Bottomland: A Novel Based on the Murder of Rosa Mary Dean in Franklin, Tennessee by Trey Holt

Author:Trey Holt [Holt, Trey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-05-12T04:00:00+00:00

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"Dillard 'Lucky' Hall, former Assistant Police Chief in Franklin, stated last evening that he remains unsure of who the woman found in front of the high school last Monday morning might be. In a somewhat strange twist of events, she was laid out at the Franklin Memorial Chapel, while hundreds of people filed by to look at her in an attempt at identification. The four deep gashes that were ruled to be the cause of death by Franklin Coroner Dr. Frank Guppy were covered as well as could have been possible, by thick makeup and a high-necked garment. 'We tried to do the best we could with what we had to work with,' said George Preston, Franklin Memorial Chapel Owner and Director. 'I do so wish, though, that we could have come up with a more respectful alternative, due to the fact that this one seems a bit demeaning. My God, it's not a sideshow!' he chastised later in the evening."

"Later in the goddam evening after the son of a bitch had broke out his second bottle!" Lucky said, then continued reading.

"Mr. Preston states that he contributed his services to the City of Franklin far below the normal price of such a procedure. 'There really wasn't much else we could do,' he told this reporter, 'besides just do the best we could. It's kind of like life, you know? You just do the best you can with what you have to work with at the time.' Mr. Preston, a man in his early forties who has made the funeral business his own for the last fifteen years, stated that so many people filed through his establishment to view the body that he thinks irreparable damage was done to his carpet."

"Do you see this shit?! Irrep—Queer motherf–" Lucky stopped himself as Jean with her pristine ears walked into the room. Began to read it again.

"Mr. Preston stated, 'I did this as a personal favor to Dillard. He's been so kind to me over the years. Franklin is indeed safer in his hands. I think that's especially good to remember now.'"

"You see, Daddy, that's nice. He said something nice about you."

I knew Lucky wanted to spew obscenities all over the kitchen. But the Queen of Sheba was there, towel piled on her wet head, accenting her fat cheeks.

Lucky grunted and shook his head. "The story wasn't George Preston's goddam carpet—"

"Daddy!"

"The story's the dead woman still laying in the morgue because we can't decide when to bury her because we don't know who she is or what evidence we'll need."

As usual, Lucky had been out on his morning patrol—minus meeting with Sammy and the other 'boys'—and then back for breakfast. Staring at his plate, he said, "The real story is that somebody in this town slit a woman's throat four times and it wasn't the two colored men in jail."

"How can you be sure, Daddy?" Jean whined.

"There ain't no way to be sure about such things. All you can do is take what you got and work backwards.

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