Clark Howard - Brothers in Blood: The True Account of the Georgia Massacre

Clark Howard was born in Tennessee and raised in a series of foster homes in Chicago, and he served with the US Marines in Korea, Howard is the author of many novels and true crime books, as well as more than two hundred short stories, primarily in the crime and mystery genres. His work has won the prestigious Edgar Award, five Ellery Queen Awards, and the Derringer Award, and he has been nominated for Anthony, Shamus, and Spur Awards, among other honors. Additionally, Howards stories have been adapted for both film and television.

Clark Howard

In most works of nonfiction dealing with crime and criminals, it is sometimes necessary to change names and alter identities in order to protect certain persons. Brothers in Blood is no exception.

The convicted murderers in this story, and the accessory to their crimes who testified against them, touched many lives over the years as they grew from childhood to adolescence to young manhood.

To avoid any possible embarrassment to the many individuals who were involved with them in one relationship or anotherwhether as case worker, foster parent, corrections official, girlfriend, crime partner, prison friend, or otherwisethe author has changed names, concealed identities, and created composite characters based upon more than one real person. Thus, while all the events described in this book actually took place, words or deeds attributed to any one character do not necessarily correspond to the statements or actions of any particular individual.

Once again to

Alex Jackinson,

my friend first,

and then my agent.

Billy, the youngest of the four, started crying shortly after they left Seminole County. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head back and forth. Jesus Christ, whatve we done? he muttered into his palms. Whatve we done? Whatve we done?

Carl, who was driving, glanced in the rearview mirror at his younger brother and frowned. Wayne, their half brother, older than both of them, turned in the seat next to Carl and stared coldly at Billy. Glancing at Wayne, Carl noticed that his eyes were like bullets: two black dots, fixed, unyielding, threatening.

What in the name of Christ have we done? Billy muttered again.

Shut up, Billy, said Carl.

Jesus, back therewe

I said shut up! Carls voice had an edge this time.

Wayne faced forward again, looking out the windshield with the same flat gaze he had turned on Billy. Grunting softly to himself, he said We, huh? As I recall, you didnt do nothing but watch.

He did more than watch, Carl said.

Wayne glanced at Carl but did not argue the point. Instead he turned the other way and reached into the back seat. He put his hand on the knee of the fourth person in the car: George, a black man with a soft, shy grin, wearing thick eyeglasses.

How you doing? Wayne asked.

George shrugged. Okay, I guess.

Their eyes met and held. A warmth, an understanding, passed between them. Wayne squeezed Georges knee and winked without smiling. Then he faced forward again.

Carl, eyes on the road, resumed concentrating on the one thought uppermost in his mind: getting the hell out of Georgia. It should not take long. Seminole County was in the farthest southwest corner of the state. Its southern boundary was the Florida state line; part of its western boundary was the Alabama line. It was toward Alabama that they were now heading. They crossed the Chattahoochie River into that state less than thirty minutes after leaving the woods where they had abandoned their last stolen car in favor of this one: the 1970 Chevrolet Impala that had belonged to the woman.

Carl closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. No, goddamn it, he didnt want to think about the woman. Anything but the woman.

You okay? Wayne asked, looking curiously at him.

Im fine.

Want me to drive?

No, Im fine.

Carl pressed the car forward, along the bypass around Dothan, Alabama, and on out Route 84 east. They had crossed into the Central time zone, from Eastern time in Georgia, so they had gained an hour; even so, it was beginning to get dark. Route 84 changed from four lanes to two. Carl turned on the headlights. They passed through Clayhatchee and Enterprise, Elba and Danley. Carl had forgotten to check the odometer when they left the woods in Seminole County, so he did not know how far they had come overall; but he had remembered to check it as they were bypassing Dothan, so he knew they were about fifty miles from Dothan.

In Danley he decided to get off the main highway, turning onto a state route, 141, and heading north. It was on that road, toward eight oclock, that Billy started sobbing again in the back seat.

I want to go home, Billy cried. I want to get as far away as I can. I want to go home and see my mamma.

Your mamma! Wayne spat the word out. What in hell did your mamma ever do for you, boy?

I dont care! I want to go home! I want to go where I dont have to think about today!

Only one place you can do that, boy, Wayne told him flatly. Hell. Billy began to sob louder. Shit, said Wayne. He nudged Carls arm. Pull over to the side of the road, will you? I got to take a piss.

Carl slowed down and guided the car onto the shoulder. He felt Wayne nudge his arm again.

Come on, Wayne said quietly.

Carl and Wayne got out and stepped across a narrow culvert. They walked a few yards into a field.

Has Billy still got a gun? Wayne asked, unzipping his trousers.

No. I took it away from him in the trailer and havent given it back to him. Its in the trunk.

Thats good, Wayne said calmly, because I think were gonna have to kill him.

Carls mouth dropped open. Kill him? Hes your brother, man.

Wayne shook his head. Hes your brother. Hes only my half brother.

Hell, that dont make no difference, Wayne. Quit talking bullshit.

I aint talking bullshit. The kids coming apart. Hes losing it, man.

Look, Carl said, lets find a town and put him on a bus to Baltimore.

You crazy? Wayne asked irritably. Put him on a bus? Why, shit, hed tell everybody on there what happened before it even left the depot. No, man, we got to do him.

Jesus Christ, Wayne, hes only fifteen

I dont give a shit. Wayne finished and zipped back up. Look, Carl, we cant turn him loose the way he is. He aint responsible. And I cant take having him with us, with all that crying and moaning, and that shit about what happened. Hes getting on my nerves and hes giving me a bad headache.

I dont care if he is, Carl said firmly. Were not killing him.

Wayne glared at Carl. They were standing in residual light from the cars headlights, and even though there was darkness all around them, they could see each other clearly. Wayne was twenty-six, and Carl not quite twenty. But Carl was the imaginative one, the creative onehis mind was always at least a split second ahead of Waynes. Carl always seemed to be leading, even when he wasnt. Wayne was a little slow, and he knew it. Most of the time, because it was so much easier, he acquiesced: to Carls decisions, Carls wishes, Carls plans. He could see it was going to be that way now. The same old shit.