Blood on the Leaves Page 13

  Punches were thrown in the darkness, striking flesh and bone. The two figures crashed against the side of the barn. Cooper drove his knee into the assailant’s stomach and pounded his fists into the back of the stranger’s head.

  Cooper took a bruising elbow to his face, followed by a brutal punch to his kidney that forced him to stagger backward. The assailant moved quickly to the side and disappeared. Cooper hustled to the door and opened it, allowing the moonlight to break through. Grabbing a pitchfork off the sidewall, he turned around rapidly, primed to strike.

  A Molotov cocktail was hurled across the barn and struck Cooper full force against his massive chest. He flung the pitchfork, which barely missed the stranger and embedded itself in the burning wood. The pitchfork continued to vibrate as Cooper’s body erupted into flames. He made one last futile attempt to reach the moving shadow. Overcome by fire, he scrambled to the floor, rolling and writhing in agony.

  The assailant jumped through the flames and unlocked the stalls. The horses stampeded over the smaller animals. Other livestock frantically escaped through the smoke-filled opening. Flames fully engulfed the barn, which crackled and popped like a pile of logs in a giant fireplace.

  Ruth ran toward the inferno, screaming her husband’s name. Cooper crawled outside, body ablaze and hideously contorted. A few feet from his wife’s outstretched arms he collapsed onto the smoldering and scorched earth. Ruth watched helplessly as blue and red flames shot toward the sky and dark smoke blocked out the fading moon. She fell to her knees, totally unaware of car tires screeching away from the place she once loved to call home.

  CHAPTER 23

  PRESSURE TO STOP Matheson from teaching his course intensified after Grayson’s suicide. Every politician in the state, with the exception of a few black ones, had been inundated with phone calls, E-mails, and letters demanding he be fired from the university. Cooper’s death caused editorial writers from around the state to insist “all law enforcement place their territorial interests aside and work together diligently to capture those responsible for these horrific murders and put an end to our long dark nightmare.” As the subject of national newscasts, the murders even forced the president to answer questions raised by the White House press corps.

  The state’s attorney general coordinated efforts with the FBI and local law enforcement. Since the majority of the murders had taken place in Jackson County and its surrounding area, Vanzant assumed a major role in heading up the primary task force. Forensic specialists had begun gathering information, and Dr. Charles Hunter, a nationally renowned criminal profiler, had compiled and analyzed data on Matheson’s students, close colleagues, and the professor himself. He’d prepared a preliminary summary of his findings, which Vanzant asked him to share with the staff.

  “Right now,” reported Hunter, “our strongest theory is that the killer is one or more students either enamored of or devoted to Matheson. Given the strength required to overpower the victims, the murders were likely committed by a male, but we haven’t ruled out female participation in the crimes. Whoever it is wants to curry favor with his or her hero or cult leader. He or she is probably from a broken home without a strong male presence, an underachiever in both academics and sports, has few friends, especially from the opposite sex, and is inclined to be adamant, possibly fanatical, about politics or religion.” Hunter took a sip of coffee.

  “I’ve also offered a scenario you might find intriguing. It’s possible that a highly educated white male, late twenties or early thirties, imitating the infamous John Brown, committed these crimes to correct perceived injustice and alleviate self-guilt. Since whites are far more likely to commit serial murders than blacks, and in this case could move easily in and out of white communities unnoticed and unsuspected, I recommend local police investigate Caucasian civil rights advocates or former members of racist organizations who’d actively disavowed their affiliations.”

  “That would be an extremely short list,” joked Reynolds.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Vanzant said, “but I think that theory’s unadulterated bullshit. I’ll put my money on that football star who abandoned dreams of glory to study under Matheson. I saw that kid play his freshman year. Phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal,” he continued. “He would’ve been the first pick in the draft no matter what year he decided to declare. Now, you tell me, a young guy gives up millions of dollars to play a sport he trained for his entire life, walks away from fame, fortune, and fuckin’, for what—to study with his mentor? Is that the action of a normal person or someone under the spell of his guru? Ain’t that the definition of a fanatic, or zealot, or groupie, or . . . ?”

  “Murderer?” Hunter asked.

  “He’s big, he’s quick, he’s strong, and he’s devoted to pleasing his personal messiah.” Vanzant waited for someone to agree with him.

  “He also was at the scene when Rankin’s car exploded, and Cooper’s wife said her husband wrote down his license plate a few days before the fire,” added Woody Winslow. Uncharacteristically, he was munching on something unhealthy—a powdered-sugar jelly doughnut.

  “Gentlemen,” Vanzant announced solemnly, “I believe we’ve narrowed our list of suspects.”

  Brandon and Delbert walked across the student parking lot. “Wanna come over to my parents’ for Thanksgiving?” Brandon asked.

  “I promised my mom I’d go home for the holidays.”

  “I guess I’ll have to find someone else to eat my vegetables,” Brandon teased. He gave Delbert a playful shove. “You sure you’re not sneaking off with Sereta to get married?”

  “I wouldn’t be keepin’ it no secret. I’d be screamin’ her name from the tallest building in Jackson.”

  “You got yourself a good lady, Delbert.”

  “Got me a pretty good best friend, too. Don’t know why you’d hang around with someone like me, but I ain’t complainin’.”

  Brandon was about to respond but noticed two patrol cars slowly circling a section of the lot. He moved cautiously, trying not to bring attention to himself.

  “You mind if I don’t give you a ride back to the dorm?” he asked Delbert.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Brandon focused on the two cars that had stopped next to each other. One of the policemen spotted Brandon and pointed in his direction. The driver of the other car turned and stared at him as well. They steered their cars around an entry gate and traveled the wrong way, in the middle of opposing traffic, toward the two students.

  “Get out of here, now!” Brandon shouted at Delbert, then jumped over a hedge and dashed toward his car. Before he unlocked the door, he heard the first police siren, followed a split second later by another. He hurriedly entered the car and jammed his key into the ignition. He started the engine and quickly shifted into reverse. His foot slammed against the accelerator. The car raced backward, striking a parked vehicle. It spun forward, scraping the front end of a van, then sideswiped an SUV pulling out of its space.

  The two patrol cars maneuvered through the crowded lot and converged on Brandon’s sedan. Delbert tried to block one of the officers’ vehicles with his body but at the last moment dove out of the way and landed hard on the pavement. His books skidded underneath a large trailer.

  Students rushed from the area and barely missed being struck by Brandon’s automobile as he zigzagged in between rows of parked cars, driving toward a narrow access road.

  One patrol car blasted through a construction barricade and speeded across a patch of gravel before climbing an elevated mound of dirt and sliding into a pile of cement bags. The fine, light gray dust burst into a thick cloud, spraying granulated particles high into the air. The police vehicle emerged from the haze of flying debris with windshield wipers struggling mightily.

  Trying to catch his friend, Delbert sprinted across the lot but had no chance. He watched Brandon drive out of the university lot onto a public road less than a hundred feet in front of the rapidly approaching patrol car.

>   Brandon ignored a flashing red signal at an intersection, causing oncoming traffic to slam on brakes and screech to a crashing halt. Front and rear bumpers ferociously banged against each other. A hood flew open and sailed over two unscathed vehicles, landing full force on a new pickup truck.

  Both police cars were now actively engaged in the chase, driving onto the corner sidewalk to avoid the surrounding accidents. Brandon saw their red lights swirling as the two patrol vehicles edged along either side of his sedan in an effort to cut him off. Brandon sped up, then pushed his brake to the floor. The two cars passed, providing an opportunity for him to head in the opposite direction.

  Brandon backed up and made a tight turn, but the car stalled. He’d restarted the engine when the first patrol car barreled into the rear of his sedan and crushed his vehicle against a street lamp. Brandon’s head whipped forward and struck the windshield. The air bag exploded as the second police car wedged itself against the car’s side, effectively cutting off any escape.

  The radiator erupted, releasing streams of scalding water and hot steam. Four police officers emerged from their vehicles and surrounded Brandon’s car with weapons drawn. “Put your hands up over your head and keep them there!” screamed the officer closest to the driver’s window. Brandon complied with the demand and lifted his hands over his bloodied face.

  He groggily sensed the front door being ripped open and hands tearing at his body while he sat in the front seat, incapable of offering resistance. Two policemen removed him from the car and threw him to the ground, facedown. Someone drove a knee into the small of his back and twisted his arms behind him. He heard a clicking sound, then felt handcuffs lock around his wrists. The glimmering green liquid from his ruptured cooling system burned his skin. He raised his face off the ground to speak and saw a baton move quickly toward his head, followed by a sharp pain, then darkness.

  CHAPTER 24

  REYNOLDS HAD FILLED one legal pad with notes and begun a second when his phone buzzed twice. Annoyed, he picked up the receiver. “I asked you not to—” He listened intently. “Send him in.” He cradled the receiver for a moment, then hung up the phone. Quickly straightening his desk, he proceeded to involve himself with various stacks of papers.

  He heard his office door open and close. “Be with you in a moment,” he said without looking up from his work. He finished scribbling information on the side of a court transcript, then, placing his ballpoint pen inside his jacket pocket, started to rise. When he saw Matheson’s injured face, he sank back to his seat.

  “What happened to you?” Reynolds asked in amazement.

  Matheson walked slowly toward Reynolds and took a seat on the opposite side of the desk. He lightly touched his face, which was marred by a series of deep bruises and minor abrasions. “I seemed to have upset some of our more temperamental citizens.”

  “You file a report?”

  “I did indeed. The police were mildly amused and totally uninterested. As you can imagine, I’m not very popular with law enforcement.”

  “By the looks of your face, you’re not popular with all sorts of people.” Reynolds studied Matheson. “You go to the hospital?”

  “No bones were broken, and I wouldn’t give my enemies the satisfaction of seeking medical attention.” Matheson touched a swollen area underneath his left eye. “I consider these marks badges of honor. I intend to display them with pride.”

  “You’re gonna show them for a while regardless of your intent. You don’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “There’s always a choice, James. You simply need the courage to make it.”

  Reynolds wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. “So what brings you here? My secretary said it was urgent.”

  “One of my students has been arrested. I was hoping you might look into it . . . see that he’s treated fairly.”

  “Brandon Hamilton?”

  “Yes. He’s not who you’re looking for. He’s not a murderer.”

  “He acted like a person with a great deal to hide. He also caused quite a bit of damage in the process of leading the police on a very dangerous pursuit.”

  “Brandon paid a visit to Earvin Cooper’s home two days ago and left behind a protest sign. I’m sure you know about that.”

  “I have the report,” replied Reynolds.

  “Then you’re probably aware Cooper confronted him and wrote down his license plate number.” Matheson extended his left leg gingerly and winced slightly in pain. “After he learned of Cooper’s murder and saw the police looking for him, he panicked.”

  Reynolds observed Matheson’s discomfort and wondered how seriously the professor had been injured. “He placed a sign on Cooper’s property suggesting he wasn’t going to live long. That’s a pretty serious threat that managed to come true. You give your students psychic powers as well as an understanding of history?”

  “If you teach history properly, you can predict it with great accuracy.” Matheson folded his arms across his chest. “And in the spirit of getting one’s facts correct, the sign read, ‘A murderer lives here, but not for long.’ It referred to his address, not his life. The goal was to drive Cooper from the community.”

  “Burying him would certainly accomplish that.”

  “Brandon’s guilty of trespass. That’s all.”

  “At the moment he’s guilty of resisting arrest, numerous driving infractions, and leaving the scene of several accidents.”

  “He exercised poor judgment. Given the circumstances that’s completely understandable.”

  “A jury might have to decide that. For his sake as well as yours, I hope they agree with you.”

  “So you’re not charging him with Cooper’s murder?”

  “That hasn’t been determined,” said Reynolds. “But witnesses also placed him at the scene of the car-bombing that killed Arnold Rankin. Several people there described him as smiling while the el-derly victim burned to death.”

  “Justice brings a sense of satisfaction even when it’s significantly delayed,” said Matheson. “After murderers are punished I sometimes smile, too. Does that make me a murderer?”

  “It makes you a lot of things, none of which are desirable.”

  “Whatever you may think of me, I know the capabilities of my students. Brandon’s a good kid. I’d be grateful for any help you can offer—assuming you can do that and keep your job.”

  “I appreciate your concern over my livelihood.”

  Matheson noticed the awards and citations arranged on the wall behind Reynolds’s desk. “Very impressive.” He walked toward the wall to inspect each plaque. “Most of these are from white organizations. You must have a terribly effective cracker sling.”

  “Cracker sling?” Reynolds asked. He was both annoyed and curious.

  Matheson turned toward him. “A very good friend of mine worked at a prestigious law firm. He, of course, was the only black but continued to express his determination to be promoted to full partner. I asked him how he intended to accomplish that. He confided he’d contrived a rather useful invention which he characterized as a ‘cracker sling.’”

  “Like the one David used to slay Goliath?” asked Reynolds.

  “An arm sling,” clarified Matheson. “He’d wear it at every important staff meeting. Claimed he needed it for a recurring injury, tennis elbow or something else equally believable.” He approached Reynolds. “Whenever one of his colleagues said something particularly irritating or downright infuriating, the sling restricted his natural impulse to inflict bodily injury.”

  “Did it help him make partner?”

  “No,” said Matheson, smiling. “But it kept his ass out of jail.”

  Reynolds laughed but not as genuinely as Matheson. “He ever use the sling to prevent him from hitting a black person?”

  Matheson stared at the window. “We’ve never had to restrain ourselves from attacking each other.” He returned his focus to Reynolds. “But then, you know that better than most. Your job might no
t exist if it were otherwise.”

  “I’m afraid my profession would thrive regardless of who struck the first blow,” Reynolds said quietly. “As far as Brandon Hamilton, he’s in enough trouble whether or not any additional charges are filed against him.” He stood behind his desk and faced Matheson. “I’ll give you a call when I learn anything.”

  “I’d appreciate that, very much.” Matheson extended his hand. Reynolds reached for it, and the two men shook firmly while maintaining solid eye contact.

  “I hope I didn’t say anything that caused you distress or brought discomfort,” said Matheson. “I wouldn’t want you to continue to have the wrong impression about me.”

  “I’m sure you’ve left me with the impression you’d like me to have.”

  “That’s comforting to know.”

  “Better get those cuts attended to,” remarked Reynolds. “You wouldn’t want any permanent scars from your misfortune.”

  Matheson gave a quick nod then proceeded to the door.

  “Oh,” called out Reynolds. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea if you had that leg checked as well. Couldn’t help but notice you favor one side when you walk.” He smiled warmly.

  Matheson nodded again, this time more warily, and left the office. Over the next hour Reynolds unsuccessfully attempted to complete his remaining work. After starting one task only to abandon it for another, he decided to forsake the effort and begin anew in the morning.

  Throughout his drive home, he thought about the “cracker sling.” There must have been a time when he needed one, maybe two. How had he finally managed to control his emotion? He did know that white folks often mistook passion for anger. And in the early days he had struggled mightily to keep his passion in check. He leaned forward less often and spoke more softly, always making serious points while smiling. He tried not to look too tall and extended his hands palms up, never curling his fingers, because the temptation would be too great to proceed further and form a fist. Once a fist is formed, whether or not it’s thrown is immaterial. Those clenched fingers would be enough to taint his career, his relationships, and his future. Like a criminal record, they’d follow him from one job to the next, provoking whispers: He’s “capable of violence.” His “temper is volatile.” He “almost struck a man,” “a white man,” “his boss.”