Part III
“You were that child who…”
On a typical October morning in Middle Tennessee, the cool weather didn’t slow the roads of prosperity. U.S. Highway 70, heading west out of Nashville was active at 9:07 that Thursday morning with people of all sorts making their way along the “Broadway of America.”
The regular run of the bus to Nashville was making its return leg. The road was rough but the leaves on the trees were just turning gorgeous shades of reds, yellows, oranges and gold. Fall was knocking at the door and all but one of the six passengers was appreciating it through the open windows of the bus despite the chill in the air.
Two men sitting in the front were engaged with the driver about the weather turning cool in preparation for some good hunting. “The squirrels would be out in droves,” one said.
Two of the chatty older women on board were discussing a recipe for cooking green beans without adding salt. Good heavens you’d think the world was coming to an end with that consideration. They had no idea that half-way around the world, at that exact moment, Athens, Greece was being liberated from the Nazi hoard by U.S. and Allied troops.
Another older woman, usually a participant in their conversations, sat staring at a young black man sitting against the window, her mouth partially open in amazement.
The young man, dressed in a light denim jacket, khaki pants that were too short for his too long legs, and a green shirt, had a pinky finger buried up to almost the second knuckle in his left nostril. He was auguring his finger hoping to clear an obstruction. He would withdraw it, look at it, and then re-insert it for another attempt.
“Would you like a handkerchief?” The older woman asked disgustedly, as much a question as it was a scolding.
He ignored her, content to search with his finger.
“Young man,” she spat. “I asked if you would like a tissue.”
He turned to look at her, a finger still inserted, “nuh-uh.” He answered negatively.
She turned away quickly trying to inject herself into the green-bean conversation and ignore the young man with the filthy public habits.
Shortly thereafter, the Driver of the bus leaned back and yelled so everyone could hear him, “Anyone need to get off at the White Bluff stop?”
He waited for a few seconds and hearing no response, gave the bus a little more gas. “Okay folks, we’ll be at the end in about 20 minutes.”
The passengers on the bus began straightening themselves and gathering their possessions when the Driver turned back again.
“We’ll leave for the return leg at four o’clock with a stop in White Bluff at four twenty, back in Nashville by five oh five.
The old women all sat straight and proper as the bus rolled into town, just as the young man with the bad public habits tapped one on the shoulder. She turned to look at him.
“Would you like to buy a gold watch?” He asked as he held a gold colored pocket watch out to her by its chain.
“No, no thank you.” She said, not taking the watch to look at it, knowing where his fingers were recently.
What she didn’t know also was that the watch was stolen during a jewelry store burglary for which that same young man was arrested and indicted. He was out on bond still pending trial for the jewelry store, in addition to burglarizing a shoe store on the same spree. No one was quite sure how he convinced anyone to make his bail payment but amazingly enough, he was out.
“I need the money. I’ll sell it to you cheap.”
• • • •
Eldred hurried off of the bus ahead of everyone else, drawing a look from the men who have traditionally allowed the women to disembark first. The ever popular age-old question was raised behind him, “What are young people coming to these days?”
He didn’t care though. His goal was to get some fast cash selling that gold watch so he can take off to New York. He’d heard during his brief, most recent stay in jail that there was plenty to be gained by someone who was willing to take it. He admitted he had no problem taking anything that someone didn’t bother protecting.
He was in a hurry and his patience was running low. He just knew that something would go wrong before he had a chance to escape from the south and go north.
“Just like my kin-folk did a hunnerd years ago.” He would tell the men sharing a cell with him in Nashville before his bail being posted. “I’m headed north.”
Stopping to lean against a wall, Eldred rolled a quick cigarette. Striking a long, red tipped match against the brick, he lit it. He inhaled deeply and slowly, and then exhaled the smoke just as slowly while he looked around. He needed to find someone to buy that watch.
He didn’t have any concern about the current indictment he was facing trial over. Truthfully all that legal mumbo-jumbo they all tried to tell him at once, went in one ear and straight out the other. He didn’t have any concern that by leaving the state he would be a wanted man.
He didn’t understand anything other than they were letting him out of jail because a bondsman said he could go. The intention of the bondsman was very clear however.
Pointing a lit cigar at Eldred outside of the jail, “Boy if you don’t show back up to court, I’ll hunt you til the day I die, or someone else hangs you first.” He spat as he talked and a purple scar that descended from his ear to his throat blanched with the strain of the statement.
Eldred believed his threat. Eldred figured his fence would have him bailed out just because Eldred knew too much about his operation and might rat him out to avoid jail. Instead it was his father and his cousin, using every penny they’d ever saved.
The bus pulled away from the curb to head back to the garage and a large car pulled up right behind it into the vacated space with several people in it. The first person to step out of the car was a black man in an Army uniform. His uniform chest had numerous ribbons on it, meaning he was probably just home from the war. When he withdrew his cane and walked with a significant limp, it confirmed his recent arrival. A nondescript couple got out also and appeared to act like family to him.
A cigarette between his index and middle finger, Eldred flipped a jaunty salute to the soldier. Unsure if it was meant to be offensive or respectful, the soldier just nodded, making severe eye contact with Eldred, sizing him up. By the look on the soldier’s face, it seemed as if his judgment of Eldred was lacking, and completely accurate.
Eldred wandered into the nearby hardware store and asked several people if they “be interested” in buying his gold watch. They all refused. Strangely enough, no one asked where the watch came from and how he managed to be in possession of it. Maybe they all knew what to expect, or suspect as the case may be.
While in the store, he did manage to palm a nice pocket knife left sitting on the counter, as he strolled by, looking to see if anyone noticed the theft. It slid easily into his pocket; the weight of it bouncing slightly against his thigh as he walked.
He made his way around town for an hour or two, wandering aimlessly. He day-dreamed of wandering the sidewalks of New York City; smoking his cigarettes and having coins jingle in his pockets.
He sold the stolen pocket knife to a stranger for five dollars near the rail road tracks. Later, with four dollars left in his pocket, he ate a warm ham sandwich on the sidewalk outside of the neighborhood store and drank down a bottle of grape flavored soda. It sure did taste good to pay for food with money he actually earned, he thought. To him, criminal activity like stealing and selling that stolen pocket knife constituted work and earning.
He saw from the clock on the bank face that he needed to sell that watch and try and make the bus back to Nashville. He had only a few hours to spare.
He was walking down the sidewalk on Mulberry Street and encountered a lady that was familiar to hi
m. He spoke first, “Hi there Miss Hann…”
She cut him off, “Good afternoon Eldred. My name has changed since I last saw you. I’m a Blakely now. I married the Doctor Theo a few months ago.”
It made no difference to him, what-so-ever, but he played along. “Would your husband like a good gold pocket watch? I’ll sell it to you cheap.” He pulled the watch and chain from his pocket showing her as it flashed in the afternoon sunlight.
“My, that is a pretty gold watch, but I have no money to spend on it.” She thought for a moment, “You may want to go see my husband and see if he wants a gold watch. He’s in his office now.” She pointed down the street with her finger toward Dr. Blakely’s small clinic.
“Alright, I’ll go ask him.” He said hesitantly, knowing he was out of time and ideas for some fast money.
He stepped across the street toward a small mechanics shop where the mechanic was stretched out under the hood of an old truck, trying to reach something down deep. Grunting with frustration, the mechanic stood up and walked around to the front of the truck and open hood. Putting his feet on the bumper, he stepped over into the motor compartment and squatted on the radiator, wrench in hand.
“Hey there,” Eldred said, announcing his presence.
“Hey yourself,” the mechanic said in return, not stopping what he was doing.
“You think you might want to buy a gold watch?” He asked holding the watch and chain up behind the mechanic’s back.
The mechanic didn’t turn around, “Nah, I don’t need something like that.” He turned to look at Eldred, “Now if you’re hiding a good hunting gun in your pocket, we might talk about that. I lost mine in the Harpeth River when my boat turned over one night.”
“Why did you have a gun on the river at night? What were you doing, making whiskey?
Eldred caught his gaze and it clearly said to “shut his mouth and fast.”
Eldred, usually slow on the uptake, knew where to find a hunting gun. “I can get you one, but it’ll be about fifteen dollars.”
“Does it shoot?”
“Yeah, good enough I suppose. I shoot rabbits with it.”
“Alright, I’ll bring it back in the morning.”
“See you then.”
Eldred knew then that he had to spend the night at his parents place out in Turnbull Community. Problem was, he had no way to get there. He would figure that out later. He still wanted to sell that watch and continued on toward the doctor’s office.
The little bell over the door announced his presence and Dr. Blakely, now middle-aged, came from the back examination room. “Why Eldred Hardin, I haven’t seen you in forever, how have you been keeping yourself?”
Eldred, looked around and then down at the floor. “I’ve been alright Doc. I got a telegram telling me that Ma was bad sick. I took the bus in this mornin’ but fell asleep and missed the get off in White Bluff. I got no way to get back there.”
The doctor sat at his desk, “She’s sick?”
“That’s what the telegram said. I’ve been practicing my reading and it said that.” Eldred was lying but was playing the con by ear, not sure where he came up with the telegram idea.
He paused again, nervous. “Doc, I have a gold watch, give to me by a man I work for in Nashville. I need to sell it so I can get a ride to my Ma’s place and check on her.” He put his hand on the watch in his pocket.
“How much do you want for that gold watch I see hanging out of your jacket pocket?”
The doctor reached for his wallet and opened it preparing to pull out some cash. Eldred couldn’t help but notice the large amount of money crammed in that billfold.
“I’d like thirty dollars for it. It’s real gold.”
The doctor sighed, “I can’t pay that much for it. I have other bills to pay.”
Eldred looked crestfallen as Dr. Blakely put the billfold back in his pant pocket.
“Tell you what I’ll do. It’s time for me to leave anyway, I’ll just give you a ride out to your Ma’s place and that’ll give me a chance to see if she needs some doctoring.”
Eldred started to protest but it was shushed by the doctor who was already pulling his jacket from the hook behind the door. “Let’s go.”
The two men walked around the building to where the doctor had parked his grass-green sedan. “I hope your Ma is alright. I haven’t seen to her in over a year.”
“Me too.”
• • • •
The sky was darkening quickly as the police car pulled over to the side of the road. He knew he would be able to catch at least a few speeders on this long curvy stretch. Sergeant Hale rolled down his window, despite it being October and cool. His new police issue wool overcoat would keep him plenty warm if he should need it, but so far it was way too warm for a coat.
He turned off his headlights and killed the motor. He considered lighting a cigarette but knew his wife would be upset if she found out about it. He was trying to kick the habit. It was just too costly and took up too much of his time.
He sat quietly, watching the gray clouds slide across an early evening sky as something began to nag at his awareness. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but something just wasn’t right, he knew it. He wondered if there was a chore he had forgotten to do and could come up with nothing. He looked around his car to see if something was left undone and still came up with nothing.
A slight gust of wind blew in his window and he realized what was teasing the edges of his senses. There was a smell on the air that wasn’t natural, something that smelled vaguely of char and sour milk.
The Sergeant exited his car with his silver flashlight in hand. He was proud of this flashlight. It was given to him by another officer who was leaving to fight the war. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on who you ask, he was told that he was just too old to join up and go fight.
“You are much more valuable to us at home, keeping everyone safe,” the young corporal at the enlistment office told him. “Sergeants aren’t just grown on trees you know.”
He’d accepted that with a bit of resignation, regret and relief. Patriotism ran as strong in his blood as anyone else.
He flicked on the light and the pale yellow glow of the bulb revealed nothing but weeds. A gentle breeze was still blowing and he decided to let his nose lead him, and it did. Scuffing the soles of his shoes on the roadway as he scented the air, he crossed the road and walked just a short way beyond where he would usually turn around to chase a speeder.
There, down a small embankment and somewhat obscured by the high weeds, was a large green sedan. The driver side window was broken and interior smelled strongly of a recent fire.
“Well what have we here?” He said imitating an Irish brogue, “Someone trying to dispose of a stolen auto.”
He searched the vehicle and found several leaves from a magazine charred along with a man’s billfold partially burned. The upholstery was mildly burned with an empty box of matches laying on its side in the driver’s foot well.
“They didn’t do a very good job of burning up the evidence.” He said to himself as he pulled out a note pad and a pencil. Licking the tip of the pencil, he began writing what he saw and what he found.
He noticed a satchel on the front seat and opened it up; curious about why it would have been left behind. A leather plate, bolted with brass rivets under the handle of the bag, bore the name of Dr. Theodore Blakely, MD. He made note of that on his pad.
He also found a selective service card for the Doctor Blakely that had his address in a neighboring county. It was scorched too. Oddly enough, gas ration coupons were scattered about the car.
“Those are valuable and the bag too! Why in the world would someone
leave them behind?” He scratches his head. “Well it’s too dark to do a thorough investigation.” He looks around to open the trunk of the car and only finds a spare tire; a small paper sack of old roasted peanuts and a fishing pole.
The Sergeant climbs back up the embankment and looks both ways down the road. “Yep, too dark to do anything; we’ll take care of it in the morning.”
• • • •
The Sergeant flipped the cover closed on his ticket book and stuffed it over the sun visor. He climbs out of the car and stretches his arms up over his head trying to work an ache out of his back that made its appearance during his last traffic stop. Making sure his uniform was straight; he entered the small diner/bar/saloon/dance hall/meeting room.
Jonas, the owner of “The Barley Shop” was very proud of his multi-purpose establishment, even though only a rare white man or woman ever came in. Sergeant Hale, however, had no racial hang-ups about dining there. In fact, he quite enjoyed their Thursday night roast beef sandwiches.
“Evenin’ Sergeant,” the proprietor greeted him as he took a seat at his usual table in the corner.
He always sat in a corner with his back to the wall. It was something he learned from reading about “Wild Bill” Hickok from back in 1869. He did that so no one could ever sneak up on him. Old “Wild Bill” died because the one time he didn’t do it, a cowboy did sneak up behind him and shot him. That same event even came up with the saying of Aces and Eights in poker being a “dead-man’s hand” because Hickok was holding that when he was assassinated.
“Good Evening Mr. Jonas. Are you out of the roast beef yet?”
“I have enough for probably one good sandwich if you want it.”
“That’ll be fine. How about some slaw too, while you’re at it?”
“On the way.”
Sergeant Hale got up and helped himself to some coffee behind the counter as the owner exited the kitchen with a plate covered with sandwich.
“Anything exciting happen tonight out on the road? I’ve been stuck here all day paying loving attention to that roast.”
“Just a few speeders, you know - the usual.” He pondered for a moment, “There was also a car that someone tried to burn up; a really pretty green sedan.”
“A green sedan you say?” Jonas studied him. “There wasn’t no one with it was there?”
“Not a soul, why?”
“Nothing really I suppose. There was this fellow in here a couple’ hours ago. I know I’ve seen him before but couldn’t tell you his name. He was flashing around a lot of cash and getting a lot of attention with it. He pulled up in a green sedan. It was the color of cut grass.”
“Did he look like a doctor? I’m pretty sure the car belonged to a doctor.”
He laughed, “Not this fella! He looked like he was used to sleeping in a corn crib every other night. He just had a lot of money.”
“Jonas, you think you might recognize that car if you saw it again?”
“I sure would. There was a big scratch across the hood where the paint had curled up some like something was thrown on it”
“I don’t remember seeing that.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. You think you might ride up the road with me for a few minutes and look at this car?”
“I don’t know, we’re in the middle of the later dinner rush.” He waves his hand toward the empty dining room and laughs. “Let me lock the door.”
“Thanks.”
“Should I tell the missus I’ll be gone a while?”
“Nah, shouldn’t take too long. It’s not far. I’ll finish this roast and coffee first, though.”
• • • •
“Is that the car you remember?” The Sergeant asks as he walks toward the car lit by his headlights.
Jonas walks up to the car, casting long shadows against the tree line, and then points at a long scratch across the hood with a curl of paint sticking up. “Yes it is.” He says excitedly. “See, there’s that scratch I told you about.”
“Yes, so it is. You don’t know the driver though?”
“No, but I do know the fellow he met up with when they left my place. He goes by the name Harold Wilson. He works over at the meat packing plant on the night shift. I imagine he’s there by now.” Jonas pushes his hat back on his head. “It sure does look like something bad has happened here.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. You think this Harold Wilson would have robbed the guy driving this car and tried to burn it?”
“I don’t rightly know. I don’t know him other than listening to him talk about canning meat for the soldiers when he comes in for a beer before work.”
“Can you tell me which plant he works at? I think I may need to go pay him a visit.”
“Sure, but watch out for him. He carries a big curved blade knife in his back pocket.” He points toward his own back pocket. “He says it’s for cutting tobacco stalk. I agree with him, it’s big enough.”
“I’ll be careful with him, and the knife.” He lovingly pats the holstered revolver dangling from his belt at his hip.
• • • •
“Deputy, I need to get a message to Sheriff Hammon. This is Sergeant Hale of the Belle Meade Police.” He listens to the telephone receiver. “Ok pass this along to whoever is there then. Tell em’ that I’ve located a partially burned, grass-green sedan with items in the car belonging to Dr. Theodore Blakely of your town.”
The Deputy on the other end tells him to hang on a moment and then unexpectedly the Sheriff gets on the phone.
“This is Sheriff Hammon. Sorry for that, everyone that calls wants to talk to me directly. I let the Deputy and the Jailer handle it when I can. I was about to leave for the night, you got lucky”
“Thank you Sheriff. As I was telling your Deputy, I located….”
“He told me you located Dr. Blakely’s car.”
“Yes I believe so.”
“Where is it?”
Sergeant Hale told the Sheriff everything he knew up to that point.
“Sergeant, if you can give me forty five minutes, I’ll send my deputy to check on the Doctor and call you back.”
“That’s fine. I have some work to do here. I do have a lead on who had the car, if it is your doctor’s. I’ll pursue it as soon as you call me back.”
“Good. Goodbye.”
“Bye.” The Sergeant hangs up the phone.
The Sergeant occupies himself near the telephone cleaning his revolver, filing some old reports, and attempting to roll a cigarette one handed. “Dang it how did those cowboys do that with one hand?” He threw it all in the waste can by the desk.
According to the clock ticking away on the desk, at forty four minutes the phone rang. The Sergeant picked it up.
“Belle Meade Police, Sergeant Hale.”
“This is Sheriff Hammon, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir, I hope you have some good news for me.”
“Unfortunately, no, I don’t. I talked to Mrs. Blakely, Lucille, and she told me her husband never came home after work. She also told me she saw him drive off with a fellow by the name of Eldred Hardin, this afternoon. She hasn’t seen him since.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Can you think of any reason why he’d be over in this part of town Sheriff? This is the Negro area where I found the car.”
“Well I should say so. The doctor is a Negro.”
“Well I’ll be.” The Sergeant scratches the back of his neck as he considers what he’s been told. “Alright then, I’ll get on this and let you know something as soon as I find out Sheriff.”
“I do appreciate it.” The Sheriff replied, “but Hale, keep one
thing in mind for me if you would.”
“Of course Sheriff, what is that?”
“Dr. Blakely isn’t an ordinary black man. He’s smart and the whole community loves him. Whenever someone in the jail is sick, he comes and tends to them for free usually, white or black. He’s a personal friend of my own. I know the big city people have ways of doing things, but I would appreciate it if you’d be extra diligent on this case.”
“Sheriff, I’ll give it my full attention.”
“That’s all I can ask. I’ll call you back tomorrow if I have anything else to share. You do the same.”
“Sure thing Sheriff. Goodnight.”
He placed the handset in the receiver. Whether he was loved or not, it made no difference, Sergeant Hale would do his best to solve any crime that’s been committed, starting with the apparent vandalism to his car.
• • • •
“I don’t care who you say you are, you ain’t coming in here tonight. I got a big order to fill for the early train tomorrow.”
“Mister, you don’t understand. I’m investigating a crime, a possible kidnapping at that.”
“Good for you!” His New York accent was beginning to break through.
“I just want to talk to Eldred Hardin or Harold Wilson.”
“I don’t know any Hardin. Wilson is working the canning line and he can’t come off it for another two hours.”
“I’m not going to wait that long.” The Sergeant places his hand on the grip of his revolver as if for emphasis and a little more than subtle threat.
“Yeah go ahead and stroke that thing all you want. I got at least two of ‘em in my desk.” The night manager of the meat packing plant brags.
Much like the cowboys of old west, the Sergeant’s reflexes were lightning fast. In a flash he had reached out and grabbed the short Italian by the collar and pushed him against the wall, the tips of his toes barely making contact.
“Now you listen to me you sawed-off little runt. I’m in no mood to put up with this tonight.” He shakes the man for emphasis, “You go in there right now and you bring that man out to me or I’m going to shut this whole place down and make sure it stays shut down for a good twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, whatever you say.”
“What was that?” He shakes him by the collar again
“Yes sir!” the sweaty little man yells just before the Sergeant lets him go. He quickly enters the plant through a door in the office leaving the Sergeant alone to stare at the photos pinned to the wall. Most were of boxers or race horses.
“I sure hope those horses aren’t what we’re packaging here to feed the troops.” he says out loud.
Soon the manager returns with a twenty-something year old, black kid in tow. “Here’s your Harold Wilson. He’s got a five minute break.”
He pushes the kid toward the police officer and then sits in the corner behind the desk to watch the events unfolding. “It must be bad, kid. He wanted to take me on to get to talk to you. That would have been a mistake or at least the start of one.” The manager points with his thumb at one of the boxing photos, revealing a much younger version of him. The Sergeant smiles cordially and nods. “We may just see yet.”
The little man blanches and quickly sits down, mute.
Using his fast reflexes one more time, the Sergeant reaches around the young man and grabs the knife in his back pocket by its handle and pulls it out. A look of indignation and almost a challenge crosses the young man’s face.
Completely ignoring the indignation the young man was experiencing, the Sergeant puts the knife in his own back pocket for the moment.
Backing a step away he asks the man, “Son, I’m here to find out why you ruined that green car out by the city limits. Wilson immediately looks as if he’s either going to bolt for the door or wet his britches. He doesn’t speak.
“Are you going to tell me what you did or do I have to haul you in?” He put extra emphasis on the “haul you in” part.
“No sir. I don’t want to go to jail. I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I swear.” He gets panicky. “I tole him not to be messin around with that!”
“Calm down!” The Sergeant yells at the wound up, mumbling young man. “Speak clearly so I can understand you!”
He instantly settles. “I didn’t want nothing to do with that. It was all E’s fault.”
“E as in Eldred, you mean Eldred Hardin?”
The young man chokes. “You already got him? Did he tell you I did it? I swear I didn’t, I swear it on my mama’s grave I didn’t do it.”
“Settle down, settle down. Sit down there and talk to me.” The Sergeant looks at the manager and asks him, “Can he sit in this chair?”
“Suit yourself. I ain’t missing this for the world.” The way he pronounced world came out sounding like “woy-ld,” making both the officer and the suspect look at him quizzically.
The young man sits down and calmly answers the officer’s questions with the night manager paying rapt attention to the drama unfolding before him. No longer as afraid of the officer as he started, he clearly had quite a bit to say. The Sergeant took copious notes in his pad and asked quite a few questions as they were sparked by information revealed by Wilson.
• • • •
The dusty Belle Meade police car pulls up in front of the Sheriff’s Jailers House. Several people file out of the jail house, led by a man wearing a sweat stained tan felt cowboy hat and wearing a gold badge pinned to his shirt. He wasn’t wearing a gun but from his demeanor, it may have not been necessary to have one. They hurry up to the car and look in the empty back seat.
“Where is he?” Sheriff Hammon asks, “Where is my prisoner?”
Sergeant Hale climbs out of the car, again stretching to relieve his back of the constant ache. They all hear a muffled thump from the rear of the car. One of the deputies opens the trunk and pulls out a black man handcuffed from inside. He had a welt across his cheek and looked angry enough to spit nails.
“What is the meaning of this?” The Sheriff whirled on the officer.
“Sorry Sheriff.” The Sergeant replied, “He was fine til we came across that last creek and then he decided he wanted to try to kick me through my seat back and try to cause us to crash. I had to subdue him slightly, and put him in the back for the last mile and a half.”
“That makes perfect sense to me.”
“He obviously knows where he is.”
“Yes, I’m afraid he does. We all know who he is and what he’s capable of.”
The black man standing handcuffed before the Sheriff wasn’t Harold Wilson. It was none other than Eldred Hardin who had just the previous morning taken a bus ride into town.
“Yes we all know each other, don’t we Eldred?” The Sheriff asked as he swapped out Eldred’s hand cuffs, handing the originals back to the Sergeant.
“After some investigating, I found out where he was staying and went and scooped him up.” He looked at Eldred. “His drinking buddy had no problem giving him up to me. He didn’t know where he was living. I ended up finding his lawyer who helped me out of concern for Eldred’s well-being.”
“Not surprising, is it Eldred?” The Sheriff asks of Hardin.
“Oh yes, and he had this in his possession. It must have been a souvenir of the car he stole.” He handed the Sheriff a card. It was a copy of a South Carolina driver’s license with the name Theodore Blakely typed on it. “He claimed to be the car’s owner and said his name is Blakely. Unfortunately for him, I already knew his real name.”
The Sheriff gestured to the other deputies, “Come take him inside. Clean him up and get him something to eat, looks like he needs it.�
�
The deputies hustled Eldred into the Jail House and closed the door behind him.
“Sheriff, I’m afraid I may have some bad news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I think this is more than a stolen car. The fellow that turned him in to me also told me where to find a shotgun in the weeds along the highway. It was right where he said it would be.”
“Did he say anything about the Doctor?”
“Not a word, but he was really scared he would be implicated in something.” He nods toward the Jailers House, “I’m thinking your boy in there knows a lot more than he’s letting on.”
“Thank you Sergeant.” The Sheriff extends his hand. “We’ll take it from here.”
The Sergeant salutes him with two fingers, “Any time, just give me a call if you need anything else.”
• • • •
The Sheriff slams the door as he enters the jail house causing everyone in the room to jump, along with the pictures on the wall. He stomps over to the small iron cell where Eldred sits eating a piece of bread and cheese. “You’ve finally done it this time Eldred.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“Where is Dr. Blakely?”
“How should I know?”
“You were the last person seen with him, in his car, driving away from his clinic.”
“I done told that other cop what happened.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I didn’t do nothing to Dr. Theodore.”
“He’s been a friend to you since you were a baby hasn’t he.”
Eldred paused, thinking, “Yes he is.” He said, using the present tense as a means of trying to gain some credibility. Eldred knew he wasn’t really smart but thought he could for sure out-fox these people.
“So why don’t you tell me where you both went yesterday? Tell you what, why don’t you just start from when you came into town?”
“I rode the early bus in this morning cause I got a telegram saying that my mama was terrible sick and had asked for me.”
“Who sent you the telegram and where was it delivered to?”
“There wasn’t no return name on it and it was brought to me at my room in Nashville.”
“Your room; you’re renting a room?”
“I’m living with some friends, downtown a ways.”
“So the telegram office managed to find you downtown a ways. That’s really efficient of them.” He walked around the cell and sat in a chair. “So you came to town to check on your mama. Why didn’t you get off at the White Bluff stop?”
“Just like I told Dr. Theodore, I slept through the stop.”
“Yes, and?”
“I spent time around town then Dr. Theodore offered to give me a ride to my Mama’s place to check on her.”
“So you took the Doctor to see your Mama too?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, and then what?”
“I offered to give Doc four dollars to drive me to the bus stop in White Bluff to catch the late bus back to Nashville.”
“Did he drive you there?”
“He did”
“So you took the bus back to Nashville, not Dr. Blakely’s car?”
“That’s exactly what I did.”
“So then how did Dr. Blakely’s car end up near a place where you were seen?”
“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there. I saw my Mama. Dr. Blakely saw my Mama. He took me to White Bluff where I caught the bus and that was the last I saw of any of them.”
The Sheriff and everyone in the room waited for him to say more, but nothing else was forthcoming.
“Well I guess that does it then,” said the Sheriff making a show of putting his hat on and heading to the front door. He motioned for one of his deputies to join him outside.
“Yes sir?” The Deputy whispered once the door was closed and they were alone on the porch.
“You get on over to the bus driver’s house for the late bus and ask him if he had this boy on his bus to Nashville.”
“Yes sir. If he asks, what do I tell him?”
“Tell him we’re just following up on something for now.”
“Yes sir. What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna go wake up his Mama and Daddy out on Turnbull.”
• • • •
A noise in Hardin’s cell made the deputy look up. Sitting on the edge of his small bed, Eldred seemed to be acting out a strange stage play. The Deputy was intrigued and attempted to make notes of what was being said.
“Wow, this guy is a good actor,” the deputy said, noting the changes in Eldred’s voice and his inflections.
“Wha-chu gonna do wit all dat money you had Eldred,” a feminine-like voice emerged from Hardin.
“I was gonna go to New York City, or maybe even Atlantic City,” a masculine Eldred voice replied.
“You know I don wanna go north. Les go the otha way. Les go sout to see da ocean when we get free.”
“You know I can’t swim.”
“I don care iffin you can’t swim.”
“If I drowned then you would too.”
“I don care. I wanna see da beach.”
“No.”
“Why you let doze mens talk to you dat way?”
“What men?”
“All of them. Doze white mens.”
“They ain’t done nothing wrong to me.”
“You’ll see,” the feminine Eldred voice said, “You’ll see.”
Eldred pushes his fingers deep in his ears.
“You ain’t gettin rid of me dat easy.”
He groans, laying back, trying to wrap the thin pillow around his head, completely unaware of the deputy watching the exchange, open mouthed and scribbling on the pad.
• • • •
Sheriff Hammon walked up the wooden steps of the small farm house. His boots making deep echoes against the wood, waking one of the dogs underneath that gave a low dangerous growl and then a subdued woof. He knocked on the door frame, firmly, knowing he was waking up some much older people.
No one came to the door, so he knocked again a little louder.
“Who is it?” came a voice from somewhere in the house, a male voice.
“It’s Sheriff Hammon, Mr. Hardin. I need to talk to you a minute. Something’s come up.”
“Just a minute.”
The Sheriff backed up and leaned against the porch pole and waited, knowing it would take a little while for Old Man Hardin to get moving around, as he listened to bumps and shuffling feet inside the house.
The old man came to the door, a lamp lit and in his hand.
“What happened, Sheriff?”
“Can you come outside? I don’t want to wake Missus Hardin. I know she’s been sick and all.”
“Sick? Not her. I don’t know what you been told but we were diggin taters all afternoon. I’m the one that’s hurtin.” He puts both hands in the small of his back and leans back. “I ain’t that young anymore.”
“Your wife isn’t ill?”
“Lord no, she ain’t ailin. You’re the second person today to ask that.”
“Who was the other?”
“Why, Doctor Blakely, that’s who. He brought my boy Eldred out to visit. They thought she was sick and I tell you he was plumb mad when he left too. He drove all the way out here for nothing.”
“Did he take your boy with him?”
“He did. He was suppose to take him to White Bluff to the bus stop to go back to the city.”
“Alright, I won’t bother you anymore. I’m sorry to have waked you up so late at night.�
��
“It’s alright, as long as the dogs don’t start barking, everyone else will go back to sleep.”
“Again, I’m sorry. Have a nice night.”
The Sheriff tipped his hat and walked off of the porch as the old man closed the door to the house. Just as he was getting back in the truck, he looked up and saw the old man standing back out on the porch waving at him.
He stepped back out and approached the house.
“Did I forget something Mr. Hardin?”
“Well now that you’re already here and all, I’ve got something turned up missing. May as well tell you now and save me a trip to town.”
“Alright.”
• • • •
"So he calls me back to the house telling me that he may as well report something else that’s turned up missing.” The Sheriff takes a big drink of coffee from the pot on the stove in the kitchen of the Jailers house. The Deputy and the Jailer lean in.
“So what was it?” The Jailer asked.
“He said that after the Doctor and his son left, he was hungry for dinner but wanted some fresh meat. He went inside to get his shotgun to shoot a rabbit he saw earlier in the field and it was gone.”
“The rabbit was gone?” The Deputy asked. The Jailer and the Deputy laughed. “He wanted to report a missing rabbit?”
“No you bolt, the shotgun was gone. It was usually behind a door in the house and it was gone; so were three of his shells.”
“Just three,” the Jailer asked, still laughing over his own joke.
“Yes, he said he only had enough money to buy four. There was one left.”
“He didn’t know why they’d leave one and then take the gun. It wasn’t like he could do anything with it with the gun gone.”
“So what does this mean to us, Sheriff?”
“It means a shotgun and three shells were stolen from the house. What’s more, the old man is convinced that the Doctor stole them. Now you can laugh at that if you want to.”
The three of them amble into the main room where the iron-barred cell stood with only one occupant, asleep on his cot. The Sheriff tapped his coffee mug on the bars, “Wake up son. Wake up, I said.”
Eldred stirred, the feminine voice in his head warning him, “Don’t you talk to him. He’s gonna gas you!”
Eldred didn’t move very quickly and the Sheriff ordered him to wake up and stand up. He complied but sleepily said, “Sheriff I done told you everything. I got nothing else to say.”
The Sheriff sucked at his teeth considering that.
“I’ll be back later. We’ll talk some more then.”
The Sheriff left the office to go find his other deputy who went to see the bus driver but he was fortunate. Just as he was about to leave, his deputy showed up.
“Sheriff, I found the driver last night.”
“Yeah, what did he say?”
“Hardin didn’t take the bus to Nashville. Said he hasn’t seen him in over a month.”
“Was he sure about that?”
“I asked him the same thing and he said sure he was sure. He’s known Hardin since they was kids.”
“Let’s go inside and talk to the prisoner and find out exactly what is going on here.” The Sheriff said as he moved toward the door. The Sheriff didn’t notice the subtle change in his own attitude but the Deputy did. The man inside went from being Eldred, or Hardin, to being “the prisoner.” It was serious now.
• • • •
The Sheriff and the Deputy questioned the prisoner for more than an hour that morning, with no success. He just wouldn’t talk to them, about anything, not even the weather. The Sheriff knew he had head problems, was often called “slow” or “simple” or “addle brained.”
He knew he could out-wit him. It was just a matter of time is all. His frustration was rising however and the Sheriff was hungry so he and the jailer left the Deputy with the prisoner and went to the back to the kitchen to have some lunch that the local ladies made every day.
While they were eating a buttered bread and ham sandwich, he heard yelling from the front and feet pounding across the wood floor.
“Sheriff, they found him! Sheriff! They found him.” He threw open the kitchen door as he rushed in.
“Calm down son! They found who?”
“Dr. Blakely! They found him.”
“Who did?”
“Two boys and their dog; they found him out on the Turnbull.”
“What was he doing out there? Walking?”
“No! He’s dead! He’s been shot in the back with a shotgun,” the Deputy yelled, unaware that half of the people around the Court House square just heard the whole exchange.
From inside the other room, where the cell made of the iron bars stands, they heard the prisoner, Eldred Hardin yell, “I want to talk to the Sheriff! I want to talk to the Sheriff right now!”
A hiss behind his ears warned him again, “They gonna gas you Eldred Hardin, jus like I said. You gonna taste da gas and I ain’t never gonna see no ocean.” Eldred didn’t respond.
“What do you want Hardin?” The Sheriff asked.
“I want to confess.”
Apparently discovery of the body and the loud announcement by the Deputy to everyone made Hardin change his mind and now want to figure out how to avoid being strung up and beaten out back, not realizing that the idea to do so never crossed the Sheriff’s mind.
“I want to confess!”
“You’ll get da gas!”
• • • •
“Okay, let’s stop here! Are you telling me that because someone found the body, the suspect automatically volunteered to confess?”
“That’s what happened for sure. No one ever accused the Hardin boy of being bright.” The old Lawyer’s stomach growled loudly. “As a matter fact, the prison psychologist later sent a report to the court saying that he was schizophrenic, only back then they didn’t call it that. It was called Praecox.”
I made a note of that word on the pad that I had pulled out while listening to the tale unfolding before me. I will have to look that up when I get a chance.
Mr. Leonard continued, “He was said to have another person trapped inside of him – a woman no less. He sucked his thumb as well. Another said he had lesions on his body, on his privates. I don’t know how he got those unless he gave them to himself; or maybe from the VD or Syphilis”
I shudder at the thought considering my idea of a lesion was a weeping, bloody wound.
“Someone concluded he was crazy,” I summarized. “I don’t suppose that back then anyone did anything about it though.”
“No, he was already locked up. It would have served no greater good to put him anywhere else. We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here.”
My own stomach grumbled loudly and by looking at the clock on my smart phone I saw it was approaching two o’clock. “Would you care if we stopped and got some lunch? I’ll go next door and get us both something if you like, my treat.”
“Of course it’s your treat. I share my knowledge, you buy the food. The coffee was a good start.” I took his order and ran next door to get something to hold us over.
Once I got back to the office we put our food on trays he had stacked in the corner behind a potted plant and ate quietly. I had my first egg salad sandwich. It was marvelous. The old man ate a bacon, lettuce and tomato on dry toast. I didn’t see anything desirable about it but he seemed to enjoy it.
“I call him the ‘old man’ a lot,” I thought. I reassure myself that it isn’t disrespectful or derogatory. It’s just what he is. It’s an observation.
After a loud bar-room style belch the old lawyer patted his be
lly. “Now that hit the spot. Where were we?”
“The Deputy just told the Sheriff that some kids had found the body of the Doctor.”
“Ahh yes, I remember. Well, Eldred said at least twice I recall from the records that he wanted to confess. The Sheriff, in his wisdom wouldn’t let him without representation and other witnesses being present.”
• • • •
“I want to confess!” Eldred yelled to anyone listening but intending for the Sheriff to take the responsibility.
“Now you just hold on a second!” The Sheriff holds up both hands to stop Eldred. “You’re not confessing to nothing without there being witnesses here.”
The Sheriff gave a warning to everyone within hearing distance, “Everyone is to shut up right now and not say a word about anything, to anyone, until I say so.” He pointed at one of the locals hanging out by the front porch, “That means you too. You understand me? You’ve already said enough.”
The fellow gulped when he realized that the Sheriff already knew he was the one who had already started spreading the word about the Doctor being kidnapped by the Hardin boy.
“Yes sir!” he stammered.
“Now get on out of here.” The Sheriff commanded of the man who left in a hurry.
They made sure there were ample witnesses to the confession. The Sheriff called in Mrs. Andrews, a Notary, to record the confession and notarize the signature. He also brought in three men to serve as witnesses, Loach, Keefer and Dole. He knew the men well and also knew they would be credible witnesses.
The Sheriff sat in a chair directly across from Hardin.
“Now look here Eldred, this is how we’re going to do this. I’m going to let you talk. You volunteered; no, you demanded, to be able to confess to something. I didn’t demand this of you. When you’re done talking, you just say so, and then we’ll probably have questions for you. Mrs. Andrews is going to write down what you say, and then notarize your signature when you’re done. Start whenever you’re ready.”
“What am I signing?”
“She’s going to write down what you say and then let you read it yourself. If you agree with it, you can sign it. Unless you’d rather write it yourself?” The Sheriff knew he didn’t know how to read or write and would be surprised if he knew how to sign his own name, thus providing Mrs. Andrews for him.
“No, she can. Can I have a glass of water?”
The Sheriff gestures toward a deputy who quickly brings Hardin a glass of water. He drinks it all.
“I came in to town on the morning bus, meaning to sell a gold watch I won in a game. I was planning on moving to New York to get a job so I needed the money to get started.”
All eyes were on him. “I found a fellow who wanted to buy a shotgun instead and knew where I could get one – my Pappy’s. I convinced Dr. Blakely to take me out there by telling him that Ma was sick. I really did need that money and that was the only way I knew to get it until I saw all of the money that Doc Blakely had in his wallet when I asked him to buy that gold watch I had. I saw that money again when he was going to make change for the four dollar ride to White Bluff and I couldn’t think of nothin’ else. He put that billfold on the seat between us and then I decided to kill him.”
• • • •
“You can roll your window down if you want. I keep mine rolled up to keep the wind out of my eyes; allergies you know.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the ride out to see on my Ma.”
“It’s alright. I needed to get away from town for a little while anyway and a country drive would do me some good. I just got remarried and it’s been a little overwhelming. I don’t have the energy or the conversational skills I used to.”
“I s’pose.”
The sedan wasn’t the top of the line and the suspension needed a little work. It made for a bumpy, squeaky ride. The cool air blowing in through the vent windows made it enjoyable and Doctor Blakely truly enjoyed the scenery. He was at a point in his life where he was paying more and more attention to the world around him and appreciating things more. He was maturing, even at his solid middle-age. He’d often considered getting himself some land and maybe having a small farm. It kept getting put off because of one thing or another and finally it just slipped away.
He’d remarried to Lucille just a few months earlier and she didn’t share the dream of being a farmer’s wife. If anything, she wanted a more complicated and sophisticated life than a simple and less troublesome. He didn’t blame her, but a small stretch of land would still be nice.
He reflected on his new wife and how much younger than him she is. She was a real change from his other relationships and he had sincerely high expectations for the years to come.
They had driven more than ten miles when the Doctor realized that he hadn’t been out here but once. These country roads were unfamiliar to him this far away from town. “Where do we go from here?” He asked Eldred. “As much as I enjoy riding around, I’m lost. I have no idea where to go.”
“You been there before Doc, jus stay straight for another half mile and you’ll go to the right when we get to the end of the fence. It ain’t far.”
“I hope your mother is alright. I’ll take good care of her if she isn’t. I’ve always enjoyed her when she brings me canned green beans and preserves.” He smiles to himself considering the craggy old woman, who was elderly-seeming the first time he’d met her more than twenty years earlier.
“You know Doc, Ma, always did like you. I appreciate you bringing me to see her.”
The car made a braking turn to the right and continued on down the tree lined dirt road, tossing up a cloud of orange and red leaves in its wake. Soon they came to a clearing beside the road, with a small house and a large garden in the front yard. Stooped over in the garden digging potatoes was Hardin’s father, as well as his mother.
“Now what in the world…?” The Doctor asked, curious as to why a woman who was supposed to be violently ill should be stooped over digging potatoes. He looked at Eldred.
“I thought you said she was sick?”
“The telegram told me Ma was bad sick.”
“Let me see it.” The Doctor demanded holding his hand out expectantly.
“I left it in Nashville. I’ve been tricked Doc. Someone made me think she was about to die.”
“Go figure that.” He put the car in park and opened the door. “I’m here; I may as well go tend to the sick family.” He grabbed his doctor’s bag out of the back seat and walked across the garden toward the two people now standing and shading their eyes from the evening sun to see who was visiting.
Eldred could see them talking but couldn’t hear what was being said. He saw the doctor put his hand on his mother’s shoulder and her put both of her hands up and shake her head. He knew she was just asked if she had been sick lately. He could see his father interrupt and put both hands on his lower back, telling about his back pain. The doctor pressed on his back some and then patted him on the shoulder. It was an “I think you’ll survive another year” type of pat.
While the Doctor and his parents were involved with each other he slipped away from the car and into the house. The shotgun was exactly where it was always kept, behind the closet door. He lifted it to his shoulder. It felt like it belonged there considering he’d been shooting this same gun as long as he could remember. On the shelf in front of his eyes were four new shotgun shells with pretty red paper and black writing. He quickly grabbed three of the four and loaded two in the shotgun. He stuffed the other into his pants pocket, just in case two wouldn’t work.
Eldred sneaked back out of the house and put the shotgun in the back seat of the car without being noticed. He then walked over to where e
veryone stood.
“Boy where you been?” His father asked as he walked up.
“Went in to see if any cornbread was on the stove.”
“We ate it last night.”
“I’ll make some more tonight if you’re gonna stay for dinner.” His mother said hopefully.
“I need to get back to town.”
“You ain’t in trouble again are you? We can’t be bailing you out no more. There ain’t no more money.”
Doctor Blakely looked at Eldred, shocked. He wasn’t aware that he had been in jail before. He started to ask about it but was cut off, making him angrier.
“I need to get back so I can go to work.” Hardin said hurriedly.
“Well, well you’ve got a job,” his father said, holding his hands up to the air in mock praise. “God must have been involved because I know this trifling boy didn’t go out and find a job on his own.”
Eldred didn’t respond, but instead talked to the now irate Doctor. “Doc, I’ll give you four dollars for gas if you’ll take me to the bus stop in White Bluff to catch the evening run.”
“Four dollars! Where did you get that?” His father asked and then added some sarcasm. “Oh that’s right, you worked for it.”
Eldred sneered at him and his father leaned closer. “Seriously son, who’d you rob this time for that money?”
Doctor Blakely ignored all of this and considered refusing Eldred’s offer, which would have been the best thing to do. Given his good nature and that Eldred was willing to pay a lot more for his gas than it would have cost to buy; he could call it all even without feeling guilty about it.
Eldred spun on his heel and went back to the car without so much as saying goodbye to his parents. They apparently didn’t mind and were used to such behavior as they didn’t say anything either. The Doctor looked at them both and shrugged.
“If y’all need anything, just let me know. Mr. Hardin, if you want to try something, I’ve heard that if you rub a chili pepper on your joints that hurt, the pain will ease some. I’ve never tried it but I noticed you’ve got several hundred hanging on your porch there drying. Get it good and wet and let it soak into the skin.”
“I’ll try that.” The old man agreed with him.
Doctor Blakely returned to his car and noticed Eldred sitting sullenly in the front seat and he also noticed the shotgun in the back seat.
“What’s the gun for,” he asked as he climbed behind the steering wheel.
“I’m gonna take it back with me to hunt some squirrels for dinner.”
“They let you carry that on the bus?”
“Ain’t never been a problem before as long as it’s put away.”
“If you say so.”
He started the car. “You said something about four dollars?”
Eldred reached into his pocket and pulled out the wadded-up bills and pushed it into the open palm of the Doctor. To Doctor then took out his billfold and put them in. Eldred could again see that it was fat with cash.
“Thank you. I’ll get gas on the way back,” Dr. Blakely offered as he handed a dollar to Eldred.
“I know a short cut to get to the station. Take a right instead of a left, down by the creek. It’ll save a mile or so.”
“You navigate and I’ll drive.”
“I what?”
“Navigate - where you tell me which way to go.” Eldred looked blankly at him, “Never mind. Just tell me when to turn.”
“Alright.”
They had driven a mile or more parallel to Turnbull Creek, between Jingo and White Bluff when Dr. Blakely became concerned about the shotgun. “This road is awful bumpy. Is that shotgun loaded? I don’t want there to be an accident and have that thing go off in the back seat.”
He pulled the car to a stop under a grove of tall, old, white oak trees and they checked the gun. It was loaded. Eldred knew that already because he loaded it at his parent’s place. He put all of the shells in his pocket.
“Doc, I’ll be back; I have to go up to the trees for a minute.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got to go, bad.”
“Why didn’t you go back -- oh never mind.”
“I won’t be long.”
“I’ll keep the motor running.”
Eldred ran up into the woods toward some thick brush. The Doctor sat quietly, silently praying for patience with this young man. After all, he of all people knows he’s slow and he does come up with some fantastical stories. He could stand to have a little patience with him.
“Hey Doc! Hey Doctor Blakely!” He hears Eldred yell.
“Oh what now?” he says to himself. “What do you want?” he yells back.
“I found a squirrel! Bring the shotgun!”
“Are you serious?” The Doctor yells.
“Yes, before he gets away!”
“Good grief!” Theodore climbs out of his car, leaving the motor running. “I suppose he’ll want me to call him Bwana next as I tote his hunting gun for him.”
Dr. Blakely trudges through the woods toward Eldred who is looking up in a tall oak tree. Dr. Blakely notices all of the acorns on the ground. “Lots of acorns here, makes sense a squirrel would be here.” He hands the shotgun to Eldred.
Eldred doesn’t say anything just keeps looking upward, until he breaks open the shotgun and inserts two shotgun shells. He slowly raises the shotgun, aiming and fires once, then twice. The noise startles Theodore, who begins to look for a squirrel to fall from the tree. Nothing falls. He hears Eldred open the shotgun and eject the two spent shells, inserting a single fresh one.
He expects to hear a third shot and looks back at Eldred.
“Well? Where is it?”
“I must have missed.”
“Missed? You shot two times with a shotgun!”
The doctor throws his hands in the air and starts walking toward his car, muttering to himself, angry.
“Doc, hold on,” Eldred says to him as he raises the shotgun and sights down the twin barrels at the back of the Doctor. He wipes sweat away from his eyes as his caregiver stops, fifteen feet away.
“What now?” He asks beginning to turn.
Eldred Hardin pulls the trigger sending the good doctor crashing forward.
• • • •
“It was all just greed, plain ole money greed that made me do it. I knew he had a whole bunch of money in his pocket and I knew I wouldn’t get near enough for that old shotgun.”
Hardin slouched over in the chair, offering the glass back to the Deputy who was standing there with his jaw hanging open having listened to his first murder confession. He took it and got some more water him.
“After that I took the car and drove around a while, and ended up going to Nashville. I met up with a buddy of mine. Once I told him what I done, we went and burned the car so no one could find me. Guess I was wrong.”
“He had ninety dollars in his pocket and some change. I spent a lot of it on whiskey and beer, a bunch on a woman, and then I lost the rest shooting dice.”
He drank another glass of water.
“That’s all there was to it. I shot him. I went through his pockets and took everything out, then I took his car and left.”
The Sheriff and everyone in the room noticed how cool Eldred was being as he told the story. He was completely detached and showed no sadness or remorse.
“Have y’all told my Ma and Pa yet?”
“Just this morning but I talked to them last night though. Your Pa thought Dr. Blakely stole the gun.”
Eldred actually laughed. “So what happens next?”
Mrs. Anderson approached him with the written confessio
n and a pen.
The Sheriff pulled his chair closer, “Now before you sign that let me make sure you know your rights.”
• • • •
“Wow,” I say. “That’s some serious drama right there.”
“No, that’s not drama. We haven’t even gotten to the Grand Jury or the trial yet.”
“Oh.”
“Lawyers are about to get involved. We’ll monkey anything up, don’t you know?” The old Lawyer laughed at his own joke. “This is the part where I actually take an interest in what happened. I didn’t have a problem with anything up to the point of the murder, because he confessed to it. It wasn’t coerced at all. It was as good of a confession as you could as for outside of having witnesses standing around agreeing with every word as he speaks it.”
“I assume most confessions back then didn’t go as well?”
“Well, that depends on who got the confession. Many were suspect, many were not. We just didn’t have the legal protections that we have now.”
“You have the right to remain silent, everything you say..”
“Yes exactly, that’s the Miranda law that arose from a criminal case of Miranda versus the State of Arizona. Television made that statement famous.”
“So what about all of the people who knew the Doctor had been murdered and Hardin confessed? Did they get involved?”
“Oh yes, they got involved alright. One thing first though. In To Kill a Mockingbird, the defendant was innocent beyond a shadow of a doubt. He was falsely accused. In this case, the defendant is guilty beyond doubt. He also had a number of other charges pending as well at the same time in another jurisdiction.”
I must have had a lost expression on my face.
“You’ll understand later but I didn’t want you to think I was trying to even suggest that Eldred Hardin was innocent. He was guilty as sin.”
Turnbull: Based on a True Story Page 4
