The Dead, the Door, and the Double-Minded

By Rell Webber

A prominent and well-respected Mississippi mental institution has introduced a new vocational program that will allow female residents to work in the community as home companions to elderly women who wish to remain in their homes and out of nursing facilities. But when social worker Joanna Geyer observes one of these residents on a shopping spree, accompanied by the son of the elderly woman to whom she is assigned, she is concerned that it may not be the elderly to which their companionship is being provided. Fully aware that sexual abuse preys mostly on those who are physically, socially, or psychologically vulnerable, she requests the assistance of someone with ties to Mississippi, someone who has the investigative instincts to confirm or rule out her concerns.
Jim McClain is an FBI agent in Chicago with relatives in the Magnolia state. When his son began running with the wrong crowd three years ago, Jason found himself in trouble with the law; and now he has disappeared. If Jason does not surface by the time he turns twenty-one—only six months away—he will be forced to face the full consequences of his actions. THE DEAD, THE DOOR, AND THE DOUBLE-MINDED provides the reader with a fictional account of one man’s attempt to locate his son while assisting in a covert investigation regarding possible human trafficking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665540971

Rell Webber

For over thirty years Rell Webber has served people with disabilities as a vocational counselor, American Sign Language instructor, and interpreter for the deaf. Rell and his wife Sharon live in Terry, Mississippi, enjoying time with their ten grandchildren.

Book preview

THE DEAD, THE DOOR,

AND THE

DOUBLE-MINDED

RELL WEBBER

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: [phone]

© 2021 Rell Webber. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/27/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4098-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4097-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021920803

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PART I The Premonition

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

PART II The Proposal

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART III The Probe

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

PART IV The Pronouncement

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

PART V The Presumption

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Epilogue

"And you hath He quickened,

who were DEAD in trespasses and sins."

Ephesians 2:1

"Behold, I stand at the DOOR and knock.

If any man hear my voice, and open the door,

I will come in to him, and will sup

with him, and he with me."

Revelation 3:20

A DOUBLE-MINDED man is unstable in all his ways.

James 1:8

PART I

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The Premonition

CHAPTER 1

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D r. Payne Crawford felt the pit of his stomach rumble as he sat at his desk thumping his pencil up and down, up and down. It was then he reached the conclusion that something was wrong. There was a strange feeling in the air. It was as if he knew, although he really didn’t know but sensed it deep in his gut. Crawford had felt these premonitions before, but never as strongly. Several isolated events had occurred lately all around him which had triggered such sensations. Hardly anyone else would have even noticed any meaning in these events. But Crawford knew that they were a definite sign that the inevitable was about to happen. That feeling was so strong, in fact, that before he realized it, he had dropped his pencil and was now standing. The stirring in his stomach was stronger now and the sixty-two-year-old head administrator of Braswell Regional Center—formerly known as Braswell Mental Institution—knew that the stirring wasn’t from hunger. It was that wheezy feeling you get deep in your gut when you realize that the game is over, along with the harsh reality that, despite all of your attempts to get the hell out of Dodge, they finally had your ass.

But that has not happened yet, the thought suddenly hit Crawford. There was no one bursting through the door at this moment to arrest him. He had not yet heard that dreaded knock he had been anticipating for weeks, which would most definitely be his secretary, Immaline Ball, informing him that visitors in black coats and ties were here, wishing to have a word with him. Crawford had certainly imagined this little scene being played out before.

How would it all end? he thought. Most likely, Ms. Ball would buzz him with the announcement of their arrival. He would open the door, greet them with his formal chief-of-staff demeanor, along with a hint of smile that accompanied an air of superiority which only a top director of a well-respected facility such as Braswell could exhibit. He could very easily imagine the following scenario being carried out....

Dr Payne Crawford? one of the visitors would address him formally.

Yes, he would reply. Hopefully they would have the professional courtesy to speak to him in private, although there was no assurance of that. Crawford would, of course, play the part of the director who was totally ‘in charge’, appearing perfectly calm and inviting them to.... please step inside my office.

And then ‘boom’, the big shoe would fall. Dr. Crawford, we have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent and... At which time they would shove some legal document in his face. Crawford would act totally innocent, careful not to provide them with one more bit of information than they already had, which would probably be enough to hang him anyway. After a spurious attempt on his part to act surprised, with some useless, silly statement like I don’t quite understand, they would make it perfectly evident that this was not some speculative visit. Dr. Crawford, they would most certainly inform him, you are charged with conspiring to promote sex trafficking, prostitution, misuse of public funds, and failure to discharge your administrative duties regarding wards of the state.

Crawford felt the pit in his stomach again. That which had been a mere rumbling before was now a full-meal-deal gone sour. Maybe it was the phone call from a local physician, Ed Poole, over in Quitman, to say he had been contacted by some law official regarding one of the doctor’s patients. And earlier in the week one of the female residents, Millifred Douglas, who was employed out in the community, had informed her social worker that a man had come by Evelyn Coxwell’s home to have a chat with Millie regarding her work there. The man had asked Millie a few questions, but she said she didn’t know many of the answers and the man really hadn’t said who he was or why he wanted to know. Nevertheless, Crawford was convinced that all of this was adding up to something for sure.

But it hasn’t happened yet, came a sudden thought which jolted him into action. Crawford grabbed his coat and stepped out into the reception area where Ms. Ball sat at her desk reading an AARP magazine. Immaline, I’m going to be out of the office for a couple of hours.

He saw her glance at the antique wooden clock on the wall and he thought, "Always the suspicious one, you old hag."

But what about your 2:00 appointment with Langdon Hawkins? she replied curtly. He said that it was urgent that he meet with you as soon as possible. Hawkins was Crawford’s head psychologist and one of the few people on campus whom the director actually trusted. But Hawkins was also an emotional midget who could worry the horns off a billy goat. Oh yes, I forgot, Crawford said. Please call him and ask if we can reschedule for Monday. Promptly he left his office and took the back stairs down to the ground floor.

Walking briskly across the Braswell campus, Crawford passed several of his staff who spoke to him in their usual smooch up to the director tone of voice, despite the fact that everyone employed at Braswell knew Crawford never cared for friendly interaction with his subordinates. They also knew the man was a strict task master—as well as a workaholic—who expected as much from his staff, and it served no purpose in getting chummy with the boss. Crawford returned their greeting with only a nod, which was no shock to them. The director had few close friends in this world and certainly none on campus. He was well aware that his employees talked behind his back, especially regarding his tendency to begin a new project on a whim. New employees quickly discovered that getting too close to Crawford made them more accessible when the man started delegating responsibilities and assigning additional duties.

In only a few minutes he reached the campus garage where Braswell’s government-issued vehicles were kept. There, three mechanics were standing around smoking cigarettes. One of them, a short fat guy named Lyman noticed Crawford approaching and quickly distinguished his smoke. Crawford had been known to fire someone right on the spot for standing around with his hands in his pockets. There were, of course, formal, written proceedings for firing someone who was employed by the state, but no one dared question Payne Crawford when his axe came down. He always had his ducks in a row—well documented records, whatever, to back him up. For this reason Lyman and his co-workers knew that they would do well to look busy.

Where’s Mangrum? Crawford barked, his question being directed to no one in particular.

Well, sir, Lyman spoke up quickly, I don’t think Mr. Mangrum has made it back from lunch yet. But he left Randy in charge, and I believe he’s in there on the phone. You want me to go get him, Dr. Crawford?

No, Crawford answered. Just get me the keys to that old yellow two-ton truck, the one that Mangrum recently had overhauled. He was supposed to have had it checked and ready for use by this afternoon.

Oh, you mean Gassy Gussy? Lyman laughed nervously. Yes sir, we got her all fixed up, Dr. Crawford. I checked her out myself. Everything works on her and she runs just like new. Lyman looked over at the other two workers who nodded proudly in agreement. Crawford glanced down at his watch. He wanted his employees to realize that he wasn’t here to chit-chat. But he was also beginning to sense his earlier premonition growing much stronger now. Lyman seemed to sense the director’s urgency and quickly went inside the garage to retrieve the keys. A few seconds later, Randy Mowdy appeared at the door and nervously began to explain in quick, short sentences exactly why he was inside on the phone and not doing his job. Crawford simply held out his hands for that which he had requested five minutes ago. Randy was still running his mouth when Crawford cranked up the old yellow two-ton truck and pulled away from the garage.

Slowly and methodically he shifted the vehicle’s rebuilt engine through its gears, rounding the curve in front of the residential area where the higher-functioning residents lived. Driving past the hospital that housed the more severe cases, he proceeded toward the security guard station. The guard manning the entrance had been instructed to check all vehicles that passed through the gate, but he quickly recognized the driver of the antiquated two-ton truck as the center director.

The guard threw up his hand in a friendly wave, and Crawford passed under the brick overhead on which the words, Braswell Residential Center inscribed, and turned left onto highway 49.

CHAPTER 2

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T wo days, he reminded himself. All I need is two days . Crawford reached down inside his coat pocket and patted the airline ticket and passport he would need at the end of the two days. His wife Martha was visiting her sister in New Orleans and wasn’t expected to return for at least a week. Mardi Gras season was in full swing and, having grown up in the middle of all that mess, she insisted on going back every year. He would miss her; that he could not deny. But Martha had always been more of a friend than a lover. She would be shocked at his sudden departure and embarrassed at the allegations that would certainly surface, but she would survive.

Crawford’s plan was to call in sick each of these two days. During that brief period of time, no one would suspect that each call would be from a different location, farther and farther away from the great state of Mississippi. By the time anyone suspected that something was awry, he would be safely on a plane to Switzerland, a destination not in the least spontaneous, for he had been there twice before to address the International Conference on Mental Illness. After all, Payne Crawford was considered to be an expert in the field of residential living services for the mentally ill, and he was a much sought-after conference speaker. Both his community services program and his more recently instituted Home Companion Program were now acclaimed nationwide as model service delivery programs for persons with disabilities. On his last visit to Switzerland, Crawford had actually been asked to consider taking a leave of absence from Braswell to come and serve there as a consultant to the government for the purpose of establishing group homes for their mentally ill patients. Would it be so odd that he had decided quite suddenly to accept their offer? Of course not, he told himself. Everyone knew that he loved the Swiss countryside and had even hinted at relocating there on a permanent basis after retirement. Of course, when all of this did hit the fan, he knew that he wouldn’t need a respectable reason for leaving the United States. All he would need then would be the temporary Swiss visa he had in his possession.

Out on the highway, Crawford recalled his meeting on Tuesday of the previous week with county court Judge Buford Hobbs at Speck’s restaurant in Manville, prior to Hobb’s panicky telephone call to inform Crawford that they had to talk.

All right Judge, Crawford had answered him calmly. Do you want to drop by my office, or do I need to come to yours?

You know dadgum ....you know exactly where to meet me. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Crawford. I suggest you do the same. The conversation had abruptly ended.

***

Hi, Judge, what’s up? he had asked upon entering Speck’s and seating himself next to Hobbs. His calm demeanor was obviously disturbing to the judge, who was sweating profusely.

You know precisely what is up, Crawford! We’ve got an FBI agent down here from Chicago asking a lot of questions about some of your inmates.

They are not inmates, Crawford corrected him. The politically correct term is ‘resident’. We call them residents.

I don’t give a crap what you call them, Crawford, the judge replied, wiping his brow. This agent .... McClain I think his name is.... he says that he’s been asked to look into allegations of physical and sexual abuse at Braswell. The judge took a breath and looked over his shoulder, These allegations were made by some of your own staff, Dr. Crawford.

Now Judge, Dr. Crawford responded with a smile, you know those ADA folks are always trying to start something. Remember last summer when one of our residents accidentally drowned in Walker’s lake? The poor guy suffered a seizure and no one could get to him in time to save the boy. That death was simply an accident. But oh, no. It was not an accidental drowning, not to that lawyer lady who thrives on ADA cases. She tried to make it look like we caused it.

I’m not talking about some accidental death. He wiped his brow and looked over his shoulder. I’m talking about those girls, the ones in them homes. What about your records on them?

Judge, believe me, we have nothing to hide. This gentleman is welcome to come onto our facility—with the proper clearance of course—anytime he wishes. And the ladies to which you are referring are closely monitored by our psychology department. We have taken extreme measures to assure that these girls have been placed in safe homes. As you know, some of them have been assigned to the most prestigious families in the county, and each one is happy to be living away from the institution. I assure you, Judge Hobbs, that no harm would ever come to them.

The judge leaned over and whispered directly into Crawford’s ear, Let me be perfectly candid with you. I know about some of your little financial arrangements. Now, I don’t blame a person for wanting to make an extra buck under the table. But you got greedy, Crawford. And greediness will get you every time. Do you know what I mean?

Oh, I know exactly what you mean, Judge, he replied. Crawford didn’t like being threatened, especially when the threat came from a snake as venomous as Hobbs. While we are being.... candid, as you say, let me remind you that you have, on more than one occasion, used our state residents for free labor, out on those hot summer days at your farm, forcing them to haul one-hundred pound bales all week long and receiving no compensation whatsoever for it. And have you forgotten Benny Barlow, Judge? We buried him out on your property last July. You knew that Benny was not feeling well when you came to pick up your free labor that morning. Benny had even spent the previous night in the clinic. But you insisted that he go with you, and then subjected him to inhuman conditions out in the hot July sun. Why? Because you loved the way he worked, didn’t you, Judge? Because Benny was as stout as an ox and you knew you could get the most out of him. Oh, it was certainly nice of you to offer a small plot of land to bury a retarded man who had no family to claim his body. But the nurse who had complained about Benny’s leaving campus that morning didn’t give a flip about your nicety, did she? Only when I met privately with the woman to discuss her concerns, as well as to offer her an administrative position, did she become.... shall we say, pacified?

Judge Hobbs looked at his watch, then back over his shoulder. "All right, I get your point.

But there is still the matter of the girl, the one who .... disappeared. You know that my signature is on those papers. My butt would really be in a sling if ... he stopped in mid-sentence. Well, what are you going to say about that when he asks?"

Don’t worry about her, Judge. Don’t worry about any of them, Crawford assured him, smiling in a perverse manner that only added to Hobbs’ anxiety. He could see that the judge was feeling extremely uncomfortable, something a man of his reputation was not used to feeling. If the gentleman wants to review our records, he added, I’ll be only too happy to oblige him. Crawford took pleasure in knowing that his calmness was having an adverse reaction on the powerful Judge Buford Hobbs.

Just clean up your act, Crawford, Judge Hobbs said nervously as he stood to leave, as well as your files.

CHAPTER 3

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A rotating blue light appeared in Gassy Gussy’s rear view mirror and Crawford glanced at the speedometer. He couldn’t have possibly been speeding, he thought as he flipped his right blinker on in order to pull over to the side of the road. Crawford had been purposely maintaining the speed limit so as not to draw any unnecessary attention to his being out on the highway. What in the heck could be wrong? With surprising calmness he brought Gassy Gussy to a stop. " God, how I hate this mess ," he thought as he waited for the young highway patrol officer to approach him on the left side of the vehicle.

May I see your driver’s license, please? the young patrolman asked. His eyes were shielded behind sunglasses, but Crawford could tell the kid was in his mid twenties. The new breed of patrolman, Crawford thought. Not the bossy kind that rips off his glasses and stares you in the face like you were some kind of criminal. Now they had manners. They ask you if you will please give them your license.

As Crawford reached slowly for his wallet he noticed that the officer, whose last name was apparently Brunt because of the name just above his shield, was eyeballing the old yellow truck. He’s obviously surprised that this piece of junk can still make it down the highway.

Anything wrong, officer? Crawford asked politely.

Did you know that you have no brake lights, sir?

That lying fat-ass Lymon, thought Crawford. He said he had checked everything. Crawford had selected Gassy Gussy specifically because it resembled a typical old farm truck. The ‘Braswell Residential Center’ insignia had long since been removed from the doors, and only Crawford and the mechanics knew it had been overhauled and could make a cross-county trip with no problem. And that was exactly what Dr. Payne Crawford intended on doing during the next two days.

I’m afraid you won’t be able to drive this vehicle on the highway until you get those fixed, officer Brunt informed Crawford as he began writing in his ticket book.

What? You’re going to give me a ticket for.... bad taillights? he asked. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Crawford gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried to maintain his composure. The last thing he needed was for some official record to show that he had been ticketed on the very day of his disappearance, driving a state vehicle on highway 49, just south of the Weathersby community and headed north toward Jackson.

Look here, he continued to press the young man, I’m Dr. Payne Crawford, the director at Braswell Residential Center. I wasn’t speeding or driving reckless, and while I realize that I may have not properly checked my vehicle before leaving the grounds, I assure you that I will be returning to campus long before dark. I am only taking this old truck to..... Judge Buford Hobbs’ farm to pick up some of our day laborers. I gave my regular driver the afternoon off and.... well, I’m sure he would have checked the taillights first. The officer suddenly stopped writing in his book and looked up. Hearing the judge’s name had evidently hit a nerve, which was exactly what Crawford had counted on. Quickly he took advantage of the moment and continued pleading his case.

I really am sorry about this, officer, he said, trying to sound as genuinely apologetic as possible. To be honest with you, I was supposed to have the residents back on campus for a special recreational event that is being held at 4:00 p.m. And I’m afraid I got tied up and completely forgot all about it, which is the reason for my failure to properly inspect my vehicle. If you will just trust me on this one, I will personally see that this truck is checked over with a fine-tooth comb.

The young man smiled, All right, Dr. Crawford, I suppose that a quick trip like the one you are making won’t hurt, considering it is still during the daylight hours. But please be sure you have this vehicle back at Braswell by sundown, sir. I sure wouldn’t want you to have an accident. He turned to walk away, took another look at the old truck, then added, If you did, it would be on my neck!

CHAPTER 4

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B y the time the sun had begun disappearing over the horizon at Braswell Residential Center, Payne Crawford was well on his way out of Mississippi. His intended plan had been to navigate Gassy Gussy due west, up through Louisiana and Texas, driving straight to the Dallas airport via small towns and two-lane highways. Prior to reaching the Mississippi state line, however, he stopped in Vicksburg to gas up and retrieve a food snack out of the candy machine, and he began to reconsider his situation with the old yellow truck. Crawford could simply not afford to be stopped again for some meaningless taillight. Recalling a previous speaking engagement in which he had flown into the small airport just outside West Monroe, Louisiana, he now figured that his safest bet would be leave Gassy Gussy in some inconspicuous spot at that airport and catch a shuttle flight from West Monroe to Dallas, then fly directly to Switzerland. Once that had been accomplished, Crawford would no longer have to watch over his shoulder. He felt confident that long before his disappearance had begun to cause serious alarm back at home Crawford would be sitting around with his professional cronies solving all of the academic problems of the world while enjoying the wonderful view of the Swiss Alps.

Having crossed the Ouachita river into West Monroe, he drove directly to the airport and found a secluded area comprised of parked utility trucks that were similar in design to Gassy Gussy. Just another work truck, he convinced himself. A few minutes later he flagged an airport shuttle bus that carried him over to the main lobby where he purchased his ticket. Thirty minutes later he boarded a twin-engine plane that would take him to the Dallas/Ft. Worth International airport. When the small aircraft eventually lifted off and Crawford was able to situate his legs to find a tolerable range of comfort in his economy-class seat, he began to breathe a little easier. But he also reminded himself that until he was finally aboard that long overseas flight, he could not completely relax.

Although this short-hop flight would take only forty-five minutes, it would allow Crawford time to review his present state of affairs. Such a quick turn-a-bout of events that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours, he thought. But they had not taken him totally by surprise. For some time now he had anticipated that the roof was finally caving in on him. In fact, the past six months had presented a series of unfortunate circumstances, each one giving evidence that certain business arrangements in which he was engaged had definite flaws in them. And now that nosy detective from Chicago had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and had begun questioning both his customers and his residents. That problem, however, was not the primary reason that he was now on the run.

Payne Crawford had for some time now suspicioned that some of his community employers were not merely seeking assistance for their elderly loved ones; a few of them were wanting female companionship as well. Crawford then began making behind-the-scenes financial business arrangements with these gentlemen and these had proved extremely lucrative. However, in negotiating these deals, Crawford had gotten greedy. And in the process he had also gotten careless.

He had not originally entertained the idea of taking advantage of his position as director of Braswell Regional Center. Payne Crawford had worked hard to become a legend in the field of Special Education. Almost single-handedly Crawford had changed the way the state of Mississippi looked at people with disabilities. Institutionalization was no longer a frowned-upon concept. Immediately following his appointment as director for Braswell, he had ordered that all dormitory rooms—originally painted a dull, cold institutional gray—be re-painted bright, happy colors. No longer would the residents at Braswell be treated like animals in a zoo. Immediately, all employees were instructed to treat each resident with total professional respect. Therefore, since Braswell was an adult facility, the residents were to be regarded as adults. His most famous quote was, equal rights; equal responsibilities, and all who were affiliated with Braswell, whether as employees or residents, knew that Dr. Crawford held them all accountable. Seventeen years later, Payne Crawford was now recognized internationally as a leading authority on persons with disabilities.

How could things have taken such a downward spiral turn so quickly? How could his professional reputation have become so ship-wrecked in such a short amount of time? Looking back at all of this, he realized that he, Dr. Payne Crawford, had simply been blinded by his position of authority. And yet another extremely unfortunate situation overshadowed any that he had previously faced: Payne Crawford was dying. His re-occurring headaches and on-coming dizzy spells over the past year had finally been diagnosed as Stage 4 melanoma cancer.

Two months prior, a large cancerous growth at the base of his skull had been discovered which, according to the several x-ray procedures he had undergone during those eight weeks, had indicated that, while surgery might remove this existing growth, there were at least five other detected melanoma spots as well. His physician, Paul Yeager, had also informed him that additional melanocytes were mutating much too quickly for normal chemotherapy to be productive. Last week’s examination to update the cancer’s current rate of growth had revealed that