A Darkened Mind Read online

  Emrick turned his head slightly aslant and looked at Bowman with questioning eyes. He answered, "Lot'sa folks play de mouth organ 'roun' heah. Don' cos' much an' it's pretty easy to play."

  "Not when you play like that guy, that comes straight from the heart." As Bowman made the remark, he sensed a change in Emrick.

  He seemed distant and slightly perturbed when he commented to Bowman, "You must git in a lot'sa fights."

  He looked at Emrick questioning both his tone and wondering what prompted the question. Once he realized what was going on with his friend, he smiled. "You must mean my broken nose. That thing has been broken so many times I can't remember how many. I got those playin' football. That's how a poor boy like me got to go to college. No, when it comes to fightin' I'm pretty much of a coward. I found out early on it hurts to hit someone, and it hurts even worse to get hit. I'm not into pain. If you're ever around me and we get into a scrape, you just grab onto the back of my belt and hold on. I can pick 'em up and put 'em down when it comes to runnin' from a fight."

  "Mr. John Harvey say if he was big as you, he wudn't be sittin' on dat porch - he'd be out huntin' big bears with a switch."

  "Well, Emrick, you tell Mr. John Harvey that if there are any big bears around here, there'll be some small ones too, and there ain't no shortage of switches, so he can go out and help himself."

  In response to that comment, Emrick brightened somewhat and said: "Speakin' of Mr. John Harvey, he wondered who you call on the telephone by the sto' 'ery afternoon."

  "Good Lord, here I thought no one even knew I was here and I find out the neighborhood knows every move I make!"

  "Dey jes' don' know you yet, once dey do dey won' pay no 'tenchun, but till dey knows you, dey gonna watch what ya doin'."

  "Well, you get out the word for me, I go to the store every evening, buy ice for our drinks and pick up a newspaper. While I'm there I call a girlfriend who's up in Baltimore for a little while."

  "You tryin' to do some heavy courtin'?"

  "No, we've been doin' some heavy courting for some time now. That's one of the reasons I'm still here - makin' some decisions on whether to run to her or from her."

  "Have you decided on anythin'?"

  "Yes, Emrick, I think I have."

  Emrick waited, his eyebrows raised in question. When it became obvious Bowman would tell no more, Emrick asked, "Is Baltimore anywhere near Detroit?"

  "It's not quite as far away as Detroit, but it's on the way in a very roundabout way," he answered, aware of a sudden inexplicable weariness on his part.

  Emrick must have noticed the change in his friend since he jumped to his feet and said, "I better get on down de road." If I see dat man playin' dat mouth organ, I'll tell 'im what you said."

  "Okay, Emrick, I'll see you tomorrow." Bowman watched his bouncy walk away and was able to respond when Emrick turned and waved upon reaching the paved road.

  Chapter 2

  When he arrived at work that morning, Aubrian watched Flint's long strides toward him in the office parking lot. "Boss, I was wondering if you would mind if I set up camp at juvenile and then go by forensics." He said hurriedly.“I don't need to tell you that our chances of making an ID are slim to none and I know that if that was my kid..."

  "I made the calls late yesterday, Bill Ed, and I waited around for the second shift and briefed Ken Johnson and asked him to narrow things down. Walk with me to the office and we'll try to get him on the phone." Walking silently toward the building Aubrian recalled his conversation with Flint on the previous evening. “Was Mr. Bowman able to offer us any help?”

  Flint stopped and turned. “You know it was the strangest thing. I called all evening and again this morning. No answer.

  What's unusual about that? He's probably on vacation.”

  “No, he told me the last time I talked with him, that his wife will leave their home only to teach school. She doesn't shop or go to movies, much less go on a vacation.”

  Aubrian shook his head.“ Maybe they got it all worked out. I hope so. That's no way to live.”

  “Well you can bet I'm going to keep on calling until I get him.”

  Nearing his secretary's desk, Aubrian stopped. "Irene, call and see if Ken Johnson is home, I need to talk with him." Returning his attention to Flint, he continued, "Bill Ed, it's not my intention to remove this case from you, it's just that you needed some rest. As unusual as this case is, plus the fact that it involved the mutilation of a black kid, I figured it would be best for all concerned for you to team up with a black detective on this one."

  Flint nodded.

  They had just taken their seats when Irene stuck her head in the door and said, "Captain, Ken Johnson is holding on line two."

  "Hi, Ken, sorry to bother you so early but I was wondering if you could bring me up to speed on what you came up with last night. By the way, Bill Ed Flint is in my office, and I have you on the speaker phone."

  "Hi, Bill Ed. It's no problem Captain. I was getting dressed to come in anyway. The odds are pretty good that I know who the kid is. I planned to ask you to arrange for a technician to go with me to get some prints from his bedroom and make a positive ID that way."

  Flint rose from his seat and directed his voice toward the instrument. "Ken, what makes you think this is the right kid?"

  "Well, the age and size fit, and the timing is right. This kid lived near the golf course at City Park and was believed to be there when he disappeared on Fat Tuesday. It all seems to fit."

  "Ken, Captain Aubrian just told me that he was going to assign us this case together. Would you mind if I come along with you and the guy from ID?"

  "Hell no, I don't mind. To tell you the truth, I wasn't looking forward to talking with these folks alone. That's the reason I'm coming in early. Thought I may as well get it over with. I'm not going to be able to think about anything else until I do. Listen, Bill Ed, ya'll arrange for us to visit the home at about 11 a.m. The parents' names and telephone number are on the outside of the folder in the top right-hand drawer of my desk. Maybe the mother can get her husband home by then. You may want to call juvenile and get what information they have on the parents. I wasn't able to get that last night."

  Ken Johnson drove his unmarked patrol car, with Flint alongside him. The technician was alone in the back seat with his gear. Johnson outlined to the technician what they would need him to do, after which he asked Flint what he was able to learn about the boy's parents.

  "She's a housewife and hasn't worked outside the home for several years. The father holds some supervisory position at the Post Office. They should both be there when we get there."

  "How much did you tell them?"

  "I talked to the mother. All I told her is that we may have a lead to her son's disappearance and that we need to get a sample of his finger prints. She seems very bright. She probably has it all added up by now, but I wasn't going to tell her anymore on the phone."

  "Well, suck it up, I think this is the address."

  The residence of Mavis and Joseph Porter was a single story ranch-style home, similar in design to every other house in the neighborhood. The principle difference was an exterior covered with gray aluminum siding and an immaculately groomed lawn and flower beds.

  The mother, Mavis Porter, met them at the door. Her dark skin contrasted with her starched yellow cotton dress over which she wore a white apron.Her darkened swollen eyes reflected kindness behind the sorrow. Ken Johnson took the lead entering the home and introduced himself and Flint by name and the other man only as a technician. He asked Mrs. Porter if she would show them her son's room, explaining they hope to find an array of clear prints. Flint remained standing inside the door, while Mr. Porter sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, with his fingers intertwined, his gaze fixed at the floor. When Mrs. Porter and Detective Johnson reentered the room, the father turned and glared at Flint.

  "Detective, will you tell me what's going on here? I think I have a right to know."

>   "Mr. Porter, I agree that you have the right to know and as soon as we have something definite, I promise you that either Detective Johnson or I will come here and tell you."

  Mrs. Porter interjected, "Detective, I'm sorry, won't you please have a seat. My husband is just very upset. I'm sure you understand."

  As he rounded the chair and prepared to seat himself, he responded, "Of course I understand, this is very painful for you. I know that, though I realize I can't possibly imagine all you're going through. All I'm trying to do..."

  "Detective Honky"...the father said in measured tones while continuing to look at the floor. His nostrils flared, his eyes teared, and a look of raw hatred radiated from his eyes as he rose from the couch. The pitch of his voice rose as he spoke more loudly. "How stupid do you think we are? Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about a body found near here yesterday. I have to know. What right do you have to prolong this thing to put us through this pain. I demand to view the body. Don't you think I would know my own son?"

  "Detective Flint means no harm to you or your wife." Ken Johnson moved quickly to stand between the two men. "If this is your son --- and we don't know that it is, we can determine it from the fingerprints. There is no reason to put you through that kind of experience."

  "Then it's true. You do have a body, detective," Mr. Porter said still glaring at Flint, ignoring Johnson. I'm asking you straight out, will you take me to identify my son?" he demanded.

  Flint relaxed his body and sank further into his chair using body language to reduce the tension. He crossed his legs before speaking. "Mr. Porter, we don't know if this is your son and, no, I wouldn't agree to that if you were my worst enemy."

  Porter turned his back but continued to direct his comments to Flint. "Then I have nothing more to say to you for the time being. Will you get the hell out of my house?"

  Johnson signaled Flint with his index finger and moved to face the father. "Mr. Porter, I don't have anything more to say to you either. Uncle Tom, Porter interrupted. That why he brought you - to protect whitey from us?"

  "Mr. Porter, he came with me because he cared. He came with me, I didn't come with him," Ken Johnson said then looked away toward the ID technician who had entered the room with his equipment in tow, while nodding to the detectives.

  As the men were leaving the front steps, Mrs. Porter came to the edge of the porch. She bunched the edges of her apron in her hands, looked at Flint and said, "Detective, my husband is not this way at all. I don't know what's happening to him."

  "Mavis, come back into the house this minute!"

  Flint's eyes misted as his met hers. "We understand Mrs. Porter and we're sorry. There doesn't seem to be a delicate way to handle this. I'll do everything in my power to rush things."

  "Mavis, I'm not going to tell you again to get yourself in here!" She looked down at her feet with her hand to her temple as she struggled to feel for the handle to her screen door.

  Returning to the station, there was no conversation for several blocks until Flint turned to the technician sitting on the rear seat and said, "That guy's like a powder keg. The sooner we get the print results, the better. When do you think you can get back to us?"

  The man made no response except to look out the window. Flint turned back to him. His stare forced a response. "I've got a good array of prints from the house, several especially clear ones from a water glass in his bathroom," he replied, still looking out the window. He then faced Flint. "The problem is going to be the prints from the body. The finger tissue was wrinkled from the effects of the water. Please don't pressure me. I'll want a second opinion. I have to be absolutely sure, but I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

  As Flint looked at the young man, he realized what a closed society the detective fraternity had become. He and Johnson had not even introduced themselves to the guy and treated him as a nonentity. It had been easy to do since the technician was shy and somewhat unsure of himself. Flint was not motivated by concern for the young man, just in gaining his cooperation in comparing the prints with dispatch. This was the outer limits of his conscious willingness to manipulate, "Hey, I'm sorry. We knew this was going to be a tough call. Our minds were on how we were going to handle it. I didn't even make introductions. I'm Bill Ed Flint, and this is Ken Johnson."

  "Sure, I'm Phillip Thompson," the technician answered and looked down at his knees.

  The radio squawked --- "3410 to 3487".

  Johnson reached for the mike and answered, "3487".

  "3487 make a signal 25."

  "Roger."

  They managed to locate a pay phone outside a service station and Flint placed a call from the passenger's seat to Captain Aubrian's private line.

  "Bill Ed?"

  "Yeah, boss, what's up?"

  "You haven't been watching television, have you?"

  "No sir, we just left the Porter's home. We're on our way back in."

  "That game warden who found the body, what was his name, Perkins?"

  "Yes sir, Jimmy Lee Perkins, I believe, it's in my notes at the office."

  "Well, he's all over the noon news, the star of the hour, going into graphic detail about what he found. Did you instruct him to keep his mouth shut?"

  "No sir, Cap'n, I don't believe I did. He wasn't even there when the camera crew showed up that day. I can't imagine how they found him."

  "Well, it probably wouldn't have made any difference if you had. He probably contacted them. He seemed to eat up all the attention. You and Johnson come directly on in. We need to put our heads together before all hell breaks loose. On second thought, maybe we ought to meet away from the office. Have ya'll had lunch yet?"

  "No sir."

  "Meet me at the Napoleon House restaurant in the Quarters, after you drop the technician off. We probably wouldn't be able to talk here anyway. This place will probably be a madhouse soon."

  "Will do, Captain." Flint said as he hung up the phone and turned to the other two men. "Fellas, the stuff has hit the rotating blade. The guy who found the body has yakked to the press, and we better all find a closet to climb into."

  Chapter 3

  The Hon Robert M. Kingwood, Jr. was two years into his first term as mayor of New Orleans. Although this represented his first foray into politics, he was no novice. He was born into the most timely of all possible political circumstances for his election, as the only son of three children, the heir apparent of a prominent Creole family with three generations of increasing social, financial, and political prominence. His grandfather developed a solid financial base from the successful operation of a funeral parlor. His father and uncle had added to the business, initially with an adjunct funeral insurance business, and subsequently expanded to a large, full coverage operation.

  Robert, following their advice, became an attorney. His immediate success was assured when the family established his offices and engaged his services in handling all legal affairs and collections for both businesses.

  The community held the Kingwood family in esteem because of their business success, their assumption of a leadership role, a quiet but superior demeanor, and their light pigmentation. Also, the Kingwood family members were content with their lives and close family relationship, which resulted in a lifestyle of moderation and stability. They were the key group courted when influence in the black community was desired by white politicians. They had acquired substantial political clout, which included a stable of obligated politicians, and their behind-the-scenes financier/ "puppeteers", whose identities were well known by the senior Kingwoods.

  Of the two, Robert Sr. was the oldest. Like his son, he was tall, slim and had a quiet, distinguished but prepossessing demeanor. He and his wife, Idella, had two daughters before the birth of their son, Robert, who was never so called by the family. He was called "T-Boy", which was later shortened to "T". Uncle Easy, the second and last of Issac's children, was named Edwin Xavier. Although his initials were actually E.X., Xavier sounded to his schoolmates as if
it began with a "z" and, as a result, he was known by and actually signed his checks with the initials, E. Z. Consequently, he became known as "Easy" which stuck because of the contrast of the descriptive word with his personality. Shorter, heavier and darker than his brother, he was headstrong and aggressive from childhood. It was only through the patient persistence of his parents and, subsequently, the loose easy rein of his older brother that these qualities were properly channeled. He adopted a facade of openness and joviality, which eventually became second nature, but his more primary traits remained just beneath the surface. His relationship with his brother had always been close and a climate of mutual understanding naturally evolved. In matters of business and politics, planning and administration fell to Robert Sr. while public relations and confrontation became the bailiwick of "Easy".

  Robert lived in a spacious one bedroom apartment above the funeral home. Looking around the apartment, he opened the drapes of one set of French doors for natural lighting to relish the view. The walls, carpet, drapes and Italian provincial furniture were all in shades of white. Color was added only through throw pillows and artwork. Opening his oversized, walk-in closet, he selected one of several dark brown tropical wool suits and lay it across his bed. With the exception of three suits, a tuxedo and a black and a navy for weddings and funerals, all his outerwear was shades of brown and tan. He felt these colors highlighted his skin tone. Because the color was out of favor with clothing designers and little selection was available to him, all his suits were tailor made. One hanging section of the closet was devoted to innumerable dress shirts, mostly white, of every conceivable collar style. Ties hung over two rows of built in drawers and shoes, in cedarwood trees, were in rows beneath the clothing. He drove a two seater, chocolate brown Mercedes convertible with a light colored top. The top was seldom lowered. He avoided the sunlight whenever possible.

  Practicing law bored Robert, but he enjoyed the trappings of status and financial success. With the increase in black voting strength strong black candidates began to emerge, but none had full community acceptance. Robert M. Kingwood, through his father and uncle, was well aware of the political realities of life. He knew that he could climb the political ladder to any position he desired in Louisiana, and beyond, if he watched his P's and Q's. These expectations were unexpressed between him and his extended family, but all understood them.