by Wayne Zurl
On one of those fun days, after locking up a local hoople for public lewdness, I sat in the squad room writing up the arrest when the desk sergeant walked in. He stood gawking at me as I typed a set of court informations—with more than two fingers.
“You can type?” He sounded surprised.
“Uh-huh,” said I.
I had taken typing in high school because I was the only guy in a class of thirty girls.
“Lemme see your paperwork.”
I showed him what I had already completed. He read slowly.
“This is good,” he told me, nodding his head, grinning like the village idiot.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You wanna work the desk?”
“Not especially. Why?”
“Smitty’s been up there for two years. He wants out. I can use a guy who can type.”
“Thanks, Sarge, but I’d rather be outside, too.”
“Good, I’ll tell the lieutenant. You can start tomorrow.”
At first, I thought I had spoken to him in Swahili. Not possible, I don’t speak Swahili. Anyway, that began my first and only six months on a precinct desk. Not only did I type the blotter, the tour reports and all the arrest paperwork for the hunt-and-peck cops, but I learned to work a switchboard and answer the phones. That’s what went around. Here’s what came around.
In Prospect, I take lunch from twelve until one o’clock. I’m usually starving by noon. Bettye takes lunch from one until two. From one until two I’m back working the desk—answering phones and dispatching cars. Thirty-four years and I’ve come full circle.
That day, I hung out at Bettye’s desk, resisting a temptation to look into the drawers, when the phone rang. For obvious reasons, I wasn’t overly happy, and I growled into the mouthpiece, “Prospect Police, Chief Jenkins.”
“I’m glad ya answered the phone yerse’f. Can ya talk without anyone else listenin’?”
Saying ‘To whom am I speaking?’ got a snide remark from Ralph Oliveri, so I tried a more earthy approach, “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Shane Hacker. I’m the patrol sergeant ya met at that fatal wreck ‘bout a week ago.”
Now the voice sounded familiar. “Sure, I remember. What do you need, Sarge?”
“More like whadda you need, Chief.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, I was down to a Fraternal Order o’ Po-leece meetin’ other night an’ heard yer name mentioned. Later on, I seen yer name on the membership list. But I ain’t never seen ya at a meetin’ though.”
“I joined before I took this job—so I could use the FOP range in Lenoir City. I’m not big on attending meetings.”
“Yeah, I heard you’s retired from a department in another state. Anyways, I heard couple o’ people talkin’ ‘bout ya. Heard somethin’ ya should know.”
He paused for a long moment. The silence was deafening.
“Uh-huh?”
“Feller had your job ‘fore you—Buck Webbster—he’s talkin’ with a couple o’ loo-tenants from Murr-vull PD. Buck tells these other two he needs ta come an’ teach ya how things work ‘round here. Says ya got yerse’f that homo-cide in Prospect an’ don’ seem like the type who’d be willin’ ta let go when ya been tole to give it ta the TBI. Says he wants ya ta back off like.”
“You’re kidding?”
“So,” he continued, “seems like you’ll be gittin’ a visit sometime soon. Figgered ya’d like a heads-up, so as ta not be surprised.”
“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate the tip. If I can ever return the favor, let me know.”
“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. Jest kinda fergit where ya heard ‘bout Buck,” he said.
“Fine with me. One thing more, Sarge, we really don’t know each other—why would you go out of your way to tell me this?”
“That’s easy—two reasons. I heard ya yelled at Dwayne Cluny when you’s at that wreck. Anybody who tightens up Dwayne is doin’ me a favor.”
“Who?”
“Dwayne Cluny, that big deputy with the crew cut an’ mustache, the one with the attitude problem.”
“Oh, him. Yeah, I know who you mean. What’s the other reason?”
“I never did like Buck Webbster. Ain’t my idea of a good man.”
“Okay. Thanks, Shane. If you need something, just whistle.”
“You bet. Y’all be careful now.”
He hung up. I needed Buck Webbster in my life like I needed another major case to investigate.
Chapter Fifteen
The FBI office is located in the Federal Building at 710 Locust Street in downtown Knoxville, not far from the Federal courts on Market Street. The building provides one stop government shopping. The FBI shares a roof with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the IRS, the Department of Agriculture, Labor Department and a few other Federal agencies with alphabetic designators.
The downtown area, called the Old City by most locals, is a small and attractive urban setting for banks, insurance companies, lawyers and some city and county departments. Compared with Prospect, there’s plenty of hustle and traffic in the streets. Compared to Manhattan, it’s deserted.
At 2:30 that afternoon, I found Ralph Oliveri easily enough. The FBI office looked posh by any law enforcement standards. The reception area, with three female clericals, would have been appropriate to a law firm who charged over three-hundred-bucks an hour. The receptionist listened to my story, buzzed Ralph on an intercom and gave me a professional smile before I sat down to wait.
My new friend showed up in less time than it took to cross my legs and start turning the pages of a three-month-old copy of Time Magazine.
Ralph looked about forty, five-ten and in good shape at a hundred-and-sixty-pounds or so. He wore the standard issue FBI uniform, a light gray suit, white shirt and somber blue tie. His sideburns might have been a little too long, but Ralph parted his dark brown hair on the left and combed it to the side in a businesslike manner. I think some women would find him attractive, if they liked the swarthy Mediterranean type.
I stood up as he walked through a door from the agent’s squad room.
“Ralph?”
“Yes, there is but one Ralph P. Oliveri, and I am he.”
From that moment, I knew Ralph and I would get along just fine.
“Let’s go inside,” he suggested, with a light in his eyes like that of a little boy who just found the biggest frog in the neighborhood. “I’ve got some news for you. This turned out to be some really cool shit. I don’t know if this’ll find you a killer, but when you see what I got, you’ll think your vic deserved to die.”
Ralph sounded interested in my murder investigation. What he showed me turned out to be very, very interesting.
For months, Ralph and some of his cronies had worked a case of Internet child pornography. They recently arrested a major supplier of smut who lived north of Knoxville in the quiet little community of Maynardville. One of the dealer’s customers turned out to be none other than Cecil the Terrible.
Receiving kiddie porn is not as serious in the eyes of the law as promoting and distributing it, but Ralph and his merry men confiscated Cecil’s hard drive in furtherance of their investigation.
He took me to a room with an array of computer equipment I couldn’t begin to recognize a use for. Once inside, we were outnumbered three-to-one by computer geeks with badges.
“Look at some of the shit your vic had on his computer,” Ralph said. “A lot, but not as much as some of the other hard drives we grabbed.”
I really didn’t want to see what Cecil collected, but I looked anyway.
“He’s got mostly little girls,” he said, “say between ten and fourteen. A couple of little boys, too. The bastard. Who knows which way this guy swung, huh? I’m surprised he didn’t have pictures of a naked goat, for chrissake.”
Ralph waited for me to laugh before continuing.
“The kid stuff looks like professional photography,” he said, “probably not of a
ny interest to your case, but look at these.” He sounded more enthusiastic.
The computer technician clicked on one of many folders that opened up to show dozens of thumbnail photos of nude, adult females. Definitely not professional models and the poor quality of the posing and composition of the pictures made me think an amateur photographer as well.
They all looked to have been taken in the same place, a bedroom with expensive-looking, period French-style furniture. My interest began building.
“All these beauties were done with a digi-cam,” Ralph said. “If your vic took all of these himself, he had a real love for indelicate poses, didn’t he?”
I rolled my eyes at the less than attractive things Cecil asked his models to do.
“Those are all recent. But…Bill, scroll down so we can look at these.” Ralph spoke to the technician and pointed at a series of shots near the bottom of the folder. “These are scanned snapshots or maybe Polaroids. They look what, twenty-five or thirty-years old? This girl looks what, fifteen? Totally different setting, too.”
“This is cool stuff, Ralphie,” I said, “but I don’t suppose you have names to go with these faces?”
“No, no such luck. I gotta leave somethin’ for you to do. ‘Sides, having photos of adults in the buff is no crime. Nothing I care about. We are… Check that…we were interested in Cecil Lovejoy’s involvement with the kiddie porn. Now that he’s dead…” He shrugged and let his thought trail off.
“Can you make me headshots,” I asked, “the best and clearest ones to ID these ladies, for each of the five models? One full-length photo for each, too, in case I find these women and have to jog their memories about their involvement with Cecil?”
“Of course, big eight-by-ten glossies. Your tax money at work,” Ralph said. “You recognize anyone here?”
“Not yet, but I’m new in Prospect. I’ll ask if my local cops know anyone.”
We went back to the squad room and waited for one of the geeks to print out my package of photos. Ralph took that opportunity and introduced me to a few people from the FBI. Most of them, especially Carl Harmon, the special-agent-in-charge, seemed unimpressed with a guy from a local department with only thirteen cops.
Except for Oliveri, there wasn’t much conversation available from the employees at the FBI offices. At least Ralph had a personality.
Thanks to the Fed’s state-of-the-art printers, I received my photos in no time. The Justice Department never spares any expense in making their agent’s lives comfortable and efficient. Our tax money at work.
As Ralph and I sat at his desk in the agent’s squad room, one of the technicians walked toward us on a carpet so plush it made me regret making those quarterly payments to the IRS. He gave Ralph a nine-by-twelve manila envelope. Ralph pulled out a collection of photographs, looked through them quickly and handed them to me.
“These suit you?” he asked.
I looked at them more closely—exactly what I needed.
“Ralphie, you’re a prince. I don’t care what everyone says about Ozone Park people, you’re okay with me.”
“Hey, that’s South Ozone Park. We’re a much higher class down there. Anyway, I hope these help. If they do—you owe me one.”
“If these help, I’ll buy you the best lunch within twenty miles of this burg.”
“You’re on. And if you make a collar with this information, I expect to collect, but no fast-food junk, right?”
“No fast-food. I’m good to my snitches, even if they are Feds.”
“You’re all heart.”
“That’s me, buddy. My crystal ball sees a defendant in my future.”
Chapter Sixteen
I left the Federal building in the Old City and drove south on Route 129. Ten minutes later, I pulled into a Food City parking lot and placed my unmarked Ford far away from any of the shoppers’ vehicles. I didn’t want to be seen looking at pictures of nude women by the citizens of South Knoxville.
I hadn’t been a hundred-percent honest with Ralph Oliveri. I didn’t know any of the adult women in the photos, but the face of the teenage girl looked familiar, and I wanted to check the photo again. Her expression projected an unspoken message. It looked like she wanted to be anywhere other than in front of a camera where she’d been forced to pose. I’d keep her in mind for my list of future suspects.
* * * *
I arrived back at the PD stylishly late—a new habit of mine. Rose, Hobbs and Huskey loitered around in civilian clothes. Bettye sat at her desk in uniform. Stanley drank coffee in a Hardee’s Styrofoam cup. Junior held a large plastic bottle of Mountain Dew. Vern, with an ever-present toothpick in his mouth, looked…like Vern.
I wanted quiet and privacy, but we had almost an hour to go before switching the phones and radio over to County 9-1-1.
“Let’s hope no one calls,” I said and closed the glass doors to the police offices. I looked at them, all standing around Bettye’s desk and shrugged.
“Maybe they’ll think we’re closed—I don’t want to be disturbed.”
I dragged over one of the chairs from the waiting area, turned it backwards and sat.
“I’m sure Bettye already told you I’ve been relieved of responsibility for investigating the Lovejoy murder.”
Everyone nodded.
“However, I’ve not been specifically directed to cease all work on the matter.”
Bettye made a face.
“Don’t make faces at me,” I said. “I remember what you told me, but some things just have to be done.”
She sighed. “You’re the boss.”
“Look, people, if any heat comes out of what I’m going to do, it’s mine. I am going to ask you to help—just a little. It’s strictly a volunteer thing. But if someone asks you questions, you tell them I ordered you to work on this. Understand?”
More nods. I told them about Cecil’s porn collection and the FBI case. Then I continued with our own business.
“The photos I got from the FBI give us several possibilities for leads. I believe these to be photos of local people. I’ll tell you why in a minute. We’ve got four women I want to identify. Once we do that, we can move further.”
I opened the nine-by-twelve envelope with the FBI address embossed in the upper left corner and took out the headshots of the four adults. Knowing cops are the same the world over, I wanted to be spared the leers and snickers the nude photos would generate.
“Anyone know these ladies?” I asked but got no takers.
“These women were photographed nude,” I said.
Junior leered and wiggled his eyebrows. Stanley gave him an elbow in the ribs.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Bettye frown at Junior’s antics.
“Guys,” I said. “Before we get too amused, let’s think family. What if this creep put our sisters or wives in the same place he put these ladies? We’d be looking to kill him ourselves. I think we should exercise a little sensitivity here. Capiche?”
“Ca what?” Junior said and quickly got another elbow in the ribs. “Uh, yessir, sorry.”
“Okay, I don’t think too many citizens of Prospect own expensive, reproduction Louis XV furniture like the pieces I saw on Sunday.” I took another glance at Bettye. She seemed contented. “I think these pictures were taken in a bedroom at the Lovejoy house.”
I got a couple of nods, a couple of shrugs. I felt more confident than the rest of my team looked.
“Besides a total lack of clothing, these girls have one thing in common. No one is smiling. No one seems happy or willing to have their pictures taken, perhaps by Cecil, our infamous pervert.”
I received all nods of agreement. Perhaps I gained a little ground.
“So, let’s say Cecil forced, or by inveiglement, convinced these girls to pose nude for him. Maybe he forced or conned them into something even more repulsive.” I raised my eyebrows. “What kind of leverage did he have to get these ladies into his den of iniquity?”
“Blackmail.” Ju
nior said, with a satisfied look on his young face.
“Blackmail, perhaps. Although I think the legal term here is coercion. We’ll have to see,” I said. “But give that man another Mello Yello.”
Junior corrected me. “Mountain Dew.”
“Mountain Dew—whatever. The point is, if this was a forcible or coercive act on Cecil’s part, the door is open to all sorts of possibilities of a killing for cause—the women themselves, their husbands, family members or a concerned someone. Who might have learned what Cecil forced these ladies into doing? And who could be driven to commit murder because of that?”
The troops looked more enthused.
“I said this is a volunteer job. If anyone would rather not join me in this, speak now. I’ll understand if you opt out, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”
No one raised a hand.
“May I assume you’re all with me?”
I watched four heads nod.
“Good. This is what I have in mind for each of you. Bettye, do you know anyone at telephone company security?”
“No one in particular, but I’ll do my best to meet someone.”
“Okay, each time we come up with a new name, run their home, business and cell phones. Let’s see if anyone has had contact with Cecil or any of the Lovejoy clan. And everybody gets the standard computer runs for all the usual information.”
She nodded.
“Stanley, you help out with the telephone calls. Do it here, from the car when you’re not busy or from home. As we need checks done, we’ll pass them to you.”
He nodded.
“Vern, you know everybody in the district. Look around and see if you can put names to faces. Do more looking than talking. But if you do ask questions, be sure the one you ask can keep their mouth shut when you leave.”
He said, “I’ll git’er done.”
“And Junior, you’re my assistant and the utility infielder. You’ll be doing some roadwork. If I need something picked up, gotten from another agency, whatever, you’ll be doing it. Bettye will be staying inside. If she needs something, you work for her.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am, Miss Bettye.”
“First job, kid,” I said to Junior. “Do me a favor and schlep these photos back to the copy machine and make four sets of each.”
