Henry’s past experiences with law enforcement have obviously left him cynical. “Let’s talk about the FBI for a second. Last night you said you needed me to run interference for you. What’s your relationship with the Bureau?”
Henry cocks his head like a man who can’t make up his mind. “For a long time they ignored me. Then they started warning me about talking to witnesses in what they called ‘open’ cases. I laugh at that now. If the public ever finds out how the Bureau dragged its feet on those murders, there’ll be hell to pay. Now, of course, field agents call me every week. They basically want to use me as a de facto investigator.”
“Who’s your main contact with them?”
“I’ve dealt with a dozen different agents. The FBI has jurisdictional problems within its own agency. Different field offices or resident agencies handled the various original cases, so the records are spread out, and each agent only has a few pieces of the puzzle. They’ve got a cold case squad, but not even those people have access to all the data. It’s ridiculous.”
“Do you trust any of them?”
“There is one guy I like,” Henry concedes. “He works out of the New Orleans field office now, but he’s no suit. He’s a Vietnam vet named John Kaiser. That’s who I called about Morehouse last night.”
The agent’s name tweaks something in my memory.
“Kaiser’s not officially responsible for any of these cases, but he’s got a personal interest. He trained under some of the agents who originally worked the murders, and he’d like to solve them, if he can. He’s helped get me in touch with old-timers when I needed to. If we’re duty bound to share information with somebody official, I’d prefer to deal with Kaiser.”
“I’m glad you’re open to somebody in the Bureau, but we’ve got to at least give Walker Dennis a chance.”
“What if the bones disappear? More than bones disappeared out of that office in the old days.”
Henry is referring to several ice chests that reportedly held the decomposing flesh of two civil rights murder victims in 1965. Like a lot of other evidence from that era, those coolers vanished without trace.
“We’ll only show him one,” I promise. “Remember, Walker was probably in kindergarten during the bad old days.”
Kirk Boisseau’s eyes have been moving back and forth between us like those of a grunt watching two officers argue strategy. “Don’t worry, Henry,” he says, “there’s a lot more bones where those came from.”
“After you talk to the sheriff,” Nancy interjects, “where will we stand? Kirk and me? We took these bones off private property.”
“If these bones are what we think they are,” I tell her, “that won’t matter. You might be asked some questions to establish exactly where you found them, but no one’s going to press trespassing charges. They’ll be too busy trying to keep out of trouble themselves.”
“What if they’re not what you think?”
“Then your names will never come up.”
Nancy breathes a little easier after this, but her jaw remains set.
Henry tugs anxiously at his mustache. He’s clearly afraid to let these bones out of his personal custody, and after all the work he’s done on these cases, I can hardly blame him.
“Sheriff’s an elected position,” Kirk reminds us. “Walker Dennis won’t want any part of this tar baby.”
“I don’t want you to say a word to him about my sources,” Henry says.
“No chance,” I promise. “And Kirk is probably right. Walker will want to punt this to the feds to protect his own ass. But at least we’ll know where we stand with him.”
Henry slaps the side of Kirk’s truck. “Screw it. It’s been thirty-seven years since those boys disappeared. Let’s find out what the sheriff’s made of.”
I take the carefully wrapped bones from Kirk and give him sober thanks, but the marine just laughs and shakes his head. “Beats the shit out of working for a living.”
Nancy clearly has a different opinion.
Twenty seconds later, the parking lot is empty again.
THE CONCORDIA PARISH SHERIFF’S Office occupies the lower floor of the parish courthouse, an incongruously modern building constructed in the 1970s. Partially faced with brown reflective windows tilted back at an angle, the stucco building looks onto the junky sprawl that lines Highway 84 from Vidalia to Ferriday. The presence of the sheriff’s department is evidenced by clusters of white cruisers to the left of the courthouse, augmented by rescue boats and a mobile command post parked under metal shelters at the rear.
I called Sheriff Dennis as soon as Henry and I pulled out of the music store parking lot, and he agreed to meet us with the understanding that I would explain why we needed a deputy to escort us out of Ferriday last night. When we arrive at the basement motor pool, we find a brown-uniformed deputy waiting to lead us up to the sheriff’s office.
After walking a gauntlet of good old boys in uniform, we find Walker Dennis seated behind his desk, watching CNN on a TV mounted in an upper corner of the room, as in a hospital. Like Sheriff Billy Byrd, Walker wears a Stetson, but he’s younger than Byrd (maybe forty-seven) and in slightly better shape. In my youth, I played a few baseball games against Vidalia teams that starred Walker Dennis, but unlike me, he went on to play college ball. Walker’s default expression is a smile of private amusement, as though he’s in possession of information others are not. As Henry and I take the seats he offers us, I note the usual artifacts of political office around the room: framed photos with local dignitaries and sports stars, memorabilia from notable cases, and citations from various civic and professional groups.