The Bone Yard (22 page)

Tonights Saturday night, and that means most of the guards will go into town, but not Cockroach. He stays here on Saturday nights and gets drunk.

I will slip out after dinner tonight and put wings of fire to my prayer.

“Doc?” Stu’s voice jolted me back to the present place and time. “You okay?” I looked around and was surprised to find myself in the command post, and surprised to see that the briefing room was now empty except for Vickery, Angie, and me.

“He calls the guard Mr. Cochran,” I said. “Cockroach is the boys’ nickname for Cochran.” I pointed at the newspaper article Stevenson had dug up. “Look. According to the paper, Cochran was the guard who died in the fire.”

Angie had been out of the room when Vickery had passed out copies of the story; now she snatched the copy from my hands, and her eyes zigzagged down the column of old print until she found it: “ ‘Also lost in the fire was guard Seth Cochran, age 31, who died a hero’s death while attempting to rescue boys from the burning building.’ ”

“Wait a minute,” said Angie. “
Cochran
died trying to save boys’ lives? Are we talking about the same Cochran? Cockroach? The sadist who got off on torturing kids? I don’t buy it. It doesn’t fit.”

I had to agree with her on that. “But our boy Skeeter, according to this final diary entry, might have set the guards’ quarters on fire that night,” I pointed out. “If that’s the case, he put wings to his prayer, and his prayer was answered. He got Cockroach.”

“He got Cockroach, all right,” Vickery agreed. “But he got nine of his classmates, too.”

“Or maybe he just got eight,” Angie pointed out. “Maybe Skeeter was one of the nine. We still don’t know who he was or what happened to him. Did he run away after he set the fire, or did he get caught in the flames, too? Be good to know who he was and what happened to him.”

Suddenly I had an idea that sent a spike of adrenaline coursing through my system. I’d been puzzled about why so many boys had died in the fire, and the question had continued to tug at the sleeve of my mind even during the frenzied work of excavating the graves in the Bone Yard.

“I need to go back to the school,” I said. “Can you spare me for an hour or so? And do you still have those old photos that Stevenson showed us? The pictures of the buildings?”

Vickery looked startled. “I guess I can,” he said. “And yes, I do. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

I did, and thirty minutes later, I was kneeling at the edge of what had once been the boys’ dormitory, digging into the ground beneath the spot where a fifty-year-old photo showed a pair of wide wooden doors.

A foot down, the tip of my trowel rasped against something hard and metallic, and I began teasing away the dirt to see what I’d hit. A curved piece of rusted steel emerged; as the tip of the trowel flicked lightly along its contours, it revealed a link of heavy chain. I dug beneath the link to expose it fully, and found links on either side of it, and more links connected to those. Then, curling two fingers beneath the exposed links, I lifted. The chain came from the ground like some rusted root I was pulling—a segmented, sinister version of a root—and then it curled back on itself, arching into a loop. At the center of the loop, holding it closed, was a stout, rusted padlock. And on either side of the padlock were stout, wrought-iron handles. Door handles. “Angie?” She aimed the camera at my face, looking at me through the viewfinder. “Now we know why so many boys died in the fire.”

A
ngie had just finished photographing the padlocked chain and the door handles it held together when Vickery’s red Jeep Liberty stopped in the circular drive. Angie motioned him over and wordlessly pointed to the chain. He gave it a cursory glance, then looked up at her quizzically. Before she could answer his unspoken question, though, his gaze shot back down. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed. “Those poor boys were locked in. That building burned to the ground with the damn
doors
chained shut.” He flung the cigar away violently. “God
damn
whoever did this.” His face was crimson and streaming with sweat, and I knew it wasn’t just from the Florida sun. “Hatfield,” he spat. “If he knew that door was chained—and how could he
not
have known that door was chained?—he’s culpable for the deaths of those nine boys.” He took a deep breath. “So far, Riordan’s been reluctant to charge Hatfield for the homicides we’ve uncovered at the Bone Yard—says we can’t prove that the superintendent knew the boys had been murdered, not unless we get some corroborating testimony.”

“The bad-apple theory?” asked Angie. “The same reasoning that charged enlisted soldiers with torturing Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib but cleared the officers?”

“Yeah, that same reasoning,” he said. “Maybe this chain will convince Riordan that the whole damn tree was rotten—that Hatfield had to have known and condoned all the bad things going on here.” He paused. “I wonder if they’ve ever had a ninety-year-old inmate at Starke.”

“At the risk of raising a sore subject,” I ventured, “any luck yet finding out how Hatfield got made commissioner of corrections after the fire?”

Vickery made a face. “Nothing for sure yet,” he said. “At the moment, my money’s on State Senator Jeremiah Judson—the dearly departed father of our friendly neighborhood sheriff. Back in the sixties and seventies, Senator Judson chaired the Criminal Justice Committee, which had oversight over the prison system. He also raised a lot of campaign funding for the governor’s reelection bid. Sounds like Hatfield’s promotion could’ve been a case of quid pro quo.”

“What was the quo? Why would a state senator pull strings for a guy who did a bad job of running a reform school?”

He shrugged. “Maybe Hatfield had some dirt on him. Or maybe Hatfield was bosom buddies with Deputy Darryl Judson, who was just about to run against his boss for the job of sheriff. Whatever smoky backroom deals were cut, they were cut a long damn time ago, and most of the deal makers are dust by now. I’m sending Stevenson over to Dothan to stir the dust now. Maybe something will come slithering out when he does.”

Chapter 25

T
he Bone Yard, grave number six.

I was pedestalling the remains: excavating a deep, moatlike trench around the perimeter of the bones, then working my way in from there, creating a small platform on which I would gradually expose the skeleton, in a ghoulish version of the way Michelangelo freed captive figures from the marble that imprisoned them.

After two hours of digging, I’d defined the skeleton’s edges and top surface, and I began digging down to finish revealing the skull, the spine, the rib cage, the legs. The body had been buried on its side, in a tucked position, much like an Arikara Indian warrior. The knees and hips were flexed to fit into the grave’s four-foot length, and the arms were folded across the chest.

As I exposed the face, I saw that this boy had not lived in the cedar-shake dormitory, the white-boy dormitory; this boy had lived in the separate, unequal building set apart for blacks. His skull, like the one with the shattered mastoid process, bore the distinctive angled teeth and jaws of a Negroid skull, as well as the broad nasal opening and nasal guttering underneath: evolution’s way of allowing Africans to breathe in greater volumes of air—hot, oxygen-poor air—than their Caucasoid cousins in the colder climate of Europe.

Unlike the other African American we’d found, however, this boy’s skull didn’t show obvious signs of physical trauma. Nor, as I pedestalled the remains, did his other bones. That didn’t mean he hadn’t died a violent death, of course; he might well have died of soft-tissue injuries—a ruptured spleen, a ruptured kidney, suffocation—whose telltale signs would have long since melted and slipped into the dark, silent earth.

Here and there, shards of rotted cotton—the thickest layers of fabric and stitching—remained draped over the emerging bones: the shredded waistband of the pants; the ragged collar of the shirt; the rolled hems of the trouser legs.

Using a large pair of tweezers, I began plucking the bits of shirt collar from around the cervical vertebrae. The fabric was denser than I’d expected—more bulk, and also more layers—and the weave seemed odd and complicated, with an odd, oblong lump of material on one side of the neck. Then a realization hit me, with such swiftness and force that I recoiled and lost my balance, falling backward against the wall of the grave.

Lying on this earthen altar was a black boy who had a rope knotted around his neck.

Had he taken his own life, I wondered, in a moment of despair? Or had it been taken from him?

I did not have to wonder long. The questions were answered when I looked closely at the bones of the arms and hands, and found more shreds of rope encircling his wrists.

Word of the find spread quickly across the site, and a spontaneous, solemn gathering took shape around the grave. People looked closely, said almost nothing, spoke only in whispers. Some of the whispers were hushed exchanges between people; others seemed to be prayers, and I saw Rodriguez make the sign of the cross as his lips moved silently. It was curious: every boy we’d found here had been murdered, yet people’s reaction to the previous five skeletons had been matter-of-fact—not blasé, exactly, but not particularly surprised or distressed. Now, as I scanned the assembled faces, I saw intense, unmasked emotions: shock, grief, fear, horror, anger.

Vickery motioned Angie and me aside. “There was a notorious lynching in Marianna, not far from here, back in 1934,” he said quietly. “A young black man was accused of raping and murdering a white woman. The schedule for the lynching was published in the newspaper ahead of time. He was tortured, castrated, and dragged behind a car before finally being hanged. When the sheriff eventually cut down the body, people protested—not because the man had been lynched, but because the sheriff wouldn’t leave the body hanging. When he refused to string it back up, a white mob went on a rampage, beating up hundreds of local black people, including women and kids. It took the National Guard to restore order.” He shook his head sadly. “You know, it’s possible that somebody who witnessed that 1934 lynching—maybe even somebody who participated in it—had a hand in this boy’s death. The distant past isn’t always as distant as we’d like to believe.”

For some reason—the reference to the atrocities of the past, perhaps, or the similarities between this boy, who’d been lynched decades before, and Martin Lee Anderson, who’d been suffocated in 2006 —I thought back to my lunch with Goldman, the FSU criminology and human rights professor. Over our lunch of oysters, I’d thought it odd and contradictory that Goldman could be so cynical about the justice system and, at the same time, so idealistic—so naive, even—about the possibility of creating a society without prisons. Now I was beginning to share his cynicism, and I wondered whether—and hoped that—I might find my way to at least some of the idealistic antidote to the cynical toxins.

Vickery’s phone whooped. He snatched it from his belt and glared at the display, as if the phone itself were guilty of unforgivable irreverence. “Vickery. What?” His eyes darted rapidly back and forth, as if the words he was hearing were ricocheting wildly. “
What?
. . . When? . . . Oh, hell. Does the M.E. know? . . . Well, call him. Maybe too late, but maybe worth a try . . . Check for video cameras, visitor logs, everything . . . Okay, keep me posted . . .
Damn
it.”

He closed the phone. “That was Stevenson. I sent him up to Dothan to put some heat on Hatfield, who fiddled while reform school Rome burned. Take a wild guess what Stevenson was calling to tell me.”

Angie didn’t hesitate. “Hatfield’s dead.” Vickery nodded glumly. “So
Stevenson
interrogated him to death?”

“Didn’t get the chance. Hatfield died in his sleep last night, the nursing home director says.”

“How convenient,” she remarked, which I seemed to remember hearing her say once or twice before. “You suppose he had some help with that? A kink in his oxygen line? A pillow over his face?”

Vickery shrugged. “We’ll see what the M.E. says, if Hatfield hasn’t already been pickled—the funeral home picked him up early this morning. Ninety-year-old with emphysema croaks, it doesn’t necessarily raise a lot of red flags in a nursing home.” He had a point there. But so did Angie. Winston Pettis had been killed as we were closing in on the Bone Yard; someone had put a venomous snake in my bathtub; and now Hatfield had died as FDLE was starting to close in on him. If the ominous buzz surrounding us were any indication, Angie had gotten her wish: we’d managed to give the bees’ nest quite a whack.

She and I packaged up the hanged boy’s bones for shipment to Gainesville, along with the other five skeletons we’d already excavated. Angie asked Stu if she could take them as far as Tallahassee, where she could sign them over to a crime-lab assistant who would drive them the rest of the way. “I’d really like to sleep in my own bed for a change,” she said.
Me, too
, I thought, but my bed was a lot farther away than Tallahassee. “I’d like to remind my husband that I still exist, too.” Vickery encouraged her to leave at midafternoon. “Unless we find something new, I think we’re close to winding down here,” he said. “Go on. Have a nice evening with Ned.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “I’ll sweet-talk him with stories of boys being lynched and burned alive.” She shrugged. “But seriously, Stu, thanks for the breather. I’ll be back by eight for the morning briefing.”

“No rush,” he said. “Make it eight-fifteen.”

T
hat night I called Miranda on her cell phone—a rare intrusion on her off-duty hours, which I knew were scarcer than they should be. “Tell me about the three bodies we have hanging from the scaffolds,” I said. “Are they all still up? Have any of them fallen yet?”

“No. Why are you asking? What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

“I think we found a lynching victim today,” I said. “A black teenager with a rope knotted around his neck.” I heard a gasp on the other end of the line. “I don’t understand it, Miranda. I don’t understand how people could do such terrible things to boys. Boys they were supposed to be helping.”

“Of course you don’t,” she said. “I’d worry if you
did
understand it.”