Of Things Unseen Page 10

  Several minutes went by. Neither of us spoke until something struck me.

  “Wait. When did you see him angry?” He had always put on his good boy act when our mother was around, only removing the mask when she was at work.

  Sheila sighed and shook her head again. “It was more so the aftermath that I saw. There was one time with Jazzy—”

  “He did something to Jazzy?”

  “Do you remember when she broke her leg?”

  “He did that?” My stomach did a somersault and a boom went off inside my skull. Jazzy was our little brown and white Jack Russell. I loved her so much it hurt.

  “I think he did. I didn’t have any proof so I never accused him but he was alone with her at the time. He lied a lot, and he was good at it. I guess I wanted to believe him so I acted like I did.”

  “How could you let him hurt Jazzy?”

  “I didn’t let him! I didn’t know he was capable of...I didn’t know, okay? I wish to God I could go back and undo everything.” She covered her eyes with the tissue while I stared at her in shock. She spoke again from behind the tissue, not looking at me. “You can blame me if you need to. If that helps you process things. But it’s always easier to point the finger at the one who stuck around. I’ve never badmouthed that man to you but I need you to remember something. He chose to leave. I stayed.”

  My head swam and I tasted bile. Everything in me wanted to get up and run out of there but I didn’t trust that my knees wouldn’t buckle under me. So I sat there instead, head pounding, heart thundering in my chest, and wept.

  Chapter 11

  ROBERT MILLNER HAS hiked the trails at Arabia Mountain for 20 years. Betty started giving him shit about it three years ago because she was no longer a fan of his favorite form of exercise. “Why can’t you just go fishing like a normal man?” she would ask, but Bobby wouldn’t hear of it. Fishing meant sitting, and he needed to keep his heart pumping. Hiking was his way of doing it. He was walking slowly more than hiking these days, but it was still enough to get his blood going.

  Besides, he still felt fairly young. Sure, some part of him ached every day, and he got winded pretty quickly, but it was just so damn peaceful out there. Peace and quiet were medicinal, and those were two things Betty couldn’t offer him. She occasionally tried her best to let him be but she just couldn’t help herself. Fix this! Take me there! Don’t eat that! It was all he could do not to tell her to go to hell. But he was gonna wait. That’s what deathbeds were for.

  Bobby parked his white pickup on the gravel lot because it was closer to the trails, and because the young joggers with their pretty new crossovers would never drive their perfect tires over the rocks. He almost always had the gravel lot to himself and he liked it that way.

  Times sure had changed. When he and Betty moved to Lithonia in the early 70s, the area was full of young white couples looking for nice suburban homes that were a bit of a ways away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The men commuted into the city every day and the drive wasn’t bad. But now...yes, times had definitely changed. The Millners were the last of a dying breed out here. Bobby didn’t mind being around the blacks but the rest of his neighbors had long turned tail and run.

  He’d considered moving, briefly, when Betty complained about the loud cars with the booming subwoofers cruising up and down the street all the time. But it wasn’t that easy to just pack up and run, especially in Bobby’s case. He owned a garage in the area and it was profitable. Highly profitable. And the blacks were loyal customers. The money came in handy, too, once the local high school crossed over. Freshman year, Melody was his bright-eyed, innocent girl. Come sophomore year, she was talking different, wearing her hair different, and listening to black music. They put her in private school as fast as they could. Betty was satisfied, and Bobby was relieved.

  “You ready to walk, Wilbur?”

  Wilbur. Such a bullshit name. Both the dog and the name had been Betty’s idea and as usual, he hadn’t dared argue. He couldn’t stand that damn dog at first, with his yapping and whining and crapping all over the house. And he barked at everything, even his own shadow. But over time, he grew to love the little guy, and then that little German Shepherd grew into a big beast of a dog who favored Bobby. That made him feel vindicated in his attitude toward Betty. Animals are intuitive, so clearly even Wilbur was sick of her shit.

  The old boy loved their weekly hikes, probably more than Bobby did. It must have been dog heaven for him, what with the exercise, the fresh mountain air, and the new, strange smells from the thousands of people who hiked those trails with their own dogs. He would sometimes get so excited he would break stride, but Bobby was too old to give chase. It usually took about five minutes for him to catch up with the dog and there Wilbur would be, panting and waiting.

  The hike that day started like any other. Bobby and Wilbur walked, he with his large wooden stick and Wilbur toting whatever interesting debris he picked up along the trails. The morning air was crisp and full of moisture, and Bobby was content. His every footfall was punctuated by a crunching sound that was pleasant to his ear. For him, it was like walking on the moon. Long after he was dead and buried, something of him was going to remain on that mountain. It was a powerful sensation.

  He passed a young Asian woman and nodded hello. She looked past him as she jogged by, and he wondered why young women ran with earphones in their ears. Didn’t they know how dangerous that was? Anyone could sneak up behind them and drag them off somewhere. She’s lucky I’m a good guy, he thought.

  They had only gotten about a quarter of a mile into the trail when Wilbur took off on his first detour. Bobby didn’t much mind. He had gotten lucky twice before when following Wilbur on one of his adventures.

  The first time the old boy led him off the trail Bobby found a gold chain glittering at the bottom of a pile of brush. That had been a good day, although Betty tried her damnedest to ruin it. The pawn shop gave him $80 for it, which he’d had to split with the wife. The second time, it was Wilbur who found a hidden treasure. A leather Fossil wallet containing several credit cards, Andrew Murphy’s driver’s license, and $129 in cash. He took the money out and left the wallet. Betty was none the wiser.

  It wasn’t to be his lucky day today.

  As Bobby made his way down the embankment to the right of the trail to follow the dog, he slipped on a mound of loose rocks and fell on his tailbone. He sat still, dazed, until Wilbur’s barking snapped him out of his trance. He rolled onto his side and pressed his hand against the sore spot. His shirt had ridden up from the friction and he could feel the shreds of skin where his back rubbed against the rocks. There were no sharp pains anywhere, only stinging and a dull ache at the bottom of his back. Nothing was broken.

  He stood slowly and eased his way down the short hill on shaky legs until he spotted Wilbur’s large brown head. “Here, Wilbur!” he shouted, but the dog stayed where he was. His tail wagged and he ran in circles, whimpering and digging, digging and whimpering.

  Robert moved gingerly over the last few feet of rocks before coming to a stop behind Wilbur. His heart sped up before his mind registered what his eyes were seeing. Right there, on the ground in front of him, lay the thing that had so captured his dog’s attention: a human head.

  He felt a strange sensation upon seeing it. Elation? Exhilaration? Whatever it was, his heart raced so fast he thought he was having a stroke. It was a body, or at least most of a body, but he didn’t stick around long enough to figure out which.

  Bobby was sad, of course, for that person’s loved ones, whomever they were. They would undoubtedly be getting a terrible visit from the sheriff’s office, the type of visit that changes your life forever. But he didn’t know that person, or what used to be a person. To him, it was a hunk of flesh that wasn’t altogether different from the human body diagrams on the pages of the old encyclopedias he used to read at his Granny’s house. If those parts had belonged to someone he had known or loved, he would surely feel a profou
nd loss. But they didn’t, so he felt nothing. He simply said a prayer, paid his respects, and then imagined how long he could dine out on the story of how he and good old Wilbur found a dead body on Arabia Mountain.

  What Bobby didn’t know, what he couldn’t have known, was what he had unearthed that day. It was the Songbird, and she was finally going home.

  PART TWO

  THE DETECTIVE

  Chapter 12

  BEFORE THEY EVER LAID eyes on him, people always expected Barrington Henry Dunn III to be a white man. It was the name. The man himself thought his name sounded like that of a plantation owner. Hell, it probably had been. According to his aunt Lois, their people—on his daddy’s side—were from Falmouth, Kentucky. Lois had been able to trace the Dunns all the way back to 1870, where they were sharecropping on a large farm. It wasn’t much of a leap to surmise that the Dunns had once been enslaved by the white Henry Dunn who owned a home about 2 miles to the west of that farm. God bless America.

  Barrington hated his name and considered changing it when he was at Morehouse thanks to that African American Studies class he took freshman year. But in the end, he decided he would keep his slave name to honor his daddy and granddaddy, both of whom had been very prominent members of Louisville’s black community. Granddaddy Dunn was one of the first black insurance agents in the area, a fancy middle-class profession for a black man in those days. Daddy Dunn was a math teacher, a modest but noble profession. He was beloved, winning teacher of the year four years in a row.

  Barrington the III needed a steady paycheck fresh out of college because his then-girlfriend Fallon was pregnant at the time and he needed to provide. More than duty, more than honor, it was the promise of an heir—pretentious, yeah, but he liked that word—that led him to the police academy.

  Police work suited Barrington from the beginning and he grew to enjoy it. He quickly moved up the ranks until he made detective, and the robbery division was his current home. He wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes but he did alright. Flying under the radar was his preferred path to maintaining success, along with solving his cases and cashing his checks. Some guys had designs on making lieutenant or major, but not Barrington. Politics weren’t his thing. It was the chase he loved.

  On that brutally hot day, however, his detective skills failed him and he was unable to solve the puzzle of why he was summoned to the scene of a homicide. As he pulled onto the gravel parking area he took in the usual sights. Yellow tape. Lights. Various people walking this way and that. And somewhere, deep in those trees, was the body of a dead girl.

  Barrington straightened his tie and prepared himself. Whatever the reason he had been summoned, it was important for him to appear to be in control. He had a mantra that gave him confidence, and he said it to himself at that moment. Everywhere I go is somewhere I belong.

  “Dunn!” shouted Bill Price, the lieutenant over robbery-homicide. Barrington hit a left and walked up the road a ways toward the red-faced, gray-haired man.

  “Price, how are you?” he asked over the handshake.

  “I’m doing. Listen, I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here. Come on over here and let’s talk for a second.”

  Barrington followed him away from the yellow tape toward a group of several unmarked cars. Standing between the cars were two men, one of whom he recognized as Joe Higginbotham, better known as Higgs, the head of homicide for the county and a standout among men, not for his skill but for his height. At six feet four, he should have been on someone’s basketball team, not solving murders. Barrington didn’t recognize the other.

  As he and Price approached, the two men got quiet and looked at Barrington, their smiles cagey.

  “Barrington Dunn, good to see you!” Higgs announced. “This is Matt Echols, head of the task force.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Barrington. The smiles persisted for what seemed like hours but Barrington stayed cool and waited for them to speak. He didn’t know about the other guys but Price hated silence, absolutely abhorred it. Several seconds passed and Barrington returned their smiles. Awkwardness filled the air like smoke until, as expected, Price finally broke.

  “Here’s the thing,” Price began. “I know you normally work on robbery but we have a situation and we think you might be able to help.”

  “Okay...” said Barrington.

  The men exchanged looks. It was Higgs’ turn. “Barrington, what do you know about this case?” he asked.

  “Uhhh, not much. Just that they found a body that appears to be female.”

  “Okay. Good. The thing is, this case is...sensitive. We’ve got people in the community watching us on this and we want to make sure we’re working this from every angle. We think you may have some insight.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Barrington.

  “We hear you grew up around here,” said Echols, finally tagging in.

  “Oh. Yeah, I grew up about ten minutes north of here. Graduated from Baker.”

  Echols grinned as he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Good, good. So you know the lay of the land. You speak the language. So to speak.” The other men chuckled and Barrington followed suit. Then they stared at him with half-smiles and raised eyebrows.

  “Uh, I’m happy to help in any way I can.” He chose his words carefully. “What exactly will my involvement entail?”

  “That’s an excellent question, and I’m really glad you asked it,” said Price with a bit too much enthusiasm. “We’d like you to be a...liaison of sorts, between the department and the community. You’ll be working the investigation with us, of course, but we also want you to be out there showing your face. I mean look at you,” he said, holding out his arms in deference. “You’re obviously the classiest guy out here.” More chuckles.

  Barrington’s fingers instinctively ran the length of his tie. “I’ll do my best.”

  “We know you will,” said Higgs.

  “Well, that was easy. Didn’t I tell you guys that would be easy?” asked Price. More laughter, followed by tight closed-lipped smiles and handshakes.

  Barrington watched them walk away. Something was definitely up, but he would figure that out later.

  HIS SECOND WALK TOWARD the scene went better than the first. He saw a few familiar faces.

  Detective Gandry took his cigar out his mouth long enough to smile as he saw Barrington approaching. “Barrington Dunn, how goes it?”

  Barrington ducked under the yellow caution tape and looked around before shaking Gandry’s hand. “It was going well until I got called in. Marshall’s basketball game.”

  Gandry nodded. “Sorry,” he said. “How’s he doing with that?”

  Barrington shook his head. “Same as everything else we’ve tried, man.”

  Gandry spread his hands and shrugged. “Maybe he’s just not an athlete.”

  “So what, put him in a ballet class and call it a day?”

  Gandry let out a loud bellow befitting his large, round beer belly. “I’m just telling you, guy. You’ll save yourself a lot of time and money if you just let him do what he likes. You remember how I tore my hair out trying to get Jacob off those damn video games. But Paula put him in this coding class. They have the kids learning how to write the...the uh...hell, I don’t know. Computer shit. But he created his own video game.”

  “Oh, yeah??”

  “And there’s money in it. They’re learning how to do apps next. So I see it like this: Jacob’s scrawny and he’ll never tackle anybody but he just might make me rich one day,” he said before bellowing out a puff of cigar smoke.

  Barrington laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. Alright man, fill me in.”

  “Grimes was first on scene so talk to him. But let me ask you something: did you read the article?”

  “Article?”

  “Yeah. Some news site wrote up an entire piece on missing black women in the area and how there’s a serial killer on the loose. Mind you, this isn’t cops saying this, okay, these reporters haven’t even talked
to any cops. They kinda half-ass put together this story trying to link a bunch of unrelated cases. But get this: it went viral.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hm. And now the department is pissed because we look bad. Racist.” Gandry whispered the word as if it was profane. “With everything going on and the protests and such, they wanna head off any craziness. We don’t need that here.”

  “Shit.” Barrington’s moment of realization was tinged with bitterness.

  “But listen,” said Gandry in a hushed tone, “between you, me, and this oak tree, I think there’s something to it.”

  Barrington looked up. “That’s not an oak, that’s a pine.” He surveyed his surroundings. “How many cases?”

  “They mentioned four in the article. If this is one of their dead girls then you need to prepare for the shitstorm.”

  Barrington shook his head. It was always something. A uniformed female officer walked by. She looked back and smiled at him as she passed, and he nodded his acknowledgment. She was cute but he wasn’t interested. Women looked at him like that all the time but he had grown immune—for the most part.

  Gandry wandered off. Barrington closed his eyes, just for a moment, to get himself in the right frame of mind. It was difficult, compartmentalizing his job duties, and he usually had to work at it. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and got down to business.

  I belong.

  BARRINGTON FOUND THE tented check-in area and signed his name and the time he arrived. Grateful for the respite, he took a few minutes to hide from the sun. After grabbing a bottle of water and a package of potato chips—apparently one of the local stores had already donated—he looked around for Officer Grimes, whose name was listed as first on the scene.

  Sweat dripped down his back as he walked as if his skin was crying for mercy. Grimes, pale and sickly-looking, spotted Barrington and jogged over on twig legs. “Dunn, how are you bro?” he asked in his frat boy twang.