Chapter One Midfield, Alabama He was in thick woods with grass taller than his four-foot-two body. He wanted to race away as fast as his legs could carry him. The burning wood crackled and lit up the cloudy night sky, illuminating the white-sheeted figures that circled a cross and chanted. A plea for help from a black man sliced through the ritual of the robed men. A long rope hung over a tall tree limb. The noose meant death to the nigger. “Noooo...Dad!” He awakened from the dream in a cold sweat from the shrill ringing of the telephone next to his bed.
“Donald, come quick,” his mother’s voice exploded through the telephone line. “I think your father is dead.”
He rolled over on his pillow and glanced at the clock radio. It was 5:32 in the morning. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain still somewhere in dreamland.
“Stay calm. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he told her. The old son-of-a- bitch has finally croaked.
“What’s the matter?” his wife, Anne, asked as he threw back the bed covers and hung up the telephone receiver.
“It’s Dad,” he said, nearly falling onto the floor when his right foot tangled up with the bed sheet. He unsnapped his pajamas and grabbed his blue jeans.
“Mother thinks he is dead.”
“Really,” Anne said, sitting up in bed. “Do you want me to go with you?"
“No, honey,” he told her. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Donald reached into the closet, grabbed an old XX-large green plaid shirt with button-down collar and his sports jacket. His keys and wallet were in his jeans. He pulled on ankle top boots and raced out of breath into the garage and climbed into the Jeep. He opened the garage door with the remote device clipped to the sun visor. As soon as the engine kicked in, he reversed out of the driveway.
He was normally a safe driver, but today he was not in the mood to obey stop signs or red lights. He turned on his emergency flashers just in case he ran into a cop in the five blocks to his parent’s home. It was six days before Christmas and the houses in the small city he raced past were decorated with colorful lights. The lawns lit up the dark morning with sparkling scenes of the manger, plastic reindeer, Santa Clauses and snowmen. White bulbs glowing, outlining Christian crosses.
Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Goodwill toward men was not his father’s best characteristic.
He gunned the accelerator to the floor as the Jeep climbed the long, steep driveway. The black wrought iron gate was already open. No need to stop and punch in the security password. He parked at the front entrance of the mansion sitting atop the hill overlooking the city.
Rose Marie Drummond stood on the porch with the door half-open. Still in her pajamas she waved him in.
Donald turned the ignition and red emergency flashers off, got out and raced to her.
“He’s gone, son,” she said. Her eyes were pink and heavy, her face buried in her wrinkled cupped hands.
Donald gave her a quick hug and walked into the den where his father usually stayed most of the day. He found his father lying on the couch, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black tie. His black laced shoes polished to a spit shine. Donald cast his eyes toward his father’s face. It was drawn and haggard. His head, bald from radiation and chemotherapy. His body, gaunt and frail. The thin arms were folded across his chest. He knew before he took a pulse his father was dead; dead at eighty-two years of age.
Donald sensed his mother standing behind him waiting for a verdict.
He turned to face his mother and took her in his arms without saying a word. He nodded his head. Rose began to whimper softly, and Donald hugged her tightly.
“I know, I know,” he said, trying to console her. He stroked her solid gray hair as she laid her head on his chest.
He was unable to cry. His mind numbed, unattached to the body lying on the couch. With a strange dispassionate calm, as though he were his own guru, he tried to examine his final thoughts. He felt like he had been swallowed inside a giant vacuum and sucked into a higher state of mind. It was an emotion he never had experienced. Had the dream earlier that morning meant anything? He barely remembered it. It was more nightmare than dream. He wondered why death was in his dream and suddenly he awoke to the reality of his father’s death. Prophetic? Coincidence?
Finally, Donald asked her: “Have you called 9-1-1?”
She shook her head, “no.”
He walked into the silence of the dining room, switched on the light and found the telephone attached to the wall. His heart-beat raced. He dialed the emergency number. He gave his name and address to the house then dialed his home.
“Honey, it’s Dad,” he said softly, trying to stay calm. He was the oldest of the three sons and felt it his duty to be strong for his mother’s sake. His mother was the glue that kept the family together. Not this monster of a man lying prone on the sofa with a stiff face.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Anne said. “How’s Rose holding up?”
“She’ll be fine.” “I’ll call David and Daniel and tell them to come to the house.”
“He was lying like this when I woke up and came into the den,” his mother said. “I guess it was just before 5:30. The television was on. His eyes were closed and he was just like he is right now. I called his name, but he didn’t respond.”
Sirens from first responder vehicles screamed into the early December morning. The red and blue emergency flashers lit up the neighborhood. A police car was the first on the scene, then paramedics. The yard swarmed with activity. Neighbors stirred outside their homes.
Donald watched as the responders hurried into the house to examine the body. Thirty minutes later a coroner arrived and behind him a government agent he recognized from the FBI.
The den was covered with a stack of magazines spilled across the floor. The drawers of a desk had been emptied, and a closet looked as if it had been imploded, most of the hangars and clothing on the floor.
He watched as the medical examiner uncovered a sheet Donald placed over the body.
“He’s been dead for several hours,” the examiner said.
Donald turned to look at Rose, whose eyes were now alert. The tears were gone. She walked around the room, looking at the family pictures she personally placed in the room to help remind her husband of his offspring. Donald knew his mother was reminiscing. He had seen her like this before. His father hadn’t placed a lot of value on his children. Not what was expected from an old man near death. He hadn’t been the model father or grandfather. He placed more value on friends... and enemies. Donald remembered his father’s words, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer.”
“Mrs. Drummond, I am the county coroner. Do you want an autopsy of your husband?”
“Why would we need an autopsy?” Donald blurted out before giving second thought to the question.
“He might have died of natural causes but sometimes there are extenuating circumstances,” the coroner responded.
Henry Drummond was a familiar figure in Birmingham, Alabama and across the country for that fact. Even the coroner knew his name. His name appeared in newspaper articles and in court records, something Donald knew all too well. The Federal Bureau of Investigation listed Drummond as a former member of the Ku Klux Klan. He controlled the underground Southern mafia though the agency could never prove it. The Civil Rights Legal Center in Montgomery, Alabama listed his organization, The Society of Southron Patriots, a right wing supremacist hate group and a terrorist’s threat due to its philosophy as a Southern Nationalist organization whose ultimate goal was a free and independent Southern republic. He had been accused and acquitted of all charges in court of being an accessory to the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombings which took the lives of four young, innocent black girls in 1963.
Donald spotted his friend and high school classmate. Midfield Police Chief, Jay Norris, was the first cop on the scene that morning.
“I’m so sorry, Donald,” Norris said, putting his arm around Donald’s broad shoulders.
“Thanks Jay.” Donald’s name was familiar in Birmingham for a different reason than his father. His bylines often made the featured headline story for the newspaper. Radio and television reporters often relied on him in order to get their leads for stories breaking in the court systems. He was the city’s expert on court news. Drummond’s death meant the media would be at the house in a matter of minutes.
“I don’t need this right now. It’s Christmas, and I am retiring on the 31st.”
Local television reporters appeared out of nowhere, setting up cameras in his parent’s front yard. Donald hesitated but walked out to greet them.
“Mr. Drummond, can I get an interview with you?” a TV reporter asked, sticking a microphone in Donald’s face. Other TV crews were on the scene, and a reporter from his newspaper was there with pad, pen and a tape recorder.
“My father is dead, that’s about all I’ve got to say,” Donald said.
“Was it a natural death, Mr. Drummond?”
“I suspect so, but I don’t know anything at this point. My Dad suffered from prostate cancer, so I assume it was cancer which caused his death.”
“He’s been linked to the mafia, and the Society of Southron Patriots is under attack by the Civil Rights Legal Center. Do you think it was a hit job?”
Despite the sobering death experience of his father Donald couldn’t help but see irony in the question and had to keep from laughing.
“Well, I didn’t see any signs of struggle. I don’t think we have a story here about the mafia going to the mattresses.” Donald said, alluding to a scene in “The Godfather,” movie. “That’s all I can say right now. You’ll have to interview the coroner and Chief Norris to get the information you need.”
He knew every one of the reporters and liked all of them. But this wasn’t the Birmingham Media Club. He didn’t feel like being sociable. Maybe another time and another place, he told them.
“This embarrasses me every time something happens with my father involved,” he thought as he dialed his editor’s cell phone to let him know the situation. He wouldn’t be in the office today.
“Don’t worry about it,” his editor told him. “Everyone knows the type man you are, and you are not your father.”
Donald went back into the den. He eyed the coroner who was finishing up his work. He noticed the coroner holding a pill bottle in a handkerchief.
“I found this,” the coroner said, holding out the bottle to let Donald read the label. “I found it lying under the couch.”
Norris overheard the conversation and looked at the bottle the coroner had in his hand.
“It’s empty,” he said. “I suspect these are sleeping pills, Norris,” the coroner said. “You might want to question Mrs. Drummond about them at the appropriate time.”
“It’s his sleeping pills,” Donald said, not surprised at the finding.
“Mr. Drummond, I also smelled alcohol on your father. Due to the findings we must automatically perform an autopsy.”
“We don’t have a choice. Is that what you mean?” Donald asked, knowing how the procedure worked.
Donald went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Norris followed behind.
“Donald,” Norris said. “Your father might have taken an overdose of sleeping pills mixed with alcohol. You know what that means?”
Donald stared blankly into Norris’ eyes.
“You think his death is more than a natural one?” Donald asked. “He had health issues. It could have been a heart attack.”
“Alcohol and sleeping pills, Donald! Are you listening to me?” Norris said again, making sure his friend understood what was going on around him.
“That’s possible,” Donald said, managing to regain his senses. “He liked to drink vodka, that’s for sure. Wait a minute. You think he took his own life? He committed suicide?”
“It’s certainly possible, Donald,” the chief said.
Donald circled the kitchen looking for nothing in particular. He opened the refrigerator door, closed it, then checked on the brewing coffee. He went to the sink and stared absently out the window into the backyard where he had grown up with his two younger brothers throwing baseballs and footballs. His mind raced forward and backward with a hundred questions seemingly crashing down all at once.
He was dressed like he was going somewhere.
“Suicide?” he asked out loud. Chief Norris did not respond.
“You know what will happen if the lab finds the pills and alcohol as contributing factors to his death, don’t you?” Donald stated alarmingly.
“Yes, Donald, I do. Most insurance companies do not pay off on premiums involving suicide.”
“Exactly!”
“Donald, another question,” Norris asked.
“Yes.” “Why was your father already dressed in a suit and tie? Was he going some place in particular today?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Donald said tersely. “I guess he figured he was going to hell!” Donald watched as his mother returned to the den. He followed behind. She got down on her knees. Donald thought she was about to pray over her husband. Instead she was on all four’s, stretching one arm behind the corner of the couch as if she had been through this process more than once. She found what the coroner missed.
She pulled out an empty vodka bottle and a piece of paper. She held the bottle in one hand and the piece of paper behind her back in the other.
“What’s behind your back?” Donald asked.
“Nothing. Just nothing,” she said.
Donald saw the coroner return to the den. He looked to be hurried.
“Mrs. Drummond, under law we must perform an autopsy and have our forensic science lab examine his body for foreign substances.” Rose bowed her head in silence and closed her eyes for a moment. She nodded to the coroner she understood.
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