SO WHAT DOES IT MEAN?” I ASKED AFTER I’D MANAGED to catch my breath. “Why couldn’t they make a positive identification back then? What about DNA?”
“Early times for that,” Red reminded me, “and it wasn’t as readily accepted as it is now. Besides, Mrs. Brawley refused to give a sample.”
“Why?”
“Well, according to the report, they contacted her. When this body was discovered. She told the sheriff in Colleton County that her nephew had come back home, so it couldn’t possibly be him.”
“Did anyone check it out? I mean, to see if he really had turned up alive?”
I could hear the hint of exasperation in Red’s voice and the effort he was making to control it. “We—they didn’t have the manpower to spend on it. We assumed the woman would know. They took a quick look at her—solid citizen, teacher, no record. Ditto for her husband and kids. Without an ID, there really wasn’t anything they could do.”
I hadn’t meant it as a criticism of the sheriff’s office in either county, but it seemed strange that they’d just taken Patience’s word for it.
But what if she’d lied? What if Deshawn Mitchell had been the cousin who’d lived a while with Joline’s family? What if he’d impregnated her—willingly or not—and revenge or punishment had been exacted? That could explain the rift between the two sides of the family, especially if they all knew what had happened to Deshawn. Patience and her sister might not have wanted one of their relatives to go to jail, but they certainly wouldn’t have forgotten. Or forgiven.
It could also be why Joline’s father had skipped out. And why Joline had been so evasive about so many things in her past. I had no trouble envisioning a scenario in which her father—maybe with help from others, maybe not—had murdered Deshawn Mitchell and dumped his body in the swamp.
“Bay? You still there?” I heard Red say.
“Sorry. Yes. I’m just trying to digest all this.”
“I’m on my way in. We can talk about it then.”
“Okay,” I mumbled and hung up without saying goodbye.
Thoughts and images raced around in my head. The scenario fit all the known facts, but . . .
“Damn it!”
“What’s wrong?” Erik called from his desk.
“It doesn’t matter.” I flung down the pen I’d been gripping and dropped my head in my hands.
He stood in the doorway and spoke softly. “What doesn’t matter?”
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “That was Red. He found a cold case. Unidentified body of an African-American male shot at least a couple of times.” I filled him in on the rest of the details. “It might actually fit. Deshawn rapes or at least has sex with Joline. Her father shoots him and takes off. Patience figures it out and cuts off that branch of her family. And the timing is about right, too.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Even if the murdered guy could genetically be Kimmie’s father, it doesn’t help us. He’s dead. And our job is to find a live donor.” I sighed, reluctant to let go of the mystery of Deshawn Mitchell’s death. But our duty was to a sick teenager and—
“Mitchell,” I said aloud and slapped my hand on the desk. “God, sometimes I’m such an idiot.”
I looked up to find Erik staring at me. “What are you talking about?”
“The Shack. Haven’t I ever taken you there?” He shook his head. “It’s down on Skull Creek by the shrimp docks. Run by a family named Mitchell. Bubba used to play pro football, but he blew out his knee.”
“You think there’s a connection to our Mitchells? It’s a fairly common name.”
“I know, but I should have thought of them right off. They could be some kind of shirttail relations, and they’ve been around here for generations. They know everybody.”
I looked up as Red opened the door.
“Wait right there,” I said, snatching up my bag from the lower desk drawer.
“What’s up?” Red asked.
“We’re going to lunch at the Shack.” I turned to Erik. “You want to join us?”
“I’m still working on the time line, and I’ve got a couple of other things I want to check out. I’ll have a pizza delivered.”
I crossed the floor, took Red’s arm, and spun him ahead of me out the door.
“What’s going on?” he asked, sliding into the car as I clicked my seat belt and spun out of our parking lot.
“Dwight and Bubba Mitchell,” I said, coasting through the stop sign. “Ring a bell?”
Red gripped the door handle. “Take it easy, okay? They’re not going anywhere. Besides, there’s a ton of Mitchells around here. Family’s one of the oldest on the island.”
“I know, but it’s a lead we can’t afford to ignore.”
I knew he wasn’t convinced, but at least he had the good sense to keep his reservations to himself.
A few minutes later I turned into the dirt driveway and slowed over the ruts as we bounced our way to the back of the property. Smoke rose from the drums set out beside the tiny building that housed the restaurant. With its few tables and ramshackle appearance, it hardly qualified for the name, but the fresh seafood was among the best on the island. I pulled up under a canopy of drooping tree limbs and Spanish moss, sending up a cloud of dust before I cut the engine.
When we stepped out into the sunshine, a warm breeze carried the dank smell of decades of fish and shrimp hauled ashore from the nets of the Mitchell family’s fleet of sturdy trawlers. It mingled with the smoke from the cooking fires creating a uniquely Lowcountry perfume. It always amazed me that the town fathers hadn’t shut the place down years ago for any number of zoning violations, although it probably had something to do with the fact that most of our local officials were regular customers.
Bubba was hard to miss. His girth approached that of the live oak he stood beneath, his shaved head glistening with sweat as he added hunks of cut wood to one of the barrels. He turned at our approach, and a wide grin split his shiny black face.
“Hey, you two! I was beginnin’ to think I’d done fed you some bad oysters or somethin’. Where the hell y’all been?”
The hand he extended to Red and then to me could have swallowed a basketball.
“Time just seems to get away from us, Bubba.” Red paused, waiting for me to take the lead. “You know how it is.”
If the giant of a man wondered why Red was out of uniform, he let it pass without comment. “Good to see you, Sergeant. You, too, Miz Tanner. Y’all come for lunch? It’s a mite early, but you can grab you a table. I’ll have some shrimp on the fire here in just a second. Won’t take but a couple minutes.”
He reached down into the white plastic bucket at his feet and lifted out a handful of the large Lowcountry delicacies. Thankfully, their heads had already been removed. I have a hard time eating something that’s staring back at me.
“Sounds great,” I said.
Bubba Mitchell slapped a blackened grate on top of the drum and began tossing on shrimp from the bucket.
“I wonder if I could ask you something,” I said.
“Sure.”
“Do you have any family up in Jacksonboro? Or around Pritchardville?”
Bubba slid a wooden paddle under half a dozen sizzling shrimp and expertly flipped them over. “Used to be lots of Mitchells in Bluffton,” he said. “Some of Daddy’s family come from there. But mostly here on the island. Not many left, though. Why’d you ask?”
“I have a client,” I said, measuring my words. “From the inquiry agency. They’re trying to track down some relatives named Mitchell. Father’s name was Shadrack. I thought you might know them.”
“Nope,” he said without hesitation. “No one by that name on Daddy’s side. I’d remember.”
I knew he was right. It was an unusual name. I closed my eyes and conjured up a mental image of the genealogical chart. “How about Patience or Charity? They’re sisters. Or Deshawn.”
Again his massive head moved from side to side. “Sorry.” He turned and lifted a battered metal tray from the stump of a long-dead tree. “You might ask Dwight, but I’m pretty sure they’re no kin of ours.” A look settled over his face, part sadness, part question. “Mama might’ve known more, but she passed, you know. Last year.”
“I know. I was sorry to hear of it. She put up a good fight against the cancer.”
Bubba nodded and used the paddle to slide a couple of dozen pink shrimp onto the platter. “This be enough for you?”
“That’ll be great,” Red answered and took the tray. “Thanks.”
Inside, Bubba’s equally towering brother, Dwight, greeted us with a wave. “Mornin’. Y’all want red sauce or butter?”
“Both,” I said, climbing up onto a stool at one of the round wood tables, each of which had a hole cut in the middle with a dented metal bucket stuck down inside for shrimp and oyster shells.
Dwight lumbered over and slapped down two bowls.
“Thanks,” I said. “I was asking Bubba outside if you had any relatives over in Jacksonboro. He said he didn’t think so. They’d be Mitchells.”
“None I heard of.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“Eat up,” he said and turned away.
A few more customers wandered in while we peeled our shrimp. Dwight had brought us a basket of chips and a pile of napkins on one of his trips by, along with two icy cans of Coke. None of that diet stuff at the Shack. We ate and sipped in silence for a couple of minutes. I avoided the red sauce and opted for the warm butter with big slices of garlic floating on top. A few moments later I was groaning with pleasure and licking butter from my fingers.
“So what’s our next step?” Red asked.
I looked up to see his eyes watering from the horseradish in the red sauce.
“I don’t know. Back to the sisters, I guess. Even if the dead guy from the marsh is Kimmie’s father, it isn’t going to help her now.” I sighed. “I wish Joline would just tell us the truth—all of it. I still don’t understand why she would withhold information that could save her daughter’s life.”
Red drained his Coke. “It’s frustrating, I know, but that’s how it is sometimes. Maybe as a cop I just got used to people knowing stuff they don’t want to share, no matter how good the reasons were for them to come clean. We ran across it all the time, and it had nothing to do with social or economic status, or race, creed, or national origin.” His smile was rueful. “It’s just human nature, I guess. People have secrets. No sense fighting it.”
Secrets. I stared straight into his eyes, and the words popped out of my mouth without any conscious thought or intent.
“I have a sister,” I said.