by Wayne Zurl
“Sam, I apologize. I really do, but my hands are tied.”
“Why not just tell these people to get lost. We’ve got this under control.”
“Oh, Sam, I thought you’d unnerstand.”
The pain in his expression made me think someone might have been sticking pins in a voodoo doll that looked exactly like our mayor.
“I do understand. Look, politically you don’t need her or them. If you ran for re-election on the Communist ticket, you’d win hands down. The people in this town love you. You’re good at your job, and everyone recognizes that. I’m telling you, Ron. You don’t need these people.”
The idea of knuckling under to skinny Miss Pearl and all her political intrigue depressed me.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but we do. I cain’t fight them.”
I accepted my fate, but desperately needed to get in another punch. “Okay, I understand. Miss Pearly says jump, and the local politicos ask how high. They hope she remembers them when they need another campaign contribution.”
I may be tenacious at times, but I wasn’t stupid enough to waste too much more of my breath.
“Tell you what, boss, when you’re talking with Pearl or any of the big people you mentioned, tell them to kiss my ass in Macy’s window.”
“Now please don’t go gettin’ all hot over this, Sam.” Ronnie tried his best to cajole me. “I know in all your years as a police officer you’ve seen things like this before—it’s a way of life all over. Let it go. We can’t beat these people. We’d only make enemies. You’ll see. It’s the best way for everyone. This is the kind of thing that makes the world go round.”
“Yeah? This makes me about as happy as a toothache.”
I left Ronnie, unaccustomed to one of my tirades, and stopped at Trudy Connor’s desk on my way out.
I surprised her. Her hands stopped, suspended above her computer keyboard. Her eyes widened, as if something made them pop open in shock.
I guess she never heard anyone speak to her mayor like that before. Obviously, my voice carried into her reception area and disturbed her otherwise tranquil Monday morning.
I smiled nicely and asked, “You doin’ all right today, Ms. Connor?”
She blinked several times, but said nothing. Then she closed her mouth, her brown eyes still as large as saucers. I tapped my knuckles twice on the polished wood desktop.
I used her given name for the first time. “Trudy, here’s my twenty. Please put me on the list for Buck Webbster’s party.”
I peeled a portrait of Andrew Jackson from the bills in my pocket, laid it on her desk and said, “Bye now.”
As I walked out of the room, she looked more surprised than Ronnie.
Chapter Twelve
Back in the office, I growled at Bettye. “Your buddy, the mayor, told me the TBI is going to take over the Lovejoy murder.”
“I know, Sam.” She spoke with a soothing softness to her voice and looked like she felt sorry for me. “I got a call while you were out. Two senior investigators were assigned the case. They asked me to fax them all our reports. I’ve got them right here, but I didn’t want to do anything until I asked you.”
“Oh, two senior investigators. I feel so much better.” When I get aggravated, I can get snotty. Bettye didn’t seem to mind. But I backed up, not wanting to alienate my closest ally.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Thanks for waiting, but I don’t think we have a choice. Are these two guys coming in to talk to us about the case?”
“Didn’t say so.”
That surprised me.
“Are these TBI cops so formal there’s nothing about one of their cases not in their files?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
I kept going with another rhetorical question. “Do they think all cops write everything down on official forms? I guess they’ve never heard of personal notes or keeping things in your head.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I’d gotten annoyed and started off on a roll. “This is most singular,” I said. “I don’t like it above half. The game’s afoot, and I aim to find it.”
My theatrical performance seemed to confuse Bettye.
“What are you talkin’ about, Sam?”
“Not a Sherlock Holmes fan, are you? No matter. But something’s not kosher here. I think it’s time for Prospect PD to run its own parallel investigation and see what turns up.”
“Sam,” she said, shaking her head, “you may want to reconsider that. Pearl Lovejoy has more money and more power than you know about. She can make a phone call and cause you big trouble.”
“No kidding? I thought we were the cops. Isn’t it our job to cause people trouble?”
Bettye let another question go unanswered, but offered me another reason to leave Pearl alone. “She tried to get Harley Flatt fired because he wouldn’t write a careless driving ticket to a woman who backed into her car in a parking lot.”
“Harley’s still here.”
“Yes, but she caused him lots of problems. And she didn’t stop there. The woman involved in that little fender bender, a nice old lady named Odell Brayburn, came in to complain that thanks to Pearl Lovejoy, her car insurance was cancelled.”
“Pearl’s a real sweetheart.”
“Do you think going nose to nose with her will be worth it?”
Everything Bettye said made perfect sense. But I didn’t take the job to get pushed around by a wealthy old bitch used to getting her way.
“You know what, Bettye,” I said, “the best part of having a job you don’t need is not caring if you lose it. It sort of gives you the ability to flirt with pissing people off and not care much about it.”
Bettye went back to shaking her head.
“Some people used to call me a prima donna—they were probably right. But genuine prima donnas don’t like being dismissed and ignored by old women with sons who look like the Pillsbury Doughboy. They also don’t like having someone try to cut their legs out from beneath them.”
She tried to speak, but I cut her off. I didn’t plan on giving up without a tussle.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t throw anyone here to the wolves if this thing goes south. I’m used to taking the heat. Besides, I think we can wrap this up quickly and smell like French bimbos before any of these important people know what we’re doing.”
Bettye listened to the madman who recently took over her quiet, little police department and waited for him to finish.
“Do me a favor?” I asked. “Vern Hobbs seems like a guy who knows everyone in town. Track him down, and ask if he can spare me an hour tomorrow afternoon. Better call Junior, too. He started this with me, and he’d feel left out if I didn’t include him. It’ll be good training for the kid. And how about Stanley Rose? I heard he used to work at LAPD. Give him a call, and tell him what’s going on. I could use a few people who can do some low profile investigating.”
She nodded, but I doubt she agreed with my plan.
“Somewhere in here,” I pointed to my head, “is an answer. I just have to figure out the best way to attack this. Yes, ma’am, I’ll find a way. If you need me I’m…” I pointed to my office.
* * * *
I read over the Lovejoy case twice. It didn’t take much time.
The crime scene investigator’s report looked unremarkable. The M.E. confirmed all of my speculations and mentioned Cecil’s liver looked like the sole of an old shoe, a testament to his alcohol consumption.
There still remained a group of club members with whom my two cops never spoke at the steak house, but I doubted they would have any more information than the others already interviewed. They would go on the back burner, and I’d revisit the crime scene.
I hadn’t released Cecil’s Rolls to the Lovejoy family. In New York, I would have impounded the car just to have it close by if I wanted it. In Prospect, we didn’t have an impound yard. The restored car looked so clean Jackie didn’t think further searching the interior would have gotten us any additional clues
.
The chain of custody would no longer be secure, and nothing found after Jackie Shuman packed up and left the crime scene that night would have a chance of getting admitted into evidence because the area wasn’t under constant police supervision.
All that didn’t matter much to me. I felt confident Jackie found everything of potential use to me or the prosecutor, or even the TBI agents who might want to check over the scene of their murder case. And now they could take responsibility for disposing of the Rolls.
I always liked to revisit crime scenes. I wanted to stand there, get a feel for the ground, perhaps even for the person who killed my victim. I could never do that with even a small group of cops crawling over the place.
I started the long walk from the police department to the motel grounds where Vern’s yellow tape still kept the area separate from the rest of the neatly mown lawn.
At the bottom of the front steps to the Municipal Building, I paused at the curb and let a car pass by.
I crossed the street and walked over the grass of the town square. Two squirrels hopped across the lawn and clawed their way up one of the old shade trees. I scanned the city center. Several people entered the shops surrounding the square. A few slow moving cars traveled the roads.
The morning started out warm. An army of cicadas sitting on the leaves and branches all hummed at once. I thought of Forrest Gump again and expected to see him sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus.
After crossing the square, I continued south on Main Street, made a few turns and in a couple of blocks I passed the steak house and approached the motel grounds.
The meadow stood empty, save for the yellow four-door Rolls Royce surrounded by plastic crime scene tape.
Cars sat outside many of the rooms rimming the motel parking lot. A two-thousand-feet-tall, tree-covered hill rose behind the two-story lodgings.
A surrey-top golf cart crossed the motel blacktop almost a hundred yards from where I stood. Linens and bars of soap were being hurried to the housekeepers who tidied up the rooms daily.
Cecil Lovejoy forgotten, life and business in beautiful downtown Prospect went on as usual.
I ducked under the yellow tape and walked to the center of the murder scene. I remembered Cecil slumped there in death. All that remained of him was the bloodstain on the grass.
The M.E.’s report stated that Cecil’s blood-alcohol content scored a whopping .28—three-and-a-half times the legal limit of intoxication. Remaining conscious with that much booze in you takes a lot of practice. He probably woke up every morning a .20.
I ran everything through my head another time, trying to envision the killer approaching Cecil and what might have transpired before stabbing the old man. I couldn’t get anything to click into place.
Unable to conjure up a new idea and seeing nothing at the scene to cause a revelation, I carelessly stepped back from the blood spot. Once again, I cracked my leg on the big chrome bumper of that goddamned Rolls Royce—in the same spot already sore from my last mishap. I didn’t even know Cecil Lovejoy, and he was reaching out from the grave to annoy me.
I stayed for another few minutes, but failed to get any intellectual infusion or experience a divine intervention. No unfamiliar face with ‘killer’ branded on the forehead flashed before my eyes. Some crime scenes are more inspirational than others.
My leg hurt like hell. I should have put ice on it.
* * * *
When I returned to the office, I told Bettye to leave work early and get ready for the party. At four o’clock, I took over as desk officer. I had fun taking a few phone calls and dispatching the patrol cars.
At five, I closed up shop and drove home. Bitsey greeted me at the back door. Kate was nowhere to be found.
Being a world-class detective, that didn’t stop me for long. When I learned where to find my wife, I took the stairs two at a time, to find the love of my life sprucing up her hair.
Once dark brown, Kate’s hair long ago had turned salt and pepper gray. A sexy white streak accented the front. Standing in front of a bathroom mirror, she wore a pale orange t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. I’ve known her for a long time and have never gotten tired of looking at her; she’s one beautiful woman.
“What are you looking at, Mr. Smarty-pants?” she asked.
“I’m staring at your ass, Miss Shorty-pants. You look pretty good for a girl old enough to be a grandmother.” I kissed the back of her neck. “Three days a week at the gym keeps your backside looking like it belongs to a kid half your age.”
“Thank you. That was nice. I am cute, aren’t I?” She wiggled a little.
“Sorry about having to go out tonight,” I said. “I feel like this is an unwanted obligation.”
“I understand. I’m sure the mayor would like you to wish the man well in retirement.”
“Buck Webbster is lucky he’s not retiring to the Brushy Mountain State Prison. I wish him hemorrhoids.”
“Oh, be nice. Going to a party will make you feel like one of the boys.”
“Yeah, I’ll be one of the boys in Prospect like General Sherman was one of the boys in Atlanta.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she said.
I took that as a compliment.
“I’m going to change,” I said. “The new South is casual, but I’d feel more comfortable with a jacket and tie.”
“Good idea, sweetie. Go out, and impress them.”
“You mean show them how real cops act?”
“Maybe, Samuel, you shouldn’t say they’re not real cops until you know them a little better.”
* * * *
I wandered into the bedroom and opened my closet door. As I told Bettye, I generally hate parties, weddings, funerals or other gatherings where you have to socialize with people you may not like.
Most anyone can be personable and polite for half-an-hour or so, and I’m no exception. But after thirty minutes, I tend to start getting more honest in my conversation and lose some of my boyish charm.
Declining an invitation to the retirement party would have been rude. Although I’m not a slave to social dictates, I’m not rude…very often. And it would be a good opportunity to show the ruling fathers of Prospect they’d be getting their money’s worth with the new police chief. If nothing else, I can look like a professional police administrator.
I dressed for the occasion just as I did for an appearance back in district court: navy blue blazer, yellow button-down shirt, weathered tartan tie, beige slacks and cordovan penny loafers.
I looked in the mirror and thought: Not bad for an old guy. I still wore a forty-two jacket, thirty-two pants and always tried to act less than middle-aged.
Before leaving, I stopped to kiss Kate good-bye. She straightened the gold-plated dinosaur pin I wore on the lapel of my sport coat—a gift from the Detectives’ Association after completing my twenty years.
“Why do you persist in wearing this thing?” she asked.
“It’s my statement. People used to sing folk songs and write poetry to make statements. All I can write that makes a statement is a prosecution worksheet. I wear this to say, ‘I may be old, but I can still take a bite out of your ass.’”
“Very nice. If you weren’t a cop, you’d have been a hoodlum.”
“I’m glad you notice my talents. See ya later, sweetie.”
She gave me another kiss for good luck.
I was off to mark my territory.
Chapter Thirteen
The Park Grill in Gatlinburg is just across the Great Smoky Mountains National Park from where we live. The road getting there is narrow and winding, just the place to drive a midlife-crisis sports car.
After heading east on US 321, I picked up state route 73 on the east end of Townsend where the tall pines get closer to the road, and the Little River runs only a few yards from the blacktop. Everyone enters the park at the same place. Your first decision comes at a spot called ‘The Y’, where the intersection offers travelers the option of turning
right and driving to the beautiful fields of Cades Cove or turning left toward Sugarlands Visitor’s Center, Gatlinburg and even ‘the Forbidden City’ of Pigeon Forge, with its outlet malls, fast-food joints, big city traffic and Dollywood. I turned left.
At 5:45, the sun poked through the trees at a rakish angle. Brilliant light filtered down through the forest canopy, creating a sharp light and dark contrast on the narrow, rocky landscape.
The Little River gurgled noisily over the rocks and boulders eroded smooth after years of quickly flowing water. Heavy spring rains peaked the river level at its high water mark. I’d never seen the forest looking any better.
Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Sugarlands, found a spot among the tourist vehicles and walked into the air-conditioned building to use the men’s room. Stops like that become more important when you reach sixty, no matter what size clothing you still wear.
You may remember Johnny Cash singing about Gatlinburg in his song A Boy Named Sue. “It was Gatlinburg in mid-July, I just hit town and my throat was dry” or something like that. It was mid-July, but the current eighty degrees and the slightly breezy, dry mountain air made things quite comfortable. I just hit town, but my taste buds weren’t exactly parched. Johnny must have sung that during a heat wave.
That evening I didn’t see much tourist traffic and arrived at 6:35, only a few minutes stylishly late. The Park Grill is another excellent example of what you can do with an oversized log cabin. There’s good food, a well-stocked bar and the waitresses add to the atmosphere by wearing outfits like park ranger uniforms, complete with a campaign hat.
I saw Ronnie Shields off to my right along with a couple of the Prospect city Councilmen I knew, loitering in an area with seating for five or six dozen people. I walked over.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “how are you all doing today?”
“Sam, good ta see ya. You doin’ aw rot today?” said Joe Rex Wilcox III, senior member of the Council and manager of The Prospect Citizen’s Bank and Trust where I did business.
The others, Ronnie Shields, who still looked a little down in the mouth, Danny Swope, a lumberyard owner, and Chester Simmerling, an insurance agent, all stood in the cocktail party position, tall glasses held waist high, and offered cordial greetings.
