by Wayne Zurl
Looking out past the compound perimeter, I saw V.C. sappers already into the wire. Hundreds more of them assembled in the woods, and still others stood behind the first assault wave, close to our fence line, all firing their weapons.
Satchel charges blew holes in our outer perimeter defenses. Things didn’t look good.
A sergeant first class stood in front of my hooch with a switchboard for the foo gas. He flipped the toggles, and nothing happened. Another N.C.O. clicked the detonator for one section of the claymores. He, too, got no results.
I screamed orders to get riflemen and M-60 machine gunners into the pits and start offering resistance. No one seemed to know where to go or what to do.
I jogged to another part of the compound and dove into a bunker when I heard the scream of an incoming mortar round. It struck the earth, exploding close-by, and when the dust cleared, I resumed my journey.
After a few more steps, I stopped and realized I forgot to take my rifle. A shiver traveled up my back, but I ran on.
A staff sergeant, my heavy weapons leader, and two of our Cambodian strikers stood around an 81mm mortar like it was a foreign object.
I shouted, “Goddamnit, gentlemen, let’s get going!”
They looked at me and shrugged.
I ran toward one of the towers and yelled up at the two soldiers manning the big Browning machine gun, “Swing that gun to the right. Lay down fire near the main gate!”
They shook their heads, looking dumbfounded.
No claymores. No foo gas. No comprehension. We were about to be overrun. Jesus Christ! I sat up in bed.
With my heart thumping and my body sweating, I tried to catch my breath without awakening Kate. I sat there in a general blue funk.
Of course, this incident never really happened. Nonetheless, it frightened me. Chaos crowded in all around me. I had done what I’d been trained to do, what I did best. But through no fault of mine, my world teetered on the verge of collapse. The people who were my responsibility and I hung at the end of our ropes.
My recurring dreams always assaulted me for the same reason, and they often took place in Vietnam. But they had nothing to do with a war zone or any of the places I found myself. I didn’t need Freud or Jung on retainer to interpret my dream as self-doubt in my ability to accomplish a goal. If anyone else out there needed to be in control that badly, I’d like to meet them.
Chapter Eleven
On Monday morning, I walked into the office at 8:30 feeling much better than I should have after that miserable dream. Bettye sat comfortably at her desk, the computer hummed, and Prospect PD looked ready to keep the world safe for democracy.
I asked Bettye for a duty roster and saw that Vernon Hobbs, Leonard Alcock and Harlan Flatt were the P.O.s on duty.
Never a habitual coffee drinker as many New York cops were, I usually drank one cup at breakfast. That morning, I just felt like having another…and something else perhaps.
“Do we have a coffee machine?” I asked Bettye.
She shook her head. “No, we sure don’t.”
I made mental note to pick up a Mr. Coffee at Wal-Mart in Alcoa.
“This is a police station, isn’t it?”
“Sam, that’s a silly question.” She looked at me the way a cop looks at a mentally disturbed person.
“There are no doughnuts,” I said. “Don’t you people eat doughnuts? They’re an integral part of solving crimes and protecting the public.”
“Uh huh,” she said.
“There are no doughnut shops in town. Isn’t there somewhere a doughnut junkie can get a fix around here?”
“There’s Richie Creamie in Maryville. Some folks like them.” She pronounced Maryville—Mur’vull.
“Aha, Richie Creamie. Sure, they sell those old-fashioned jelly doughnuts that make grease stains on the paper bags. I’ll drive there tomorrow before work and buy a bagful. You like jelly doughnuts, Bettye?”
“They’re okay.”
No coffee, no bagels, no doughnuts. I felt like a stranger in a strange land.
Back in my office, I found a dozen mileage slips for our fleet of patrol cars. Buck Webbster had neglected to submit the last month-end vehicle report to the mechanic. A simple job really, I’d just transpose the numbers the cops gave me onto the appropriate city form and send a copy to Earl Biggins at the city garage.
Before finishing the report, I needed more information. I sauntered out the back door to the parking area to get the mileage on my Ford and the odometer readings from our two spare cars.
Barely hitting the sidewalk, I met a reporter and her cameraman. At first, I didn’t recognize her, but I’d been confronted by one of the area’s TV anchorwomen, Rachel Williamson.
She stuck a microphone under my nose and caught me without warning. “Chief Jenkins, Saturday there was a murder in Prospect.”
I knew that.
“What so far is your progress on the case?”
I didn’t comment.
She hesitated, but moved on to question two. “Are you going to turn the investigation over to county detectives?”
I smiled and remained silent.
Undaunted, she pressed ahead. “Do you have any suspects?” She spoke with a slight Pennsylvania accent.
I didn’t want to talk with a reporter, or anyone else for that matter, in a hot parking lot. I wanted a minute to think how I should phrase my responses and do my best to make a coherent statement that couldn’t be twisted out of context and make me look like a schmuck on the six o’clock news. I noticed the little red light on the camera. The video tape spun relentlessly. I took defensive action.
“Wait,” I said, putting my hand over the microphone head.
Rachel looked shocked. I suppose no one ever put a stop to her interview before.
“Please turn the camera off,” I said to her partner, a rugged-looking guy wearing a red ball cap turned backwards on his head, an old Grateful Dead T-shirt and a pair of faded woodland camouflage fatigue pants.
I made a cutting gesture across my throat with my free hand. Rachel nodded her okay to the cameraman.
I gave her a big, friendly smile and said, “Good morning, Ms. Williamson. It’s nice to meet you. I’m glad you came by.”
A questioning look showed on her face as well as the cutest little dimple in her chin.
“I’ve always thought it rude,” I said, “for a policeman to push someone aside and say ‘No comment’ to their questions, so why don’t we walk into my office where it’s cool, and I’ll tell you all about what we’re doing. You can ask questions and take some footage if you’d like.”
She smiled. It accentuated her dimple. Damn, she was cute.
Inside the station, I introduced Bettye to Rachel, and Rachel introduced her cameraman as John something-that-sounded-very-Polish. I should have paid more attention, but I was too busy looking at Rachel’s off-white business suit and short skirt. She had great legs.
Under the suit jacket, she wore a dark brown, low-cut T-shirt. As a trained investigator, I assessed the situation and concluded that Rachel, who must have been forty, but looked younger, was built like a brick outhouse.
I invited her and John Whatshisnameski into my office. They sat down. John set his camera on the floor and turned his cap around.
He may have been in his mid-forties. If his combat photographer’s outfit wasn’t all show, he looked the right age to have seen action in some of the international hot spots. He hadn’t said much yet, but I thought I could get to like the guy.
I switched my eyes back to Rachel. She looked at me and crossed her legs. Yikes! I made contact with her big brown eyes. She waited.
“Okay, where do I start?” I asked rhetorically. “As you probably know, I’m new here at Prospect PD.”
Rachel nodded, John stared.
“I have to admit that what I can say on or off the record isn’t going to be very interesting. I haven’t put out a more detailed press release because right now I don’t have
very much information.”
I repeated the basic story already sent to all news agencies in my first statement.
“Until I receive the medical examiner’s findings and photos and reports from the crime scene investigator, I’d only be speculating.”
I tried another smile to see if she’d let me get away with my old-soft-shoe routine. Her eyes were very expressive. She smiled back and licked her lips. I forgot what I’d been saying.
“What was I about to tell you?” I asked.
That drew an even bigger smile. “You were about to speculate for us.”
The smile made her eyes take on an almond shaped, almost Asian look.
“Of course.” I regroup quickly. “I think the first of two stab wounds killed him. It looked close to his heart. The amount of blood at the scene indicated the victim bled out and died right where he’d been stabbed.”
Rachel waited patiently. John looked like I should have offered him something to drink. I told her about the disturbance at the car show, something not previously included in the press release.
“How’s that so far?”
“I’m sure you’re correct with your ideas,” she said, “but you’re also right saying it’s not very interesting. Could the argument have led to the murder?”
“Doubtful. It wasn’t much of an argument.”
She tightened up her mouth and shook her head, looking disappointed after I said that.
“Sorry,” I said. “Most of these cases wouldn’t make a good Movie of the Week.”
“Have you interviewed any witnesses or suspects yet?”
She shifted in her seat. Her skirt, already three inches above her knee, rode up a little higher.
“Sure, only moments after we received the call, I sent two officers to interview all the club members still available. Unfortunately, no one could provide more than basic background. I’ll speak with the other show participants as soon as possible.”
Rachel shifted again. John looked bored—there were no bullets whizzing around his head.
I told her about my unproductive meeting with Pearl and the family Lovejoy. Then I said, “My next order of business is to conduct a complete background investigation on Mr. Lovejoy and see if there’s something in his past to give me at least one undeveloped lead to work on.”
“You seem to have your work cut out for you.” She pushed a few strands of dark brown hair behind her right ear.
A hint of another smile formed on her lips. I could have lost my train of thought again, but she asked another question, one I could answer in my sleep.
“Would you care to tell me why you chose to conduct this investigation yourself rather than turn it over to the county detectives as most other small department chiefs would do?”
“Sure, I have twenty years experience investigating serious crimes or supervising detectives. The murder occurred in Prospect, and Prospect is my responsibility. The county support services are working with me, offering their full cooperation. And I plan to reallocate my workforce to put a maximum effort into solving the crime in a fast, professional manner.”
I just love it when I rattle off all that drivel. “But, there’s one more thing. Perhaps this can be off the record?”
“Uh…sure, why not? I hope it’s not material to my story,” she said, looking interested.
“It’s probably not. I just don’t want to say something to offend other police officers. In my former life, I was a good cop. I know what I can accomplish. The county detectives and I haven’t gotten to know each other yet. So, for my first appearance on stage, I’d feel better doing things myself. That doesn’t mean I won’t raise my hand and ask for help if it becomes necessary. Technically, I’m working for the victim, and ultimately my ego has to take a back seat to what’s good for him and his family.”
“You sound very confident. And honest,” she said.
I offered her a very personal smile. “I’m not usually this modest, but I think I can trust you, and I thought this would be a good place to end the formalities.”
She neither used a tape recorder nor took notes. I’d watched her stories on TV for years. They were always thorough and interesting. That impressed me.
“Well, okay then,” she said. “You’ve really been most helpful, and if I can speak off the record, too, you’re a lot more friendly than most of the police officials I have to deal with.” She blinked a couple times. Tiny smile lines showed at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m flattered, madam. I shall be your most humble and obedient servant.” My James Mason impersonation never fails to be big hit with the ladies.
She laughed. That sealed it. I’d been smitten.
“Would you mind repeating a few lines again while John takes some footage of us,” she asked.
I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows. She rolled her eyes and made a funny face. “For the broadcast?”
“It would be my pleasure. If the film comes out good, let’s make Christmas cards.”
She shook her head in a nice way. It was a good first meeting.
John ended up taking lots of footage. Most would be edited out at the station, and none was a love scene starring the beautiful reporter and the dashing and clever police chief.
After that, we wrapped up the interview.
I ended with a question of my own. “What brings the chief anchorwoman and news-honcho of your station down here to do an assistant reporter’s job?”
“Murder in the Smokies is big news.” she chuckled, like I was someone who should have known better, “and I don’t often get the chance to go on the road anymore. I didn’t want to miss this opportunity.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And besides, I heard the new chief here was some kind of big-time ex-New York cop. I wanted to see if you were as tough as Dirty Harry.” She flashed a smile brilliant enough to cloud men’s minds.
My office started feeling warm.
What else could I tell her? I didn’t want her to leave. Would it be gauche to see if she wanted a personal tour of the evidence locker? Or should I ask her to take a ride in my new police car?
“I’ve learned a lot from watching Dirty Harry,” I said. “Great training films and you’ve given me an opportunity to say, ‘You made my day.’” I offered my most endearing smile, the one I practiced and reserved for the women I fall in love with.
“Thanks for stopping by,” I said. “Anytime you want to do another road trip, let me know. I’ll dig up another big story. Want an invitation to the P.D. picnic?”
She laughed again. She had a great laugh. If women only knew what men would do for nothing more than a good, genuine laugh. Well, it always worked on me.
John stood there with a grin that said he might burst out laughing at any moment.
“Good to meet you, too, John,” I said.
We all shook hands, and they left.
* * * *
The phone rang in the outer office as I snooped around in a file cabinet. I stepped closer to Bettye’s desk.
“Sam, the mayor’d like to see you,” she said.
“He say what he wanted?”
“Not to me.”
“Must be about Cecil Lovejoy. I called him Saturday night.”
“I guess. Oh, before you go up, are you going to Buck Webbster’s retirement party?” she asked.
“He gets a party?” I shook my head. “Nobody told me about it. Am I invited?”
“There was an open invitation sent around last week. Someone got the Park Grill to open up tonight. They’re usually closed on Monday. You know where that is?”
“Sure. I’ve been there before. It’s tonight?”
“Yes, at 6:30. Twenty dollars a person. Trudy Connor is collecting the money.”
“Are you going?” I asked.
“I didn’t really want to, but most everyone not working will be there. So, yes, I guess.”
“I hate parties,” I said.
“I know what you mean. Any more than four peopl
e is too much for me.”
My kind of girl.
“I guess I should go,” I said. “Sort of protocol. It would only be polite to wish the old criminal good luck. Besides, if he hadn’t gotten caught, I’d still be unemployed.”
She smiled. “Yes, there’s that, too.”
I thought she looked happy to have a new boss.
“Okay then. I guess I’m going. I’ll let you know what Ronnie says.”
I walked out of the police department, past the courtroom and up the main staircase to Ronnie Shields’ office. I passed through his grandiose glass gateway, smiled at Trudy Connor and asked, “He want to see me?”
“Yes, sir, he’s a’waitin’. Go right in.”
Ronnie stood behind his desk looking out the window at the town square.
“What’s up, boss?” I asked in a congenial Monday morning manner, assuming he wanted to be brought up to speed on the investigation. And after speaking with Rachel I felt great.
“Sit down, Sam. We’ve got to talk.”
A frown made him look serious. I plopped into one of the green chairs and waited.
“We’re going to give this Cecil Lovejoy murder investigation over to the TBI,” he said, without looking me in the eye.
I might have appeared confused because he started again before I commented.
“I know you want to do this yourself, but I’ve already had several phone calls—calls from important people who want the TBI to handle this case.”
I started to speak, and he interrupted.
“I know you’re well-qualified to investigate a murder, but Pearl Lovejoy called a few people—big people. She wants the TBI to look into the case.”
I let out a long breath before speaking. “Isn’t it a bit unusual for a person to choose who she wants to investigate a crime in our jurisdiction?”
Ronnie closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. “I regret to tell you this, Sam, but that’s the way it is. I’m sorry. I know you understand what I’m tellin’ you and why it’s happenin’.”
His flushed face signaled Ronnie’s embarrassment as he waited for the steam to escape from my ears.
Finally, words came from my mouth. “Oh, I understand all right. She calls some local yokel, and he calls some state yokel, and maybe he calls some yokel in Washington, who makes calls in reverse that end up with you. TBI is called by someone, and they’re told to make a quick job of this because Pearl Lovejoy is impatient. Ronnie, this is a load of crap.”
