Out of the Blues (29 page)

I
am Detective Sarah Alt of the Atlanta Police Department Homicide Unit. With me is Sergeant Charles Huff. We are conducting this interview at Georgia Regional Hospital's prison unit. Please state your name for the record.”

A: Curtis Dwayne Stone

Q:
Are you on any medications that would affect your memory or ability to reason?

A: I take medicine for my nerves but it don't make no difference in how or what I remember. They just help me be calm.

Q:
You previously gave a statement to the FBI regarding crimes that you knew about, including the death of Michael Anderson, who you refer to as the bluesman. Is that correct?

A: Yeah.

Q:
We now have reason to believe that a young man, a juvenile at the time, delivered uncut heroin to Michael Anderson. Do you have knowledge of that transaction?

A: Tall John use kids in his business all the time back then. He use me to take heroin to people lots of times. And, yeah, that night the preacher had two kids with him, one dark-skinned and one real bright-skinned. Tall John give the bright-skinned one the hot H to take to the bluesman.

Q:
The preacher? Are you referring to Midas Prince?

A: Yeah.

Q:
Do you know the names of the two boys?

A: I know one—DeWare, he always 'round The Homes. I don't know the bright kid real name. His mama was a junkie lived in The Homes—they call him ‘D.V.'”

Q:
How long was it between the time John gave the kid the heroin and Michael Anderson's death?

A: I heard he was dead the next day.

Q:
How did you find out? How do you remember the day?

A: That kid D.V. was a sissy, but just as raggedy as the rest of us. So I remember it was the next day he had on some brand-new Air Jordans. He say the preacher give him them shoes for doin' God's work.

Q:
Why didn't you tell the FBI about those boys the first time they interviewed you?

A: Them was just kids back then.

—

H
UFF
HAD
called in some favors—having Stone transferred from the jail in the city out to the state-run hospital located in the nearby county.

“I've got friends in the state prison system. Some of them good ol' boys owe me favors,” he said. “Saved their asses couple of times finding escapees.”

He'd also made sure that Stone would be transferred, as soon as he was stabilized, directly to the state prison hospital down in the most southern part of the state.

—

“
Y
OU
'
RE
CLOSE
,
KID
.” Huff stood beside her desk holding some old blue report forms, their edges dried and flaking. “Special Victims was holding these until they finished their search. I called and asked the sarge for what they had so far.” He laid one of the reports on her desk. She leaned over to look at it. “This one”—he tapped the report—“was made fifteen or more years ago, reporting that Midas Prince had fondled a kid. The report was classified as ‘unfounded' when the victim and his mother disappeared—grandmother said they moved to another state. Detective never could find them.”

Salt slid the report into the light under the desk's overhead.

“But this is the one.” Huff held two blue forms that were stapled together, their corners frayed to dusty bits. “Three days before the death of your bluesman he, Michael Anderson, was named as a
witness to the initial outcry of a sexual assault on Devarious Twiggs. The kid's mother brought him in to the SVU. The report was also classified as ‘unfounded' when the kid later recanted.

“Because of you we got SVU to dig these out.” Huff slapped her on the back creating enough force to send her rolling chair, with her in it, into the desk edge. The partition wall shook. “Sorry.” He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back. “I think you're close to clearing this old cold case.”

—

T
HERE
WASN
'
T
much difference between the medical unit and the other units in the jail—same riveted-down tables, bolted-to-the-floor metal stools, lidless, seatless toilets. But the tiny cells were single-bed, the inmates under close supervision, and they all wore tie-back hospital gowns.

At the request of the commander of the detective division, the supervising physician had signed permission for Salt to interview Devarious Twiggs. The law allowed her to question him about crimes for which he was not charged.

Salt was shown to a wide-windowed room that had no door and was open to the center of the two-tiered ward. Corrections and medical personnel came and went from the central station immediately next to the room. Twiggs shuffled in, not because he was shackled, he wasn't, but because he was wearing loose-fitting disposable slippers. “PROPERTY OF DOC” was stenciled on the sides and back of the gown, laundered to a pale beige. His eyes were already brimming, his nose running. He sat down on the metal stool opposite Salt at the table and extended his arms, lowered his face to them, and sobbed. “I can't do this. Please get me out of here.”

“Devarious, you're probably safer right now than you've ever been in your entire life.”

Twiggs raised his head, blinking. “What do you mean? Look at where I am.”

Salt reached down into the briefcase she'd been allowed to carry into the ward, handed him some tissues, and put a digital recorder on the table between them. “Has anyone assaulted or hurt you here?”

“No.” He wiped his eyes and nose.

“Have you had medical care? Have you been asked about your stress? Had regular meals? I know it's not the best food, but . . .”

“Yes.”

“D.V., nobody wants to be in jail. And I'm not pretending it's easy. I know it's scary and that you're terrified. But you're not in general population and you're not going to be. No one wants to see you hurt.”

“What about Thomas?” He sighed and raised his eyes upward.

“The district attorney is still evaluating the boy's forensic interview, so I can't say. But I believe that your lawyer will be able to provide the judge with enough testimony regarding mitigating circumstances so that you'll never be put in a jeopardizing situation.”

He lowered his head to his chest then back up. “Is that recorder on?” he asked.

“No. I'd need your permission. I'm not here to ask you anything about the charges against you. I'm here to ask you about Michael Anderson.” Salt was wearing her coat but still felt the cellblock chill. She rubbed her arms for warmth. “You must be cold,” she said to D.V.

“I asked for a sweater or something and they said they would give me one, but I haven't gotten it yet.”

She got up and went out to the nurses station, asked for a blanket and waited until they gave her one. D.V. settled it around his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Like I told you the other night, Melissa Primrose remembered seeing you and DeWare at the party the night before Michael Anderson died.”

“She didn't know me.”

“Not your name, but she saw two kids that fit the descriptions of you and DeWare.”

D.V. sniffed and tucked his chin.

“I also found the report you and Michael made three days before his death.”

“No. No. No. I told them I lied. I took it back.” He rapidly shook his head side to side.

“It's not unusual for kids to recant. It's usually because somebody pressured them. I don't know who it was that made you recant. Your mother? Midas? But it's more common than you might believe. Kids have so little power.”

Salt leaned across the table. “Midas' control of you, your dependency on him, all are mitigating circumstances for everything that followed. And you were too young. You won't be charged with murder. We also have Curtis Stone on record saying he saw you that night being given the heroin.”

Devarious Twiggs shrugged and, as if a switch had been flipped, picked up the recorder. Salt put her palm up, gesturing for him to hand it back, but he pulled it farther from her reach. “I know what I'm doing.” He looked closely at the front of the recorder, depressed the red-rimmed record button, and laid the recorder back down on the table between him and Salt.

“That night Midas drove us to Spangler's, one of the houses Spangler used to cut heroin. Oh, I do know about heroin, my mama was a junkie back then. He was furious with Michael for taking me to make the report. He kept saying Mike was a junkie and that it would be God's will if he died from an overdose—that it would set an example. I knew somehow that the stuff in the packet was hot and that Michael didn't have the habit. But I wanted Midas' forgiveness for talking to the police and to be the one he chose to carry out God's
will, to take the packet to Mike Anderson. He's held me with that secret ever since, telling me I'd go to prison because I chose, I volunteered to take Michael the heroin.”

Salt established her identity on the recording, as well as the time and place and Devarious' identity. “Do you stand by your previously recorded statement?”

“I do,” he said.

A
s Salt expected they would be, the Andersons were dressed in their Sunday church clothes, Mrs. Anderson in a cream brocade suit and Mr. Anderson in an immaculate navy pinstripe with razor-sharp creases. They were arm in arm as they came up the sidewalk from behind the new sanctuary of Ebenezer Baptist Church, the church Dr. King had led.

Salt met them halfway. “Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson, thank you for coming.” This time she didn't presume to offer her hand. “It's a beautiful day. Could we sit for a bit?” She indicated a nearby bench, to which Mr. Anderson led his wife. He then he continued to stand.

“Has your investigation progressed? Do you have any further knowledge of the circumstances of our son's death?” he asked.

“I do, Mr. Anderson. The nature of that information is why I wanted to meet with you today, here,” she said.

The space where they'd stopped was a small green vale, below and alongside Auburn Avenue and directly across from the old historic
Ebenezer sanctuary, its flat, unpretentious redbrick façade towering over the street.

“I wanted you to hear this from me before it hits the media,” she said.

“The media?” Both Andersons expressed their alarm with furrowed brows and stiffened backs.

“Tomorrow the Atlanta Police Department and the FBI will be serving search warrants on both Big Calling Church and the homes of Midas Prince.”

Mr. Anderson sat down beside his wife as if buckled by what Salt was saying. “What?” he exclaimed.

“Our investigation has led us to a number of individuals who have independently provided information that Midas Prince has been engaging in crimes involving underage sexual activity as well as diverting church money to support and cover up his illegal pursuits.”

Mrs. Anderson turned her head and kept it turned, looking out into the distance while Salt was talking. Mr. Anderson narrowed his eyes in a pained expression. “Is there some possibility these individuals have reason to lie? What does this have to do with our son? Oh, God.” He leaned back as far as the bench would allow.

“Please bear with me,” Salt said. “It's complicated, but I think you may find some ultimate comfort in what we found out. We do not believe Michael committed suicide.”

Mrs. Anderson fumbled at the clasp on her handbag in her lap, her previously regal posture folding into a protective curve, her head coming to rest over her bag and soft middle. Mr. Anderson put one arm around her, then reached with his other hand to help her with opening the clasp. Though she made no sounds, her body shook and her hands trembled as she removed a packet of tissue. “Michael?” she asked.

“I believe he was murdered both because he resisted Prince and
because he was trying to help some of the younger people who were Prince's targets.”

“How? Who?” asked Mr. Anderson.

“One of Midas' other victims, a child at the time, twelve years old and under Prince's influence, gave Michael a dose of pure heroin that Prince and his associate knew would kill Michael. It's likely we can't prove a murder charge against Reverend Prince. The boy, at the time, was a victim himself and is one of the witnesses who will testify against Prince on child abuse charges. That boy, now a man, is also charged with child molestation. We probably can't rely on him as the sole witness to Michael's murder, even though we're certain about the manner of Michael's death. But we're accumulating a lot of evidence to charge Midas Prince with multiple counts of child molestation.”

“This is horrible. This is a nightmare. How could you think—”

“Malachi. No.” Mrs. Anderson cut her husband off. “No. It is not. My nightmare was not knowing the truth and wondering if he killed himself because he didn't think we, I, loved him.” Mike's mother stood and walked a few yards away, her back turned toward them.

Salt waited, then walked to her. Mrs. Anderson was trying to straighten out a tissue that was shredding in pieces. “I'm so sorry, but I believed it was better for you to hear this from me, better to know than not.”

“You're right. Even if we did send Michael to Rever—to Midas Prince. Maybe I can forgive myself for that, for sending him to the wrong person for help. Maybe in time I will be able to understand that we were victims, taken in by a wolf in sheep's clothing. Eventually I can get to that point, I hope. But not knowing—” She shook her bowed head. “You're right. That was hell, wondering if he didn't love us or if he didn't know he was loved.”

Salt closed her eyes and waited, feeling the tide of grief. “There was another reason I wanted to meet you here. Please. Can you wait
right here for a few minutes. I'll be right back.” She led Mrs. Anderson back to her husband. “There's someone I want you to meet.”

Salt hurried down a block and around the corner to the supportive living facility where Pearl was living. She was waiting in the lobby, also dressed in her Sunday all-white—shirt, jacket, a pair of white gloves—and wearing only one hat that Salt could see. “Wow, Pearl, you look terrific,” Salt said.

“Yes, I do. Thank you for these.” Pearl looked down at her outfit, then touched the brim of her white chiffon-layered hat.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Meet Mike's parents? I have to warn you they're having a hard time just now. I told them about Prince and the charges.”

Pearl took Salt's arm and walked with her through the main door and out into the warm spring day. “My medications are workin' right now and I've always been good with people when the hallucinations are under control. It'll make me feel better.”

They crossed Auburn Avenue and found the Andersons sitting together on the bench. Mr. Anderson stood as Salt and Pearl came down to meet them. Before Salt could begin the introductions, Pearl extended her gloved hand to Mr. Anderson, who responded on cue by grasping Pearl's hand. Then Pearl trapped his hand with her other hand. “How do you do? My name is Pearl. I have schizophrenia, and your son, Mike, was a good friend to me.” She went from holding Mr. Anderson's hands to picking up Mrs. Anderson's hands and holding them, repeating word for word the same salutation.

“Pearl was close to Mike because of their love of the blues. Pearl is a singer,” Salt explained.

Mrs. Anderson leaned back. “And you knew our son?”

Mr. Anderson bent slightly at the waist, head lowered, hands clasped at the end of straightened arms in a rigid posture.

Pearl was undeterred. She drew closer to the couple. “Mike tried to help me when nobody else cared. I was starting to get sick and Midas Prince had got me. But Mike, he wanted to hear me sing. He said I knew the old blues and that I had to teach him. He made me feel like I was special and that I had to save myself and the music, my music.”

“You're a blues singer?” asked Mrs. Anderson, still with a tone of doubt.

“I can and do sing anything, gospel, some jazz, old blues, new blues, but I come out of Mississippi with hearin' them real ol' work songs and field hollers. Mike he knew some professor a' the university who was interested in that ol' stuff, the tunes my mama do.”

“Did Michael say who the professor was? Dr. Clark White?” Mr. Anderson loosened his arms.

“That be the name Mike said.” Pearl nodded. “Yep, I remembered 'cause my real last name is White.”

“They call him Deacon Bluz,” added Mrs. Anderson.

Mr. Anderson turned to his wife, brows lifted in surprise.

“He's on the college radio station,” she said, as if she needed to justify her knowledge of Atlanta's “deacon of blues.”

“Would you like some coffee? I live just around the corner. Salt”—Pearl reached and pulled Salt to her side—“has given me some CDs of Mike's, and on some you can hear me sing.”

“Marissa?” Mr. Anderson looked at his wife.

“Now, there's crazy people live in my building, I'll warn you, most are like me and are stabilized, but some look awful,” said Pearl.

“We've been misled for a long time by how somebody looked, by a man dressed like a king,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Malachi. I'd like to hear our son on those CDs.” She took her husband's arm.

“I'll catch up with you later, Pearl,” Salt said. “Mr. Anderson,
Mrs. Anderson, you have my mobile number. Call me if you have questions.”

Pearl turned up the path. “Mike had a voice like a angel . . .”

“He got that from my side . . .” Mrs. Anderson was saying as they walked out of range.

From the back of Pearl's white hat, just barely sticking out, was what looked like the brim of the Braves baseball cap. Salt could just make out a few of Pearl's words as the three reached Auburn.

“Wolf . . .” Pearl was saying.