THE CONCORDIA PARISH Sheriff’s Department cruiser peels off my tail after Henry Sexton and I reach the Pizza Hut at the western edge of Vidalia. Driving ahead of me, Henry Sexton turns off the main highway into a residential neighborhood, while I continue toward the twin bridges that span the Mississippi River, five miles to the east. The lights of Natchez glimmer on the bluff high above them, calling me back home.
The moment we left the Beacon office, I called a retired cop named James Ervin to set up security for Henry and his loved ones, but for the last few miles I’ve fought the urge to use my cell phone again. I don’t like making decisions in the heat of the moment, especially after absorbing an information dump like the one Henry laid on me tonight. In the span of sixty minutes, the reporter gave me the results of twenty years of painstaking investigation, and the full ramifications aren’t easy to grasp. For the time being, I don’t intend to try. What matters now is my father’s plight, and whether or not he’s willing to try to extricate himself from it. With a preparatory tensing of my stomach muscles, I dial Dad’s cell phone. He doesn’t answer until I’ve nearly despaired of getting him.
“Hello, Penn,” he says in a softer voice than usual.
“You told me to call you if Henry had any new information that was relevant. Well, he had a lot. We need to have a very different conversation than the one we had this afternoon.”
“Son … I can’t talk now. Peggy is upset.”
“I imagine she is, if you’ve just told her about this mess. Is she right there?”
“No, but close enough.”
“Hold the earpiece close to your head, then.” I lower my voice. “I’m going to ask you one question, and I want a yes-or-no answer. I need you to answer it, because before I can make a move, I need to know where you stand.”
“I will, if I can.”
“Will you take a DNA test to establish whether or not you are Lincoln Turner’s father?”
There’s a stunned silence. “Penn—”
“Yes or no, Dad. Please.”
More silence. I could have asked whether or not he’d fathered a child by Viola, or whether it’s even possible, but what would be the point? Though I’ve never known him to lie to me, in the end this question will only be answered by scientific evidence.
“I will,” he says at length.
My relief is palpable. Passing into Vidalia, I adjust my brights for oncoming traffic. “All right. I’ll see you later tonight.”
“Make it late, after Peggy’s asleep. Midnight.”
“Okay.”
I hit END and squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. I’m not even sure what his answer meant. But from a legal standpoint all that matters now is his willingness to take the test. Before I can second-guess myself, I call Shad Johnson’s cell phone. It rings several times, but just as I expect to be kicked to voice mail, the DA’s smooth voice comes on the line.
“I’ve been expecting you to call back all day.”
“My father didn’t kill Viola Turner.”
“Do you have exculpatory evidence I don’t know about?”
“I know how you convinced yourself you could win a case for premeditated murder. You believe Lincoln Turner is my father’s illegitimate son, by Viola.”
The line goes silent.
“If that’s your case, Shad, you’d better slow down. Because Tom Cage is not that man’s father. Dad just told me he’s willing to take a DNA test, at your pleasure. I’m sure Lincoln spun you a heartbreaking story, but there are some biographical details of which he’s blissfully unaware—the first being that his mother was gang-raped by ex–Ku Klux Klansmen just before she fled Natchez. And not once, but twice, a few days apart. Henry Sexton believes one of those men is Lincoln Turner’s father.”
“What does Henry Sexton have to do with this?”
“He’s an expert on the Double Eagle group. So, before you call a press conference making charges about my father and his 1960s love child, I’d verify my soon-to-be-disbarred client’s story. You don’t want to be charged with defamation and false arrest.”
“He’s not my client. I’m the district attorney.”
“Call it what you will. But if you arrest Dad in the morning, you’ll be stepping into serious trouble. Don’t let Lincoln Turner and Sheriff Byrd drag you into something you’ll regret.”
The phone stays silent, but I know Shad is thinking furiously. Rather than push him further, I let him stew in his anxieties awhile.
“What do you expect me to do with this?” he asks finally. “Throw out a murder case based on a phone call from the mayor?”
“It shouldn’t even be a murder case. Not against my father, anyway.”
“Penn, listen. This thing has taken on a life of its own. Lincoln’s pushing every political hot button he can in this town. You know I’ve got to deal with my own community in a case like this.”
“Your community wouldn’t even know about this if you weren’t stirring it up.”
“You’re wrong! Black deputies worked that crime scene, man. Plus, Billy Byrd’s not about to lay off without proof that Dr. Cage wasn’t involved.”
“Everybody’s pushing this thing but you, huh? I don’t buy it, Shad.”
“Your father hasn’t even tried to defend himself! What are people supposed to make of that?”
There’s no denying this problem. “I know that looks bad. But this is a complex situation.”
“Not from where I sit. You have the luxury of dealing in theories; I’m stuck with what I can prove. I’ve got your father’s fingerprints on morphine vials and a horse-sized syringe. I’ve got a suicide pact between your father and the victim, and the victim’s sister puts him at the scene just prior to death. Lincoln’s paternity angle is just the cherry on top.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Shad! Lincoln’s assumed paternity is what took you from assisted suicide to murder. Nothing else. Are you seriously fucking with me? Because I know exactly how to handle that.”
“No—Penn, wait.”
Gripping the wheel fiercely, I try to rein in my anger. “A man named Glenn Morehouse was murdered near Vidalia tonight. You need to look into that. He was spilling his guts to Henry Sexton, and the Double Eagle group killed him for it. The same reason they killed Viola fourteen hours earlier.”
“Can you prove that?”