Two hours later, as the empty courthouse began to darken, the assailant tip-toed along the downstairs and upstairs corridors and saw no one. Since he had scoped out the building, he knew there were no guards, no security system. Who breaks into rural courthouses?
Taylor should have returned to the jail two hours earlier and was probably already being missed. Time, therefore, was becoming crucial. The assailant walked to the rear door, stepped outside, signaled to his accomplice, and waited for him to drive a pickup truck to the door under a small veranda. It was long past closing time and the shops and offices around the square were empty and dark. Two cafés were busy but they were on the other side of the square.
The corpse was oozing blood so they wrapped his head with some dirty shop-rags. They carried him in the cardboard box and quickly placed him in the rear of the truck. Back inside, the assailant, wearing gloves, tossed the subpoenas along the rear hallway and made no effort to wipe away Taylor’s blood. Three miles south of the town of Holly Springs, the pickup turned onto a county road, then onto a dirt trail that disappeared into the woods. The body was transferred to the trunk of a car. Six hours later, the car and the pickup arrived at the Biloxi marina where the body of Henry Taylor was carried to a shrimp boat.
At the first hint of sunlight, the trawler left the dock and headed into the Sound in search of shrimp. When there was no other boat in sight, the body was dumped onto the deck, the clothing was stripped, and a string of netting was wrapped around its neck. It was hoisted on an outrigger boom for a moment as photos were taken. After that, the boom swung over the water, the netting was cut, and Henry was fed to the sharks.
Just like in the old days.
* * *
Henry’s disappearance from the Marshall County Courthouse was a mystery with no clues. A week passed before the state police stopped by the AG’s office to inform Keith that their protected witness had not been so protected after all. Keith had a good idea of what had happened. Lance Malco was about to go free and he wanted his enemies to know he was still the Boss.
Like his father, Keith had no fear of the Malcos and relished the idea of going after Lance if he resumed his old ways.
And, he was not altogether bothered by losing Henry Taylor. He was, after all, the man who had “pulled the trigger” and killed Jesse Rudy.
* * *
The photo was a five-by-seven black and white, and it was smuggled into Parchman by a guard working for Lance Malco. He admired it for a day and wished he had another one just like it. Bloody, naked, dead as a doornail, hanging from an outrigger, the incompetent bomber who’d snitched on his Hugh and sent him to death row.
Lance bribed another guard for a white-gloved hand delivery of the photo to one Lou Palmer, aka Nevin Noll, currently housed in Unit 18, Parchman prison.
No message was included; none was needed.
Chapter 56
On June 7, Keith and an assistant got into the rear seat of a brand-new unmarked highway patrol car for the ride down to Hattiesburg. One perk of being AG was a chauffeured ride anywhere he wanted, with an extra bodyguard thrown in. On the downside were the recurring threats of bodily harm, which usually came in the form of half-crazed, barely literate letters, many of them sent from prisons and jails. The state police monitored the mail and, so far, had seen nothing to worry about.
Another perk was the rare use of the state jet, an asset coveted by a handful of elected officials but controlled exclusively by the governor. Keith had been on it once, enjoyed it immensely, and could see himself riding it into the future.
The gathering was at the federal courthouse in Hattiesburg. The occasion was an oral argument in front of the judge handling the habeas corpus petition filed by Hugh Malco. Two reporters, without cameras, were waiting in the hall outside the courtroom and asked Keith for a word or two. He politely declined.
Inside, he sat at the State’s table with Witt Beasley and two of his top litigators.