A New Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “Now hold on, Sam. We’re standin’ here talkin’ away, and I’ve not yet asked you if you’d like a drink. Is it too early for you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. As they say, it’s four o’clock somewhere in the world, isn’t it?”

  I nodded to that.

  “Billy Joe, make yourself one, and I’ll have the usual. Sam, I’ve got a nice, old bottle of Gentleman Jack here if you’re a sour mash drinker.”

  “Scotch, if you have it, please.”

  “Johnny Walker suit you?” he asked. I nodded.

  “Billy, some of that Johnny Black for the Chief. How do you want it, Sam? Just tell Billy there.”

  I turned and looked toward Billy. “Just a couple of cubes, Sarge. Thanks very much.”

  “Come on now, Sam, take a seat, and we’ll keep on talkin’. I’m enjoyin’ your company.”

  I couldn’t argue with him there—so far the old boy sounded personable, damn personable, indeed.

  The judge continued with just how much he knew about me. “Young Billy here also learned you were quite a soldier, too. Good record all around. Started out as a private, got up to sergeant in a short time, commissioned as an officer after that. Had your share of medals and seemed to volunteer for everything. Reserve time after active duty. More good things said about you. I’m impressed, Sam, I am impressed.”

  “I think I’m impressed with Billy doing so much investigating in so little time. You want a job in Prospect, Sarge?”

  Not a flicker of smile. Billy Joe needed a sense-of-humor transplant. Should I believe that background investigation started only a day or two ago?

  “Billy’s a good boy,” Tipton said. “He’s been with me a long time now, since he was only a deputy. Long time now. Right, Billy?”

  Billy nodded his shaved head.

  “Judge, you’ve been retired for sixteen years.” I wanted him to know I did some checking myself. “And you still have a bodyguard. Ex-presidents don’t maintain a Secret Service protective detail that long. You must be an important and respected man.”

  “Oh, I still keep my hat in the political arena here and there. I’ve got my share of friends. The sheriff is good enough to keep Billy on loan to me. He’s a good boy—like a son to me. Right, Billy?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m happy to be here with you.”

  Billy really didn’t look all that happy.

  As we sat there bonding and drinking the Judge’s whiskey, the lady with the shirtwaist dress came in and said, “Judge, lunch is ready. If y’all take your seats, I’ll serve for ya.”

  “Thank you, Loretta,” he said. “Gentlemen, we are summoned to dine.”

  Judge Tipton, Billy Joe Elam and I sat in the formal dining room that adjoined the parlor. The furnishings were equal to those in the room we just left, the one I scrutinized earlier, but original oils and watercolors I’d enjoy owning replaced the personal photographs of the living room.

  Loretta started all three of us off by filling our crystal glasses full of an expensive, Russian River Valley chardonnay.

  “I hope you like dry wine, Sam. Personally, I detest anything sweet,” the Judge said. “Sam, be honest now. What do you think of genuine Tennessee food?”

  “Like squirrel and corn bread?”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha. Oh, Sam, there you go again. No, son, I mean all this modern deep-fried food these local rascals insist on makin’. You like it?”

  His phony belly laugh began to sound right to me.

  “Well, I don’t mean to offend the locals—and some deep-fried foods do taste good, but I guess if I wanted to abuse my cardiovascular system in the foulest manner, I’d do it quickly and just mainline 10W–40 oil.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha. Well said, Sam, well said indeed. I agree, I surely do agree. I used to eat all the fried fish, fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, French-fried potatoes—what did I leave out? I loved it. But my doctor told me, ‘Minas, you keep eatin’ all that fatty food, and you’re gonna die of cholesterol poisonin.’ Ha, ha, ha, ha. So I started eatin’ more healthy. I’ll bet you like good food, don’t you, Sam?”

  “Yes, sir, good food is the best thing since 3-D and the hula hoop.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha. Well good. Real good. I thought so. You like Cajun food, Sam?”

  Sam nodded like a good little boy visiting his kindly old Uncle Minas.

  “Good. I had Loretta make us some grilled catfish, okra gumbo and dirty rice. Okay with you?”

  Sam nodded again. Sam was hungry. What a nice old man—or so I thought.

  The chardonnay tasted excellent. I’d remember the label and buy a bottle. Kate would enjoy it.

  Loretta’s catfish had a healthy hint of spice, but wasn’t too hot. She made it crispy, but it wasn’t deep-fried, and the gumbo scored an exquisite on the Jenkins food chart. If I didn’t want to maintain my professionalism and decorum, I would have asked for seconds, gobbled it up, burped and taken a snooze on the genuine Federal Period sofa in the parlor.

  After finishing lunch, we remained at the table sipping the last of our wine. Quickly, Loretta and an unnamed assistant removed all the dishes.

  Then the Judge asked, “Sam, would you like a brandy before we move back to the livin’ room?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I’m fine. I want to get my shiny new police car back to Prospect in one piece.”

  “All right then. Let’s go grab a seat inside and talk some more,” he said.

  As we walked back into the living room and found seats, I wondered how James Bond felt after having lunch with Goldfinger. Billy Joe looked taller than Odd-Job, but seemed potentially as mean and dangerous. I didn’t see a steel-brimmed derby hanging on a hat rack in the entrance hall, so that was a good thing.

  I should have restored an Aston-Martin instead of an Austin-Healey, just in case Billy Joe started to chase me one day. I had neglected to install the heat seeking rockets and machine guns in the Healey and felt ill prepared.

  The judge made a stop at the sideboard where the liquor bottles stood. He added a couple of cubes to a short glass and poured it half full of Jack Daniels.

  “Sam, I understand my grandson Travis paid you a visit yesterday,” Tipton said.

  Okay, here we go.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I shifted in my chair, smiled and got comfortable enough to answer the Judge’s question about his corpulent grandson.

  “Yes, he did. We had a nice long talk in my office.”

  “Come on now, Sam. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. A man of your intelligence wouldn’t need five minutes of talkin’ with Travis to know he’s nothin’ but a petulant, young pain-in-the-ass. I don’t think anyone has ever had a nice conversation with Travis.”

  My sentiments exactly. I couldn’t help smiling. “Judge, can we get to the bottom line here? I enjoyed the shit out of our lunch today. I think you’re the most interesting and intelligent man I’ve met since I moved to Blount County. But I know I’m here for a reason. Just tell me what it is.”

  “Sam, thank you. Well said, well said indeed. And thank you for the compliment. It does mean something coming from you.”

  He paused as if gathering his thoughts—which I was sure he didn’t need to do.

  “You know, Sam, you’ve got more balls than anyone I’ve met for a long time. You don’t get intimidated easily, do you, son?”

  I remained quiet and just looked at him.

  “You’re not afraid of either big Billy Joe here or me, are you?”

  “I’ve yet to see a reason to be. Should I?”

  The Judge skipped answering and continued. “The truth of the matter, Sam, is that my daughter is getting upset with you. Did you know that?”

  He waited for me to answer, but I took my time. “From what Travis told me, I assumed she was. Travis isn’t smart enough or assertive enough to have an original idea of his own. I thought she might have sent him. Or Travis wanted to please her and tried to warn me off himself. My question is—why?
Travis said she called someone—I now assume that someone was you—who then called other people with enough political clout to convince Ronnie Shields to give the Cecil Lovejoy case to the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

  The old judge sat as still as a corpse, neither confirming nor denying my allegation.

  “I did as asked,” I said. “They have all my reports. Now the TBI can circle their wagons, load their rifles and go look for a murderer. Good luck to them. It certainly takes the pressure off me.”

  Still not a flicker of movement came from either the Judge or his assistant.

  “What puzzles me is why your daughter is so concerned that I’m conducting my own inquiries into Cecil’s death. I’d think any victim’s family would be happy to have all the enthusiastic and competent help available within the system to find the killer and give them the closure they need.”

  Tipton nodded slowly. “I fear you’re right, Sam. You’re right indeed. This is all Pearl’s idea. Certainly not something Travis thought up himself. My daughter is headstrong, sometimes too much so. She’s much like her mother, rest her soul. Pearl gets an idea, and she can’t shake it—no matter what common sense should tell her and no matter what I say.”

  “Judge, your daughter offended me. It’s not something I can’t live with, because I understand the position she’s in. She’s a wealthy woman, thanks to her late husband. But it didn’t take me very long to learn that Cecil was far from an ideal man.”

  I gave that a moment to sink in.

  “Because of his lifestyle,” I said, “I feel sorry for her and up to a point cut your daughter some slack with her bad manners. It’s apparent Pearl valued Cecil’s money more than her independence and perhaps more than her self-esteem and dignity.”

  Tipton took a sip of whiskey, but still didn’t give away a hint of emotion. I thought he might be envisioning himself back in a courtroom, playing the wise old jurist for me.

  “Obviously, she finds me defiant,” I said. “I haven’t rolled over for her. She’s used to getting her way, and I’m not the kind of civil servant she’s accustomed to dealing with. I didn’t take her hints, and now here we are. As you implied, Travis is not the shiniest leaf on your family tree. But, I believe he feels a necessity to protect his mother and parrot her wishes.”

  Years on the bench weren’t wasted on the judge. I talked, and he learned just what I knew. At that point, I didn’t care. I hoped to flush something out of him.

  “I’m still confused here, Judge,” I said. “The TBI and all their resources are in the lead with this case. However, I’m not seeing any investigation where the crime was committed. Actually, I’m not seeing much investigating at all. On the other hand, I’m another story. My interests are piqued, and I like to work. What harm might occur if I learned the killer’s identity? Pearl’s problem seems unfounded to me.”

  “Everything you’ve said is, of course, true, Sam. One-hundred-percent true. Cecil Lovejoy was wealthy—you can’t begin to imagine how wealthy—but he left much to be desired as a man and a husband. He was a scoundrel at best, but actually much worse.”

  The Judge sipped more Gentleman Jack. I glanced at Billy Joe who held his glass, but had yet to drink.

  “I will admit something to you, Sam, and I don’t mind if you quote me. I am not unhappy to see Cecil Lovejoy dead, not unhappy at all. I believe my daughter may have mixed feelings though. She married him when she was not quite twenty-years-old. He was twenty-two. Do the math, Sam. That’s a long time to be together.”

  He gave a quick snort, implying the marriage lasted too long for him.

  “I further admit,” he said, “I was no help solving Pearl’s problems at home. I regret that, but a father can only do so much to influence a stubborn woman. Why she didn’t leave that son-of-a-bitch years ago I can’t imagine. The money, I suppose. But as you said, what price can you pay to endure grief and unhappiness? What good was all that money to her? Her health and her soul are no longer what they should be.”

  I started getting what I came for. The old boy stopped listening and began opening up. We had reversed roles.

  “Now that Cecil is dead,” he said, “I can help her handling his asset-heavy estate. My daughter and her children will need cash to live in the style to which they have become accustomed. I can help her convert some of his property into cash. Lord knows she wouldn’t know how.”

  I practiced my poker face while the Judge spoke. Billy Joe sat quietly, listening and watching.

  “Sam, you’ve got all the right things to say and all the right questions to ask. I wish to God that over the years this county had a few sheriffs with your background and your ability. The fella there now—he’s a nice boy, from a good Christian family. But he was never a policeman before, Sam. Never a real policeman like you. He relies on his higher-ranking deputies to tell him what to do and show him how to do it.”

  He drained his glass of sour mash and shook the cubes.

  “How I wish this county had a man like you as its highest ranking police official.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Billy, get me a brandy, please.”

  Billy went to the sideboard, poured from a crystal decanter and handed a snifter to the Judge. Tipton took a long pull, another deep breath and continued.

  “The current sheriff is well situated and has higher political aspirations, Sam. He plans to run for some state office or possibly an even higher one. Probably thinks he can get himself to Washington some day—maybe he can. Good luck to him.”

  He began to look tired and took another sip of the brandy. I assumed for medicinal purposes.

  “That would leave a spot open for a new sheriff. How would you like the job, son? I do believe you’d make one hell of a sheriff. I’d see to it that you get the nomination. And as you probably know that would mean you’d be a shoo-in to be elected. Talk to me about that, Sam.”

  “Judge, I’m flattered. You, too, say all the right things. I think you can spot an egotistical guy a mile away, and you know how to work on that. Perhaps at one time I would have jumped at your offer, like a kid promised a new pony.”

  He showed me his first smile in several minutes.

  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but I have to ask, because I have a suspicious nature. As a cop, when someone offers me a cup of coffee or a free meal, I wonder if they just like to see me well fed, or do they expect something in return? If I accepted your offer, would you expect something from me now or in the future? Again, no offense intended, but you’re not a young man, how long could you let this favor hang? Or would my soul be on account with some higher power that you are currently representing?”

  “Sam, for someone not in politics you understand the system quite well, don’t you? Of course, I’d ask for your cooperation with something, and I need it now. I won’t ask you to violate the law or commit an immoral act. I spoke to the director of the TBI and asked him to assign people to investigate Cecil’s murder. I’d like to see him do that—without any assistance or interference from you or your crew there in Prospect. The TBI people will do their job. They may even find the killer. But there’s something they won’t do as well. Something that if you closed this case, you may not be able to overlook. Something I won’t ask you to overlook. You see, Sam, in my own way, I’m actually looking after you here. You see?”

  I began to see a crystal clear picture. And the old boy claimed to have my best interest at heart. Could I get any luckier?

  “I wanted those folks at TBI to handle this because I didn’t know you,” he said. “Oh, people assured me that you were capable enough to catch a killer, but that’s not my point here, not my point at all. You and I both know what a no good rogue Cecil was, don’t we? I would hate for detailed information about his private life to become public knowledge. I would hate for my daughter, with all her problems, to suffer further humiliation. I just don’t know how much more she could endure. Her health is not good for a woman her age. For God’s sake, Sam, she hardly eats any more. Her ner
ves are on edge all the time, and all this takes a terrible toll on her and the children. I worry about her, Sam. I truly worry about her.”

  Tipton drained the snifter of brandy, set it on the cocktail table and absentmindedly straightened the ascot that needed no adjustment.

  “The reason I asked the TBI to assume responsibility for this case,” he said, “was to save you from makin’ a decision down the line that would perhaps compromise your own principles in not telling the whole truth—about Cecil Lovejoy’s disgustin’ lifestyle. As a judge, I know how certain facts may be material to a major case prosecution, and how they may have to be disclosed and become public record. Do you understand my position here, Sam?”

  I think the Judge saw me as a tough nut to crack. Perhaps he thought I played hard-to-get to increase the prize I’d be willing to accept to play ball. Or perhaps he saw me as a hopeless romantic who believed in truth, justice and the American way and wouldn’t give an inch of compromise to see the Pope sing Strangers in the Night on the pitcher’s mound of Yankee Stadium.

  He still showed dignity and maintained his cool, but his frustration showed through around the edges. He had yet to plead with me, but it became obvious he wanted me to take pity on an old man and a family who knew years of embarrassment because of Cecil Lovejoy. I almost felt sorry for everyone involved.

  “I understand, Judge,” I said, “and I appreciate you taking the time to explain this to me. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you. Look, I’m not a heartless person. I don’t seek publicity, nor do I wish to use this or any other case to show my employers what a sharp cop they hired. I’m too old for things like that. Just because I don’t like your daughter, I won’t engage in wholesale muckraking to vilify Cecil Lovejoy and intentionally embarrass her—or you—or the rest of your family.”

  I regretted not accepting that other drink he offered.

  “Judge, I’ve dealt with some extremely sensitive matters, and no one without a legitimate need to know about those things ever learned anything from me. I don’t make water cooler conversation about other people’s dirty laundry.”

  I took a sidelong glance and watched Billy Joe pick up the Judge’s snifter and refill it with brandy. The old boy had some capacity for booze.