“Same story. Dixon died two years ago, abdominal aneurysm. But I don’t think Robb ever told him anything. Dixon wouldn’t have sat on that.”
Again the heat rises to my face. “But my father did? Damn it, Henry, you want me to believe that the most ethical man I’ve ever known withheld critical murder evidence for forty years?”
Henry nods slowly. “I’m not saying I blame him. There’s a lot you don’t know about Brody Royal. What could your father have gained by revealing what he knew? A clean conscience? The moral high ground? That doesn’t mean anything if you’re dead.”
I’ve made this point myself before, specifically to my fiancée. But even so, it’s hard for me to see my father making that choice.
“Your father’s a good man, Penn. But he’s probably carrying burdens that no man should have to carry alone. There’s no telling what he saw and heard back in those days. What he might have done with the best of intentions, and yet caused terrible consequences. I’m not surprised he doesn’t want to talk to Shad Johnson. He won’t talk to me, and he loved my parents. He won’t even talk to you, his own son.”
“But what does he know, Henry? The identity of Albert’s and Pooky’s killers? Is that really enough to explain his self-destructive silence about Viola?”
Henry shakes his head. “No. But we still haven’t covered the most disturbing part of this story. The murder of Viola’s brother. The gang rape, all that. Once I’ve finished, you won’t have much trouble understanding why your father is reluctant to talk about that time.”
A chill of presentiment makes me feel nauseated. “What are you saying, man? Would you cut to the fucking chase?”
The reporter holds up his hands, trying to get me to be patient. “I’m going to make a cup of coffee. Do you want some?”
I reach out and take hold of his arm, but he gently disengages, then takes a carafe from a stained old Mr. Coffee machine and fills it at a small sink. He’s clearly deep in thought, and his thoughts seem to be causing him pain. He measures out some Eight O’Clock brand, then, once he has the coffee going, returns to his worktable and slides another photograph from a manila envelope.
“I wasn’t sure whether I should show you this,” he says, passing me the three-by-five print.
The photo shows four men standing in the stern of what looks like a deep-sea fishing boat. I recognize my father and Ray Presley standing together, facing two other men who look only vaguely familiar. Seeing Dad with a crooked cop I was glad to watch die gives me a surreal sense of foreboding.
“I recognize Dad and Ray. Who are the other two men?”
“That’s Claude Devereux,” Henry says, pointing to a dark-skinned man on the right side of the photo. The camera apparently caught Devereux telling a humorous story, because the other men are smiling or laughing. Dad, Ray, and Devereux look to be in their mid-thirties in this image, but the fourth man looks older, maybe forty. Even laughing, his hawklike face and wiry build give him a powerful presence.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.
“That’s Brody Royal.”
“Jesus, Henry,” I breathe, feeling dizzy.
“He looks like a shorter Charlton Heston, doesn’t he?”
“Where the hell was this taken?”
“No idea. I found that photo in the Beacon morgue. The man who likely shot it is dead, and no one seems to know where it was taken. It could be the Gulf of Mexico or the South China Sea. I’m hoping you can get the answer from your father, among other things.”
I nod slowly. “I intend to.”
“Was I wrong to show it to you?”
“No. I want to know everything you do. I need to know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Henry takes several photocopied pages from the manila folder. They appear to be heavily redacted FBI surveillance reports from the 1970s. Much of the typing that hasn’t been blacked out is scarcely readable.
“What’s this stuff?”
“Three FBI reports detailing trips taken from New Orleans to Natchez for medical treatment.”
“By whom?” I ask, my chest tightening.
“Members of Carlos Marcello’s Mafia organization. In each case, they were followed to the door of your father’s office on Monroe Street. Twice during normal office hours, but once at about eight P.M., and Ray Presley also showed up on that occasion.”
Sour bile rises into my throat. “Goddamn it, Henry. What are you telling me here?”
“I don’t know what it all means, Penn. I just want you fully informed when you finally speak to your father.”
While I stare at the reports in disbelief, Henry fills a Northeast Louisiana University mug to the brim with coffee and takes a scalding sip. “Damn, I needed that.”
After pouring me a cup, he takes the reports from my hand and looks into my eyes. “How far would your father go to protect his family? Would he go to jail for the rest of his life?”
To my surprise, tears well in the corners of my eyes. “Without a second’s hesitation. Dad doesn’t have much time left anyway. He’s already outlived every prognosis he’s been given.”
“I figured as much. When you first came in, you told me you thought your dad might be trying to protect somebody. What if that somebody is you, Penn?”
“Me?”
“Not just you. Your mother, your daughter, your fiancée, your whole family. What if the Eagles simply exploited the chance to frame your father, then threatened to kill members of his family if he fought it? No one knows better than Tom Cage what the Double Eagles are capable of, and there’s no Ray Presley around to protect you anymore.”
I nod slowly, weighing the odds. “If someone made that threat, and Dad believed they’d carry it through … yes, he might sacrifice himself without a fight.”
“Today I heard a story that I wish I’d never heard. The man at the center of it was Brody Royal. I’ve heard some pretty horrible things in my time, but this …”
“You already told me Royal was involved in horrific murders.”