a place where the weeds was kinda beat down.’’
‘‘They’s supposed to be some old timber roads over yonder.’’ The other deputy pointed northeast of the bodies. ‘‘Right through there.’’
Diane motioned to the sheriff. ‘‘Let’s have a look.’’ She turned to David. ‘‘After the photographs and sketches are done, start a grid search under the corpses. We need to clear a work space so we can get the bodies down. Go ahead and collect the insects.’’
The sheriff ordered his deputies to follow David’s instructions and not get into trouble. He and Diane walked to the edge of the clearing where the deputy had pointed. A large fallen pine tree covered head high in broken limbs, briars and loose brush blocked the path. It was a place where Brer Rabbit might have hidden.
The sheriff stooped and looked through the bram bles at the tree stump. ‘‘It was cut down with a chain saw. And not long ago—I can still smell the pine.’’
‘‘Could the timber guys have done it?’’ asked Diane.
He shook his head. ‘‘We can ask, but I can’t see why they would do it. They were counting trees, not cutting them down. And why would they pile a bunch of weeds and dead limbs on top of a fresh tree? A lot of work for no purpose.’’
‘‘So the tree was cut and brush was piled on top of it to hide the crime scene, or block access to it,’’ said Diane.
She took out her digital camera and snapped pic tures of the blockade from different angles. The side leading away from the woods was as the timber sur veyors had described: a ghost of a trail where tires had crushed the dry weeds.
Seeing the direction from which the tire tracks had come, Diane walked back through the brush, squatted and examined the ground on the side leading to the crime scene. She could see it now in the leaves cov ering the hard ground beneath the trees—faint impres sions where a vehicle had passed.
‘‘David,’’ she called. ‘‘There’s some tire marks through here. Be careful to record it before you search the ground.’’
A thorough ground search would require moving the forest litter, and with it, all signs of a passing.
‘‘I knew they would have left some kind of trail,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll take care of it.’’
Diane returned to the sheriff, who was studying the tire impressions in the crushed grass.
‘‘From the width of the tracks, I’d say it was a truck or SUV. I suppose your people will measure it.’’
‘‘We will. Where did the timber guys park their vehicle?’’
‘‘They said down one of the dirt timber roads. Their work’s done on foot, you know. About like land surveyors.’’
Diane walked a hundred feet down the indeliberate roadway, turned and looked at the makeshift barrier. The crime scene was hidden. The barricade looked like an or dinary brush pile from that distance. Not an uncommon sight in this setting, but usually juxtaposed to a firebreak, a roadway cut or a clearing. This pile was at the end of a path through weeds and trees. These were the perpe trator’s tracks and the perpetrator’s doing.
‘‘What you reckon this is about?’’ the sheriff asked after he had joined her on the trail. He shook his head. ‘‘I’ve seen hangings, but they were all suicides in the victims’ houses. Around here, if people kill themselves in the woods, they do it with a rifle or a shotgun. I’ve never seen multiple hangings like this. It looks like a lynching. And why would they all be dressed alike?’’
As the words were out of his mouth, a deputy ap peared from the bushes and trotted toward them. ‘‘Sheriff, you gotta come take care of this. Word’s done got out about the hangings, and they’re saying there’s been some lynchings. Elwood Jefferson from the AME Church is here and wants to talk to you.’’
‘‘What was I just saying? That’s all we need. At least it’s Elwood. He’s not a guy who shoots from the hip like some I could mention.’’
At that moment a tall lean black man in a charcoal gray suit came through the brush and strode purpose fully toward the sheriff.
Chapter 3
‘‘Elwood, you know you’re not supposed to be here.’’ Sheriff Mick Braden regarded the man standing be fore him.
Elwood Jefferson was a head taller than any of them. Maybe in his sixties—his age was hard to tell— his smooth dark brown skin stretched over angular bones. His gray suit was well made and his trousers sharply creased. It was not a suit for tramping through the woods.
‘‘We heard some black men have been lynched down here in Cobber’s Wood. You know, Sheriff, if I hear a rumor like that, I’ve got to come see about it.’’
‘‘Would you be here if . . .’’ the deputy began. ‘‘Leon, let’s not go there,’’ said the sheriff. Elwood Jefferson didn’t look at the deputy, but at
the sheriff. ‘‘You know when those black teenagers tore up the playground at the First Baptist Church, I brought them in myself.’’
‘‘And you know that not everyone wanted them brought in,’’ the deputy said. ‘‘You remember the stink Boden Conrad raised . . . making all kinds of excuses for ’em.’’
‘‘Leon,’’ the sheriff said, giving the deputy a look that carried more weight than his words, ‘‘why don’t you go see if the crime scene folk need some help.’’
Leon shot Jefferson a scowl before he reluctantly trotted back to the crime scene.
‘‘After a body starts to decompose, the skin turns black,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘I’m sure someone up there on the road heard somebody say they were black and that’s how all this started.’’
‘‘I didn’t come here to accuse,’’ Elwood said. ‘‘I came to get information.’’
Sheriff Braden turned to Diane. ‘‘I know you haven’t had a chance to examine them, but...I’m sorry. Diane Fallon, this is Elwood Jefferson. He’s pastor of the AME Church up on St. Chapel Street. Dr. Fallon here is a forensic anthropologist loaned to us from Rosewood.’’
‘‘I’ve been to the museum in Rosewood. You’re the director there, aren’t you?’’ He extended his hand, and Diane shook it.
