Hard Row

the grass inside the perimeter. “Not even a cigarette

butt,” he said morosely.

The patrol officer was equally empty-handed. “I

drove down this road a little after four,” he reported.

“It was still light then. I can’t swear they weren’t there

then, but shallow as that ditch is, I do believe I’d’ve

noticed.”

A reporter from the Dobbs Ledger stood chatting with

someone from a local TV station. Because neither was

bumping up against an early deadline, they had waited

unobtrusively until Dwight could walk over and give

them as much as he had.

The television reporter repositioned her photogenic

scarf, removed her unphotogenic woolly hat, and fluffed

up her hair before the tape began to roll. “Talking with

us here is Major Dwight Bryant from the Colleton

County Sheriff ’s Department. Major Bryant, can you

give us the victim’s approximate age?”

Dwight shook his head. “He could be anything from

a highschool football player to a vigorous sixty-year-old.

It’s too soon to say.” Looking straight into the camera,

he added, “The main thing is that if you know of any

white male that might be missing, you should contact

the Sheriff ’s Department as soon as possible.”

24

HARD ROW

Both reporters promised they would run the depart-

ment’s phone numbers with their stories.

Eventually, the emergency medical techs arrived, drew

on latex gloves, bagged the legs separately, then left for

Chapel Hill. The yellow tape was taken down and the

reporters and patrol cars dispersed, along with their wit-

ness, who pedaled off into the night.

“We probably won’t hear much from the ME till we

find the rest of him,” Mayleen Richards said.

“Well-nourished white male,” Denning agreed.

“They’ll give us his blood type, but what good’s that

without a face or fingerprints?”

“We’re bound to hear something soon,” Dwight said.

He grinned at Richards. “Men with clean toenails usu-

ally have a woman around. Sooner or later, she’ll start

wondering where he is.”

As he turned toward his truck, he paused beside the

dimly lit church sign. Beneath the church name, the

pastor’s name, and the hours of service was a quotation

from Matthew that entreated mercy and brotherhood

and reminded passersby that “With what measure you

mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

Not for the last time, he was to wonder what measure

their victim had meted to provoke such violence against