Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “I had another go-round with your supercilious district attorney. Grimes called me into his office just to gloat. Claire’s going to be charged with first-degree murder. When I said she’s pleading not guilty, he smiled. He wants this to go to trial.”

  “Well, your friend’s finished here.”

  “Just for the record, I take it that neither Jesse nor Bathsheba McCrae is a suspect in Lemuel Banks’s murder.”

  “I’m sure Jesse told you last night, we tested him and the girl for gunpowder residue. No traces on either of them.”

  “What about Danny Hobbes? He was there, too.”

  “We found the murder weapon near the body, just inside the fence by the corn. Ordinary hunting rifle. Most folks in this county own one or two. Ain’t gonna help us much—no fingerprints.”

  “I asked about Danny Hobbes. Did you find traces of gunpowder on him?”

  Taking Jesse’s sighed statement, the police chief busied himself placing the papers in the folder.

  “Did you even test him?”

  “Well, no. He sort of disappeared after calling in the murder.”

  “You mean he’s in hiding?”

  “Don’t mean that at all. You lawyers are pretty good at putting words in a feller’s mouth. What I said was we couldn’t find him. I called his house last night and left a message asking him to come in this morning.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, that is. Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious, Lemuel Banks being murdered on Hobbes property? The killer was probably standing in Danny Hobbes’s corn, and after the murder Danny disappears.”

  Whitcomb balled his great hands into fists. “You saying I ain’t doing my job?”

  “What I’m saying is—”

  “Because being at the scene of the crime works both ways. Why was Jesse and that woman trespassing on Hobbes’s property? Were they out for a roll in the grass or maybe up to something funny with the victim? He was hunting rattlers; maybe they was hunting them, too. Maybe the two men got into a fight over the woman. That McCrae girl sure is fine-looking, ain’t she, Jesse? Good-looking enough for a man to fight over, maybe even kill for.”

  Jesse reached for his cigarettes. “We were just out walking—discussing her church for a research project I’m doing. That’s all. Is it all right if I smoke?”

  Whitcomb glared at Jesse, then suddenly broke out laughing. “Course. Ashtray’s under a pile of them papers. See how folks can get riled up when there’s no cause. After all the dust settles, Banks’s death will probably turn out to be another one of them hunting accidents.”

  Rosen furrowed his brow. “What?”

  “Kids is always out hunting rabbit or squirrel. It was late in the afternoon, getting dark. They probably heard a rustling, shot first, and seeing what they’d done, dropped the rifle and ran scared outta their minds.”

  “You don’t really expect—”

  “Why, Miss Ruth!” the police chief said. He quickly pushed himself from his chair. “Thank you for coming by. Hello, Danny.”

  Ruth Hobbes and her son walked into the office. She wore a short leather jacket over a red turtleneck and jeans. Her black hair was pulled back into a long thick braid, which emphasized her Indian features, high cheekbones and dark eyes. Danny’s hair was wet and matted, as if he’d just come from the shower.

  She put a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “What a terrible thing, seeing somebody murdered. Danny told me all about it. How’re you feeling?”

  “Fine. Well, I’m a little tired. It was hard getting to sleep after everything that happened.”

  “Course it was.”

  Whitcomb pointed to his chair. “Sit down here, Miss Ruth.”

  “Thank you.” She motioned to her son, who slouched against the door. “Come over here, honey, and tell Chief Whitcomb what you know.”

  Like a boy being dragged before the principal, Danny stepped forward. Whitcomb’s secretary, perched on a corner of the desk, wrote what the young man said, then left to type it into a formal statement. Danny mentioned nothing concerning his whereabouts after the shooting.

  Folding his arms, the police chief nodded. “Seems in order with what Jesse and Bathsheba McCrae said in their statements. Wouldn’t you agree, Jesse?”

  But it was Rosen who answered. “Some things need to be clarified.”

  “Such as?”

  “Lemuel Banks was shot in the back and fell facing the highway, toward Jesse. That means whoever murdered him was standing in the cornfield. Since the rifle was dropped at the edge of the field, the killer was close by. Neither Jesse nor Bathsheba saw anyone running away. Danny came up from the field very quickly.” He stared at the young man.

  Whitcomb asked, “What’re you getting at?”

  “Danny must’ve seen whoever killed Banks. He’d have had to. Unless . . . Danny was never tested for gunpowder residue, was he?”

  Miss Ruth asked, “What’re you all talking about?”

  “Where did he—” But before Rosen could finish, Danny Hobbes bolted from the room.

  “What’s this about gunpowder residue?” Miss Ruth repeated.

  Whitcomb looked down at his shoes. “Just a way to check if somebody’s fired a gun. Nothing for the boy to worry about.”

  “No,” Rosen agreed. “He’s already had plenty of time to wash his hands.”

  “What are you saying?” she demanded. “You can’t possibly believe that my son . . .”

  “Course not,” the police chief said. “There’s not the slightest proof. . . .”

  “Where was Danny last night?” Rosen asked.

  Whitcomb walked over to him and flexed his hands.

  Rosen looked up at the other man. “Need a walnut?”

  “I think your head’d be about the right size. You best leave this woman and her family alone.”

  “You know, they should videotape your work here and start a new television show, ‘Interrogations of the Rich and Famous.’”

  “What’re you getting at?”

  Before he could answer, Miss Ruth stood. “I’d like to go now.”

  Stubbing out his cigarette, Jesse also rose. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Whitcomb’s face reddened in anger, while his hands, balled into fists, struggled to stay at his sides. Rosen stood tense and expectant, his lips almost smiling.

  Jesse pulled Rosen by the arm through the police station, until they stood on the outside steps.

  “You shouldn’t have spoken to Whitcomb like that. It only made him angry.”

  He braced for Rosen to lash out at him, but his friend suddenly smiled. “That’s how I wanted him to react. If he knows someone won’t let the investigation slide, maybe he’ll look harder for Banks’s murderer.”

  “You mean my son.” Ruth Hobbes stood beside them. “Do you really think Danny could’ve done such a thing?”

  Rosen’s smile faded but didn’t quite leave his face. He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “I honestly don’t know if your son’s involved. I think there’s a connection between the two murders, and I have a duty to find out the truth.”

  “A duty to your client, Claire?”

  Again Rosen hesitated. This time he didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Do you need a lift home?”

  “Thank you, but it’s such a nice day, I’m going to walk.”

  Located directly behind the old courthouse, the police station was shaded by a giant oak. The edges of the tree’s thick green leaves had begun to blush, as if hearing the breeze whisper “Autumn” like an indecent word. It was a “lover’s breeze,” that slight chill in the air making girls cuddle closer to their sweethearts. Lighting another cigarette, Jesse wished he was walking with Bathsheba. Arm in arm, they would stroll past the courthouse, while other men would turn their heads and think how lucky he was. Pausing before the statue of the old Confederate soldier, he’d explain how it was modeled after his great-granddaddy, who rode with Nathan Bedford Forrest. Then, as she looked up at the stat
ue, her face warmed by the sun and her curls gently tousled by the breeze, he would pull her close; they would kiss and whisper their love for each other. His hands upon her shoulders, pulling her close . . .

  “Jesse, are you all right?” It was Rosen.

  “Uh . . . yes.” He flicked an ash. “I was just thinking about something.”

  “It’s almost noon. How about some lunch at that restaurant you’ve been bragging about?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, down the block by that lawyer Garnet.”

  “You mean the Country Inn? But I never . . .”

  “Sure, that’s it. You’ll join us, Miss Ruth?”

  “Thank you, but I think I’d best be going.”

  “Please.” Rosen touched her arm just above the elbow. “There are still a few questions I’d like to ask you. We could clear up several things that might help Danny.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Maybe the restaurant has some more of that good grits and cracklin’ bread.”

  She laughed. “I know you’re joking, but I’ll make a real Southerner out of you yet. All right.”

  The Country Inn was bustling with its usual lunchtime activity. There was no counter, but three tables pulled together and placed near the cash register served the “regulars”—those elderly gentlemen who came for coffee at mid-morning and usually remained several hours. Jesse recognized a few old friends of his father, probably on their fifth cup, as lackadaisical as the restaurant’s ceiling fans. After retiring, his father had sat at the chair nearest the cash register, holding court as he had all those decades at the bank. When he died, no one used that chair for over a year. “That’s respect,” his mother had said, as if the word were foreign to him.

  One of the old men, who had been a foreman at the furniture factory, nodded to Miss Ruth. She patted his shoulder, and they exchanged a few words. Scanning the room, Jesse saw that the booths along the wall were filled, as were the dozen tables taking up the floor checkerboard fashion.

  “Looks pretty crowded,” Jesse said. “It’s not really worth the wait. You said I recommended it? Don’t know why I would.”

  Rosen lowered his voice. “You didn’t. I wanted to speak to Ruth Hobbes. We still don’t know where her son went after reporting Banks’s murder.”

  “Do you really think Danny could be involved?”

  Rosen looked at Miss Ruth and almost sighed. “Yes. If he didn’t kill Banks, he must’ve seen who did. And there’s a connection to the murder of Ben Hobbes—”

  Suddenly a hand shot up from a back table near the swinging kitchen door. Two men sat together. The hand waved them forward.

  As they moved closer, Jesse recognized Popper Johnston as the man signaling them. Johnston’s hair was combed back into a ponytail; he wore a buckskin jacket over an embroidered shirt and a string tie. Besides the gold earring in his left ear, Popper’s right hand flashed a large turquoise ring. In contrast, the other man, pasty-faced, with the heavy jowls of a hound dog, was dressed in a conservative gray business suit. Fiddling with a cigarette, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Nice to see you all,” Popper said. “Please join me. Phil was just leaving.”

  Rosen shook his head. “Thanks, but we don’t want to disturb you. I’m sure a table will open up in a few minutes.”

  “No trouble at all.” To his companion, “I believe we’ve covered everything. You’ve got the agreement signed and sealed.”

  “We’re all set to go.”

  “Fine. See you next week then.” When Phil hesitated, Popper said. “Anything else?”

  “The deposit. I need . . . ah . . . the five hundred dollars. I’m afraid the check will have to be certified.”

  Grinning, Popper took out a money clip thick with what appeared to be hundred-dollar bills. He peeled five from the top, handing them to the other man, who, wide-eyed, held them like a child with an ice-cream cone. “No need for a receipt,” Popper said. “We’re both God-fearing men. Ain’t that right, Phil?”

  Nodding, the other man counted the money twice before tucking it into his wallet. He stood and made a slight waving motion with his cigarette. “Like I said, my crew will be out a week from today to set things up. As long as you’re sure about the permit.”

  Pointing to Rosen, Popper said, “I believe this man’s gonna help me with that. Shouldn’t be no problem. After all, this is America, land of the free. See you in a week.”

  After the other man left, Popper said, “I insist you all sit down. Lady and gentlemen, lunch is on me.”

  Rosen took the chair across from Popper, while Jesse sat opposite Miss Ruth. Bringing their menus was Emma Teasdale, the oldest waitress in Earlyville and probably the United States. At least once a day she’d ask the owner why he didn’t charge a nickel for a Coke, “like your granddaddy did.”

  “Hello, everyone,” she said, looking through her bifocals. “Why, if it ain’t young Jesse Compton. How’s your mama?”

  “Feeling better, Miss Emma. Wish she could get around as well as you do. When you going to retire?”

  “When they elect a good Democratic president like Mr. Roosevelt. Now what can I get for you all?”

  “I’ve got a friend here from up North. I want him to have a taste of real good Southern cooking. What do you recommend?”

  “I recommend he come over to my house for supper. Why you want to bring him here? Cooks don’t listen to a thing I say. Norman overcharges everything. You know how much a Coke costs these days?”

  Rosen studied the menu. “Fried chicken, fried catfish . . . all this fried food. Ah, here. I’d like the hot turkey sandwich. And some tea, please.”

  “You want that with the fried apples?”

  After everyone else had ordered, Popper said, “Lucky I ran into you, Mr. Rosen. I might need your professional services.”

  “I’m already representing Claire Hobbes—you helped to arrange that. Besides, my specialty is constitutional law. I don’t think you’d be needing—”

  “Oh, but I might. You see, I have a permit for Reverend McCrae’s church to hold a social at Cottonwood Park next Friday. That’s that big park on the other side of the college.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “At the social, the Reverend McCrae plans to hold his usual Friday evening service.”

  “You mean serpent handling?”

  Popper nodded.

  “You know what to expect. I assume Chief Whitcomb will be there with his shotgun. There is a Tennessee statute against handling poisonous snakes—we’ve been all through that.”

  “I know. My question is, can they stop us from meeting in the park?”

  “If, as you say, you have a proper permit to hold your church social—no. Once you take out the snakes, that’s a different matter. Then you’re subject to arrest.”

  “The thing is . . . what if the authorities knew in advance that’s what Reverend McCrae was planning to do?”

  “Are you saying they will?”

  From inside his buckskin jacket, Popper unfolded a large handbill and laid it on the table.

  Even before Jesse read the words, he saw the drawing of a rattlesnake curled around Bathsheba’s shoulders. Both the rattler and the woman stared at him with the same cold eyes. She was smiling. The picture ended just where her breasts began to swell. The drawing excited him, as it would any man who saw it.

  “You can’t be thinking of putting these all over town?”

  Popper clapped his hands. “Oh, yes I am, and not just in Earlyville, but throughout the county. Need as big a crowd as we can get. You remember a few years back, that bestselling poster of a boa constrictor slithering next to some naked actress? Was she anything compared to our Bathsheba? A poster, yeah, that’s coming next.”

  Rosen asked, “What about T-shirts or a music video?”

  “Why not? There’s nothing you can’t do once you set your mind to it. That man who just left—he’s an electronics contractor from Nashville. He’s
wiring the park for another fella who’s gonna videotape the service. I’ve already bought time on one of the local religious channels. If all goes well, we can syndicate it.”

  “Syndicate what? What are you talking about?”

  Popper stretched out his arms. “The Gideon McCrae Ministry of Healing.”

  The words seemed to die slowly, like distant thunder. No one spoke for the next minute. Then Emma brought lunch.

  “You all look a might pale,” she said, putting down the plates. “Folks usually don’t get that way until after they’ve eaten this sorry excuse for food. More tea, young feller?”

  They ate in silence. Jesse barely touched his sandwich while, across the table, Miss Ruth picked at her salad. Like him, she kept glancing at the handbill of Bathsheba and the snake. In contrast, Rosen seemed to relish his meal. Only his furrowed brow betrayed what Jesse had often seen during law school. His friend was thinking hard, evaluating not only what Popper had just said but also its implications. It was only after he’d finished his meal that Rosen returned to the subject.

  “Popper, you’re taking a chance.”

  “In what way?”

  “Once the authorities see those handbills and know definitely what you’re up to, they can ask a judge to rescind your permit.”

  “What about the First Amendment—free speech and right of assembly?”

  “As your district attorney is fond of saying, there’s no such thing as an absolute right. A number of years ago the village of Skokie, Illinois, refused to allow the Nazi party to march through the center of town. The village was worried that the march would not only cause psychological damage to its Jewish residents but that violence might ensue. Given what happened at Reverend McCrae’s serpent-handling service last week, Earlyville might have the same worry about, at the very least, a disturbance of the peace.” He paused to drink his tea, then added, “Of course, that’s what you want.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Popper signaled for the check.

  Rosen continued, “The police breaking up the service—on video. That’s just the touch you’d need. You already have that certain bizarre quality with the rattlesnakes. Crawling over a beautiful woman like Bathsheba—how Freudian can you get? And that final touch, Chief Whitcomb and his shotgun. It’s like Billy Graham meets Madonna. Sure, I’d say you could syndicate the program.”