by Wayne Zurl
I hoped my thoughts were unfounded. I’d seen pictures of Mata Hari. She and Bettye looked nothing alike.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I began the next day by making a wall chart of all the people I considered suspects in Lovejoy’s murder. I don’t usually do something so theatrical, but I’ve recently seen TV cops do it, and thought I might be missing out on something if I didn’t give it a try. My list of people had grown to be formidable. All the suspects showed diversified reasons for possibly snuffing Cecil. I ended up with a tension headache. 10:30 seemed too early for a drink—even for me, so I took a fistful of Advil and hoped the headache would go away.
If I started retracing my steps, re-interviewing people and then conducting new interviews of others, I’d need a squad of experienced detectives to help out.
Of course, some of my frontrunners, like Miss Pearl herself, Travis, the son without gonads, and even Billy Joe Elam, would only tell me to go pound salt and decline my invitation for a chat. It was their right.
So, where did that leave me? I spent a couple of hours going through the drill and only made my job look more difficult. Then fate stepped in and gave me a reprieve from a task I didn’t look forward to, especially on a hot and dry July morning.
Bettye stepped into the doorway of my office looking fresh and perky. Then she told me, “Juanita Mashburn’s on the phone. She said she wants to speak with you. Said her son’s gone missin’. She’s about hysterical, Sam.”
As soon as I picked up the telephone, Juanita began dropping bombs on me.
“Mr. Jenkins, Randy’s left home. This mornin’ he wasn’t here when I got up, and his car’s gone. I’ve called his cell phone time and time again, but he won’t answer. I’m afraid somethin’s happened.”
I listened to her words between sniffles and soft sobs. Juanita cried, but she did a good job of holding back any of the hysteria she may have felt and told me her story.
“Forgive me if I ask questions that sound intrusive,” I said, “but I have to know the whole story to get an idea how to help you find Randy.”
“Uh-huh.” She sniffed again.
I envisioned her doing serious damage to a box of tissues.
“Did you two have an argument last night or recently? Anything that may have prompted him take off on you?”
“No, sir, Randy and I are gettin’ along just fine. He’s a good boy. I never have to come down on him for anythin’.”
“Perhaps he made plans to go somewhere with friends, and you’ve forgotten about them. Have you called around to speak with his usual crowd or their parents?”
“Sir, Randy doesn’t have a lot of friends, only a couple of boys from school. I spoke to all of them and their parents this mornin’, and no one’s seen or heard from him.”
“In my own case, my parents were always the last to know what I was up to. That makes me ask if it’s possible Randy may have taken off to, uh…be with a girl? Did you find a bunch of his clothes missing? You don’t think he tried to elope or something like that, do you?”
There was silence on the line. Then I heard more sniffles, and the sound of Juanita wiping her nose. Then she cried again. I assumed she needed time to compose herself. I waited.
“Mr. Jenkins, I think I need to tell you somethin’ very important.” Juanita paused again to catch her breath. She sounded almost on the verge of hyperventilating. “Sir, for some time now, I’ve known that Randy wouldn’t be havin’ a girlfriend like other boys his age.” After another few moments of silence she continued. “He and I have spoken about this, and I’m okay with what he’s told me. Sir, Randy’s…gay.”
Remember what I said about liking smooth? If I read my horoscope, I’m sure there would be some mention of bumps, potholes or even sink holes for the month of July.
“I can only imagine what a young man might feel like once he’s acknowledged something like that.” I spoke with as much compassion as I could project. “Has Randy come to terms with what his life is going to be like?”
“Yes, sir, I think he has—for the most part. He’s not ready to let the rest of the world know all about it, but he’s able to accept what God’s planned for him.”
“Sorry again, but could he have gone off with another boy?”
“No, I don’t think that happened.”
She paused again. I didn’t hear the sniffles or any audible crying, so I assumed she was trying to formulate a way to tell me something important.
“Recently, my father learned about Randy bein’ gay. Daddy, bein’ the way he is…was, I’m sure he’s the last person Randy would want to know about him. Daddy confronted Randy, made fun of him and made him feel just awful.”
She took another sniffle break.
“I tried to stop it,” she said, “but my father is not one to be stopped when he’s having fun at someone else’s expense. I felt so sorry for Randy, I could have just died. Daddy actually threatened to tell everyone in the family and anyone else who’d listen, that Randy was…oh, God have mercy, he used the word queer.”
I waited again for some full-blown crying to pass.
“He was horrible to my son, Mr. Jenkins. I just hated it. Randy tried not to show how much he hurt, but he cried and ran from the room.”
“When did that happen?”
“About a week ago.”
Just before Cecil left for the happy hunting ground.
“Did you find out how your father learned about Randy, or do you know if he told anyone else before he died?”
“I don’t think he told anyone, and he didn’t say how he learned. I don’t know for sure.”
“What I’m going to ask now may sound dramatic, and it may scare you, but I have to know what you think. Could Randy have any thoughts about suicide?”
She answered quickly. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. He’s never said anything about that. Randy’s been kind of quiet since he had that run-in with Daddy, but I think I would have noticed if he looked depressed enough for that to be on his mind. No, I don’t think so.”
“Do you keep a gun in the house, or does Randy have access to one?”
“No, sir, even Randy’s father didn’t own a gun. We’ve no need for one.”
“Is Randy’s father living at home?”
“No, sir, he got killed in the First Gulf War, back in ’91.”
“I’m sorry I had to ask. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories. Is there any other man Randy would talk to about this—a teacher, a minister or your brother perhaps?”
“Oh, Lord have mercy, no. Nobody would talk to Travis about anythin’ serious, and I can’t think of anyone but me that Randy would talk with.”
“Okay, let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope his car just ran out of gasoline, and he’s waiting for a ride to a station. I’ll have my officers search all around Prospect. As soon as we’re finished on the phone, I’ll go out there myself and start looking. If you hear from Randy, please call Officer Lambert at our main number as soon as you know anything. I’ll have her call his cell phone periodically. You should, too. What is that number?”
She told me.
“I’ll keep checking in with you and Officer Lambert throughout the day. Now, can you give me a description of his car and the plate number?”
I took the information on the boy’s car and listened to a few of her ideas about where Randy might go. I did my best to keep her hopes up.
I didn’t want to put out an alarm over the county police radio network just then. I asked Bettye to call each of the on-duty patrolmen on their cell phones and give them orders to look for Randy Mashburn.
If I was a seventeen-year-old boy with a monumental problem hanging over my head, and I may have murdered my grandfather because he was a world-class turd who just complicated my life, where would I go to mull over my future? With a few ideas of my own, I’d begin my search.
Before I hit the road, I said, “Bettye, make sure the Three Musketeers have all the new info we got on those four women,
their husbands, that one boyfriend and the ex-Marine. But tell them just to take an occasional look at these people. They shouldn’t speak with anyone yet, but let the suspects see them. We may find out being watched makes them nervous, and someone will do something stupid. I don’t know if any of that will do any good, but at least we’re doing something. Okay?”
“Okey dokey, boss.”
“Right now, finding Randy Mashburn is the top priority. As you hear from the cops on the road, get progress reports and pass on the information so no one duplicates efforts. If the evening shift comes on duty before I get back, tell them to hop on this one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can the phone company get a fix on the kid’s cell phone if you ring the number?”
“If he has it on, maybe. But, Sam, there are so many dead spots around here because of the mountains, maybe not.”
“Give it a try, but I guess old-fashioned police work is all we’ve got. Anyway, I hate technology.”
She smiled and indulged my technophobia.
“Don’t you worry, Sam. I’ll take care of everything.”
“I thought you might.” I winked. “As Rick said to Louis in Casablanca, ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”
“Yes, sir. I think so, too.”
* * * *
July in the Smokies can be crowded. Millions of tourists visit the National Park and stay in the motels, campgrounds, rental cabins and B&Bs in all the surrounding towns.
If you wanted to be alone in the mountains during July, you needed to find a place the tourists didn’t frequent. Randy drove a car, so my job wouldn’t be easy, but I had to start somewhere.
There’s no shade in the parking lot of the Municipal Building. Waves of heat distortion hovered above the blacktop behind my car. The shimmering surface of a puddle-like mirage appeared just before a sidewalk separated the car park from Main Street. I sat on a sizzling driver’s seat, touched a steering wheel that burned my hand and switched on the ignition. Turning the air conditioner to maximum and the fan on high, I left Prospect and drove toward Townsend, waiting for my car to cool.
I’m a little old to assume the mentality of a twenty-first century high school boy, but I tried to put myself into Randy’s head. First, I checked Dry Valley, a quiet spot with plenty of trees to park under and contemplate the future. I liked that place. The lonely valley affords visitors plenty of privacy, but Randy wasn’t there.
He also hadn’t driven up to Rich Mountain Road, a scenic stretch with great views that twisted through Townsend as a paved rural lane and turned into a limited access, gravel road when it crossed over the national park boundary. Strike two. I checked two more equally secluded and equally shady places—strikes three and four.
After my first attempts at finding his hiding place proved ineffective, I thought about that man shoveling sand against the tide. I hadn’t eaten lunch. When I don’t eat on schedule, I get cranky.
After noon, the temperature soared—much higher than the WNXX TV weatherman predicted. I sweltered every time I stepped from the car, and the air conditioner strained to keep the interior cool. I began heading west and planned to drive along the lonely eighteen miles of the Foothills Parkway, a winding mountain road owned and patrolled by the National Park Service.
The parkway begins off Highway 321 where Walland, Townsend and Prospect meet. It runs along the ridge of the Chilhowee Mountains and snakes its way down to the community of Tallassee, where US 129 follows the shore of Chilhowee Lake.
I love to take the Healey up on the parkway and make use of the serpentine road by drastically exceeding the speed limit. That day in the Crown Victoria, looking for Randy, I drove slowly.
Halfway through the eighteen miles of park road, I found the Look Rock Overlook on my left. Parked with the top down, in the only shady spot available, sat a solitary Honda S2000 roadster. The vanity plate said RANDY-M. No one occupied the little car.
I hoped Juanita had been correct, and Randy entertained no thoughts of suicide. If he did, Look Rock offered the perfect place for it. I parked and walked to the observation platform, hanging there, cantilevered, hundreds of feet above the rocky valley below.
From that vantage point someone could look south, through the soft blue haze, toward Abrams Creek and over the mountains into North Carolina. In the opposite direction, West Miller’s Cove, a place that gained recognition for its world-class and worldly-priced Blackberry Farms Inn and Restaurant waited for all the well-heeled tourists. All around me, I saw evidence why the Cherokee called these hills the Great Smoky Mountains.
Leaning on the guardrail under a hackberry tree, Randy Mashburn looked quiet and thoughtful. At the top of the five steps over the platform, I cleared my throat to announce my presence. I stepped down next to him. He didn’t turn.
“A little cooler up here in the shade, isn’t it?” I asked.
Randy looked at my face, recognized me, nodded slightly and returned his gaze to the hazy blue folds of the mountains separating Tennessee from the Carolinas.
“Your mom’s worried about you. Were you thinkin’ about heading home anytime soon?”
“I don’t know,” he said, sounding bewildered. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and rested his elbows back on the guardrail. “I don’t know what to do. I suppose she called you. Did she tell you the whole story?”
“She didn’t tell me much,” I lied. “Only that she thought you were upset, and she’s worried about you. She said it was unlike you to take off without telling her or leaving a note. Anything you want to tell me yourself?”
“Oh, man, it’s a long story.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I may as well tell someone.”
“Sometimes that helps.” I shrugged, wondering what I’d hear next. “I’ve got time, and I can be discreet if I have to.”
Randy went into detail about acknowledging his homosexuality. He spoke of his confusion, the initial shame, his attempts to accept his lot in life and the few clandestine liaisons he had with other boys.
He said he attempted to handle things by himself, afraid to tell anyone or even think of getting professional help to resolve his conflict. Initially, telling me the story looked difficult for the boy. But after a few minutes, his body language showed discussing it provided relief.
He said his mother had been unconditionally supportive, understanding and loving when he finally confided in her. Ultimately, he thought it possible to foster up the courage and come out of his closet prison. Then, as he began feeling emotionally better about himself, up stepped Cecil with his threats and set the boy’s mental progress back to point one.
Randy stared at me for a long moment. His blue eyes glassed over, on the verge of tears. Perhaps uncharacteristic of me, I felt uncomfortable with what he might next tell me.
“So, what do you think?” he asked.
I smiled, trying to lighten him up a little. “Wow, when you started, I thought you were going to tell me something really horrible—like you’re left-handed.”
He smiled, too, a good genuine smile. Sometimes my offbeat humor paid dividends.
“Nosir.” He shook his head and used the back of his hand to wipe the corner of his eye, “I mean what do I do? You know.”
I hate it when people ask for a dose of Jenkins philosophy.
“Randy, I’m not going to tell you your life will be easy. The entire world isn’t ready to accept gay people as it accepts heterosexuals. But you are gay. It’s who you are. It’s a natural occurrence. Nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe someday you’ll find someone who’ll love you, and you’ll have a partner to live your life with. Who knows?”
He kept looking at me, nodding. I guess I had said something right.
“Right now your mother loves you. She’s proven that. You’re her son. She accepts you as you are and not what someone else wants you to be.”
A smile crossed his lips. I thought he liked what he just heard.
�
��I’ve heard from many people that your grandfather wasn’t the easiest guy to get along with.” That was one hell of an understatement. “What he thought and what he said are no longer things you have to worry about. So, now you have to become your own person, and maybe you’ll have to be a tough guy, someone who’s able to live with the things nasty people like your granddad say to you in the future.”
“You know,” he said, “I’m responsible for what happened to my grandfather.”
That’s the moment a detective waits for. Bingo, you just talked a confession out of a suspect. You didn’t have to smack him around or scare the daylights out of him to do it. You gained his trust, and you let his need to confess take over. But was that a good confession? Did Randy really kill his grandfather? He didn’t say that.
I’ll admit I just put him on my list of possibles, but I never had any big money riding on him.
I listened to him pour his heart out to me, explaining a very important aspect of his life. Perhaps I gained his trust, and now he wanted to confess to me. Or perhaps I hadn’t, and this was a red herring. It seemed too easy.
Homosexuality, although frowned upon by many (especially in this neck of the woods) is no longer an offense—the Supreme Court says so. He told me he was gay; he didn’t confess to a punishable crime. Although difficult for him in the beginning, coming out of the closet would not be an end to the boy’s life.
In my experience, you have to really sweat a teenager to make them ‘fess up to any illegal conduct. Most seventeen-year-old kids would deny stealing a bag of Doritos if you caught them with a mouthful of chips.
So, after becoming my buddy, would Randy in general conversation say, ‘Hey, Sam, guess what? I whacked my papaw. Want to write this one up for me? Gimme the statement, I’ll sign.’
The one thing that confuses a jury most is having the wrong person confess. Even worse is when two people confess to the same crime, and they weren’t acting in concert. Juanita Mashburn also occupied a spot on my hit parade of suspects. The old photos of the fifteen-year-old girl I got from Ralph Oliveri looked an awful lot like a young Juanita.
I didn’t want Randy claiming to be the murderer to protect his mother. I also didn’t want two people getting on a witness stand, both saying, ‘Hey, I did it.’
