calm. The first cuts into his back were from glancing blows. It was like he was trying to knock him down first…before he got started.” John explained how the axe blows got progressively deeper, as the killer went on with his task. Roy was impressively stoic, though John knew this had to be killing him.

The scene was horrendous. Apparently, George had gone out to the back of the house for some reason—possibly to investigate a noise—when he was struck from behind. All of this John could show them, using the simplest of evidence around him. Even Dan had to be impressed by the man's powers of observation.

It probably took several minutes before George finally died.

The murder scene was covered in blood, and it was clear that the murderer took great pleasure in inflicting pain. What was unclear was the meaning of the 3-letter message left, written in blood, on the outside wall of the Rivers' home. E L P.

It was this cryptic message that had brought about John's simple, yet elegant expression about the ease of solving crime.

“Poor George must'a been tryin' to ask for help, and couldn't finish,” Roy said aloud. Dan got a strange, quizzical look on his face that John couldn't help but notice.

“You have a different take on it, Deputy Merrill?”

Dan was clearly caught off guard, and tried to wave him off, but John was curious, and persisted. “You have something to say. Say it.”

“I was just wonderin' why George would write out ‘help' in the first place. Anyone comin' by would see him before they'd see his note.”

“A good point…maybe George wasn't thinking too clearly, though. Maybe he just wanted to call out for help in whatever way he had available,” John reasoned, but without conviction.

“How's come he wrote it backward?”

Everyone turned to Deputy Fred Flandon, who up to now had offered very little, preferring the “keep quiet and try not to do something stupid” approach to fieldwork. The poor deputy turned red with the sudden focus on him, but he pressed forward, anyway.

“It's just that, if you were goin' to write out the word ‘help,' you'd start like normal…with the ‘H.' That's the only letter George didn't get to.”

“Not one DAMN THING about this makes any sense, Fred!” Roy yelled. His cool exterior was wearing thin. “And I don't give a rat's hairy ass why he wrote backward. I'm gonna catch this sonofabitch, and I'm gonna set this right!” he bellowed. Then, turning on Dan with a face torn with mixed pain and rage, he pointed toward the woods that surrounded the Rivers' home.

“Get that worthless old bloodhound down here and start him on any trail he can find. This fella' came out here last night, and I mean to find out where he went to.” Roy was still fuming as he trudged up to the front of the house.

“Sheriff,” John barked, a little sharper than he intended, though not by much. “You do know that, if I were here officially, this is exactly the point where I'd tell you that you should remove yourself from this case.” There was a pause as Roy looked back at him, as though he were deciding if he wanted to yell, cry, or just hit him.

“And if you were to make that suggestion, this is exactly the point where I'd tell you to get your official fat ass back on the train for New York.” With that, Roy continued his march.

“Damn good thing I'm not here officially then, isn't it?”

John wasn't quite sure if Roy heard him or not. Truth be known, he didn't much care. John had an investigation to continue, and a crime scene to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Matthias Parrott standing at a considerable distance from the body. As the local undertaker, it was his grim misfortune to be acting coroner. Normally, this duty was a simple matter, and well within his level of comfort. Unfortunately, the body he was called to pronounce this morning was a far cry from the tranquil passings to which he was accustomed. Even the occasional animal attacks held a certain natural dignity. What lay sprawled out in blood before him was neither tranquil nor natural. It was an abomination against his very humanity.

“Mr. Parrott,” John called to the undertaker. “Mr. Parrott, I'm finished here. You've noted that I have not disturbed the body, and were witness to this fact?”

Mr. Parrott could only manage a slight nod.

“Good. I'll leave him in your kind care, now.”

And with that, John left the shaken Mr. Parrott to his duties. He was almost to the front of the house when he heard it. The mournful scream broke the silence of the morning, sending both Dan and Fred instinctively dropping hands to holsters. But John remained undisturbed. He recognized that particular variety of wail. He had been expecting it. Aunt Wilhelmina had just learned of the brutal death of her only son.

For just a moment, John allowed himself to wonder just how that scene might play out. Given what little he truly knew of Wilhelmina, would she be the sort of woman that would demand to know exactly what had happened, or would she prefer to distance herself from the painful truth? Would she want to take one last look at her boy, or be too grief-stricken to see his face?

He could only dwell on those questions for a moment, though. He still had work to do, and he couldn't afford to waste any time. Besides, the answers he was looking for wouldn't come from Wilhelmina, regardless of her state. No, the person he wanted to speak with would have a much different take on this situation—and unless John was mistaken, he would be coming around the corner any moment now…

As if on cue, Gerald walked into view. Gerald Peachtree was the absolute Georgian black houseman. In any other context, the sight of him, in his worn, yet scrutinizingly well-kept butler's uniform, carrying a bucket of soapy water and an old scrub brush, would have been labeled as a stereotype.

“You'll have to give Mr. Parrott just another moment or two,” John said casually, as an excuse to start a friendly conversation.

“Oh, I know it takes him a bit…I jus' like ta' git everything together, so's I can start cleanin' up 'fore Miss Wilhelmina sees it.” A slight shadow of dread came across his face as he moved closer, to speak more softly, “Nobody should ever have to hear news like that. Not ever.”

John could only nod his agreement.

“If you don't mind, Mr. Peachtree, I'd like to talk to you for a moment while you're waiting.”

“Oh, I don't never mind a good talk. If you ask me, there ain't enough of folks just sittin' down and talkin'. Solve a whole mess o' problems. But please, one thing. Ev'ry time I hear someone callin' ‘Mr. Peachtree' I start lookin' for my father—and he done passed on to God eight years past! Gerald, if you please.”

John smiled without even faking it.

“Alright, Gerald. It's the New Yorker in me. We call everyone by their last name.”

“Now see, that just don't make any sense. Your first name…that's who ya' are. That's what sticks with ya' your whole life. Take that away from a man and it's like your just ignorin' him.” John had to admit, this man was a good scrapper. That was all fine and good. It was always the scrappers that had the best information.

“Now, there I'd disagree. A man's first name doesn't tell me anything about him. Your name, Gerald, that was given you by your parents, and they probably picked it out before you were even born, am I right?”

“Yes'sir, I was Gerald before I ever saw light o' day.” He nodded vigorously and flashed bright white teeth at this.

“Exactly. They had no idea who you were or would be. They just liked the name, so there it was. You were Gerald. But your last name, that's a different story. That goes back generations, and has its roots in some place in history. A last name has definite character and ties to who a person is. Peachtree is a perfect example. I've never met anyone else named Peachtree—and I'll bet cash money you know how your family got it.”

At this, Gerald's smile broadened even more, letting John know that A, he'd struck on a point of pride for this man and, B, that he had successfully managed to put him off his guard…which is exactly what he needed.

“My great-grandfather. When he came across that old ocean, and he first stepped off the slave ship, he stood out. He was a big man, ya' see. Not just a little bit, neither, but I mean big. And his colorin' was jus' a bit dif'rent, too. When Old Jacob Rivers, who started this here family business, saw him, he thought he looked like a big ol' peach tree, and since it was customary to change slaves names to a Christian one instead o' their heathen's, he called him Peachtree. And, we been Peachtrees ever since.”

It was a little disturbing, hearing how John's ancestors had so affected this man's, but John heard no bitterness in this man's voice.

“You see what I mean. History.” John paused a moment to collect his thoughts.

“But it's about a different kind of history that I want to talk with you, right now. I'm interested in finding out about a ring.”

Gerald suddenly went cold, and his face took on an ashen shade that was as good as a confession.

“What…what kind o' ring would you be wantin' to know about, Mr. Webb?”

“Why don't you call me John?”

Gerald was now looking around for some place to demand his attention, something that needed tending to, just so he could get away from this confrontation.

“Gerald, there was a pinkie ring that George had on his hand. I noticed it earlier, but it's missing from the body, now.”

“Terrible thing, that. Do that to a man, then take a ring right off his finger…”

“I'm not convinced the killer took it, actually.” Gerald was beginning to get the same look in his eye that caged animals often got when they sensed something very bad was about to happen. “In fact, Gerald, I'm certain that the killer didn't take it. Funny thing about that ring, too—well, actually there's a couple of funny things—but what's been eating at me the most, is that, when I first noticed it at the funeral, George was worrying with it, the way you do when you get a new ring, on account of you're not used to it. But the thing is, when I asked him about it, George told me he'd had it for years. That was a lie, Gerald. A stupid lie. That's the kind of lie that you tell because you're covering something up, and you don't even want a hint of it coming out. It's the kind of lie you tell when you're ashamed of something, Gerald.”

John took a moment to size up the man before him. To his credit, Gerald didn't try to stop him, or change the subject. He'd been caught, and he knew it, and he was just waiting for the moment when it was time to confess.

“You know another thing that bugs me about that ring?” John went on, “I waited and waited for the good sheriff to notice that it was missing, and he never did. Do you know why, Gerald? I'll tell you what I think. I think that Roy didn't notice it was gone because he never knew it was supposed to be on George's finger in the first place!”

Gerald was just about to break, and John knew it. It was time for the kill-shot.

“So, here I have a very expensive ring that ought to be on George Rivers' lifeless finger, but isn't, and a close-knit family that ought to know all about a nice fancy ring like that, but doesn't. And here, I'm standing talking to their houseman, who knows everything there is to know about the Rivers, and I'm just wondering…”

“I took that ring, Mr. Webb.”

“Call me John.” He couldn't decide if the threatening growl in his voice had been entirely accidental or not, but it achieved just what he wanted.

The poor man was defeated, and looked it. John was very tempted to feel bad for him. But not that tempted.

“Mr. George, he was given that ring by a friend up in Pelham.”

“That's a rather impressive gift.”

“Mr. George was a good man. He never hurt nobody, and he didn't think ill o' no one. But he was a quiet fella', and didn't like people to know much about him, personally…”

“Except for this friend up in Pelham. I'm guessing this friend knew George in a very special way.”

“Mr. Webb…Mr. John, I suppose up north, in a big city like New York, that particular kind of friendship is a little more in keepin' with acceptable behavior…but down here in Georgia, it just ain't done. Mr. George would be horrified if anyone was to find out, and that's why, God as my witness, I took that ring”