I know nothing of Sheriff Dennis’s politics, but no sheriff in North Louisiana gets elected for being liberal. This is hard-shell Baptist country, as red as Mississippi when it comes to political litmus tests. On the other hand, 40 percent of this parish is black, and the city of Ferriday has a much higher black-white ratio than that. Walker couldn’t do his job if he didn’t know how to walk the tightrope between the races.
Before he speaks, the sheriff leans back in his chair and gives us an expansive smile, distorted by the dip of snuff packed beneath his lower lip. “I’m mighty honored to have the mayor of Natchez over here,” he says, obviously meaning to begin with small talk, the Vaseline of political interaction in the South. “Must be important business.”
“It is,” I say flatly.
The sheriff’s smile vanishes like smoke. “Let’s hear it, Penn.”
I lay the wet newspaper on his desk and open it to reveal the dark bone with rusted barbed wire set in it.
“What’s this?” Dennis asks, leaning over his desk.
“Looks like a piece of ulna to me.”
“A what?”
“An arm bone.”
The sheriff clears his throat. “Who’d it belong to?”
“Luther Davis, probably,” Henry says.
The sheriff’s cheeks lose three shades of color.
“Luther was a big man,” Henry says, “much bigger than Jimmy Revels. We also found a leg bone, and it’s big, even for a femur. These bones were found underneath a convertible, which is what Luther Davis drove before he disappeared. Those bones almost certainly belong to Luther Davis.”
A sheen of sweat has formed on the sheriff’s scalp and forehead. “And where is this convertible?”
“At the bottom of the Jericho Hole,” Henry says with a touch of resentment. I’m guessing he’s asked Walker Dennis to investigate that body of water before. “We didn’t even have to look hard.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Dennis almost moans. “Did you have a federal warrant or something?”
I shake my head. “We didn’t find this bone, Walker. A local scuba diver did. A recreational diver. Under a rusted convertible, as Henry said.”
Walker Dennis closes his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s not a bone. That’s a stick of dynamite. And it could blow us all to hell.” He gives me a sharp look. “Especially you and me.”
“Well, we’re not putting it back under the water. And there are a lot more where this came from. We’ve even got one with a bullet embedded in it. This is a very important find, Sheriff. A major discovery, both historically and legally.”
Dennis takes off his hat and rubs his thinning hair. “Jesus H. Christ, Penn. What do you propose I do with this?”
“Drain the Jericho Hole,” Henry says, as though proposing that the sheriff empty a horse trough with a sump pump.
“Drain the …? Shit, you’re crazy.”
“It’s probably going to have to be done,” I tell him. “Unless you bring an expert team of divers in here, and heavy salvage equipment. The only question is, will it be done under a state warrant or a federal one?”
Sheriff Dennis lifts an Ole Miss coffee mug off the desk and spits tobacco juice into it. “I like spitting on the Rebels,” he says distractedly.
“I have a feeling I know which warrant it’s going to be,” Henry says. “Let’s go, Penn.”
“Damn it, Henry,” the sheriff says wearily. “Take it easy. You boys sure know how to screw up a pretty day.”
“We just wanted to give you the chance to take the lead on the investigation,” I tell him. “If you wanted to.”
Walker stares at the bone another few seconds, then looks up with rueful eyes. “I sure appreciate it, Mayor. But I wouldn’t want to take all the credit for something like this. Besides, my office isn’t equipped to handle it. The logistics alone are overwhelming. And then the forensic side … No, I think the FBI is the proper outfit for this case. This is right up their alley. I’ll be glad to lend all the support they ask for, but they definitely ought to be the lead agency on this.”
In any other circumstances, this answer would be stunning. For a local sheriff to voluntarily cede jurisdiction to “the feds” is almost unprecedented. But the subtext here is plain: civil rights murder. In a parish with these demographics, Sheriff Dennis’s decision is the prudent one Kirk Boisseau predicted.
I give him a knowing smile. “I hear you, Walker. But there’s one other thing I’d like to discuss with you. Henry already knows about it, so consider this a private conversation. This problem is a lot more suited to your … outfit.”
Dennis looks downright afraid now. “What’s that?”
“You’ve got a serious meth problem in this parish. Not just users, but meth labs. Major labs, and suppliers, too.”
Sheriff Dennis stares warily back at me, and even Henry looks puzzled by my digression. “What’s the local meth trade got to do with these bones?”
“More than you might think.”
After glancing at his office door as if to make sure it’s completely shut, Walker speaks softly. “What the hell’s going on here, Penn? You walk in my office out of the blue and start talking about our meth problem? You think you don’t have crystal meth over in Natchez?”
“Of course we do. I’m not interested in the meth. I’m interested in the men who make and sell it.”
Walker’s eyes narrow, then go wide with comprehension. “And what exactly do you want me to do?”
“Clamp down on every meth dealer in the parish. I mean hit them hard. Shut down the supply for at least a month, maybe two.”
“To what end?”
“To what end?” Henry echoes, almost shrilly. “How about enforcing the law of the land? Is there some reason you don’t want to arrest local meth dealers?”
A pained expression comes into the sheriff’s face. “Henry, we’re off the fuckin’ record here.”
I hold up my hand to restrain the reporter. “I want you to hit the Knoxes,” I say evenly. “I want them to feel some heat.”
Dennis licks his lips, but he gives me no clue to his inner reaction. “I’ve actually been working up to a big bust for a while.”
Henry snorts, but the sheriff ignores him.
“That’s how we do it over here,” Walker goes on, “like it or not. We build up tips from our informants, then hit a big load of dealers all at once.”