Into the Depths

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER THIRTY-one

            “Hey sailor.” Tina Barrow looked from the paper she was grading and into Nelson’s eyes. “Are you stalking me or is that just a look of wonderment in your eyes?”

            Nelson ignored her. “Coffee?” he said.

            “I thought you would never ask,” she said, placing a red pen on the paper. She motioned toward the paper. “This poor child is sweating bullets trying to convince me that the modern Fundamentalist Mormons represent one end of a continuous arc of religious cultism that began with the Child-abusing Patriarch, Abraham.” She indicated that Nelson should sit.

            “So,” he said, “she condemns both?”

            “No,” she said, “she holds the FLDS boys accountable for their obsession with 14 year-old girls but lets old Abe get away clean with traumatizing his favorite son.” She shifted into a fake German accent. “He vas yust followink orders.” She resumed her normal voice. “It figures, don’t you think?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “These young folks today are a lot like their parents and grandparents when you delve into their neuroses.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “You wouldn’t,” she said. “You aren’t from these parts.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “As much as modern Southerners may claim to be free of religion, it sticks to them like the smell of death sticks to someone headed for the execution chamber.”

            Nelson didn’t respond, but waited.

            “When you are taught,” she said, “from the moment you first gain consciousness, that there is an invisible monster in the sky who will burn your little body in a fiery pit for all eternity if you cross him, no amount of education or rationality ever quite cleanses you of the primal fear of fire.”

            “That’s a little heavy for me this early in the morning,” Nelson said. “Is there a lesson there somewhere?”

            “Let’s just say the hard-core Mormon men either don’t think it’s a sin to swap their young daughters around, or they like it so much they will tolerate the fear of heat,” she said. She placed the paper on a stack to her right. “Speaking of which, you mentioned coffee?”

            “Come on,” he said, and she followed.

            Once seated in the student union, Nelson sipped his coffee and said, “Are you okay?”

            “And why shouldn’t I be, surrounded as I am by the future hopes of America?” She motioned around them.

            He allowed the implied cynicism to fade before answering. “Cryptic notes deliver more than their stated message,” he said.

            “Are you talking about our broken date?”

            “Was it a date?”

            “It was something,” she said. “I’m not sure what.” She drank her coffee and watched the activity of the students for a moment. “They don’t have a clue, do they?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “Their worry list is so limited.”

            He sat his coffee cup on the table before them and studied her. “Their worry list?”

            “Yeah,” she said. “They have to find their way from here to the next class. They have to find their way from there to their girlfriend or boyfriend’s place. They have to find their way from the Raman Noodles to the condoms at Walmart, and, on rare occasions they might be asked to find their ass with both hands.” She drank more coffee and smiled. “Pretty limited worry list if you ask me.”

            “What about,” he said, “all those papers and tests you and the others require of them.”

            She faked a look of incredulity. “Trust me,” she said, “they don’t spend a lot of time worrying about those.” She leaned back in her chair and lifted her cup in mock salute. “Bless you my children, for yours is the kingdom of heaven.”

            Nelson took on a look of resignation. Placing his cup on the table with some force, he said, “Do you get into these states often?”

            She eyed him with a cold look. “You don’t have many regrets, do you sailor?”

            “I’m willing to be your friend,” he said. “I don’t regret that.”

            “You told me you’ve never been married,” she said.

            “That’s correct.”

            “You’ve never stood before a crowd and promised to love and honor someone.”

            “No,” he said, “I never have.”

            “So you don’t have ghosts, ghosts that call to you from the grave?”

            “It was a mistake to intrude on you,” he said. “I’ll be going.” He shoved his coffee cup aside and started to rise.

            “Don’t,” she said. He did.

            When he left the campus an hour later, he drove north to the office of the state crime lab. Sheriff Love had given him directions and a brief history of the grounds. “The area used to be called ‘crazy graveyard’ when I was a kid,” he said. “It is where they buried patients from the state mental hospital that had no family connections. We would bring girls to Little Rock and go there to park,” he said. “Of course, my girl and I would just sit and discuss history projects, Sunday School assignments, and plans for the future. But some of those boys would threaten to leave the girls there if they didn’t … well, you know.” He stopped, but then added, “They used to tell us they buried the corpses upright to save space”

            “Sheriff,” Nelson had said, “why are you telling me all this?”

            “Just to let you know that we don’t respect our dead at times the way we should. We can learn a lot from them if we listen.”

            Nelson had said, “I knew that already.” Then the Sheriff had called Little Rock and arranged an appointment for Nelson.

            Later, he was ushered into a small well lighted office. A young man wearing dark trousers, a checked shirt, paisley tie, and lab coat welcomed him. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties and had a ruddy complexion, pale blue eyes, and an unruly shock of red hair.  “Ben Forsythe,” he said. “I’m a forensic specialist, and you are from the Armistead County Sheriff’s Office.”

            Nelson extended his hand, “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Deputy.”

            They shook. “We have the report on the young girl,” Forsythe said, “the one murdered outside Connorville.” He pushed a large brown envelope from his side of the desk toward Nelson. “Your county has been keeping us busy of late,” he said.
            “Oh?”

            “Nasty truck accident the other day. Couple young guys playing ‘how fast can this old pickup go,’ and they found out the hard way.”

            “I didn’t work that case,” Nelson said. “Find anything?”

            Forsythe frowned and thought. “We normally can’t discuss cases with just anyone,” he said. “But since you are from the same office …,” he stopped. “Oh hell,” he said, “I’ve been curious ever since. Do you folks have a big methamphetamine problem?”

            “Doesn’t every county?”

            “Sure,” Forsythe said, “but I mean a really big one.”

            “Why do you ask?”

            “That kid’s clothing was soaked in it,” he said. “None in his bloodstream, but you could have stayed awake for weeks just sniffing his clothes.”

            “Does Sheriff Love know this?”

            “Yeah,” Forsythe said. “Didn’t he tell you and the other deputies about it?”

            “No.”

            “Odd,” Forsythe said. He seemed to catch himself. “Anyway, there is the report on the young girl. Not much … died from a single gunshot wound entering her frontonasal suture, her, uh, forehead, and exiting the anterior.”

            “One shot?”

            “Yes.”

            “Only one?”

            “Only one. Why do you ask?”

            “Somehow I had the impression that multiple shots were involved.”

            “Oh there were,” Forsythe said, “multiple shots fired into the plywood board to which the body was attached. Some were quite close but only one hit her.”

            “Oh hell,” Nelson said.

            “Oh hell is right. It appears that the perpetrators took multiple shots at her with different weapons, possibly to torture her.”

            “That’s in the report?” Nelson’s face displayed shock.

            “Yes,” Forsythe said. “Of course it is.” Then he paused and stared at Nelson. “Say,” he said, “just how long have you been a law enforcement officer?”

            “Not long,” Nelson said, “not long at all.” He recovered his composure.

            “And before?”

            “United States Navy.”

            “So you’ve never had to deal with reports of violent murders, I suppose.”

            “I’ve never had to tell a young girl’s parents that her daughter was used for target practice before she was executed.” He glanced at the folder. “Calibers involved?”

            “Multiple,” Forsythe said. “All the way from the small handguns women carry in their purses to 38 calibers and nine millimeters.”

            “And the one that killed her?”

            “One of the small ones, a 22 long rifle, probably a Walther P22. They are pretty popular around here.”

            “Her personal belongings,” Nelson said, “when might they be released?”

            “Depends,” Forsythe said, “on a lot of factors. But I can tell you there weren’t many, just some ragged clothes. The body was washed around in a violent rainstorm, you know.”

            “I know,” Nelson said, “but a young man, a friend of Abbey’s, gave her the necklace she was wearing and it would be a great favor if he could get it back some day.”

            Forsythe thought. “Don’t remember it,” he said. “I’ll check but let me tell you ….” He stopped.

            Nelson said, “Tell me what?”

            Forsythe looked toward the door. “Mind closing that?” he said.

            Nelson rose and did what he was asked. He came back and sat, but didn’t say anything.

            Forsythe drew a deep breath. “Can I trust you?”

            “Yes, if you can help me find Abbey’s killer.”

            “The body of the deceased wasn’t handled initially by Sheriff Love’s office.”

            “I know,” Nelson said. “The Connorville Police Department was the first responder.”

            “Do you know anything about that department, or the city for that matter?”

            “I’m learning.”

            “Then you may not be surprised to know that anything of value worn by a murder victim found in that jurisdiction may not find its way here.”

            “You mean it may have been stolen.”

            Forsythe didn’t answer. He simply stared at Nelson with no expression on his face.

            “I see,” Nelson said. “We may never find it.”

            “You have the report,” Forsythe said. “If you or the Sheriff has any questions, please feel free to call. Feel free to call the pathologist as well, but I did most of the work. She just supervises, reviews, and approves.”

            Nelson rose. “You have been a great help,” he said. He extended his hand and the two shook again. Nelson said, “I wouldn’t want your job.”

            “Nor I yours,” Forsythe said. As Nelson turned to leave, Forsythe said, “By the way, you didn’t tell me what you did in the Navy. My dad was a machinist mate during Vietnam.”

            “Not much,” Nelson said. “I spent most of my time straightening out messes that other people made. And sometimes I made messes that others had to clean up.”

           As Nelson reached his truck, his cell phoned beeped, announcing a text message. “You were a great help,” it said. “I think I may be exorcised of ghosts, at least for the present. If you are game, I think the kimono may drop tonight.”