by Wayne Zurl
I thought this conversation was going to be about me.
“Yeah, Joe, I know what you’re saying. We’re all getting old, huh? How’re you doing? Is Lynn okay? She still working at the hospital?”
“Yeah, Lynn’s okay. I’m okay, too. Three different cancers and a heart attack didn’t kill me, I’m gonna live forever. Golf keeps me going, or maybe it’s the vodka gimlets.”
“Back to my question, Joseph: Why am I different from you?”
“What kind of question is that? I’m sixty-nine years old. I’m lucky I can remember who the president is.”
I tried to refocus the conversation. “I’m employed again, and you’re not. I’m going back to work, Joey. I took a chief’s job up here, in a town called Prospect. It’s a small department, twelve people plus me. What do you think?”
A few moments of silence passed.
“I think you’re nuts, Sam. You’re how old, sixtyish? Is this your second childhood? You ought to be banging your good-looking wife and having cocktails every afternoon like a civilized man. You have any idea what kind of crap cops have to go through nowadays? Nobody needs that shit. You working for them per diem? Got a contract or what?”
It took me a few seconds to process that assault.
“A contract. I gave them five years. I’ll be sixty-five then. You remember Hank Lawton, C.O. at Fugitive? He worked until he was seventy.”
“Yeah and Hank only lived for five years after he retired.”
I wanted to scream. “Hey Joey, this isn’t New York. Prospect PD doesn’t handle a million calls a year like we did back on the Island. We give out Band-Aids, call wreckers and take cats out of trees. We don’t even have shoplifters here.”
I neglected to mention Cecil Lovejoy’s conspicuously dead body.
“And goombahs?” I said. “I have to drive thirty miles just to find a good Italian restaurant. There’s no organized crime here—unless you consider some of the churches. I’m gonna be like Andy of Mayberry. You know, me and Barney Fife, we keep a bullet each in our shirt pockets.”
Why was I defending myself?
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said. “Hell, you were always right—about most everything. You used to drive me nuts. But remember this, Sam: Life’s not a bowl of cherries. It’s more like a jar of jalapenos. What you do today might burn your ass tomorrow. It’s a whole new world out there. New rules. Know what I mean? We didn’t get those dinosaur pins for nothing. You’ve been out of the business a long time.”
“Yeah, Joey, I hear you.”
I was so happy I made that call.
“So what do you want from me, boss? You want an assistant chief? I’m too old. I just wanna play golf.”
Recruiting an assistant chief wasn’t exactly what I called about.
“Hey, when are you gonna get over your Florida-phobia and come down here and see me, see us? I told you, Frankie’s down here. And there’s Gallagher, Jimbo, Freddie, a whole bunch of us. We could book a block of staterooms on some cruise boat and do a week in the Bahamas. Whadda you say, Sam?”
“Sounds good. Yeah, we have to do that. Sometime in the cool weather. I’ll call you,” I said.
I would call again, but there’s no way I’d ever get on a ship with two-thousand other people.
“And, Joey, when you talk to the guys—say hello for me, okay?”
“Sure, boss, I will. And good luck with your new thing. Show those hillbillies how we did it on the real job. Kick somebody’s ass for me.”
“Okay, kid, I will. Listen, take care of yourself…and thanks. It’s been good talking with you.”
So much for my extended family support system and the pep talk I needed.
Chapter Nine
I dressed in gray slacks, a blue and white plaid shirt and my blue blazer. It was time to interview the grieving widow.
Everyone knew Cecil Lovejoy. He started his lucrative career as a real estate broker and quickly moved up the ladder to land speculator and then major developer in Blount County. Three years earlier, when he broke ground for the upscale subdivision he called Yorkshire Dales, Cecil built the first home there for his family. It stood at the end of a cul-de-sac in the center of four lots.
Driving for twenty minutes along winding back roads brought me to the Lovejoy home in Prospect. In retrospect, perhaps calling it an estate would be more correct.
I’m not up to snuff on my architectural styles, but what I found at the end of Juanita Court looked French provincial. It stood three-and-a-half stories tall, faced with sandstone-colored brick and natural stacked stone. I wondered if I should call the place a chateau, although fortified manor house may have been more appropriate.
I pulled off the blacktop road and stopped in front of two tall, black-iron gates. A stanchion stood to my left with a keypad for residents and honored guests who knew the secret numbers to open the portals automatically. A button next to a speaker allowed tradesmen and guys like me to announce our presence. I pushed the button and in a few moments, a male voice answered my hail.
“Yes?” he said.
“This is Chief Jenkins from the Prospect Police. If it’s not inconvenient, I’d like to speak with Mrs. Lovejoy. It’s very important.”
“Y’all wait a minute,” the voice said in a curt manner.
I waited, more than a minute, actually. Willing to give Mrs. Lovejoy the benefit of the doubt, I waited patiently.
Perhaps the death of her husband upset her to the point of needing medication. I hoped she’d be coherent enough to answer a few routine questions.
Without further comment from that unidentified voice, the gates began to swing inward. I suppose I should have felt honored being admitted to the Lovejoy compound, but I just felt like a cop following up on someone’s heartache.
Although not overly long, the wide driveway was nicely landscaped on both sides. I saw iris, tiger lilies, day lilies; all green but without flowers. The summer colors came from several Crape Myrtles—magenta and white. Butterfly bushes and different strains of roses added more vibrance.
Lower to the ground, in graduating heights, hundreds of marigolds, asters, zinnias and dianthus decorated the verge. The Lovejoys must have employed a full platoon of gardeners.
Bradford pear trees filled the front and side gardens. The grounds would look beautiful when they bloomed, but if one of Cecil’s neighbors suffered from allergies, his murder may have been justified, and my killer might be close to home.
I parked the Crown Vic and walked up to the double oak front doors expecting to meet Quasimodo the French butler. Sunday must have been Quasi’s day off, so I settled for Randy, the grandson, that nice kid who dressed like a preppy.
I liked seeing a teenage boy not wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt too large for Shaquille O’Neal.
Randy led me from the foyer, down a hall, and into what a home designer might call the family room.
The whole house, decorated in expensive-looking and overly formal 18th century French reproductions, seemed incongruous in rural East Tennessee.
“Randy,” I said when we reached our destination, “I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you and your family are holding up under the strain.”
“Yessir, we’re all doin’ aw right, I guess. Momma and my Uncle Travis are upstairs with my gran’mother. They’ll be down directly.”
I offered him a conciliatory smile and wondered what the hell the boy and I would talk about while we waited. Digging deeply into my bag of small talk, I decided to ask him about the palatial digs his mamaw (that’s Appalachian for grandmother) would be occupying alone, now that the dastardly Cecil left for the great beyond.
“This is a beautiful home your grandmother has. Do you live here with her?”
“Nosir, Momma and me live just north o’ here.”
“It’s one of the biggest homes I’ve seen in this area.”
“It is big, isn’t it? I heard them say once it’s eighty-eight-hundred square feet. I guess that’s pretty big.
The property is more’n four acres.”
“That’s a lot to care for.”
“Yessir, but they have harr’d he’p.”
We sat for about thirty seconds without speaking. I broke the lull with a personal question.
“Your mom told me you’re seventeen.” She hadn’t. I looked up his driver’s license information on Bettye’s computer. “Are you getting ready to go back to school next month?”
“Yessir, I’ll be goin’ inta my senior year.”
Saved from asking about his college plans, the sounds of people descending a staircase caught me with my mouth open. Moments later, Mrs. Lovejoy led the procession down a short hallway and into the family room. Randy and I stood up.
Juanita, second in line, looked sad, but as nice and well-dressed as the day before.
Travis Lovejoy, her brother, looked to be in his middle-thirties, almost six feet tall and at least forty pounds overweight. He could have been the poster-boy for Chubby’s Fried Chicken. Travis gave me a clammy and weak handshake. After he opened his mouth, I knew he owned the anonymous voice on the intercom.
Travis possessed the same light brown hair, sallow complexion and arrogant face as his late father. I already learned almost no one in the world liked Cecil. And I didn’t like Travis.
Pearl Lovejoy looked around my age. I’d check, of course, when I could access the computer again on Monday. The home and her appearance made me think that you could indeed be both too rich and too thin. I would have bet a pension check she was anorexic.
Her clothes looked too flashy for someone her age—expensive, but ostentatious—a bright orange and blue paisley pantsuit over sparkly gold shoes. She had hung enough real gold on her fingers, wrists, neck and ears to make Mr. T jealous. Pearl wore too much makeup and probably had her short bleached blonde hair done three times a week.
“Mrs. Lovejoy,” I said, “please accept my condolences. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I looked from Pearl to Juanita to Randy and ended up looking at Fatso. “I hope you don’t mind a few questions.”
Pearl didn’t offer to shake hands. She immediately sat on a wide, ornate sofa without commenting. I returned to the chair I had previously occupied. I felt as welcome as a root canal.
To begin, I asked a question to which I already knew the answer. “What business was your husband in? Or was he retired?”
“My husband still worked,” she said, exuding haughtiness unequaled in my recent experience. “He was the most successful land developer in Blount County.” She spoke in a brusque and condescending manner. “He also owned and managed a large and highly successful construction company.”
I guess she thought the old reprobate was successful.
“Has he had any recent problems with anyone? Problems that may have precipitated a heated argument that ended up this way?”
“My husband had problems with no one, thank you very much.”
Only two questions and she sounded impatient. I looked at her for a long moment.
Without prompting, she continued. “I know of no one Cecil would consider an enemy, and surely no one would ever mean him any harm or harbor any ill feelings towards him.”
I wondered if we were talking about the same Cecil Lovejoy. I only knew him for thirty minutes, and I wanted to drop him down an elevator shaft. Hell, there are people out there who harbor ill feelings against Santa Claus. Surely someone took issue with Cecil’s lousy personality.
I didn’t buy her answer and thought rephrasing the question might convey my disbelief. “Someone murdered your husband, Mrs. Lovejoy. Please think carefully. Did he ever mention anyone he encountered—in business perhaps—who held a grudge over something? Anything? Was he ever sued, or…I don’t know… Did he ever tell you that he had a serious argument with someone?”
Her annoyance manifested itself with another condescending response to my question, one meant to put me in my place.
Pearl made a sweeping gesture with her hand, taking in the overstated room and asked, “Do you think, sir, that all this could possibly indicate that anyone out there would do anything but admire and respect my poor, dear, dead husband? Do you, sir?”
I heard the question, but I didn’t answer.
Either Pearl wallowed deeply in the first stage of grief or she told me a fib. Her rationale just didn’t hold water. Her attitude went past the point of wearing thin.
She then surprised me by saying, “Chief, I frankly can’t understand why you are askin’ me all these questions when you will be turnin’ this case over to the state Bureau of Investigation.”
“I believe someone has misinformed you, Mrs. Lovejoy. The officers from the Prospect Police Department and I will be conducting the investigation.”
“I am sure, Chief,” she said, shaking her head slightly and breaking an unattractive smile, “that you are a nice man, and you mean well, but surely you don’t wish to tell me you think y’all can do as good a job as a large state agency.”
“Yes, ma’am, I certainly do mean that. I have twenty years experience with a large police department, thirteen of those years as a detective or a detective supervisor. I can assure you we’ll do a first-rate job investigating the death of your husband. And we have the help of the county’s medical examiner and forensics people. In a small city like Prospect, a crime like this should be resolved quickly.”
So there, you old bat.
Apparently my sales pitch didn’t inspire much confidence. Mrs. Lovejoy arose without further comment, held out a bony hand and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jenkins.” She then turned and left the room, leaving me blatantly pissed off.
Juanita walked with me to the foyer and the front door.
“Oh, Chief, I’m just so sorry that my mother seemed to have such a short temper this mornin’,” she said. “I do believe the feelin’ of stress is overwhelmin’ her. I’m just as sorry as I can be. Please do accept my apologies, and know that I will be happy to help you in any way possible.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mashburn. I appreciate that. If I need something, I’ll certainly call. And don’t worry…we will find who killed your father.”
My statement brought a tear to Juanita’s eye. She wiped it with the ring finger of her right hand and smiled as best she could.
I looked up and saw Travis standing a few yards away. I nodded in his direction. He didn’t return the gesture.
“Good-bye,” I said, looking at both of them.
“Good-bye, Chief, and thank you,” Juanita said.
Travis chose to stand mute, obviously siding with his mommy.
Joe Dolinski was correct. I didn’t need that kind of aggravation. I shouldn’t waste my time with a woman who didn’t want my help. First, I thought if she wanted the state cops to handle the case, let them. But who was I kidding? I didn’t need the hassle, but I’d never let Pearl Lovejoy tell me what to do. I signed on the dotted line. I had a contract to fulfill, and I’d stay around for the duration of the Lovejoy investigation.
I guess being granted an audience with the reigning Queen of Prospect would have honored some people, but after watching Pearl in action, I was offended. The little voice inside my head asked, “Does she really think the state cops are more competent, or do you look like you know your job too well?”
Chapter Ten
On Sunday night, I fell asleep quickly. But my sleep became fitful and restless. I awoke often, turned, flipped and fell back into unconsciousness repeatedly until a recurring dream, one I hadn’t experienced in years, returned to haunt my night.
I saw myself sleeping on a metal framed bunk in an olive drab tent in the Republic of Vietnam. The canvas sides of the tent were rolled up, exposing mesh cloth that allowed a warm breeze to blow through the interior while keeping the mosquitoes at bay.
I slept in my undershorts without uniform, socks or boots close by. A deafening noise interrupted my sleep. A vibrant concussion shook the ground. I jolted up in shock, knowing immediately what happened. Enemy mortar rou
nds were landing inside the compound. The firebase I commanded just came under attack.
After the opposition got their range, the small arms fire, the AK-47s and crew-served machine guns and rocket propelled grenades ripped through the compound with a vengeance.
Shaking the sleep from my head, I fumbled to dress quickly, but a basic coordination problem prevented me from accomplishing that. My pants got tangled as I stepped into them. My fingers didn’t function. I couldn’t fasten my buttons. I began to panic. Without my clothes, I was unprepared. A C.O. can’t orchestrate the defense of his compound in his skivvies! I fumbled some more. Already late, the war had started without me.
Finally, I got my pants on, my fatigue jacket buttoned and my boots crudely laced up. I ran outside into the compound.
My firebase looked like an old fort in the middle of early American Indian country. Except Indian country was a Southeast Asian jungle cleared by American engineers using Rome plows. Instead of having log palisades like something out of an old western movie, my stronghold was a large fenced-in compound.
Outside the eight-foot chain-link, rows of concertina wire and other obstacles carefully placed might discourage an enemy from attacking.
Claymore mines, set at intervals, offered one form of protection. Buried drums of ‘foo gas’ (jellied petrol) armed with detonator cords ready to explode by remote control encircled the fence. Numerous anti-personnel mines would stop all but those with the sharpest eyes.
Observation towers, each armed with a .50 caliber machine gun, stood in all four corners of the compound. Within the firebase, sandbag walls protected all the bunkers, the barracks, the command post, the storage facilities and the workshops.
Several mortar pits, dug into the red earth, were scattered around the base so the ‘eleven-Charlie’ crews could defend our home-away-from-home by raining horror on the encroaching enemy.
By all military appearances, it looked like LZ Blacksnake could withstand a big-ass attack.
Not dressed in their usual black pajamas, the Viet Cong in my dream wore baggy white suits. They looked like the Mexican peasants in the movie The Magnificent Seven. I’ve always wondered why.
