Titus pushed his hat back on his head. “Jamal, I don’t have the authority to do that. That’d be up to the Board of Supervisors and the Fall Fest Committee and I don’t think they gonna be inclined to do it.”
“I know Fall Fest usually brings in a ton of money for the county. But Ricky Sours and his boys are planning on marching down Main Street hollering about blood and soil and the Great Replacement and White Lives Matter. How big of a leap do you think they’d have to make to start blaming people who look like us for the two white men killed in the county?”
“So you heard about Elias?” Titus said. He considered cornering Davy and asking him who he’d told.
“Everyone’s heard about it. But my statement stands. I can see Ricky and his boys pulling a Susan Smith and blaming us for Cole and Elias. All those people crushed together at the Fall Fest full of liquor and anger and fear. You gonna have something bad on your hands, Titus,” Jamal said.
“Jamal, are y’all planning a counter-march?” Titus asked.
Jamal wouldn’t meet his eyes. The young minister studied the asphalt beneath his feet. “You don’t know what they saying around the county. They already hate us, now they want to blame us. They don’t believe Spearman did anything. They want to put everything on Latrell or some other young Black man who fits their stereotype of the angry Black thug. But this ain’t the time of Dr. King, Titus. A lot of people ain’t feeling that nonviolent resistance. A lot of people around here, Black and white, are sick of Ricky Sours and his crew.”
Jamal got in his car. He rolled the window down and leaned his head out.
“Ask them to cancel it, Titus. Please.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Titus went to his office and stood in front of his bulletin board. He tacked a piece of paper to the board and wrote the word “Gabriel” on it. Under the name he jotted down notes about what he thought was the man’s motivation and his pathologies. He wasn’t really working up a profile, more like just organizing his thoughts. He talked to himself in a low murmur as he wrote.
“He’s obsessed with religion and angels. He’s physically strong as hell. Does he hate the Black side of himself? Is that why he attacks Black kids? He’s bold, but most sociopaths are bold. He’s probably passing. He was the alpha among him, Spearman, and Latrell. How did he meet them? Latrell didn’t seem to be an active participant in the murders. He was purely bait.”
Titus stopped writing. One thing he’d learned the hard way was that profiling wasn’t magic. It was at best a series of educated guesses based on quantified research and analysis. But some people weren’t quantifiable. Some people didn’t fit the profile. They didn’t even fit within the human race.
Some people were monsters among monsters.
Carla knocked on the frame of his open door.
“What ya got?” Titus asked.
“Talked to the shipping manager at the fish house. The dates that Latrell rode along with Cole don’t come anywhere near matching the dates those kids went missing,” Carla said.
Titus nodded.
“Okay. It was a long shot anyway. Cole wasn’t the killer. He knew who he was, but he didn’t know he knew until the press conference. I just can’t stop thinking Latrell and the killer were working together to snatch these kids. He used Latrell as bait. I know it, I just don’t know the mechanics of it,” Titus said.
“Maybe Latrell and the killer just drove up and down the East Coast when the mood struck them,” Carla said.
“That’s possible. If they did, that makes it that much harder to find the—” Titus stopped himself. He was going to call the killer the Last Wolf. “It makes it harder to find the killer. Randomness is his ally.”
“What’s ours?” Carla asked.
“Determination.”
* * *
Titus spent the next few hours returning emails and handling the administrative issues that he’d neglected the last few days. Admittedly, he had good reasons, but the folks he served wouldn’t acknowledge those reasons, they’d only hear excuses.
Titus logged on to the various social media pages dedicated to Charon County. Those pages were the new water coolers and fences around which the community gathered. They were also where people had the tendency to expose themselves as racists, misogynists, and amazingly ignorant. Titus thought some people convinced themselves a community page held a sanctity it did not in any way, shape, or form.
There were a lot of posts about the shooting. A few were from concerned citizens who asked for prayer and healing for the county. But the majority were gleefully exuberant about Latrell’s death. They used the tragedy as an opportunity to display the vastness of their racist vocabulary. There were quite a few posts about the Fall Fest. Most of them were genial, bursting with anticipation for the pie-eating contest or the crab-pot-pulling contest. Albert Crown had three trophies from that particular competition on his mantel.
A few of the posts hinted at more violent expectations.
Got my flags for the march!
The South will rise again!
Fucking snowflakes can’t stand real history!
Titus logged out.
It occurred to him no place was more confused by its past or more terrified of the future than the South. He sent an email to the Board of Supervisors apprising them of the fact that he was going to reach out to neighboring counties for backup during the three days of Fall Fest. He hoped he wouldn’t need them, but hoping and praying wouldn’t stop some good ol’ boy from tossing a Molotov cocktail into a crowd of folks in front of the Safeway.
Titus closed his laptop and checked his watch. It was a little after 6:00 P.M. and he hadn’t had anything to eat all day. He considered calling Darlene and having her meet him at Gilby’s, but the image of the lamb on his door chased that idea away. He’d go pick up something and bring it back to the office.
As he was walking through the lobby of the office, Trey and Pip came in dragging Denver Carlyle.
“I got rights, motherfuckers!” Denver screamed.
“I’m guessing he didn’t agree to being a material witness,” Titus said.
“Well, Mr. Big Brain here took off running, got in his car, then ran it in the ditch. That means he got a DUI, resisting arrest, and evading police. And that’s if the county attorney wants to be charitable,” Pip said.
Titus took a deep breath. Denver smelled like he’d been swimming laps in a whiskey barrel. “Denver, if you’re drunk you know that’s the end of your CDL, right?” Titus said.
“Fuck you. Fuck all y’all motherfuckers. I got rights. I’m a white man in America. Yeah, I said it, white man. I’m not ashamed of my race just cuz some people owned slaves a hundred years ago,” Denver said.
“But you want to keep up a statue to those folks. The ones who owned slaves. That’s what your march is about, right?” Titus asked.
Denver shook his head. “That’s our history you trying to destroy! Trying to erase us.”
“So, you don’t mind your ancestors being slave owners, you just don’t want anyone to complain about it? Take his ass to the holding cell. Call the magistrate,” Titus said. Pip carted Denver off to the holding cell.
“Just FYI, I asked him about Cole while he was in the cruiser. He’s drunk and it’s probably not admissible, but he told me he hadn’t talked to Cole in months. He’s all about those Sons of the Confederacy bullshit,” Trey said.
“When he sobers up, ask him if he will give us a DNA sample,” Titus said.
“You think it’s Denver?” Carla asked.
“I’m not ruling anyone out,” Titus said.
“I mean, I understand that, but I’ve known that jerk for a long time. He’s lived in Charon his whole life. The kid, the one Elias and his family raised, disappeared. Denver’s never gone anywhere,” Carla said.
“Good point, but I want his DNA anyway. I might be wrong about the boy,” Titus said.
“You’re not wrong often, boss,” Carla said.
“I kinda hope I am this time.”
* * *
Titus was back at his desk waiting for Denver to sober up when his cell phone rang. He checked it, saw it was from a restricted number. Titus hesitated. It was probably a telemarketer calling about his extended car warranty. Then again, it might be important. He touched the screen and answered it.
“Hello?”
“The flock is not safe,” a deep, demonic voice said.
Titus sat straight up in his chair.
“How did you get this number?”
The voice chuckled. It made Titus’s skin crawl.
“Anyone can find anyone on the internet. The flock is not safe, Titus,” the voice said.
“Is that what you were trying to show me with that lamb … Gabriel?” Titus said. He hoped using his real name would throw him off.
“That’s not my fucking name.”
“That’s what your mother said they named you. Your real mother. She regrets giving you up, Gabriel,” Titus said. He could hear deep, harsh breaths on the other end of the line.
“How’s your mom? Still dead?” the voice said. It had lost its bravado.