by Wayne Zurl
Howell Watkins, originally from Ohio, moved to East Tennessee with the fantasy of being accepted into an outlaw motorcycle gang.
One of the many Harley-Davidson fans who looked at life in one of the so-called motorcycle ‘clubs’ as romantic, Howell had a snowball’s chance in hell of being assimilated into one of the outlaw groups that passed through the Smoky Mountains during the summer months. He didn’t have the right stuff. He wasn’t a sociopathic, ethnocentric thug who’d fit into their subculture.
So, Howell accepted his fate, still rode his 1200CC Harley wearing a helmet that looked like something from a Wehrmacht quartermaster and opened the world’s first non-smoking biker’s bar.
The volume of hardcore outlaw bikers at Howell’s Pub turned out to be very low, but because he served excellent food, and his manager, an expatriate Englishman named Reginald Smethurst, organized a dart league and arranged for an impressive beer list, the place flourished with plenty of normal customers.
I always thought things like Bass Ale and Guinness Stout on tap were overkill deep in the heart of Budweiser country, but choices like that kept beer snobs like me coming back for more.
The boys and I bellied up to the bar directly in front of the owner.
“Wow, I didn’t know you were a cop here,” Howell said. I was one of his better customers.
“I’m kind of new at it. What can we do for you?”
A few feet away, a young man sat at the bar, holding a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a towel against his left cheek. In the back of the room, a big man nursed a bottle of Icehouse beer at a table facing a monstrous television screen.
Howell said, “This here’s Toby Viles,” pointing to the injured boy, “and that back there is Luttrell Bivins. Seems when Toby changed the station from country music videos to NASCAR, Luttrell took exception and punched him in the face.”
“Any of you know the puncher?” I asked my team.
Vern answered, “He’s a bad one, Chief. Lots o’ bar fights when he was younger. Hasn’t been around fer more ‘an a year now. Jest got outta jail after doin’ nine years of a fifteen year stretch fer manslaughter. You be careful. They call him Butcher Knife Bivins.”
“He stabbed a person to death?” I asked.
“No, killed him with a .357.”
“I should have guessed.”
Vern went on to further explain the legend of Butcher Knife. “Luttrell there was a’sittin’ in that ol’ bar up ta Wildwood one night drunker ’an a lord. Says he’s gonna kill the next man who walks through the door. Fer no good reason, jest ‘cause he wants ta. Then in walks Ben Maxwell. Luttrell pulls out a big ol’ six-inch gun and puts two in his belly. Maxwell, he died on the way ta the hospital.”
“You think he’s carrying a big knife?” I asked.
“Never seen him with one b’fore.”
I began getting the idea that life at Prospect PD might be just a little different.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Course losin’ Ben Maxwell weren’t no tragedy,” Vern said, “even fer his wife.”
I nodded. “Okay, let’s go talk to this guy. Bobby, be sure you can latch on to him if you have to. Junior, watch my back again. Be sure he doesn’t have any friends wanting to intervene when we take him out. Vern, ask the NASCAR fan if he wants an ambulance, and see if he’ll charge Bivins with assault.”
I guessed our assailant to be in his mid-forties, about six-foot-tall and between 190 and 200 pounds. Long, dark and dirty hair showed from beneath an even dirtier mesh baseball cap. A straggly-knotted beard, hanging six inches below his chin, surrounded his face. In eighty-five degrees, Luttrell wore a plaid wool shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder seams, beneath Liberty brand, denim overalls. His arms were big and tattooed. Bivins smelled like his fashion choice might be more suited to a cooler climate.
“Mr. Bivins,” I said, “the man you punched is deciding if we’re going to charge you with assault. One way or the other, the bar owner wants you out of here. I’d like you to take a walk outside with me while we resolve this.”
I smiled cordially, but Luttrell wasn’t overcome with a need to be friendly.
Bivins rolled the sweaty beer bottle between his palms. “I ain’t finished my burr yet,” he said, “and I might could want anotha. I ain’t goin’ nowheres.”
I decided not to explain double negatives and grammatical errors to him. I looked at Bobby Crockett and winked.
Howell stepped up next to me. “The kid don’t want to press charges,” he said, “but I want Luttrell out and don’t want him back either.”
Having temporarily lost interest in me, Bivins stared at the sixty-inch TV screen. A lithe and sexy Shania Twain gyrated to her music. I tried to look at Howell and keep an eye on Luttrell’s beer bottle at the same time. He hadn’t become hostile, and I felt safe for the moment.
“Look, Howell, if you sign the court complaint, I can charge him with disorderly conduct. He’s too drunk to make bail, so you’ll be okay for tonight. Ban him from the pub, and if there is a next time, just call us, and he goes for criminal trespass. That work for you?”
Howell agreed.
“Okay, go over to Officer Hobbs, and sign the papers he gives you. We’ll take it from here.”
As I looked at the bar owner on my right, Bivins stood up quickly. Crockett wrapped his hand around Bivins’ right arm. Luttrell objected to being touched and jerked his shoulder and arm forward to escape Bobby’s grip.
“Get your damn hands offa me!” he said.
The momentum of his action allowed his hand to smack me in the left tricep. I reacted out of reflex. I cocked my left arm forward and with my left fist in my cupped right hand, I drove my elbow into Bivins’ diaphragm. Luttrell doubled over and began gasping for air. I pivoted to my left and smashed the side of my right fist into his temple.
Bivins hit the barroom floor still gasping for the air he couldn’t get. I dropped down next to him with my knee on his elbow and bent his wrist in an old-fashioned ‘come-along’ hold. I had one cuff on his right hand as Bobby pulled Bivins’ left arm behind his back to receive the second handcuff.
“Breathe out, you moron,” I said, “before you turn blue.” I slapped him hard between the shoulder blades, heard a whoosh of air and then the sucking sounds of his frantic gasps.
“Can I assume you would like to arrest him for assaulting me?” I asked Crockett. “I’ll sign your complaint form while you’re calling his parole officer.”
Bobby smiled as he and Junior lifted Bivins off the floor. Crockett hurried him from the premises, securing him in the back of his patrol car for the drive to headquarters.
I walked over to the bar as Howell finished signing the last copy of the court informations.
“Damn fool probably never played football,” I said. “Any kid knows when you lose your air like that you have to breathe out first. Right, Junior?”
He was standing next to me. “Yes, sir.” he said, with a nod of his head and a big boyish grin. “Sure enough.”
“Mr. Watkins,” I said, “we leave you to your business. The next time I’m nearby, I’ll come in for a pint of that black and tan Reggie mixes up so nicely.”
“You got it. Any time. And, thanks. Thanks very much,”
I looked at Vernon Hobbs and used the Lone Ranger’s old line, “Well, Tonto, our work here is done.”
Vern nodded once, and like the masked man’s stoic Indian companion, he grunted.
The three of us filed out of the bar into the warm afternoon.
“Ain’t never seen nobody handle ol’ Butcher Knife quite like that. I liked it. Yessir, I like yer style,” Vern said.
“Shoot, Sam, couldn’t have done better m’self,” Junior said and slapped my shoulder. “Good work for a senior citizen.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. Maybe one of you can write a story for AARP magazine and tell them about an old guy who’s still got it.”
Knocking the air out of Butcher Knife Bivins seemed to score points with the troops. I hoped the word would spread.
Chapter Seven
At 5 p.m., my entire day shift had already collected an hour of overtime and needed to head back to the barn. The British car show should have closed some time ago, ragtops on the convertibles put up and the cars either secured for the night or on their way home. Those participants who chose to remain with their friends for dinner would adjourn to Johnny Milton’s Paradise Found Steak House for a meal and see the winners receive their awards.
Johnny’s restaurant occupied one of the new commercial log cabins built in the shopping center next to the motel. I heard the food was good, and if you didn’t mind religious Musak piped throughout the dining rooms and majestic landscape posters with biblical quotations superimposed on heavenly cloud formations decorating the walls, you’d enjoy yourself.
After a hard day on patrol, I wasn’t in the mood for a long dinner and an awards ceremony. I’d leave that for George and Nonie to preside over and soak up all the camaraderie.
Katherine would drive the Healey and meet me at home. She promised not to pick up any local boys who fell in love with a sexy older woman in a hot car. We agreed on a couple of TV dinners and a bottle of wine for our evening meal.
Before my trip home, I’d pick up my new unmarked police car, a metallic gray Ford Crown Victoria with all the bells and whistles appropriate for the chief of a modern police agency.
I planned my first day on patrol to end that way. The county dispatcher had other ideas.
“County dispatch to any Prospect supervisor—emergency,” the female voice said over the radio.
I grabbed the microphone before Junior. “Prospect One to Dispatch, I’m with the day tour five-oh-one, operator. What have you got?”
“Prospect One, complainant Norwick reports a 10-5 at the British car show, front of the Foothills View Motel. Victim, a middle-aged male, name: Lovejoy.”
With only two days on the job, I was no expert on the local police brevity code, but I knew 10-5 meant a homicide. The name Lovejoy rang a bell, too.
“This is Prospect One. Have five-zero-six assist. I’ll advise when we’re 10-36.”
“10-4, Prrr-ospect One.” The dispatcher ended her message with a flare.
Vern answered with, “Five-zera-six, I copy.”
“Hit the lights, kid,” I said. “Duty calls.”
“Did she say 10-5, victim Lovejoy?” Junior asked.
“Certainly did.”
“Shoot, that’s a murder.”
“Certainly is. Ever do one before?”
“Not hardly. Folks don’t git killed here in Prospect.”
“We’ll tell the victim and see if he agrees.”
We were approaching the Municipal Building just as the dispatcher’s message crackled over the radio. Junior switched on his blue lights again and circled the town square to pick up the south end of Main Street. He blasted the siren, and a red Jeep Wrangler swerved to the curb and let us pass.
“That old drunk, Cecil Lovejoy…shoot,” he said.
“Stick with me, kid. I’ve investigated more dead people than they’ve got in the Prospect graveyard. I’ll make you an expert.”
“Shoot…my first murder.”
Bitsey barked when the siren yelped a second time.
* * * *
The four-to-twelve shift had already been on the road for more than an hour. Junior’s relief, Will Sparks, heard the call and rolled up to the crime scene before we arrived. I used the radio to tell the two other patrolmen on duty to stay on the road and handle the assigned calls. Junior and Vern would earn more overtime.
Bobby Crockett, still busy processing Butcher Knife’s arrest, would later transport him to the county Justice Center to be held for arraignment in the morning. It only took one day for my overtime budget to slip into the red.
Junior’s car bounced over the driveway and onto the field, stopping close to the remnants of the car show. I picked up the microphone again and told the dispatcher of our arrival.
“Prospect One to dispatch, ten-three-six.”
“10-4, Prospect One. When you’re ready, confirm that y’all want a medical examiner and lemme know who you want from the Sheriff’s office.”
“10-4 Dispatch. Stand by.”
The Prospect city charter allows its police department to decide whether we investigate our own felonies, turn them over to county detectives or, in rare cases, give them to the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.
I may have been a little rusty after my long retirement, but as a young detective, my partner and I began investigations on so many unattended deaths one year that we became known as the Grim Reapers. I figured with all that experience, I could handle the job, so I opted to do the investigation myself.
“Prospect One to Dispatch, send me a county crime scene unit and the medical examiner’s team.”
“Dispatch to Prospect One, do you want detectives?”
“This is Prospect One. Negative on the detectives.”
After a moment of silence, I heard, “Hmm, 10-4, Prospect One.”
A car club member named Michael Norwick had found Cecil Lovejoy’s body and called in the murder. We found our caller standing a discrete distance from the corpse. His wife, Tammy, and another man named Jeffrey Lipsom stood with Michael to offer moral support.
Other than telling us he never saw a murder victim before, Mr. Norwick offered no other pertinent information. Junior recorded the personal pedigrees of those three people while I started to reconstruct a possible scenario and began to theorize.
Show participants later told us that Cecil Lovejoy finished his nap, walked back to his Rolls Royce and beach chair and, after breaking out a new bottle of Maker’s Mark, proceeded to get efficiently drunker.
When the crowd began leaving the field, several of his club mates offered to escort Cecil to Paradise Found or back to his home, which wasn’t far away. Cecil, that personable guy, told them he wasn’t going anywhere, and they should all go straight to hell. Then he sank back into his chair with the comfort of his bottle.
Twenty-five minutes later Michael Norwick found Lovejoy with two fatal stab wounds in his chest. The knife used to inflict those wounds still remained lodged between his ribs—the same knife used by Cecil himself to cut the chunks of Monterey Jack he had been nibbling on all day.
Vernon Hobbs used yellow crime scene tape to cordon off the area, tying it to anything available and adding long metal stakes driven into the soft ground where necessary.
Junior Huskey and Will Sparks went to the restaurant, disturbing the Royal Auto Legion’s dinner party and interviewed potential witnesses, taking the names of the participants and trying to learn if anyone knew something helpful.
I looked at Cecil, who didn’t appear any more troubled than when I saw him last, sleeping on the bed in Darnell Jordan’s RV.
It was the warmest part of the day. I turned to catch a cool breeze on my face and saw George Morgan walking briskly from the restaurant toward the crime scene and me. He weaved through spots vacated by some of the cars—those owners missing out on the excitement. George stopped fifteen yards away.
“Don’t cross the yellow line, George. I’ll come out there.” I took a few steps in his direction, lifted the yellow plastic tape and stepped under it. “Howdy, George. You check with one of the cops at Milton’s before coming out here?” He nodded. “Not good for the troops to think I have two sets of rules, one for friends and one for everyone else. Thanks.”
“What do you know about this?” he asked. “You have any idea who did it?”
I try not to let civilians exhaust my patience. “Sure, George, but I waited for you to be here. Watch now—like Sherlock Holmes, I’ll throw myself on the ground, whip out a big magnifying glass and low crawl around the grass until I find an exotic Turkish cigarette, something smoked by only one person in Blount County. Then for a theatrical effect, I’ll assemble all the su
spects—you included—and reveal the killer. Upon hearing my irrefutable deductions, the scoundrel breaks down and admits his guilt, explains all the loose ends, but in the end panics and tries to make a run for it, only to be tackled by my faithful assistant.”
“I’m a suspect?” If it wasn’t such serious business, his shocked expression would have been humorous.
“Of course, you’re a suspect, Georgie. Didn’t you know they hired me as a pieceworker? The more names I put on the suspect list, the bigger my paycheck.”
“Can’t you be serious about anything?”
“Oh, if I must—I suppose you insist? Well, try this on for size. When did Cecil come back to the show area?”
“I don’t know exactly. I saw him about 3:30. I just guessed he’d been there longer.”
“Did he have any arguments with anyone after getting back from the RV?”
George removed his ball cap and ran a hand over his balding head. He put some thought into my question.
“I saw him chase a young kid away from his car. The kid just looked into the open window of the Rolls. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Did you have to speak with Cecil again?”
“I didn’t have to, but I did. Darnell Jordan, the guy with the RV—he owns that racing green 3.8 Jag sedan four cars over from the Rolls—he went with me to see that Cecil wasn’t causing any more trouble. We found him almost asleep when we tried to talk with him.”
“And what time did the crowd start thinning out?”
“By 3:30, the parts dealers were packed up and ready to go. We stopped admissions at four o’clock. At 4:30, the owners started packing up and either removed their cars or locked them for the night.”
I nodded as George continued.
“We scheduled dinner for five o’clock. Most people staying over are using the motel here. I guess some wanted to go freshen up beforehand and went up there. I wasn’t paying much attention. Nonie and I closed up the club tent and secured the cash boxes. There were only a few lookers around. They took the hint and left.”
“Seems pretty simple,” I said. “Either during, or more probably after the exodus, someone took the opportunity to stick Cecil. Now all I need to know is who. Everybody in the restaurant seem okay?”
