Three Classic Thrillers (130 page)

They passed a small trout dock where a group of clean-cut city slickers were counting fish and drinking beer, and they passed a flotilla of rubber rafts filled with mangy teenagers smoking something and absorbing the sun. They waved at other fishermen who were hard at work.

The boat slowed finally and Lettner maneuvered it carefully through a bend as if he could see the fish below and had to position himself perfectly. He turned off the engine. “You gonna fish or drink beer?” he asked, staring at the water.

“Drink beer.”

“Figures.” His bottle was suddenly of secondary importance as he took the rod and cast to a spot toward the bank. Adam watched for a second, and when there was no immediate result he reclined and hung his feet over the water. The boat was not comfortable.

“How often do you fish?” he asked.

“Every day. It’s part of my job, you know, part of my service to my customers. I have to know where the fish are biting.”

“Tough job.”

“Somebody has to do it.”

“What brought you to Calico Rock?”

“Had a heart attack in ’75, so I had to retire from the Bureau. Had a nice pension and all, but, hell, you get bored just sitting around. The wife and I found this place and found the marina for sale. One mistake led to another, and here I am. Hand me a beer.”

He cast again as Adam dispensed the beer. He quickly counted fourteen bottles remaining in the ice. The boat drifted with the river, and Lettner grabbed a paddle. He fished with one hand, sculled the boat with the other, and somehow balanced a fresh beer between his knees. The life of a fishing guide.

They slowed under some trees, and the sun was mercifully shielded for a while. He made the casting look easy. He whipped the rod with a smooth wrist action, and sent the lure anywhere he wanted. But the fish weren’t biting. He cast toward the middle of the river.

“Sam’s not a bad guy.” He’d already said this once.

“Do you think he should be executed?”

“That’s not up to me, son. The people of the state want the death penalty, so it’s on the books. The people said Sam was guilty and then said he should be executed, so who am I?”

“But you have an opinion.”

“What good is it? My thoughts are completely worthless.”

“Why do you say Sam’s not a bad guy?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have fourteen beers left.”

Lettner laughed and the vast smile returned. He
gulped from the bottle and looked down the river, away from his line. “Sam was of no concern to us, you understand. He was not active in the really nasty stuff, at least not at first. When those civil rights workers disappeared, we went in with a fury. We spread money all over the place, and before long we had all sorts of Klan informants. These people were basically just ignorant rednecks who’d never had a dime, and we preyed on their craving for money. We’d have never found those three boys had we not dropped some cash. About thirty thousand, as I remember it, though I didn’t deal directly with the informant. Hell, son, they were buried in a levee. We found them, and it made us look good, you understand. Finally, we’d accomplished something. Made a bunch of arrests, but the convictions were difficult. The violence continued. They bombed black churches and black homes so damned often we couldn’t keep up. It was like a war down there. It got worse, and Mr. Hoover got madder, and we spread around more money.

“Listen, son, I’m not going to tell you anything useful, you understand?”

“Why not?”

“Some things I can talk about, some I can’t.”

“Sam wasn’t alone when he bombed the Kramer office, was he?”

Lettner smiled again and studied his line. The rod was sitting in his lap. “Anyway, by late ’65 and early ’66, we had a helluva network of informants. It really wasn’t that difficult. We’d learn that some guy was in the Klan, and so we’d trail him. We’d follow him home at night, flashing our lights behind him, parking in front of his house. It’d usually scare him to death. Then we’d follow him to work, sometimes we’d go talk to his boss, flash our badges around, act like we were about to shoot somebody. We’d go talk to his parents,
show them our badges, let them see us in our dark suits, let them hear our Yankee accents, and these poor country people would literally crack up right in front of us. If the guy went to church, we’d follow him one Sunday, then the next day we’d go talk to his preacher. We’d tell him that we had heard a terrible rumor that Mr. Such and Such was an active member of the Klan, and did he know anything about it. We acted like it was a crime to be a member of the Klan. If the guy had teenage children, we’d follow them on dates, sit behind them at the movies, catch them parking in the woods. It was nothing but pure harassment, but it worked. Finally, we’d call the poor guy or catch him alone somewhere, and offer him some money. We’d promise to leave him alone, and it always worked. Usually, they were nervous wrecks by this time, they couldn’t wait to cooperate. I saw them cry, son, if you can believe it. Actually cry when they finally came to the altar and confessed their sins.” Lettner laughed in the direction of his line, which was quite inactive.

Adam sipped his beer. Perhaps if they drank it all it would eventually loosen his tongue.

“Had this guy one time, I’ll never forget him. We caught him in bed with his black mistress, which was not unusual. I mean, these guys would go out burning crosses and shooting into black homes, then sneak around like crazy to meet their black girlfriends. Never could understand why the black women put up with it. Anyway, he had a little hunting lodge deep in the woods, and he used it for a love nest. He met her there one afternoon for a quickie, and when he was finished and ready to go, he opened the front door and we took his picture. Got her picture too, and then we talked to him. He was a deacon or an elder in some country church, a real pillar, you know, and we talked to him like he was a dog. We ran her off and sat him down
inside the little lodge there, and before long he was crying. As it turned out, he was one of our best witnesses. But he later went to jail.”

“Why?”

“Well, it seems that while he was sneaking around with his girlfriend, his wife was doing the same thing with a black kid who worked on their farm. Lady got pregnant, baby was half and half, so our informant goes to the hospital and kills mother and child. He spent fifteen years at Parchman.”

“Good.”

“We didn’t get a lot of convictions back in those days, but harassed them to a point where they were afraid to do much. The violence had slowed considerably until Dogan decided to go after the Jews. That caught us off guard, I have to admit. We had no clue.”

“Why not?”

“Because he got smart. He learned the hard way that his own people would talk to us, so he decided to operate with a small, quiet unit.”

“Unit? As in more than one person?”

“Something like that.”

“As in Sam and who else?”

Lettner snorted and chuckled at once, and decided the fish had moved elsewhere. He placed his rod and reel in the boat, and yanked on the starter cord. They were off, racing once again downstream. Adam left his feet over the side, and his leather moccasins and bare ankles were soon wet. He sipped the beer. The sun was finally beginning to disappear behind the hills, and he enjoyed the beauty of the river.

The next stop was a stretch of still water below a bluff with a rope hanging from it. Lettner cast and reeled, all to no effect, and assumed the role of interrogator. He asked a hundred questions about Adam and his family—the flight westward, the new identities, the
suicide. He explained that while Sam was in jail they checked out his family and knew he had a son who had just left town, but since Eddie appeared to be harmless they did not pursue the investigation. Instead, they spent their time watching Sam’s brothers and cousins. He was intrigued by Adam’s youth, and how he was raised with virtually no knowledge of kinfolks.

Adam asked a few questions, but the answers were vague and immediately twisted into more questions about his past. Adam was sparring with a man who’d spent twenty-five years asking questions.

The third and final hot spot was not far from Calico Rock, and they fished until it was dark. After five beers, Adam mustered the courage to wet a hook. Lettner was a patient instructor, and within minutes Adam had caught an impressive trout. For a brief interlude, they forgot about Sam and the Klan and other nightmares from the past, and they simply fished. They drank and fished.

______

Mrs. Lettner’s first name was Irene, and she welcomed her husband and his unexpected guest with grace and nonchalance. Wyn had explained, as Ron drove them home, that Irene was accustomed to drop-ins. She certainly seemed to be unruffled as they staggered through the front door and handed her a string of trout.

The Lettner home was a cottage on the river a mile north of town. The rear porch was screened to protect it from insects, and not far below it was a splendid view of the river. They sat in wicker rockers on the porch, and opened another round of brew as Irene fried the fish.

Putting food on the table was a new experience for Adam, and he ate the fish he’d caught with great gusto. It always tastes better, Wyn assured him as he
chomped and drank, when you catch it yourself. About halfway through the meal, Wyn switched to Scotch. Adam declined. He wanted a simple glass of water, but machismo drove him to continue with the beer. He couldn’t wimp out at this point. Lettner would certainly chastise him.

Irene sipped wine and told stories about Mississippi. She had been threatened on several occasions, and their children refused to visit them. They were both from Ohio, and their families worried constantly about their safety. Those were the days, she said more than once with a certain longing for excitement. She was extremely proud of her husband and his performance during the war for civil rights.

She left them after dinner and disappeared somewhere in the cottage. It was almost ten o’clock, and Adam was ready for sleep. Wyn rose to his feet while holding onto a wooden beam, and excused himself for a visit to the bathroom. He returned in due course with two fresh Scotches in tall glasses. He handed one to Adam, and returned to his rocker.

They rocked and sipped in silence for a moment, then Lettner said, “So you’re convinced Sam had some help.”

“Of course he had some help.” Adam was very much aware that his tongue was thick and his words were slow. Lettner’s speech was remarkably articulate.

“And what makes you so certain?”

Adam lowered the heavy glass and vowed not to take another drink. “The FBI searched Sam’s house after the bombing, right?”

“Right.”

“Sam was in jail in Greenville, and you guys got a warrant.”

“I was there, son. We went in with a dozen agents and spent three days.”

“And found nothing.”

“You could say that.”

“No trace of dynamite. No trace of blasting caps, fuses, detonators. No trace of any device or substance used in any of the bombings. Correct?”

“That’s correct. So what’s your point?”

“Sam had no knowledge of explosives, nor did he have a history of using them.”

“No, I’d say he had quite a history of using them. Kramer was the sixth bombing, as I recall. Those crazy bastards were bombing like hell, son, and we couldn’t stop them. You weren’t there. I was in the middle of it. We had harassed the Klan and infiltrated to a point where they were afraid to move, then all of a sudden another war erupted and bombs were falling everywhere. We listened where we were supposed to listen. We twisted familiar arms until they broke. And we were clueless. Our informants were clueless. It was like another branch of the Klan had suddenly invaded Mississippi without telling the old one.”

“Did you know about Sam?”

“His name was in our records. As I recall, his father had been a Klucker, and maybe a brother or two. So we had their names. But they seemed harmless. They lived in the northern part of the state, in an area not known for serious Klan violence. They probably burned some crosses, maybe shot up a few houses, but nothing compared to Dogan and his gang. We had our hands full with murderers. We didn’t have time to investigate every possible Klucker in the state.”

“Then how do you explain Sam’s sudden shift to violence?”

“Can’t explain it. He was no choirboy, okay? He had killed before.”

“Are you sure?”

“You heard me. He shot and killed one of his black employees
in the early fifties. Never spent a day in jail for it. In fact, I’m not sure, but I don’t think he was ever arrested for it. There may have been another killing, too. Another black victim.”

“I’d rather not hear it.”

“Ask him. See if the old bastard has guts enough to admit it to his grandson.” He took another sip. “He was a violent man, son, and he certainly had the capability to plant bombs and kill people. Don’t be naive.”

“I’m not naive. I’m just trying to save his life.”

“Why? He killed two very innocent little boys. Two children. Do you realize this?”

“He was convicted of the murders. But if the killings were wrong, then it’s wrong for the state to kill him.”

“I don’t buy that crap. The death penalty is too good for these people. It’s too clean and sterile. They know they’re about to die, so they have time to say their prayers and say good-bye. What about the victims? How much time did they have to prepare?”

“So you want Sam executed?”

“Yeah. I want ’em all executed.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t a bad guy.”

“I lied. Sam Cayhall is a cold-blooded killer. And he’s guilty as hell. How else can you explain the fact that the bombings stopped as soon as he was in custody?”

“Maybe they were scared after Kramer?”

“They? Who the hell is they?”

“Sam and his partner. And Dogan.”

“Okay. I’ll play along. Let’s assume Sam had an accomplice.”

“No. Let’s assume Sam was the accomplice. Let’s assume the other guy was the explosives expert.”

“Expert? These were very crude bombs, son. The first five were nothing more than a few sticks wrapped together with a fuse. You light the match, run like hell,
and fifteen minutes later, Boom! The Kramer bomb was nothing but a half-ass rig with an alarm clock wired to it. They were lucky it didn’t go off while they were playing with it.”