When we reached Natchez the next afternoon, I found a fax waiting for me on my parents’ kitchen table. It had been sent to my father’s office just before lunch. There was no originating number at the head of the page, but the fax itself was a copy of a newspaper story clipped from the Leesville Daily Leader. Leesville, Louisiana, is a community located next to Fort Polk, a huge army training base, and a hundred and fifty miles from Natchez. Above the article was a copy of the paper’s masthead, and it showed the date as May 19, 1968. Five days after Del Payton died.

The article recounted the capture of two men—a supply sergeant and a civilian—who one month previous had stolen armaments from a military arsenal at Fort Polk. While the troops were on maneuvers and the marching band was parading around the base in full dress uniforms, these two enterprising souls had filled a two-ton truck with M-16s, Claymore mines, hand grenades, and C-4 plastic explosive, then had driven off the base and sold most of the ordnance piecemeal throughout the southeast. The civilian half of this duo was named Lester Hinson. I noticed because his name had been circled, probably by whoever sent the fax.

There was also a note for me to call Althea Payton at St. Catherine’s hospital. I tried, but someone in the nursery told me she couldn’t come to the phone. I called Caitlin at the newspaper, explained the mystery fax, and gave her Lester Hinson’s name so she could begin tracing him. She asked if I thought Dwight Stone had sent the fax. My guess was Peter Lutjens, but I didn’t say his name on the telephone. I did make a mental note to call him again and make a pitch for him to take a run at Payton’s FBI file before he woke up in North Dakota. Caitlin asked if I’d gotten started doing what Stone had told me to do: talk to the eyewitnesses of the Payton bombing. She recalled from her research that Frank Jones—the “sole” witness to the bombing—worked as a salesman at the local Pontiac dealership. Jones didn’t know it yet, but he was about to take me for a test drive.

* * *

The Pontiac dealership is festooned with balloons and strips of colored foil, but the only customers are clustered around the service bay. The salesmen hover in a loose knot inside the air-conditioned showroom, watching for customers through the huge glass window like predators scanning a drought-burned plain. The sight of my father’s BMW 740i brings them all to their feet, albeit with feigned aloofness. They probably know the car on sight, but hope that old Doc Cage has temporarily taken leave of his senses and decided to buy American for once.