Jefferson-Davis Investigation Agency: Cold Case Investigators

By Anthony Harris

The book features two private investigators who specialize in solving cold cases involving hate crimes. Their first case is one in which a 16-year-old African American teen was killed in a small Mississippi town. For five years, law enforcement has refused to solve the crime, almost immediately labeling it a cold case. Not one to give up,, even after five years of stonewalling, the teen's mother asks Jefferson-Davis Investigation Agency to find out who killed her son and why. The investigation leads to the discovery of numerous criminal acts by corrupt elected officials and law enforcement whose actions directly related to the death of the teen.

The principal investigators are characters from my novel, Fruits of a Dead Legacy, which was published last year. This book will be a series of books in which the investigators pursue cold cases that possibly involve hate crimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jan 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662907012

Book preview

Legacy.

Brick Walls and Broken Hearts

When the sobbing on the other end of the phone stopped, Lenwood Jefferson felt tears welling up in his eyes as he removed his dark-rimmed glasses and twirled them in his hand. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and stared at the phone for a long minute, trying to compose himself while he had a chance. With a handkerchief he retrieved from his back pocket, he dabbed at a runaway tear that was racing toward his chin. After stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, he paused and sighed before turning his attention back to the caller.

The person on the other end of the call, who occasioned the tears and the sigh, was 57-year-old, Mrs. Annie Mae Washington, a life-long resident of Forrestburg, Mississippi, a small town in Washington County in the Mississippi Delta. She is a 10th generation member of a family of former enslaved Africans who picked cotton and share cropped throughout Washington County, which, demographically, was and continues to be dominated by Black people. But, economically, like many other southern towns, white people have systemically dominated the town since its founding in1857. The Chamber of Commerce is all-white. The mayor is white. The police chief is white. All the banks are controlled by whites. Except for one seat on each, the town council and school board are white, despite the legacy of white flight.

Mrs. Washington’s husband, James, was killed in action in Afghanistan. She never remarried and never came close to doing so. After her husband’s death, she managed to piece together several part-time jobs that paid enough combined income to keep enough food on the table, to pay a mortgage, and to clothe a growing teenage son. She was thankful for what she had, and at the end of her nightly prayers, she whispered, You blessed us with enough. And for that, Master, I’m much obliged to you. A woman of immense faith, she spent her days trying to be kind to the stranger and to love her neighbor as she does herself. She had a quiet demeanor and generally avoided confrontations. But her quiet demeanor should never be misidentified as demureness, as some have discovered to their detriment. Not long after her son was killed, she was waiting in the queue for service at the bank. The white teller looked past her to wait on a white customer, who had just entered the bank. Mrs. Washington and other Black customers were familiar with institutionalized disrespect of Black customers, not only at this bank, but also at other white-owned businesses in town. On this occasion, Mrs. Washington decided that she was not going to take it anymore. She was tired. Her feet were aching, and she had not eaten all day. So, she channeled her inner Rosa Parks.

Lettie, dear, come on up to my window. I know how busy you are. This girl can wait. I’m sure she ain’t nearly as busy as you, darling, the teller shouted to the white lady standing behind Mrs. Washington and other Black customers.

Lettie pushed past the other Black customers and attempted to stake out a position in front of Mrs. Washington.

Oh, hell naw. You ain’t gonna pull that crap with me. No ma’am, Not today. I’m next in line, and Miss Lettie can go back to the end of the line, Mrs. Washington demanded.

Well, I never! protested Lettie.

Lettie was not accustomed to a Black woman standing her ground and not ceding her place in line, as required under the laws of Jim Crowism. As Lettie tried to get in front of Mrs. Washington, Mrs. Washington did something totally spontaneous and courageous. To the surprise and astonishment of Lettie and the teller, Mrs. Washington physically blocked her path; and like a basketball player blocking out for a rebound, she firmly planted her feet at the teller’s window and refused to budge.

You people seemed to have forgotten your manners, girl. Being all sassy and uppity like this. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll change your attitude and the way you talk to white folks in this town, Lettie whispered to Mrs. Washington, who kept looking forward, ignoring the privileged gatecrasher.

Sally, I’ll just come back later. I don’t wanna make a scene. It just ain’t the Christian thang to do, to make a scene, Lettie whispered to the teller.

***

In what was a catharsis for her aching heart, for more than an hour, she bared her soul and forced herself to recall the heart-wrenching details of the five-year-old, unsolved mystery surrounding the murder of her son, Elbert, in 2015, who was 16 years old at the time. There would be no closure at all for her, she said, until she found out why her only child was killed and who was responsible. Nothing short of complete answers to those two agonizing questions could give her the closure she coveted.

Mrs. Washington, ma’am, I am so sorry to hear about your son. I really am, Jefferson said, choking back another wave of tears.

I cannot imagine how parents prepare themselves for losing a child. I don’t have any kids of my own, but I’ve been told that’s a hurt like no other. I’m sure there’s a hole in your heart that will never completely heal.

Sir, you don’t know the half of it. I think about that boy of mine from the time the good Lord wakes me up in the morning, til the time he lays me down at night. But, you see, Mr. Jefferson, sir, I’m just sick and tired of all the tears, the pain, the anger, and the hurt. Lord knows I am. But worst of all, I’m tired of the police, the way they been telling me for the last five years that there ain’t nothin’ more they can do. They keep tellin’ me they ain’t got no leads, no evidence, no motives, no suspects, no nothin’. Ask me, what they ain’t got is… they ain’t got no damn heart. Pardon my language but believe you me, it’s the gospel truth. Now, that be the part that cuts me so deep, son. They just done give up on ‘em. As far as they’re concerned, Mr. Jefferson, my boy ain’t no mo important than last week’s newspaper or the slop the farmer done fed to his hogs. I just can’t go on like this. I can’t. I didn’t know who else to turn to til your name came to me. Now before we go any further, sir, I need to let you know that I don’t have a lot of money, but if you’ll tell me what you charge me, I’ll get it to you somehow.

Mrs. Washington, we are going to do this for free, or as they say, pro bono. And once the case is over, I’ll be glad to tell you why. For now, I don’t want you to worry at all about payments, money, or expenses. I promise, we’ll discuss all that when this is over. Is that okay?

Yes, sir. I guess it is. I got a little money put away, and if you need it, you be sure and let me know. You hear?

Yes, ma’am. I hear you.

***

Lenwood took a deep breath, put his glasses back on, and slowly exhaled. He promised to help her find whoever had killed her son. After jotting down her full name, her son’s name, and her contact information, he offered more sympathy; and he promised, again, that he would help her find the answers that have eluded her for more than five years. They ended the call. Lenwood was emotionally drained, and his stomach was in knots.

Cheryl Davis was in earshot of Lenwood’s end of the conversation. When she heard him stop talking, she got up from her desk and paused… to be sure the conversation had ended.

Assured that it had, she walked the few feet from her office toward his. She paused again before going in. Her face registered a tight grimace as she adjusted her glasses. For a long moment, she just stood at the entrance of Jefferson’s door, gazing at him. Emotionally, she was caught between rushing over and hugging him or giving him more time to compose himself and to replace his mournful face with that of a professional investigator.

He caught sight of her as he was powering up his laptop computer.

Oh, hi, Cheryl, he said as he placed his cell phone onto the wireless charging station. He waved her in and waited until the whirring of the computer stopped before speaking.

Did you hear any of that?

Yes, I did. Just your end, of course. Tell me what happened, Cheryl said as she walked over to him and rubbed his shoulder, which was borderline out of bounds. They followed a self-imposed rule of no public display of affection and no pet names while at work.

The eponymous Jefferson-Davis Investigation Agency was established by Lenwood Jefferson and Cheryl Davis. The choice of the business name, which matches that of the infamous leader of the Confederacy, was intentional. The business moniker, Jefferson-Davis, epitomized everything the President of the confederacy and his contemporary supporters opposed. They were more than business partners. They were in a romantic relationship. The romance between Jefferson, a Black man, and Davis, a white woman, was even in the mid-2000s, a red flag to the white nationalists, who formed a large segment of the state’s population.

For about two years, Lenwood served as a lieutenant with the Sharpville (Mississippi) Police Department. He had prior law enforcement experience with the U.S. Army and with the St. Louis Police Department. He had moved to his hometown of Sharpville from St. Louis following the tragic death of his wife, who was killed by a drunk driver. Not long after he began his job as the Sharpville Police Department’s most experienced investigator, he was thrown into the middle of an impending apocalyptic race war. A fanatical local white nationalist with an equally fanatical national following, Billy Wayne Sharp, dreamed of a race war, which in his mind, would result in the re-establishment of the natural order. The natural order was the go-to theme for white nationalists, who yearned for the day when white people would be placed in their natural position of dominance and that black people and other people of color would be relegated to their natural position of subservience. Following the race war, Billy Wayne Sharp believed that he would become the new leader of the new United States of America and God would anoint him with the divine mission to not only restore the new order, but also to be its supreme leader.

Billy Wayne planned and coordinated his doomsday scenario from behind the walls of Parchman Penitentiary in Sunflower County, Mississippi. He was incarcerated in Mississippi’s notorious state prison following his convictions of multiple crimes including attempted murder, murder, extortion, human trafficking, racketeering, and tax evasion. Owing to excellent detective work by Lenwood Jefferson and rare coordination among state and federal law enforcement, Billy Wayne’s plans were thwarted. While his loyal followers suffered the disappointment and disillusionment of Billy Wayne’s failure to ignite a race war and establish the natural order, many have continued to cling to his white nationalist views. They continue, even today, to believe in Billy Wayne’s dream of the establishment of a white nation. They are everyday Americans. They attend church. They sing the Star-Spangled Banner with conviction and a hand over their hearts. They don uniforms and business suits. They occupy seats of power at all levels of government and await their new leader who will complete the job that Billy Wayne started. Others who were complicit in the plot to start the race war – including members of Congress, White House staff members, law enforcement and the military – were convicted and sent to prison.

***

Cheryl Davis worked as Mayor Booker T. Coleman’s Director of Communications. Mayor Coleman became Sharpville’s first Black mayor following the convictions of the town’s infamous octet of white nationalists, who were tied directly to Billy Wayne’s numerous illegal business activities. They were all prominent figures in the community and had accrued millions of tax-free money from their dirty businesses. They were former Sunday School teachers and chairmen of the community chest. Individually and collectively, they presented themselves to the public as selfless, quintessential pillars of the community. They were notorious in their brutal efforts to stymie or eliminate any efforts to achieve racial equality in Sharpville and in their efforts to ensure loyalty from law enforcement, politicians, public servants and anyone else operating in or around their orbit and sphere of influence. For four decades, they operated their criminal enterprises without any fear of legal consequences. Like Billy Wayne, they were convicted of multiple state and federal crimes, which became a source of embarrassment for the white citizens of Sharpville. During the ensuing mayoral election, following the convictions, the first Black mayor was swept into office on the winds of change that started to sweep across Sharpville and Henderson County. One of Booker Coleman’s first decisions as candidate and later as mayor was to name Cheryl his Director of Communications.

For more than two decades, Cheryl was an international reporter for several news services and was a recipient of numerous journalism awards, including the prestigious Peabody Award. She had returned to Sharpville to care for her ailing mother. After her mother passed, she accepted candidate Coleman’s offer to work in his campaign, eschewing offers to return to the field of international journalism. Following his election, he named her Director of Communications.

Through a series of events, including being kidnapped by followers of Billy Wayne Sharp, her name and her story of heroism became an important part of the story of how Billy Wayne failed at starting a race war. In Billy Wayne’s scheme, Cheryl was to be used as leverage to force Lieutenant Jefferson to accede to his wishes regarding how to solve the mystery surrounding the hanging of Black teen, Quinton Johnson. Billy Wayne wanted Jefferson to conclude that Quinton was murdered rather than having committed suicide. In Billy Wayne’s mind, the fallout from the murder of a Black person by a white person would trigger the much-anticipated race war. He proposed to Jefferson that he would be willing to sacrifice a couple of knuckleheads who would be willing to take a plea deal and admit to killing Quinton. Although the unnamed sacrificial lambs were not involved in the murder, Billy Wayne assured Jefferson that they would be willing to take one for the team. To ensure Jefferson’s acquiescence to his plan, Billy Wayne hatched a plan in which a couple of his minions would kidnap and hold Cheryl until Jefferson announced that Quinton Johnson had been murdered at the hands of two white men, thus triggering the race war. What they had not anticipated was Cheryl freeing herself from her would-be captors. With several devastating, well-placed blows to their groin area and nose, she was able to extricate herself, thus removing an important element of Billy Wayne’s leverage. From that point on, Billy Wayne’s house of cards began to rapidly crumble.

Lenwood and Cheryl had grown close over a fairly short period of time. Following the finale of the failed attempt at racial Armageddon, they each resigned their positions and started a private investigation business. Their niche within the private investigation community would be the pursuit of cold cases involving hate crimes. The call from Mrs. Washington was the first request for their services.

***

Let me start from the beginning, as he retrieved his yellow note pad on which he had noted the details of Mrs. Washington’s call.

Five years ago, her son, Elbert, who was 16 at the time, disappeared. He was on his way to football practice and never made it there. The coach called Mrs. Washington after practice to ask if Elbert was okay. She was puzzled and rattled by the question, immediately believing that he must have been injured at practice.

***

What are you talking about, Coach Hudson? I ain’t seen Elbert since he left the house more than three hours ago, heading to the football field.

Well, Mrs. Washington, Elbert never showed up for practice. And none of the other guys have any idea where he could have been. Of course, being one of our starters, he sure was missed because I drew up some new plays that featured him; and I had planned to get him and the rest of the team to practice them this afternoon. You mean, he ain’t there at the house?

With all due respect, Coach Hudson, I don’t give a rat’s ass about no plays, no practice, no nothing, but trying to figure out where my boy is. Now you know them boys and them boys know Elbert. Where they think he is?

Well, ma’am, like I said. None of the guys know anything.

They must be covering up for him. Did anybody check with his girlfriend. What’s her name? Sandra?

Yes, ma’am. That’s her name, but I wanted to check with you before I called her.

Don’t you worry yourself, Coach Hudson. Thank you for calling me, but I’ll figure this thang out. I’ll handle it for now. Elbert knows that missing practice is the same as missing class. I don’t allow neither one of ‘em. And I don’t let him ever quit or give up, even when things get a little rough. Be early for school. Be early for practice. Be early for work. I always told him. That goes for sports, schoolwork, and life. So, I know he wouldn’t miss practice without telling somebody.

Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Washington. Just let me know when you hear something.

"You gonna hear from him, not me. It’s his responsibility to let you know why he didn’t show up today for practice. Not mine. So, no disrespect, Coach Hudson, I need to hang up and find out where that boy is. I’m gonna start with his girlfriend."

Although she had met Sandra Lattimore only a few times, she liked her. One of the reasons she liked Sandra is because she was respectful – called her Mrs. Washington and said, Yes, ma’am and No ma’am. She had some good home training, she told Elbert after the first time she met her.

Sandra was one of two co-captains for the varsity cheerleader squad; and although she was popular and smart, she didn’t fit the mean-snobbish-girl stereotype, due to what Mrs. Washington regarded as Sandra’s good home training. Other than Mrs. Washington, no one knew more than Sandra about Elbert’s whereabouts. They talked constantly on the phone and were the proverbial two peas in a pod.

On the third ring, Sandra picked up. The caller ID, which read, Washington, led her, naturally, to think it was Elbert on the other end.

Hey, sweetness. I was wondering if you were gonna call me. Thought you had forgotten all about me. How was practice?, she said as she closed her bedroom door and plopped down on her bed and sat crossed-legged. A medley of Sade hits was playing on her wireless speaker that was setting on her nightstand.

Naw, baby. This ain’t Elbert. This is his mamma. I’m calling you to find out where he is. You seen or heard from that boy at all today?

Embarrassed and searching for a hole to climb in, she uncrossed her legs and leapt to the floor.

Oh, Mrs. Washington. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I thought it was Elbert.

That’s all right, honey. But answer me. You seen him? You know where he is?

Well, I saw him a couple times at school today. In class and at lunch. I didn’t see him right after school because I had cheer practice and he had football practice, she said.

When an eerie sense of dread slowly came over her, Sandra sat on the edge of her bed and pressed the pause button on her speaker.

Mrs. Washington, I swear. I haven’t seen or heard from Elbert since that time. What about Coach Hudson and the other players? Don’t they know where he might be? I don’t understand, she said in desperation.

Coach Hudson called me to check to see if Elbert was okay. Of course, I thought he must have gotten hurt or something at practice, and he was checking on him. You know? But Coach said he didn’t show up for practice and none of the guys knew where he could have been.

That’s strange, Mrs. Washington. Elbert never misses football practices. Not even when he’s hurt. He is always there. So, this is not good. Not good at all. You want me to call the hospital? Maybe something happened, and he had to go to the emergency room.

Naw, baby. I’ll take care of it. Thanks for offering. They wouldn’t tell you nothing no way cause you ain’t kin. Let me hang up now, so I can call the hospital.

Yes, ma’am. Would you please call me and let me know, one way or the other?

Yeah, baby. I will. I can hear the worry in your voice. Just pray that he’s all right.

After locating the emergency room number on the inside cover of the telephone directory, she dialed.

Her heart sank and rose at the same time when the nurse said that no one by that name or description had been admitted to the emergency room. She was happy that he was not hurt, but worried that she still didn’t know where he could be.

Next, she called the police department and was transferred to a detective.

Detective Oliver asked Mrs. Washington for a description of Elbert.

He’s almost six feet tall. Kinda lean build, around 180 pounds. Dark brown skin. Short dreads. And he’s got a tattoo on his right arm with a picture of a heart and the word mama. Why are you asking me that?

Can you describe the clothes he was wearing today?

Yeah, I can. He had on a long sleeve blue shirt and jeans. Now, look, Detective. You’re starting to make me nervous with all these questions. You know where my boy is?

Mrs. Washington, can you drive down here to the police station? I don’t want to say anymore until I can sit down and talk with you face-to-face.

Now, looka here, man. You know anything about my boy? Y’all picked him up? What did he do? Why didn’t y’all call me? Ain’t he supposed to get a call? Why ain’t I heard nothing from him? That’s a good boy. He ain’t never been in no trouble his whole entire life. Just tell me what I need to do to bail him out, and then we’ll get to the bottom of this thang.

As I said, Mrs. Washington. I’d rather talk to you in person and not over the phone. If you’d like, I can have an officer come to your house and drive you down here to the station.

Don’t want no police at my house. Don’t bother. But thank you just the same. I’m on my way out the door. Be there in ten minutes, she said as she cranked her 10-year-old, navy blue Impala.

As she made her way downtown to the police station and driving like she was chasing or being chased by the bad guys, she felt a chill come over her. She shook it off and kept her attention on the cars in front of her, which she swore at multiple times. They were moving way too slowly for an anxious mama speeding to the jailhouse to check on her son. Except for school zones, she ignored every speed limit sign in sight.

She pushed open the glass door to the police station and scanned the small room, looking for anybody who could tell her where she could find Detective Oliver. She spotted a tall white man in a police uniform, who seemed to be in no particular hurry to get to where he was going.

Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me where I can find Detective Oliver?

She was nearly out of breath from running the two blocks from where she parked her car in the police department’s visitor parking lot. The only parking spaces available outside the police station came with signs that warned drivers that they would be towed at their expense if they parked in one of the many open parking spaces.

You got an appointment?

No, sir. I don’t have no appointment. Can you just tell me where I can find Detective Oliver? I’m here to check on my boy, she said as she drew in deep breaths to fill her hungry lungs with air.

Don’t matter. You still gotta have an appointment. Can’t you see how busy everybody is up in here? You thank people can just stop what they doin’ ‘cause you wanna see somebody when you ain’t even got no appointment to see ‘em. Hell, naw. You best just git the hell on up outta here and let us do our job.

Look, man. I ain’t got time to be fartin’ around with you. I done told you. I’m here to see Detective Oliver. Now, you gonna tell me how to get to his office or not. Cause if you ain’t, I don’t wanna even talk to your ass no ‘mo, she said as she clinched her jaws, moved closer to him and raised her decibel level. She saw that his badge carried the name, Gilmore.

You better step back, bitch. You threatening me? You want a piece of this? Take one mo step and I’ll throw yo black ass in jail so quick you won’t know what you hit you. I can see why yo boy locked up. Anythang like yo uppity, sassy ass, he probably got a rap sheet longer than a NASCAR race. No respect.

A voice he was not expecting grabbed his attention.

Officer Gilmore! Just who in the hell do you think you are? And what gives you the right and the authority to speak to someone… anyone… like that?, asked a white officer with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves.

Well, Sarge, she was actin’ all uppity and sassin’ me. She ain’t no right to disrespect me, sir.

"From what I heard out here, you were the one being disrespectful. And you were the only one sounding like a complete moron. I tell you what, boy! If this lady wasn’t standing here, I would have a few other choice words to describe you. But suffice it to say that I find you to be a poor representative of law enforcement, in general and this department, in particular. You don’t get to use language like I just heard you use, inside or outside this station. You don’t get to threaten to lock someone up, just because you wear a uniform, carry a badge, and have a gun strapped to your waist. How in the hell did they let somebody like you even get into the academy in the first place, let you graduate, and then hire you to be a peace officer?"

But Sarge. These people need to be put in they place and learned how to show proper respect for our people. You see all the trouble these people stir up, making life unsafe for the good people of Forrestburg. Thugs, pushers, and gang bangers running around like they in a jungle somewhere, acting like a bunch of wild animals. We’re the thin blue line between them and proper society. I…

The sergeant put up a shut-the-hell-up open palm, two inches from Gilmore’s face. The color in both their faces was as red as a candy apple. The sergeant turned to address Mrs. Washington.

Pardon my language ma’am. I don’t like to talk this way in front of company, especially women folks. But this is what they call a teachable moment.

Better you than me. Go on. Teach him. I want to see this. Then I need to find Detective Oliver, she said as she looked at Gilmore with a laser stare that could have bored a hole through concrete.

Officer…no I’m not going to bestow upon you the privilege of being called officer. That’s a title you earn. Gilmore, what I heard you say just now has got to be the stupidest damn thing I have ever heard. And you are not only a moron, but you are a sack of wet, smelly shit. It’s people like you with those outdated, racist attitudes that make our job as police officer harder than it already is. You are utterly unworthy of the title, Officer. So, let me just call you what you really are….asshole. And let me just cut to the chase. The only thing I want to hear come out of your mouth next is an apology. No more of this bullshit about these people and thugs, and wild animals and jungles. If I don’t hear a sincere apology from you, you are going to have a serious problem with me and most of the officers in this department. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, sir. I’m sorry for what I said, sir, as he lowered his head.

"You still don’t get it, do you? You should be apologizing to this lady here, not me. I don’t need your damn apology. Besides, I have a feeling you’re going to be apologizing to a lot of other people before this day