So far as I can discover, the root of the Knox pathology begins with Frank Knox’s grandfather, Nathan Bedford Forrest Knox. Nathan was an abusive sociopath who fought in the Spanish-American War. He took scalps during the fighting in Cuba and probably murdered several people in the decades afterward. Nathan had two sons: Nathan Jr. (killed at Belleau Wood in 1918) and Elam (who fathered Frank and Snake). Nathan Jr. took some German scalps before he was killed, for which he received only minor discipline.
Elam Knox became a lay preacher, a sometime farmer and trapper, a wifebeater, and a child abuser. He was decorated for bravery during WWI, and his army record notes that he was a savage trench fighter. There are no records of trophy taking by Elam Knox, but he probably carried on the tradition, because the practice showed up in both his sons, and with a vengeance.
Elam’s son Frank was probably sexually abused by his father. He was beaten often and had a generally violent childhood. Frank led a life of petty crime, had constant run-ins with the police, yet he never spent more than a night in jail. There were burglaries, probable rapes, and countless assaults. Frank was ejected from several high school football games for fighting. He was about to be charged with rape when World War II came along. The local authorities were so glad to be rid of him, they let him enlist in the Marines. Not even the victim’s family complained.
Frank was sent to the Pacific along with schoolmates Glenn Morehouse and Sonny Thornfield, and there he flowered. Frank was a born killer, and there was plenty to be done on the islands. The more brutal the soldier, the better his officers liked him, and Frank Knox had no equal. He racked up medals faster than most men did blisters on their feet. But Frank didn’t merely take human trophies—as his father and grandfather had—he started a business selling them to the Merchant Marine. He and his buddies would bleach the skulls of Japanese soldiers they’d killed and sell them to sailors for a hefty profit. They also carved trinkets out of other bones, made bracelets out of teeth, took ears, cut off foreskins, anything that would sell.
Snake Knox was eight years younger than his brother and consequently served in Korea. Part of the time he spent as a sniper, but Snake also fought hand to hand. His army record contains several notes about one-man incursions he made behind the Chinese lines. One night a foxhole buddy told Snake he was getting frostbite because his boots couldn’t keep out the cold. That night, Snake sneaked through the Chinese lines and brought back a pair of boots with the feet still in them. He said he’d left the feet in to keep the leather warm.
Given this history, it’s no surprise that when the Knoxes turned their hands to racial violence, they would use the same tactics they’d employed in Asia. The mutilation of Jimmy Revels and Luther Davis by removal of their service tattoos is a particularly egregious example, but the Knoxes employed torture against multiple victims, and even against whites who they felt had betrayed them.
Frank Knox’s second son, Forrest, became the first Knox to conceal his savage nature under a mask of refinement. But evidence of the Knox pathology abounds during Forrest’s younger years, particularly while he served as a LRRP in Vietnam. While most Lurps living behind enemy lines avoided contact and reported on enemy movements, Forrest did the opposite. If he thought the odds were remotely in his favor (which might mean two dozen VC regulars against a six-man LRRP team), he would either set up an ambush and take them out or follow the VC patrol and pick them off one by one. A few of his men complained, but any soldier who showed initiative and upped the body count was protected in Vietnam. Forrest gave MACV intel they couldn’t get any other way, and several superiors misused his unit as a hunter-killer team (a not uncommon occurrence with LRRP units, which had a 400:1 kill ratio).
The classic Knox pathology was revealed in a killing ritual Forrest observed in combat. He carried a bag of Kennedy half-dollars in his ruck, and always left a coin in his dead enemy’s mouth. Pretty soon, the VC in his area believed some kind of ghost or demon was operating there. Command didn’t think the coins were particularly crazy. It beat cutting off ears. Of course the army brass couldn’t know that the JFK coin was the talisman of the younger Double Eagle group members back in the States. Not that they would have cared. . . .
A loud thunk startles me as my Audi ramps up onto the westbound bridge and the river opens a hundred feet beneath me, spreading right and left like a broad valley filled with liquid bronze. Suddenly the horizon is miles away rather than a few hundred yards, and the effect is like gulping cold water. I’m tempted to call Walker Dennis and find out whether he’s actually busted the Double Eagles for the planted methamphetamine, but I can’t take the chance. If anyone is monitoring his calls, I could find myself tied to a serious felony. With an impatient sigh, I force myself to focus on the remainder of Kaiser’s psychological assessment. I can wait five minutes to find out whether Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield are about to be facing mandatory thirty-year sentences. If they are, I won’t need to try to take them apart by applying pressure to well-hidden emotional cracks. . . . I’ll have a legal bludgeon that would pucker the sphincter of a hardened con.
God, let that be the case. . . .
WALT DROVE SLOWLY PAST the Bouchard lake house for the second time. The GPS tracker had shown this as Forrest Knox’s current location, a fact supported by the state police cruiser parked beside a Mercedes convertible at the end of the home’s long driveway.