Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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that?”
I’m not sure how to proceed. I don’t want the man’s life story, but neither do I want to offend him. Thankfully, Pinder spares me.
“You the crazy man who popped off about Del Payton in the paper?”
“I mentioned the case.”
“Case? Ain’t no case on Del Payton.”
“What about a file, then? There must have been a police file.”
He takes another long swig of Schaefer. “I was pretty busy back then. It was all I could do to hold the goddamn place together.”
“I’m sure. Still, I’d think you might have wanted to check some things the white chiefs had let slide for too long.”
Pinder sniffs and looks through the rusted screen. “I worked in that department eleven years, and I never saw no Payton file. Didn’t think there was one. But when the old chief gave me the combination to the station safe, and I opened it up, there it was. Sitting on the bottom of a stack of insurance policies. Just like that. First day on the job.”
“Did the police seriously investigate the case in sixty-eight?”
He smiles. “In 1968 the city slogan was ‘Natchez, Where the Old South Still Lives.’ It looked like they investigated. There was lots of confidential-informant reports, rumors tracked down, stuff like that.”
“Any suspects?”
“A couple.”
“Who?”
He smiles enigmatically. “You know, I might ought to check the file. My memory ain’t what it used to be.”
Something quivers in my chest. “How can you check the file?”
“Easy. I got it inside.”
Jesus. “You made a copy?”
“Nope. I got the original. Took it when they screwed me out of my job.”
I feel like hugging him. “May I see it?”
“I ain’t no loan library, boy. I think we’re talking about a rental situation here.”
“How much?”
Pinder’s face goes blank as he computes a price. “Five hundred,” he says finally, a note of challenge in his voice. “And you read it right here in front of me.”
When I think of what I just paid Ray Presley for my father’s .38, I feel like laughing. “A thousand,” I counter. “But I take the file with me. I’ll photocopy it and get the original back to you within twenty-four hours.”
Pinder has lost a little of his studied calm. “How ’bout two thousand?”
“What’s in the file? How long is it?”
“About twenty-five pages. Plenty of names in there, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Any mention of Judge Marston in it? He was D.A. back then.”
Something ticks in the ex-chief’s face. “That motherfucker in there.”
“Two thousand it is.”
His head slides back on his neck, his eyes full of suspicion. “I don’t want no check, now.”
“You get the file, I’ll get the cash.”
“You got it here?”
“Oh, yeah. Get the file.”
While Pinder goes inside, I go to the car and open the spare tire well, count two thousand dollars from the remaining twenty-five, and return to the porch. Shuffling and sliding sounds come from inside the house, as though Pinder is moving furniture. Then the door bangs open and he reappears with a worn manila folder in his hand. I hand him the cash, and he takes it, but he doesn’t pass me the file. He sits down again and drinks from his beer can.
“You ain’t asked me if I solved the case or not.”
“Did you?”
“No.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “But not because it ain’t solvable. I kept that file close to my vest, man. Didn’t tell no white officers nothin’ ’bout it. Told a couple of black ones I trusted I was gonna be working the case real quiet. One week later somebody sent me a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“They sent a man to talk to me. A man I hated but wasn’t about to ignore.”
“Who was he?”
“Ray Presley.”
I try to keep my composure, but Pinder cannot fail to notice the thunderous effect the name has on me. “I know Presley,” I say carefully. “He was somehow involved in the original case.”
“That’s right. And that son of a bitch’ll kill a man like picking off a scab. He’s killed for less than what you just give me.”
“Did he threaten you over the Payton case?”
“Not the way I expected. If he had, I’d have thrown him in a cell. He’d been to Parchman by then, and I was still riding my high horse. He didn’t say, ‘Stay out of this or you might wind up dead.’ No, he said, ‘I hear you’re thinking about looking into the Del Payton murder, Willie. I worked that case myself in sixty-eight, worked it hard, and just about the time I thought we was getting somewhere, somebody told me to leave it alone. And I did. I left it alone. I was white and I wanted to solve that bombing, but I let it go. You ought to think about that.’”
“What do you think he meant? Who was he talking about?”
“Don’t know.” Pinder’s voice softens, becomes vulnerable. “But anybody who could put fear into Ray Presley scared me plenty. My kids was still living with me then, and I wasn’t about to watch them die for my pride. Or black pride, or whatever you want to call it. I couldn’t even trust the brothers in my own department. How far was I gonna get? Del Payton was gonna be just as dead either way.”
“Was it the Klan, you think?”
“The Klan? Shit. Klan wouldn’t scare Ray Presley. Those kluckers scared of him. He did shit them crackers only talked about.”
“Could it have been the FBI?” I ask, recalling Lutjens’s story of the sealed file.
A funny gleam comes into Pinder’s eyes. “Why you ask that?”
“Is it possible?”
“Anything’s possible. The feds and the local cops didn’t get on too good then. Not much better now, really. But why they’d warn Presley off … don’t make no sense. Hoover hated Martin Luther King. But Del didn’t have nothing to do with no big-time peoples like that.” Pinder stands suddenly and drops the file in my lap. “We finished here.”
Despite this strong hint to leave, I open the file. The first page is headed: SUPPLEMENTARY INVESTIGATION REPORT, and dated 5-15-68. Beneath this is typed: Delano Payton Murder Bombing. Then come four handwritten paragraphs that appear to detail an anonymous phone call. The signature beneath them reads, Patrolman Ray Presley.
“You can do your reading at home,” Pinder says. “I’m goin’ fishin’. Gonna spend the afternoon forgettin’ I ever saw you.”
I stand and shake his hand. “I appreciate the help, Chief. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
He chuckles. “Hey, I got an old bulletproof vest I can sell you. Wanna take a look?”
“I don’t plan to need it.” I push open the screen door and walk quickly down the steps. “I’ll drop the original back tomorrow.”
“Keep it. I don’t want no part of that no more.”
“I never saw you.”