Chapter 13

Visits with Bowman became a part of Emrick's daily routine, and it did not take long before he joined him on the balcony without thought or concern. For his part, Bowman looked forward to Emrick's mid-afternoon visits and waited until he saw him coming in the distance to prepare a pitcher of iced tea or lemonade.

On one such afternoon the two men had taken their respective seats, Bowman pushed back in the recliner and Emrick propped on the rear two legs of a ladder back chair. Because of the bright sunshine Bowman had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Emrick did likewise, playing his harmonica as Bowman listened, taking care to direct his eyes away from his friend.

A voice came from below. "You play dat mouth organ good, Mr. Bowman. Where's a white man learn to play like dat?"

Both men froze. Bowman, thankful for the heavy balustrade, grabbed the instrument from Emrick and, as he stood, tapped the reeds on this right thigh

as if clearing it of spittle, then leaned over the railing.

"Hello, Miz Emma, it's good to see you again,"

"You ain't seen 'at ole no count boy a mine, is you?" she asked, holding her hand over her eyes to shade them.

"Yes ma'am, he's up here keepin' me company."

"You ain't got no work for 'im, is you? The boy needs to find his self a job."

"No, Miz Emma, I'm afraid everything is too far gone with this house to spend much time tryin' to repair it," Bowman responded.

Emrick climbed down the ladder and Bowman placed the harmonica in his shirt pocket.

Emma spoke to her son, but made her comments loud enough to include Bowman. "Baby, I wuz lookin' for you to tell you I wuz goin' over by yo' Aunt Ida's for awhile. Don' you stay here so long you worry the man."

"Miz Emma," Bowman said, "I'm awful pleased to have him here. He's real good company and puts up with my sorry playin'." He was immediately sorry that he brought up the subject again, when Miz Emma raised her brow as if to respond. When she paused, his gut wrenched, but she said nothing more about the harmonica.

"Well, if you gits tired of 'im, you jes send 'im home. I don' wan' him to be no bother," she said.

"He's no bother, Miz Emma, I promise."

When Emrick climbed back to the porch, Bowman returned his harmonica to him, but there would be no playing for the rest of the afternoon.

After Emrick left, Bowman remained on the balcony to watch the sun set. It was not that the view was so compelling, especially with the obstruction by the sickly live oak, but he knew that his time here was coming to an end and he wanted to get his fill of what pleasures there were.

That night after sundown, Bowman walked down the lane from the house toward a paved road. The dirt was hard packed by many years of foot traffic. Reaching the blacktop, he walked alongside it until he reached a pay telephone situated next to the community grocery that had once been operated by his father-in-law. After an extended and animated conversation, he returned leisurely to the rear of the house and busied himself preparing supper.

He had hardly begun when the beam from the headlights of an approaching car flashed through the open door and across the wall he was facing. He cautiously walked out the door but was unable to make out the driver because of the headlights. The driver left the lights on after switching off the ignition, toying with him.

"You're slippin', John Bowman," said a slow raspy voice. He immediately recognized the distinctive speech.

"Hello, Bill Ed Flint. How in the world did you ever find me?"

"You ask me, Bill Ed Flint, unquestionably NOPD's finest detective, something like that? It was elementary, Bowman," Flint said as he struggled to remove his large frame from the confines of the compact sedan, using the door and the top of the vehicle for support.

Shaking Bowman's hand, he continued his comments while following Bowman through the doorway of the kitchen. "It didn't take me but one phone call to learn you were somewhere up here. Like Sherlock I deduced exactly where you were and that you couldn't be reached by telephone - altogether an excellent excuse to get away from the city and rest my weary bones."

Bowman said nothing, still looking somewhat incredulous.

Flint explained, "You forgot that I was reared in Woodville and hunted these fields and woods all my life. You told me who your wife's parents were. I don't know why you're here, but I figured you would be stayin' at their house." "Have you had supper yet?" Bowman asked.

"Yeah, I stopped off at Mama's before I came out here. I wasn't goin' to miss the chance of eatin' her cookin. She still spoils me and I still love it."

"I can't blame you for that. You're just takin' a few days off then?" Bowman asked.

"No, actually I'm workin'. I came up here to find you and see if you want to do some consulting work. Have you been keepin' up with the Porter case?"

"Are you talkin' about that child who was killed? I read what little information the newspaper provided, but I haven't seen a television set in weeks."

"What have you been doin', hibernatin'?"

"That's about it," Bowman answered with a shrug.

Flint laid out the limited facts of the case and handed him photocopies of investigative reports. He went on to explain about the racial tensions in New Orleans and commented that they could not even be sure the killings were not continuing. Flint revealed that a large number of missing person cases are filed on black juveniles every month. The fact that they had turned up no more bodies could merely suggest that those responsible were doing a better job of disposing of them. With all the swampy area surrounding New Orleans, there was simply no way to know.

"What I hear you telling me," Bowman said, "is that you have a horrible murder with almost no leads. Everything you've told me suggests that it was a hate crime committed by some screwball group. Because of the nature of the crime and racial tensions the media is havin' a field day expressin' shock and indignation. Until there's some kind of break in the case, the police department is spinnin' its wheels and takin' a beatin'. So to divert attention you're goin' to put on a dog and pony show. Does that about cover it?"

"That and the fact that we really have no idea what we are dealing with. It's not all for show. What do we know about Satanists and skin heads or even voodoo? It's not inconceivable that one of these consultants might open the door for us."

"I understand that, but where do I fit in? I know absolutely nothing about group offenders. I don't even know anything about street gangs. I know a little bit about the Klan, but they obviously didn't do it or it would already be solved. They are so infiltrated they can't have a silent thought that is not officially written up by ten different intelligence-gathering agencies. Wow, is that an oxymoron! They haven't had a thought in years - certainly not a silent one."

Flint removed his navy suit coat and draped it on a chair. He loosened his tie and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "What if it's not a group?" Flint asked. "At first I didn't think there was a chance in the world that it wasn't. But now, it seems to me that if it was a group, they must have left the area. Otherwise, something would have leaked out. What if it wasn't a group? What if it was just a deviant trying to cover his tracks? The sad thing is that we probably would have a better chance catching a mobile group than we would a pedophile. It wouldn't be quite so bad if we could limit the geographical scope of our investigations, but with it happening in City Park...hell, people go there from all over the city."

Bowman's face perked. "You know, Flint, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you use a curse word."

"I've used several in the past few weeks," he confessed. He snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. I have some more material in the car." He returned with a three inch stack of papers and handed them over.

"Bowman, don't give me an answer now. I've brought with me a synopsis of what we have on the murder itself, an artist's rendering of the designs carved on the boy's back. Maybe they will pique your interest or maybe you might spot something. I'll come back Wednesday afternoon and we'll talk again."

As he made his way to the door, Bowman stopped him. "Flint, there's no reason in the world for you to drive all the way back up here. Leave me your home and office numbers and I'll call you, but I can tell you chances are slim to none that I'll come to New Orleans. There just doesn't seem to be enough to go on. It would just be my using the police force, or them using me."

Flint frowned. "Bowman, I'm not going back to New Orleans immediately. You were worried about the them using you. I'm using you now. I'm going to call in and tell them that I need a couple of days to try and persuade you, then I'm going to Natchez or just tramp around the woods up here. Unless somethin' dramatic happens the investigation is goin' nowhere. I'm tired and I'm frustrated. I just need to get away for a couple of days."

"Good enough. Use me." An involuntary smile emerged from Bowman as he recalled the course of his initial acquaintance with Bill Ed Flint. It had been happenstance, a chance meeting at a hotel bar in Jackson. Flint had introduced himself and recalled one of Bowman's consultations in New Orleans. Flint initially listened attentively and asked questions, but it was more of a query than a conversation. When Flint disclosed that he was reared in Woodville, the location of "Rosemont", the boyhood home of Jefferson Davis, Bowman made reference to having toured the house. Once Flint discovered that Bowman had an interest in, and respect for, "the President", a bridge was established. He became the talker and Bowman the listener.

The tenuous bridge was threatened when Bowman mused that Davis would be a misfit in today's world. Flint reacted with indignation. Bowman attempted to soften his remark with the explanation that, while Davis was the man of the hour in his day, his strong sense of character and inflexible principles would doom him in modern politics and commerce.

He recalled that Flint's face had reddened and his body stiffened, but there was no change in the tone of his voice. "You're wrong! I know because I share his sense of character and principle. It is the way I live my life. People might not understand, but once you impress on them what you are and where you stand, they accept you and respect you for it."

In the interest of a continuing relationship, Bowman reacted only with a smile and a "perhaps, you're right."

Following his recollection, Bowman commented to his friend. "I guess you'll be going by Rosemont?" "Yeah, I usually stop by and see if they have any new books in." "In that case, I'll look forward to seeing you Wednesday afternoon."