Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [68]
Joe looked out his window that morning and was excited at seeing so many police cars in front of the Jones house, lights flashing, the sound of voices over two-way radios crackling in the already hot, humid air. He went into Michael’s bedroom where his brother was in bed, the covers pulled over his head.
“Michael, Michael,” he said, shaking him. “Wake up. The police are over at the Jones house. Something must have happened.”
Michael told him to get away, but Joe kept shaking his brother until he angrily sat up.
“What happened to you?” Joe asked. Michael’s face and hands were covered with deep, bloody scratches.
“Nothing happened,” Michael said. “Now let me sleep.”
“But the police are here and—”
Michael pulled the covers back over his head, and Joe left the room to continue observing the scene from his bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Jones were talking with the sheriff and other officers. At one point, Mrs. Jones turned and pointed at Joe’s house, causing him to duck down out of sight. What was going on?
Still in his pajamas, he ran downstairs where his mother was in the kitchen preparing breakfast.
“Mama, did you see next door? The police are there and—”
“None of our business, Joseph,” she said, looking briefly at him before returning to her chores at the old gas stove. “You get yourself upstairs and dressed proper, and tell your brother to do the same. There’s work to be done around here.”
Joe put on the clothes he’d worn the day before and went into Michael’s room again. “Michael, you have to get up,” Joe said. “Mama says she wants us downstairs ’cause there’s work she wants done and—”
Michael bolted upright as the sound of someone knocking on the downstairs door reached the bedroom. “Who is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Let’s go down and see.”
Michael shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I’m not here. Okay? You go down and say I must have left here early.”
“Why?”
“Just do what I say, Joey. It’s important.”
“Okay.”
Joe left the room and descended the stairs. His mother stood at the front door talking through the screen to the sheriff and two uniformed officers. She turned and said to Joe, “Where’s Michael? I told you to get him up and—”
“He’s not here,” Joe said, afraid to look directly at his mother or the men on the other side of the door.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t know. Maybe be left early to go someplace.”
“We’ll have to take a look for ourselves, Mrs. Wilcox,” the sheriff said. “If you don’t mind.”
She stepped back to allow them to enter. Joe watched wide-eyed as the sheriff led the other officers up the narrow staircase. “His room’s to the right,” Mrs. Wilcox yelled after them.
She looked at Joe, whose expression mirrored the confusion and fright he felt. “You go outside,” she said. “No reason for you to be here.” With that she went up the stairs, slowly, tentatively, head cocked to allow her to better hear what was occurring on the second floor.
Joe didn’t follow his mother’s order. He came to the foot of the steps and listened to the men’s voices: “Check in there,” he heard the sheriff say. A moment later, his mother wailed, “Oh, my God!”
“Get him outta there,” the sheriff commanded.
“I didn’t do nothing!” Michael shouted.
Joe went up the stairs two at a time and came to Michael’s open bedroom door. It was hard to see beyond the bulk of the three lawmen, but when one of them moved aside, he saw that Michael was huddled at the rear of his shallow closet, his knees drawn up to his chin. His brother was crying and saying over and over, “I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t do nothing bad.”