Murder in the Magnolia StateEpisode 2: Dawn Beats her Feet on the Mississippi Mud
By Rachael Robbins
Subscribers can catch up on the story by reading Part One |
Mississippi
When our flight landed at the Jerusalem County Regional Airport, we rented an almost-new Escort and drove the twenty miles down U.S. 82 into town. The trees almost touched each other overhead, enclosing the highway like a leafy tomb, and giving the light a greenish cast. Frenchy turned on the radio -- it was set to a country station, with a whiny, nasal voice singing something about whiskey. She used the radio's "seek" control and found . . . a country station. Then another country station, followed by the "Voice of Jesus Our Redeemer Power Hour." She gave a grimace of disgust, flipped off the radio, and we rode the rest of the way in silence.
New Jerusalem was situated a few miles off the highway at the end of a crumbling asphalt road. It didn't look much like its namesake, nor was it particularly new, and to say it was small was an understatement. The sign at the outskirts said "Population 11,354", but if that were true, they must have counted all their cats, dogs and barnyard animals. It had a tiny downtown, populated by such thriving businesses as Antioch Hardware and Shurden's Department Store, and dominated by the Jerusalem County Courthouse, which had little black lawn-boy hitching posts out front (I kid you not).
The New Jerusalem Inn, on the corner of First and Main, promised "Southern Elegance at it's Finest." I glanced at Frenchy, who was staring morosely out the window.
"This look OK?" I asked.
"Do we have a choice?"
"Doesn't look like it."
"Then this is fine."
We parked our car and scurried through the heat into the hotel's tiny lobby, where a matronly lady with dyed red hair and a double chin checked us in. Her close-set eyes radiated false bon homie. She handed us our keys and said "If y'all need any help just let me know. We serve breakfast in the dining room at six thirty."
Our room was surprisingly spacious, with two double beds, a large couch and a dresser in one corner. A desk stood under the oversized window, and two stuffed chairs faced a large color TV. And best of all, it was air-conditioned to within an inch of your life. Frenchy flopped down in the bed nearest the bathroom, and looked at me sullenly.
"The least you could have done is to get two rooms."
"In case you've forgotten, nobody's paying for this gig," I said. "We're on our own dime . . . that is, my own dime."
"I didn't know you were so cheap, Dawn." She reached over and clicked on the television with the remote control. I reached over and clicked it off. "Hey, what's your problem . . . gimme that."
"We've got work to do," I said firmly. "We need to check in with the Police Chief. But first, I need a shower -- bad."
Frenchy sat on the bed, watching me unpack with one eyebrow raised. I'd packed light -- four skirts, five blouses, a couple of dresses and two suits. Plus an extra wig (in case I had to change my looks) and five pairs of shoes.
"Think you brought enough clothes?" she said. "I mean, after all, we might be down here what? A week?"
"I have to keep up a certain professional appearance."
She made a big show out of picking up her single, moderately-sized dufflebag and placing it on her bed.
"Sure," I said. "It doesn't take much room for t-shirts and jeans. I hope you aren't planning on wearing your `Lesbian Avengers' shirt or the one about dildos."
"Give me credit for some brains," she said. "This is the South, not the Castro. I even brought a dress along." Sure enough, she pulled out a cute flowered sundress, and hung it carefully in the closet.
"Will wonders never cease," I said, shaking my head.
I felt fresh after my shower, and donned a denim skirt, sleeveless blouse and flats. Frenchy wore shorts, sandals and a t-shirt with a big red heart on the front. She'd even shaved her legs. The New Jerusalem Police Department was located two blocks from the hotel, adjacent to City Hall on Lee Boulevard, so we decided to walk. We strolled East on Main, past "Carol's Notions" and the "Book Barn", crossed Second at the light, then went North until we came to City Hall. We passed few people, and those we saw seemed to be scurrying between air-conditioned cars and air-conditioned shops, or vice-versa. When we walked into the front door of the police station, we were confronted by an ancient wooden counter, and behind it an equally ancient woman in a police uniform.
"Afternoon. Can I help you?" Her voice was gravelly from years of smoking, evidenced by the mountain of cigarette butts in a nearby ashtray.
"We're here to see Chief Harper," I announced, flourishing my forged PI license. "Name's Dawn Benedict. I'm a private investigator from Seattle. This is my associate, Ms. McBride."
She took my I.D., looking singularly unimpressed, and gave it a cursory glance. Then she swiveled her chair around and spoke into an intercom on the wall. "There's a Miss Benedict here to see you. Says she's a private investigator from Seattle." The intercom squawked something in return, and she struggled to her feet.
"You're in luck. The Chief's in -- another fifteen minutes and he would have been gone home. If you'll follow me . . ." Without looking to see if we did, she turned on her heel and made off through a side door. She led us through a moderately sized room with several cubicles and a coffee machine at one end, and a large whiteboard on the opposite wall. A nine-by-five grid had been taped onto the board; the rows were labeled with last names and the columns with numbers. Squad-car assignments, unless I missed my guess -- there were "X's" opposite three names, probably indicating the patrolmen on duty. The Chief's office was through a frosted door opposite the one by which we'd entered. Our guide knocked, and we heard a muffled voice telling us to enter.
Jimmy Harper was nothing like your stereotypical red-neck, southern cop. Tall and thin, he had penetrating blue eyes only partly hidden behind wire-frame glasses. His face was oddly asymmetrical, as if God had used two different molds in its formation, yet it was strangely comforting, like a familiar teacher, or an uncle you could trust. The unruly shock of white hair completed his Will Rogers image. He got to his feet and extended a gnarled hand while the receptionist hovered protectively in the doorway.
"Jimmy Harper -- glad to meet y'all." His accent was soft and lilting, and reminded me of Elvis. "Can Mary get you anything? Coffee? Tea?"
"Dawn Benedict. And this is my associate, Frenchy McBride." I took his his hand -- it engulfed my own. I wasn't in the mood for anything hot, but I wanted to be polite, so I smiled my most winsome smile and ordered tea. Frenchy ordered the same, and the receptionist left, closing the door behind her. She looked none too happy at leaving her boss alone with two strange women.
"Have a seat," he said, motioning to a couple of straight-backed chairs. "Now. What can I do for you ladies?"
"I'm a private investigator from Seattle. I've been hired to look into the murder of Merilee Parker." His eyes widened a bit at the name, but to give him credit, he didn't miss a beat.
"Miss Parker," he said, with a slight emphasis on the honorific, "was killed three weeks ago in her hotel room. We're calling it a robbery. It's an open case."
"Do people down here usually stab their robbery victims twenty-three times?"
He grinned at that. "I said we're calling it a robbery. Besides the multiple stab wounds, there were other, ah, oddities about the murder. This is a quiet little town, Miss Benedict . . . we don't want to get folks all riled up."
"What sort of oddities," I asked, glancing at Frenchy. Her eyes were fixed on our host.
He looked at me a moment before answering. "You won't mind if I check your license? Can't be too careful, y'know."
"Not at all," I said, and handed it to him across the desk. While he carefully looked it over, the receptionist entered bearing a tray. On it were two tall glasses of iced tea, sides dewy with condensation. She handed one apiece to Frenchy and me as her boss looked up from my license and smiled apologetically.
"Just one more thing I gotta do -- Mary, would you get the Washington State Licensing Board on the horn?"
Oh great, I thought -- that's all I need. Some clerk at the Board telling Harper they didn't license PIs. I shot a panicky look at Frenchy, but she calmly reached into her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. "Here's the number of Homicide Detective Bernie Peterson, Seattle P.D. He'll vouch for Ms. Benedict."
Harper took the paper from Frenchy and looked at it dubiously. "Well, I guess it'll be all right . . . prob'ly a lot quicker, too." I breathed a sigh of relief, but knew we weren't out of the woods yet -- there was no telling how Bernie would react. I watched as he dialed the number.
"Hi, darlin' . . . couldja get me Detective Peterson, please? Thanks." While he waited he drummed the fingers of one hand on his desk top, and flipped my bogus license around and around with the other. A lawn-mower droned in the distance. I glanced over at Frenchy, and she looked maddeningly composed, hands folded in her lap, a slight smile on her face.
"Detective Peterson? Howdy. This here's Jimmy Harper. I'm Chief of Police down here in New Jerusalem, Mississippi." I noticed that his accent broadened when talking to Bernie -- playing the hick for the city boy, I supposed. "I got me a gal down here, says you'll back her up. Claims she's a private investigator, name of Dawn Benedict." He was quiet for a moment, then "D-a-w-n . . . that's right . . . She's a pretty little thing -- blonde, blue-eyed, about five-seven or eight. Got a gal by the name of McBride with her." He listened for a few more seconds, then a speculative look came over his features. "Izzat right? Well, thanks for the information . . . yeah, I will. Bye."
He replaced the phone in it's cradle and looked at me thoughtfully. Here comes, I thought -- Bernie spilled the beans. I wondered how big the roaches were in the Jerusalem County Jail.
"Your friend vouched for you all right. Said you were the best partner he ever had. Asked me a funny question, though . . ." He paused, and I prepared for the worst. "He asked me what you looked like this time."
I let out a sigh of relief. "What he means is, I used to be pretty good at disguises and all. You know, wigs, contacts and everything."
"Guess it comes in handy in your line of work. You know, sittin' outside of motels, spyin' on lovers and all." His eyes twinkled as he handed the "license" back across the desk, and I wondered how much he suspected. "Now, about the killin'. As I said, there were some features of the murder we kept from the general public. For instance, there were . . . words . . . written on the walls in the victim's blood."
"What kind of words?"
His eyes flicked to the side and then back to mine. "Well, ah . . . you know, words relating to the victim's condition."
"Chief Harper," I said, "I find your chivalry charming, if misplaced. I worked vice in a big-city department. Wouldn't you suppose that I've seen and heard just about everything?"
"I know, Miss Benedict, I know. But old Southern habits die hard, I guess," he said sheepishly. "Well, the words were `Burn in Hell Fucking Faggot.'"
I grimaced. "She wasn't homosexual, you know."
"I know that," he said. "He -- no, she -- was a transsexual. Look, this is hard for a lot of folks down here. New Jerusalem's a close-knit little town. Ever'body pretty much knows ever'body else. I watched Andy Parker grow up, for God's sake." He looked down at his hands.
"Is that all?" I asked gently.
"No, ma'am, there was something else." He spoke so softly that I had to lean forward to hear. "The victim's, ah, male organs were mutilated . . . if it makes you feel any better, the coroner says it happened post mortem."
My stomach rolled slowly over, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl back to the hotel and cry for my butchered friend. I felt tears start to form, and closed my eyes. I cannot fall apart, I told myself. I've got to find the bastard who did this. When I opened my eyes, I saw Harper looking at me sympathetically.
"This is more than just a case for you, isn't it?"
"I never knew her as anything other than a woman," I said. "When I went through some rough times, she befriended me. She was always there."
"I know this is personal, but were you, I mean, are you . . ."
"No," I said, "I'm not a transsexual."
The next day was Saturday, and Frenchy and I went to pay a call on Merilee's parents. The case had all the hallmarks of a hate crime, or even a killing by an out-and-out psychotic, but it was conceivable that the killer wanted to make it look like that. The Junior Crimestopper's Manual, Investigative Techniques section, had taught me to start with the family and friends when looking for motives. I'd read the police interviews with the Parkers, and they'd looked fairly thorough, but you never knew what a fresh perspective might turn up.
They lived in a gracious old house on Jackson Street, about four blocks north of downtown. It felt at least ten degrees cooler under the oak trees that lined the neighborhood, and the sweet smell of honeysuckle filled the air. Carlton Parker, Merilee's father, opened the door.
I was wearing a white summer-weight suit, with a skirt cut a modest inch above the knee and matching pumps. The heat precluded stockings, but I've always found that bare legs softened up the male subjects of my interrogations nicely. It didn't seem to be working with Parker, however -- his eyes were as lifeless and flat as slate. I attributed the lack of interest to the fact that he'd just lost a child; it certainly couldn't have been me.
"Good afternoon," I said. "I'm Dawn Benedict, and this is my associate Ms. McBride. We'd like to talk to you about your daughter."
Parker eyed us bleakly from the doorway, then swung the door wide, ushering us silently into the foyer. We preceded him down the carpeted hallway and into a small sitting room, where he invited us to sit on a flower-upholstered couch. He took the recliner opposite, and sat watching us, bolt upright and seemingly in no hurry to begin the conversation. The morning sun streamed in through the slatted blinds behind him, dust motes dancing in its beams, and the only sound was the ticking of a large clock on the mantlepiece to our left. Finally, he broke the silence.
"Jimmy Harper called last night. He says I ought to cooperate, but I can't say as I think it'll do any good."
"I know this is a hard time for you Mr. Parker, but we'd appreciate it if you could answer a few questions. It might help find your daughter's killer." He winced at the last sentence; I didn't know if it was at the word "killer" or the reminder of his child's new gender.
"Our son went away to Seattle six years ago," he said. "We knew he was having trouble adjusting to things, but thought he just needed time. You know, to work things out." He paused, and looked down at his gnarled hands, then back up. "Then, about a year after he left, we got a picture in the mail. Only, it wasn't him in the picture, it was this woman. And with the picture was a long letter, tellin' us that our boy wanted to be a woman. How he'd always felt he was in the wrong body and that he was savin' up for a sex change. It like to have killed his mama."
"Why do you think she came here?" I asked.
"He said he wanted to make his peace, to try to make us understand. Y'see, when we got that first letter, I went through the roof. Got him on the phone and read him the riot act, and told him that God didn't make mistakes, and he should stop this foolishness and get on home, or he wouldn't have a home to come back to. I guess I got a little crazy, but . . . you got any kids, Miss Benedict?"
I told him I didn't.
"Well," he continued, "When you got kids, you build up a lot of expectations for `em. I always tried to get Andy to play baseball and football, you know, do the things the other boys did. When he didn't want to do those things, when he just wanted to sit around and read, I said `Ok, so maybe he's not gonna be a sports star. Maybe he'll be a scholar.' Mississippi's got a history of folks being good writers and all, like Faulkner and that Tennessee Williams." He shifted uncomfortably. "But when this happened, it kinda ruined all my dreams and plans -- the picture of my future son didn't include him bein' a woman, y'know?" He seemed more concerned about his own failed expectations than his daughter's terrible death. I wondered if he was disappointed enough to kill. But how could a father kill his own child with such savagery?
"How did the rest of your family handle it?" I asked.
"Well, Lori -- that's his sister -- took it pretty good. She said she'd always wanted a sister. His older brother took it real hard, though. Wouldn't stay in the same room with Andy."
"Could I talk to him?" I asked.
"I guess so, but you'll have to wait `til Monday. Roy took his family up to Tupelo for a soccer tournament. His mama went with `em -- I thought it'd take her mind off things."
"What about her sister?"
"I'm afraid she's gone `till late tonight," he said apologetically. "She'll be at church in the morning, though. In fact, that'd be a good place to meet a lot of Andy's friends. We go to First Baptist."
I said "That's not a bad idea, Mr. Parker. Frenchy and I could use some religion, anyway." I could hear her choking quietly beside me.
Next: Dawn Gets Religion (and Line-Dance Lessons)