Where Southern Cross the Dog Read Free Page A

carefully scooped up some charred, gas-soaked soil with a small spoon, then emptied it into one of the sample jars. He capped the jar and returned it to his bag. Then he stood up and walked around the tree. He continued to walk circles, enlarging them with each pass, hoping to spot anything that might provide some answers.
    The body lay in an oddly peaceful configuration. The victim’s hands were at his sides, palms facing up; his legs were stretched out as if he were dozing, and his feet were bare. His head had been battered and numerous bruises were evident. His left eye was swollen shut and his jaw was broken. Portions of his clothes were torn and burned, although his filthy charred shirt and pants covered him adequately. His left wrist showed cuts and abrasions, evidence of having been bound. It would have been nearly impossible to set fire to an untied man unless he was already dead.
    Collins tossed his cigarette to the ground, mashed it into the dirt with his foot, and moved closer to the body. He peered intently at the dead man’s face.
    â€œLook at this,” Collins said. “Why the hell is there dirt in his nose?”
    Whether because of the burns, the bruises, or the morning’s shadows, neither man had noticed the dirt and mud until then.
    â€œI don’t know,” Montgomery said. He took a knife from his pocket and unfolded its thin, narrow blade. He knelt, placed one hand on the dead man’s forehead, and gently scraped at a nostril. Then he flipped the knife and used its handle to gently pry open the victim’s mouth. Dirt had plugged his nostrils and partially filled his mouth.
    â€œWhat do you think, Bill?” Collins asked.
    Montgomery stood up, wiped the knife with his handkerchief, folded the blade away, and returned it to his pocket. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “But he certainly wasn’t able to breathe very well with all that dirt in there.”
    â€œVery well? Maybe not at all.” Collins wiped his brow and glanced up at the blazing sun as it began to burn away the morning clouds.
    Montgomery walked toward the river, mentally listing what was known. Only a few similarities linked the county’s four recent deaths. First, all of the victims were colored men, apparently day laborers who had drifted into Coahoma County and met a terrible end. The crimes were not of an overtly sexual nature, and the victims had been found with small sums of money, eliminating robbery as a motive. There seemed to be only one motive: to inflict a painful death. A shooting, a stabbing, a drowning, and now this—a sadistic combination of beating and burning. Four homicides in quick succession were unusual in this Depression-stricken county in the cotton patch, but not improbable. The sheriff and the coroner had considered calling the state police, or even the feds in Jackson, after the third body had been found, but they had decided against it because they didn’t want the commotion of outside law enforcement officials traveling all over the county, stirring everybody up and overriding local jurisdiction.
    Now, it might be impossible to keep them out.
    â€œAre we done?” Collins called out to Montgomery. Sweat was dripping from his forehead into his eyes and trickling down his neck, staining his tan shirt.
    â€œJust about,” replied the coroner, turning back to the sheriff. “Let me get a photograph and we’ll go.”
    Montgomery took a large camera from his car and carefully snapped a picture. Then he and Collins walked back toward their cars.
    â€œBill, why don’t you stop by after the autopsy and let me know what you find,” Collins said. “Then we’ll meet with Sam early next week.”
    â€œSure,” Montgomery said, rubbing his hand through his thinning hair. “I think we have time. Sam can’t indict until he has at least one suspect.” Montgomery knew the district attorney wasn’t looking