by Wayne Zurl
A New Prospect
A SAM JENKINS MYSTERY
by Wayne Zurrl
Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
www.melange-books.com
A New Prospect, Copyright 2016 Wayne Zurl
ISBN: 978-1-68046-388-0
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States of America.
Cover Design by Lynsee Lauritsen
TABLE OF CONTENTS
“A New Prospect”
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Previews
A NEW PROSPECT
by Wayne Zurl
Sam Jenkins never thought about being a fish out of water during the years he spent solving crimes in New York. But things change, and after retiring to Tennessee, he gets that feeling. Jenkins becomes a cop again and is thrown headlong into a murder investigation and a steaming kettle of fish, down-home style.
In true Jenkins style, Sam turns common police practice on its ear to insure an innocent man doesn’t fall prey to an imperfect system and the guilty party receives appropriate justice.
To Bazzie.
My real best friend. This was something we did together.
Prologue
Financially, Pearl Lovejoy stood on top of the hill. Intellectually and spiritually, she foundered on a reef surrounding her unhappy existence. Had she owned a time machine, she would cheerfully turn back the clock more than forty years, erasing the greatest mistake of her life. Realistically, she couldn’t turn back. She could alter her future, but so far chose not to rock her sinking boat.
Pearl thought of this failure as she drove a shiny black Lincoln up to the gates of her driveway, tapped in a four-digit code on the keypad to her left, and watched the tall, black iron gates swing inward. She began to drive toward the large home her husband designed to look like a tailored-down version of Mick Jagger’s French chateau.
Passing the circle by the front entrance, she continued clockwise along winding blacktop bordered by a thick band of flowers until she came to the three garage bays that took up half the lower floor under the main house. She pressed a button on the car’s visor, the overhead door opened, and she drove in.
Pearl spent that Sunday much like all the other Sundays in her life. That morning she drove to Maryville and picked up her father, retired Sessions Court Judge Minas Tipton. They attended church services, spent another hour at a fellowship gathering at the church and then went to lunch at Aubrey’s Restaurant. She passed the remainder of the day at her daddy’s home.
Pearl’s watch showed 4 p.m. Her husband’s SUV and his vintage Rolls Royce sat in the garage. He was home—somewhere in the big house, but she didn’t care where nor what he did with his time.
For the first weekend of June, the weather seemed warmer than usual. She started up the stairs to the second floor intending to go to her bedroom and change into cooler, more comfortable clothes. Pearl disliked Sunday nights. Jodie, her housekeeper, had the day off. If Pearl ate at all, she would have to make something herself—for herself; her husband could do whatever he wanted.
Sunday nights weren’t all that displeased Pearl. For a long time, she had complained to her father and daughter of being terribly unhappy, but no one seemed able to resolve her marital problems.
At sixty-two, Pearl Lovejoy looked painfully thin. She no longer felt even remotely attractive, although people used to call her pretty. She worried about her appearance and spent hours each week having her nails done and her blonde hair styled and colored.
Walking toward her bedroom, she passed one of the guest rooms. The door stood partially open. She thought that odd. During the summer, she made sure Jodie kept all the interior doors open wide to let the air circulate. Pearl looked inside. The bedclothes lay in disarray, the room recently used. She stepped closer. Picking up one of the pillows, she sniffed the lace-edged case. An unmistakable smell of perfume lingered on the fabric.
Pearl turned and stormed out of the guest room, down the hall toward her husband’s bedroom and his office.
“Cecil, you no-account son-of-a-bitch, where are you?” she shouted, but heard no response.
She looked through the doorway into her husband’s bedroom, saw it empty and slammed the door for a desired effect. Rage building inside her, she continued to his office.
“Damn you, Cecil, you had a woman here in my house. Damn you to hell!”
At the end of the hall, she reached the doorway to his office. Pearl saw him sitting at his desk, partially obscured behind a computer screen, his sallow face hidden from view. A digital camera with an attached cable sat on the desktop. The cable disappeared over the side of the work surface. She waited, seething with anger. Cecil ignored her. That only enhanced her rage.
“Have you nothing to say, Cecil Lovejoy? How in hell could you…?”
She heard herself screaming again and felt her blood pressure rise. Her face flushed. She stopped, took a deep breath and looked toward a window framed by gold brocade drapery.
“Why hello, Miss Pearl,” he said calmly, as if an altercation was the furthest thing from his mind. “Y’all have a nice visit with the Judge?”
Her anger took hold again. “You show me no respect, Cecil. I have endured your sordid affairs for years, but now you bring a strange woman into my house for sex. This is intolerable.”
“This is not the first time, darlin’,” he said, brushing a few strands of thin sandy hair off his forehead. “You’ve not been this upset b’fore.”
“What do you mean not the first time?” Her expression changed from anger to surprise. Her blue eyes widened.
“Course not, Pearly. See, what ya don’t know don’t hurt ya.”
“I will not stand for this, Cecil. Not in my house, damn you.”
Smiling again, her husband began an explanation he’d given more than once before.
“When ya decided ta stop havin’ sex with me after Travis was born, I tried ta explain my manly needs. Remember? I do have needs, ya know. I’m not too old ta want a woman’s company
.”
“Oh, please,” she snorted.
“See, you’re disregardin’ me now just like you’ve done in the past. So, I found my own way in the world, so to speak.”
The grin on his jowly face infuriated her. Cecil shrugged off her anger.
She watched him turn his focus back to the computer, once again ignoring her.
Stepping to the side of his large mahogany desk, she stood there as he transferred photographs from the camera’s memory card to the area of his computer where he stored his personal pictures.
“Oh, Lord have mercy, Cecil, you made pictures of her.” Pearl saw dozens of amateur photos of a nude woman. “Well thank the Lord. At least she’s an adult.”
“Pretty woman, ain’t she?” he asked, as if speaking to a friend.
Pearl pushed her husband, took the mouse from his hand and double-clicked on one of the thumbnails. A larger shot of a woman’s bare back came up on the screen. The woman had a good figure and a firm backside, Pearl thought. Curiosity spurred inside her to learn more about the woman, so she advanced the sequence of photos several more times. The quality of the posing and photography left much to be desired. Finally, a full frontal shot appeared. Pearl saw the model’s face clearly. The woman looked directly at the camera with a sad expression.
“God damn you,” she screamed. “I know this woman. She sells lightin’ fixtures. How in the name o’ God could you bring her here? I could abide you pickin’ up whores and beddin’ them in a Knoxville hotel, but I will not have you bring a local woman, someone who works right here in Prospect, into my house—for this? I warn you, Cecil. End this affair with that woman now.”
“Or what, Pearly?” Cecil’s voice sounded soft, not confrontational.
Pearl looked at him with a feeling of hatred. She hated his womanizing. Hated the way he spoke to her. Hated him for always wearing yellow shirts.
“Or I will make arrangements for someone to speak with her,” she said, “and I assure you, it will end. She does have a husband, I believe. Does she not?”
“Gonna use one of the judge’s storm-troopers ta enforce your laws, Pearl?”
“I will do what I must to maintain my dignity. I swear, Cecil, I should have left you years ago. No, damn it, I should have had someone kill you!”
Cecil laughed. “Well now, ya might could,” he said, “I believe ya surely might could—then or even now. But ya know why ya won’t?” Neither did he wait for an answer nor did she offer one. “Cause ya like my money too much, Miss Pearl. Yes, indeed, ya surely do. The Judge may give ya the power ya love, but it’s ol’ Cecil who’s got the money—and ya love that cash, don’t ya? I was never sure which meant more ta ya.”
Cecil allowed himself a moment to chuckle.
“I die, and ya only git a pitiful small insurance policy and the bidness,” he said. “Ya wanna run the bidness yerse’f? The way ya spend, ain’t enough money in the whole world ta last very long. I’m jest worth too much alive and on the hoof, darlin’. I jest keep makin’ money hand over fist.’’ He laughed aloud at his own words.
Furious, her pride seriously bruised, Pearl rushed out of the office. She stopped in the hallway and for what she thought good measure, yelled back, “Damn you to hell, Cecil Lovejoy. God forgive me, but I wish you dead!”
Chapter One
Few people believe me when I speak about my life altering experience at the checkout in Wal-Mart.
An elderly woman with a cart piled high with groceries scurried toward the express line before I could cut her off. Life is unfair. I only needed a roll of duct tape and a package of D cell batteries. She belonged at another register.
Once there, the old girl moved slower than a Galapagos tortoise. Even the cashier showed her impatience.
Before the woman finished writing a check, her milk began to curdle.
As I waited for her to unload a half-ton payload onto the tiny counter, I noticed the headline on a copy of the Knoxville News-Sentinel lying on the newspaper rack. Prospect’s Top Cop Nabbed in Gun Sting.
As I read further, I learned that agents of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation arrested Chief Albert J. “Buck” Webbster for selling confiscated handguns in the parking lot of a Knoxville gun show.
Stupid bastard, I thought. Lose your job, your pension and your reputation for a couple hundred dollars.
Finally, the old lady wheeled her cart of groceries toward the exit. A sergeant from McGhee-Tyson Air Base, wearing a crisp set of cammies, tapped my shoulder.
“Your turn, bud.” He pointed toward the register.
I folded the paper. “Thanks. I was just taking a nap.”
“I hear that,” he said.
I bought the paper and headed out to my truck. With the warm sun shining on the cab of my F-150, I continued reading about Webbster.
The long and detailed article outlined how the state cops played Buck like a hillbilly banjo. Twice they bought guns from him. After that, they executed an arrest warrant in his office at the Prospect Police Department. Embarrassing would be an understatement.
The old lady at Wal-Mart didn’t change my future. The newspaper did.
I used to know a lot about police work. The article started me thinking.
* * * *
The mayor’s conference room in the Prospect municipal building measured about fifteen by twenty. Mayor Ronnie Shields and I sat together at one end of a long oval table in padded armchairs.
“We’re pleased someone with your experience would apply for a job with the Prospect Po-leece,” he said.
“And I appreciate you granting me an interview so quickly.”
“You understand, Sam…” he said, “Do you mind if I call you Sam?”
“Of course not.”
The young-looking mayor wore a navy blue suit and impeccable white shirt.
“Good. Please call me Ronnie.”
I nodded and gave him a brotherly smile, wanting to pick a piece of lint off his right sleeve.
“As I was sayin’, we need ta fill the chief’s position real quick. Circumstances bein’ what they are, Buck Webbster has ta push his retirement through fast as the state kin process it.”
I nodded again, wondering how much the mayor’s suit cost. His striped tie must have topped seventy bucks.
I learned from a friend at the county sheriff’s office about Webbster getting saved by the local good ol’ boy system. Thanks to friends in high places, the county DA waived prosecution with an understanding Buck would retire and leave the state. Not a bad deal when you weigh it against the idea of a convicted cop doing hard time.
“If the Council were to choose you as our new chief,” Ronnie said, “would starting next Monday pose a problem for ya?”
I had discussed this new venture with my wife, Katherine, before I dropped off a resume and filled out an application a few days earlier. She thought getting back into the world after years of retirement would do me good.
“No, sir, I can start on Monday if necessary.”
The mayor nodded with a big grin. He noticed the lint on his sleeve, picked it off and dropped it on the gray tweed carpet.
“There’s jest one thing, Sam,” he said. “The salary ya asked for is a bit more than we anticipated starting the new chief with. Is your price negotiable?”
Ronnie Shields seemed like a nice man. I decided to spare him my hard-ass act and negotiate honestly. Honestly. Not stupidly. Whenever I try to sell something, I pad my asking price.
“I know Tennessee salaries are considerably lower than those in New York,” I said. “I based my request on my last year’s pay up there. That was fourteen years ago. Considering the responsibilities involved here and how you need to restore confidence in the department, I thought the figure seemed reasonable.”
Ronnie sat back and raised his eyebrows.
“Mr. Mayor,” I continued, “you need a competent man quickly. You only recruited locally to get someone for next Monday. And I know only one other man with supervisor
y experience applied, a patrol sergeant. The others were all deputies or police officers. I’ve run sections with annual budgets of around a million dollars, and you don’t have to worry about me getting arrested.”
He hung his head slightly and gently rocked back and forth.
“You’ve got me there, Sam. I guess you had went and done your homework.”
“I was a detective for a long time. Getting information comes naturally.”
“I unnerstand,” he said. “You’ve got a fine record.” He tapped the copies of my application and the resume he held. “Between the Army and your former po-leece department, you got a whole bushel full o’ medals. Still, startin’ with eighty thousand dollars is a lot o’ money for li’l ol’ Prospect.”
“I understand, too. But that’s still less than some of the top brass at the Sheriff’s office make.”
He gave me a hard stare and waited.
“Okay, Ronnie, let me make it a little easier on your budget. I’ll knock off ten thousand for two years if you buy me a new car.”
“A new car?” He almost choked on the words.
“Webbster’s car is four years old. I’d need one soon anyway.”
“You shore did some homework.”
I smiled and tried to look humble. It wasn’t easy.
“Alright, Sam, I think the Council may approve that. Are we still talkin’ about a five-year contract?”
I nodded. “With a ten percent increase on the fifth year.”
A pained look crossed his face. “Okay, I’ll call ya.”
* * * *
Just back from taking Bitsey, our old Scottish terrier, for a walk, I stood in the living room watching two gray squirrels scampering around beneath our birdfeeder, eating the sunflower seeds dislodged from above.
My wife left for the public library where she does volunteer work. I planned to spend the morning at home. Then the phone rang, and the dog barked, making sure I heard it.
Ronnie Shields spoke to me. “I’ve got good news for ya, Sam —and some bad news.”
Good news and bad news? You think I’m a fine guy, but you’re not going to hire me. C’est la vie.
“You’ve got my attention, Ronnie. Give me the news—in any order.”
“Well, sir, the Council accepted your conditions, and they want to hire you. Now, that’s good, ain’t it?”
