chapter 27
JAKE PARKED HIS truck in front of the Pickens County Sheriff’s Office and surveyed what he could see from his truck. Aliceville, Alabama, like much of the rural South, particularly in the Black Belt, had endured a rough couple of decades, maybe longer. Times had obviously been better, but people still held fast to small-town life and tried to maintain it. A shrinking tax base, however, made it all the more difficult.
Jake remembered his dad telling him that in the 1940s during World War II, Aliceville had one of the largest prison camps of German and Italian prisoners of war. At one time, the prison had hosted nearly six thousand POWs, some from the infamous Afrika Korps who fought under General Rommel. It was a significant part of Aliceville’s history that easily could be forgotten, since the prison camp had long been gone, except for one huge stone chimney.
Jake had already been to see his camp house, or what was left of it. Everything was gone except for the chimney. Just like the prison camp, Jake thought. The pile of ashes that had been his family retreat was still smoldering. Nothing of value had survived the hot, consuming fire, and yet less than forty yards away was a huge river of cold water. A number of family antiques that weren’t really worth much were gone, along with dozens of family photos. All Jake could think about was arson. It had to be arson.
Jake pushed open the sheriff’s office front door and announced, “I’m Jake Crosby. I’m here to see the sheriff.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get him for you,” an older black lady in a deputy’s uniform offered.
Jake glanced around and thought about his time in the Sumter County Sheriff’s Office. Not much difference. Probably had the same interior decorator, he thought.
Jake saw an office door open, and a huge, uniformed man with a very friendly face and demeanor waved him on back.
“Jake Crosby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Rosco Blue. Pleased to meet you. Just hate that it’s under these circumstances.” Rosco’s giant hand swallowed Jake’s, but his warm smile kept his enormous presence from being too intimidating. He motioned for Jake to sit.
“I just left out there…it’s a complete loss,” Jake said as he sat in a chair facing the sheriff’s desk.
“Yeah, it is. Most of the time these fish camps like yours and hunting camps scattered across the county…when they catch fire, about all the volunteer firefighters can do is keep the surrounding woods from goin’ up. They can’t ever save the structures…but by golly, they give it their best.”
“I’m sure they did,” Jake replied.
“You ever see ’em respondin’ to a call?” Rosco loved to hear himself talk.
“Uh…no, sir, I haven’t.”
“It’s pretty amazin’. It doesn’t matter whether it’s rural Michigan or backwoods Alabama. Volunteer firefighters are a gung-ho bunch of folks. They live for that call, and they drop whatever they are doin’ and race to the fire. Hell, I’ve seen ’em race each other. I’m sure last night was no different,” the aging sheriff explained.
Jake guessed Sheriff Rosco was about sixty years old and close to retiring. He’d probably been in law enforcement his entire adult life. Except for the few extra pounds he was carrying around his waist, this guy could have been Bo Jackson’s twin brother.
“Yes, sir. I really appreciate them tryin’.”
“When I was a state trooper, stayin’ over in Elmore County, we gotta call one afternoon that a car had flipped into a ditch near the top of this really steep hill, right there in the toenails of the Blue Ridge Mountains. At any rate, the responders started comin’ from every direction, and they parked on the side of the road on both sides…and then this ambulance arrived and pulled to the side of the road and opened its side doors out into the middle of the road. Well, as soon as I got outta my cruiser, I could hear a fire truck coming up the hill on the other side, siren blaring and the engine straining. I checked on the guy in the ditch, and he was okay; he was just stuck upside down, and his seat belt wouldn’t release. By now there were twenty or more responders, all in full fire gear, tryin’ to get this poor bastard outta his car, when the fire truck topped the hill at full speed.”
Jake sat still, wondering why Rosco was telling this long story.
“That old fire truck was haulin’ about six thousand pounds of water alone, and when it topped that hill and the driver seen all those vehicles blockin’ the road, he stood on the brakes. That big old truck went to swayin’, and you could see the fear on the faces of the men. There wasn’t nothin’ to do but get the hell outta the way. We all took off running. The truck sideswiped every vehicle except mine and took the ambulance doors smooth off. They finally got the fire truck stopped about a half mile down the hill. I learned a valuable lesson that day: you don’t wanna get between the enthusiasm of volunteer firefighters and their jobs. They got some enthusiasm.”
“That’s an interesting story,” Jake said as he looked around the office at the old pictures.
“Awww, I get to tellin’ stories sometimes and forget what I’m doin’. Sorry ’bout that.”
“No problem.”
“Look, Mr. Crosby, you got any idea how that fire started?” Sheriff Blue asked, trying to catch Jake off guard.
“Please call me Jake, and no. I was about to ask you the same thing. I haven’t been out there in over a month. Could the wiring have gone bad? It’s pretty old.”
“How old?”
“Well, when I was just a kid, my dad rewired it himself, so about thirty years, I guess. It’s been added on to over the years. It wasn’t anything fancy.”
“Who’s yo’ daddy?”
“Robert Crosby. He worked as a production supervisor at Bryan Foods in West Point. Worked there about forty years.”
“Lots of folks worked there at one time or another.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sheriff Rosco Blue leaned back in his wooden chair and placed an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. “It’s kinda peculiar that it suddenly catches fire and burns to the ground. Got insurance on the place?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Uh-hunh.”
“I agree that it’s strange, Sheriff. I know I said somethin’ about the wiring, but I can’t help but think it might be arson.”
“Well, we got us a real good fire marshal here, and he’ll figure it out.”
“Does insurance pay if it’s arson?”
“I don’t think so,” the sheriff said, watching Jake closely.
Jake dropped his head into his hands
The sheriff said, “Look here, son, it’d save us both lots of time and trouble if you know somethin’ about this. You need to go on and tell me. You got somethin’ you need to get off your chest?”
“No, sir…but do you remember almost two years ago…during spring turkey season, over in Sumter County, where two rednecks got killed one night chasing a man and his daughter and another girl through the woods?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“That was me. I’m the one they were chasing—me and my daughter and this high school girl. The police never caught at least two other guys from that gang. I’ve been worried that someday they’d come after me and my family.”
“So you think the ones that got away set your fish camp on fire?”
“Maybe. I killed two of ’em, and from what I understand, they were a real tight bunch. It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I remember Johnny Lee and Reese. Those a*sholes kept us busy up here at times, and quite frankly, they both needed killin’.”
“I’d never even heard of ’em until that night.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the sheriff remarked. He carefully considered the gang torching Jake’s fish camp, but he knew their style of payback would be murder, not arson. An eye for an eye would be their response.
Sheriff Blue leaned back again and tried to analyze Jake Crosby’s body language. He was aware that it was very common for young couples to get way over their heads in debt and need immediate cash. The reasons were too numerous to count. Insurance fires were often a quick fix. That’s what this smelled like, and the man sitting in front of him sure looked stressed.
“Jake, those rednecks’ payback would be painful. Burning your camp ain’t vengeful enough.” The sheriff suspected that Jake was trying to throw him off the real trail.
Jake rubbed his face and looked uneasily out the window. After a moment, he said, “It’s the only answer I got, Sheriff.”