The Devil's Punchbowl (32 page)

 

My heart thumps against my sternum.

 

“A thumb what?” Dad asks.

 

“A flash-memory device,” Jewel explains. “USB type. Made by Sony. It’s about two inches long and a third of an inch wide.”

 

“Only the cap?” I ask, certain that I’m a lot closer to at least the copy of the data on the DVD Tim stole from the
Magnolia Queen.
“Not the actual device?”

 

“Right. Weird, huh?”

 

“Maybe not.”

 

Jewel ponders my face. “He stuck the drive up there to hide it from whoever killed him, didn’t he?”

 

To smuggle it off the boat,
I think. “Probably.”

 

“This guy worked on the
Magnolia Queen,
right?”

 

“Jewel—”

 

“So was he smuggling information off the boat.”

 

“Please stop, right there. I’m not kidding.”

 

She frowns and waves me away as she might a pestering child. “I ain’t tellin’ nobody nothin’ ’bout this. I just want to know for my own self. So when I sit up at night thinking about it, like I always do, I’ll eventually be able to get me some sleep instead of puzzling about it till the sun comes up.”

 

“You’re on the right track, that’s all I can tell you.”

 

“Okay. So the question is, who has the USB drive now?”

 

I nod.

 

“Well, your friend left work just before midnight, and he died around twelve thirty-five. So whoever tortured him didn’t have him long, not even if they had him that whole time, which they probably didn’t. Jessup had lots of welts and abrasions on his legs and arms, like he’d been running through the woods.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Mm-hm. So let’s say they had ten minutes to torture him in the backseat of that SUV. I doubt they had time to do a cavity search.”

 

“Don’t be too sure. Some professionals do that kind of thing automatically.”

 

Jewel’s brow furrows. “What kind of professionals? You talkin’ ’bout cops?”

 

“Not exactly. Military types. Ex-military. Paramilitary, maybe.”

 

“What exactly does
para
military mean?”

 

“
Sort of
military,” Dad explains. “Like
para
medic. Not quite a doctor.”

 

“They didn’t expect Tim to get out of that vehicle,” I reason aloud. “They injected him with drugs, started torturing him, but somehow he got out while they were driving down Broadway. So unless they cavity-searched him, or he gave up the USB drive’s location right away, he got out of that vehicle with it. Who had access to the body, postmortem?”

 

“The cops at the scene,” Jewel says.

 

“You think they’d pull his pants down and cavity-search him with spectators hanging over the fence like they were?”

 

“They could have,” Dad says. “They could have leaned a bunch of guys over him to shield it, the way NFL teams do when they want to hide an on-field injection from the camera.”

 

“No. That would take too many dirty cops. Let’s assume the drive was still in situ when Jewel got the body. Who had access after that?”

 

Jewel’s still looking at the ceiling, nodding slowly. “It was so late that I put him in the morgue at St. Catherine’s rather than drive him to Jackson. University said they’d rush the autopsy for me, but it wouldn’t speed it up any for me to drive him up in the middle of the night. And I’d been all day under that hot sun—”

 

“The morgue is locked, right?”

 

“Most of the time. And the drawers are locked. But it ain’t like I got the only key. They gave me my key to the drawers when I got the job. I probably should have put new locks on them, but the administrator might not appreciate that, seeing how I don’t own the hospital. So, I guess anybody with a key to the drawers could get to the body. The local pathologist for sure. Maybe some med techs or even nurses. Hell, maintenance might have a key, for all I know.”

 

“We need to find out.”

 

Jewel snorts. “The way things are at that hospital right now, you could ask questions for a month and never find out everybody who’s got a key. That’s like asking who’s got a key to a church or a school. And if I start asking, everybody’s gonna know it. That how you want to play this?”

 

“No. Forget that. But as far as you know, no cops have reported a USB drive being found?”

 

“Nope. They don’t even know about the cap, or I’d have already heard a dozen jokes about somebody ‘putting a cap in his ass.’”

 

“I think we need to get Jewel moving,” Dad says.

 

“One last thing,” I say. “Shad Johnson.”

 

Jewel’s brown eyes filled with an emotion I can’t read. “Pardon my French, Penn, but that man’s sure got a hard-on for you. I reckon ever since you beat him out for mayor, he’s been out to get you.”

 

“It goes back farther than that. It was the Del Payton case.”

 

“Mm-hm,”
Jewel responds with a unique emphasis that I’ve only heard from black women. “That’s why he lost for mayor. Betrayed his own people. And we knew it. We’re finally past the time where black folks always gonna vote for you just ’cause you black.”

 

“Shad explicitly warned you not to share any information with me?”

 

“Yes, indeed.”

 

“Did he give you a reason?”

 

“He said the victim was a friend of yours, and you might be involved in the case somehow. Giving you any kind of information would be improper, maybe even illegal.”

 

“Were those his exact words?”

 

“He said something about a ‘firing offense.’”

 

“Yet here she is,” Dad says. “Good people.”

 

“I do appreciate it, Jewel,” I tell her. “More than you know. But from now on, you need to lie low. There’s nothing more you can do.”

 

She pulls a wry face. “I ain’t so sure about that. But you won’t hear from me unless I’ve got something you really need.”

 

“How will you know that, if you don’t know what I’m trying to do?”

 

“Boy, I know what you trying to do. You trying to prove your friend was a good man and nail whoever killed him. And that’s something I can get behind. Shad Johnson can kiss my big ass if he thinks he scares me. I could break that man over my knee.”

 

“It’s not Shad you have to worry about.”

 

Jewel nods slowly. “I hear you. But I know how to walk soft when I need to. Now, let me get out of here. I’m dying for a cigarette. I hate to admit it, but it’s the Lord’s truth.”

 

I’m rising to shake her hand when my cell phone rings.

 

“Go on and get that,” she says. “You gonna give me that ’scrip for my mama, Doc?”

 

I move into the hall. “Hello?”

 

“Penn, this is Julia Jessup.”

 

“Julia! Are you all right?”

 

“
No.
I just got off the phone with that girl you used to date, or live with, or whatever.”

 

“Who? Libby Jensen?”

 

“No! The one that wrote those lies in the paper this morning!”

 

“Caitlin Masters? Wait a minute. How did you talk to Caitlin? Did she call your cell phone? You’re not supposed to have that switched on.”

 

“I called
her.
I’m not going to have half this town believing Tim was dealing drugs. There wasn’t any damn meth in our house.”

 

“I know that, Julia.”
Jesus.
“And I know you’re upset. We need to talk about this face-to-face.”

 

“What you
need
to do is call that bitch and tell her what you just told me. Tell her to write a retraction in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

 

“Julia, listen, please. The last thing you want right now is Caitlin Masters poking around this story. All that matters is you and your son staying safe. That’s all Tim would want.”

 

I hear a child crying, then what sounds like a hand patting flesh. “You don’t know what Tim wanted,” she says. “It doesn’t sound like you do, anyway. He wanted to make those bastards he worked for quit whatever they’re doing. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He said you were helping him, and now he’s dead. And I don’t see you defending him. Maybe if Caitlin Masters put all this on the front page, something would get done. I’ll bet she’d do it too. She already asked me for an interview.”

 

Beads of sweat have sprung up on my face. How can a woman who just lost her husband not see that what she’s proposing could cost her and her son their lives? Just saying it on the telephone has put her at risk, and Caitlin too.

 

“Julia, Tim came to me for a reason. He trusted me because I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before, and because he knew I would do the right thing. But the right thing is rarely what your emotions tell you to do when you’re upset. I know you can’t see that right now, but you have to try. Julia…? Are you still there?”

 

“I’m here.”

 

“Please forget about talking to Caitlin. Nothing good will come of that, and it could cost you everything.
Everything.
Do you understand? Julia? Do I have to spell this out for you?”

 

Her only reply is a strangled growl, a mixture of rage and frustration that rises to a crescendo, then abruptly ceases.

 

“Julia, as long as you stay where you are and keep quiet, you’ll be safe. You can call me tonight, and we’ll work out a way to see each other. All right?”

 

“Christ,” she says in disgust. “I’m hanging up.”

 

The phone goes dead.

 

I walk to the open door of my father’s office. Dad is bending over his desk to sign a prescription, while Jewel studies a photograph of our family when I was eleven and my sister seventeen.

 

“Ya’ll ever see Jenny anymore?” she asks.

 

“Not very often,” Dad confesses.

 

“She looks just like Mrs. Peggy, almost exactly.”

 

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to run,” I tell them.

 

“Where are you going?” Dad asks.

 

“I have to find Caitlin. Thanks for everything, Jewel. No more warnings from me.”

 

The coroner smiles. “Boy, I didn’t make it this far not knowing how to take care of myself. Get out of here.”

 

With a quick wave, I turn and run for my car.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER
23

 

 

Tim Jessup’s father is the last man I expected to hear from today, but four blocks from Caitlin’s house, I answered my cell phone and heard the old surgeon’s voice in my ear. Jack Jessup is the opposite of my father: arrogant, greedy, brusque with patients. Golf, money, and the respect of society are his primary obsessions, at least the ones I know about. Seen through his father’s eyes, Tim must have seemed a complete failure from the time he entered high school.

 

Dr. Jessup gave me no specifics, but asked if I could stop by the Catholic rectory in the next half hour. I assumed that he intended to ask me to read or say something at Tim’s wake. I wanted to see Caitlin as soon as possible—she had agreed via text message to meet me at her house—but since the cathedral and rectory are only a few blocks away from our houses, I agreed to meet the surgeon.

 

It’s close to dark when I pull up to the imposing mass of St. Mary’s Minor Basilica, a monument to the Irish immigrants who came to Natchez in the nineteenth century. The Irish dominated the Catholic faith here, leavened by a few Italian families who escaped indentured servitude upriver in Louisiana. Of course, Natchez has black Catholics as well, and they worship at the historic Holy Family Church on St. Catherine Street, but their journey, like so many in Natchez, was a parallel one. The dual cultures, shadows of each
other, stretch out toward infinity, a single breath apart, but never quite meeting.

 

The rectory is a modest building, built of the same brick as the cathedral. A long, gray Mercedes is parked in front of it, and behind this an older Lincoln Continental. As I approach the door, a woman bursts through and rushes past me. She looks familiar, but all I really register is a graying bouffant and pancake makeup concealing a face twisted into a grimace of rage and anguish. She disappears into the Lincoln, then races down the street with a squeal of rubber.

 

What’s going on here?
I wonder.

 

Father Mullen is a new priest, and young. I’ve only met him on a couple of occasions, at civic functions. A well-educated Midwesterner, he seems somewhat bemused by the Southernness of his new flock. I wonder how he sees Jack Jessup, a clotheshorse who used to charge $1,000 to remove a mole my father would have cut off for $75.

 

I find Dr. Jessup and Father Mullen in the priest’s office, the surgeon’s expensive chalk-stripe suit a marked contrast to Mullen’s black robe. I can tell by Jessup’s posture that he’s disturbed about something. He’s leaning over the priest’s desk like a naval officer at the rail of a ship about to go into battle.

 

Judiciously clearing my throat, I say, “Excuse me?”

 

The surgeon turns sharply, but his face softens when he recognizes me. He motions me forward, and I shake his hand.

 

Behind him, Father Mullen looks as though he would rather be mortifying his flesh in a monastery than dealing with Dr. Jessup in his present state. The surgeon has intimidated more formidable men than priests.

 

“What can I do for you, Dr. Jessup?” I ask.

 

The surgeon’s mouth works behind his closed lips for a few moments, as though he’s being forced to chew and swallow a day-old lemon wedge. When Dr. Jessup finally speaks, I realize his voice is choked with indignation.

 

“Did you see who just left?”

 

“She looked familiar, but she passed me so fast, I didn’t recognize her.”

 

“Charlotte McQueen.”

 

I blink in surprise, but it takes less time than a blink for me to
decode the subtext of this situation. Charlotte McQueen is the mother of the boy who died when Tim ran his car off the road in college during his beer run to the county line. In fact, she’s the one who pushed the DA into making Tim do jail time. Mrs. McQueen is an influential member of the Catholic church, and I doubt she came to express her condolences.