by Wayne Zurl
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I passed the Brown’s Creek shopping center on my left, crested a small hill, passed the 1st Tennessee Bank and leveled off for a mile. Switching on my police radio, I passed an auto junkyard on my right, the road dipped, and a steep section of US 321 stretched out ahead of me. Beyond the roadway, on the horizon, Chilhowee Mountain stood prominently on the right and Ellejoy Mountain on the left.
The afternoon air felt cooler and looked crystal clear. An orange sun hung in the sky behind me. Stark definition of the trees on faraway slopes and the depth of shadows in the mountain folds offered a landscape photographer an incredible opportunity.
I moved a little faster than the rest of the traffic. Just west of an area called Lem’s Corners, I drove up on the tail end of eleven motorcyclists grouped closely together. Seven of the bikes held drivers and passengers. Four other bikers rode solo. Of the bunch, four towed small, enclosed trailers painted to match the cycles. All rode Honda Gull Wings and belonged to the over-fifty crowd, not exactly an outlaw gang. They probably intended to settle into a motel near the park or the Tremont Camp Ground, run by the National Park Service.
Someone in the pack must have made my car as an unmarked police vehicle—everyone cruised at fifty-five. I used my left signal and passed them at a little over sixty.
I looked at my watch. Five after five. I used the radio to contact Bettye.
Still at her desk after closing time, Bettye keyed the microphone. “This is Prospect Headquarters. Go ahead, Chief.”
She was a stickler for radio etiquette and did her motherly best to keep us boys in line. I tried not to annoy her with overfamiliarity on the net.
“This is Prospect One. You’ve already heard from Officer Curly. Contact Officers Larry and Moe and have them disregard previous instructions relevant to the surveillance of those subjects in the photos. Also, I assume you’ve informed all on-duty personnel to discontinue the search for that errant youth from earlier today. That situation is resolved.”
“10-4…I think.”
“I have something to discuss with you regarding a case. I’ll 10-13 you later this evening. Prospect One, out.”
“10-4, Prospect One. I’ll wait for your call.” Then she went right into a normal station sign-off message.
“Headquarters to all Prospect units, the time is 1709 hours. This station is 10-28 until 0800 hours Wednesday. County Dispatch will handle communications. Prospect headquarters, out.”
* * * *
At 5:20 p.m., I arrived home after a long, frustrating day. I parked the PD car in my driveway turnaround and entered the house through the garage. Everything in there looked neat and orderly. The brooms and tools hung on racks as they should. I saw no clutter on the floor. I walked between my clean truck and Katherine’s shiny white Subaru. The light metallic blue Healey sat on the right of the three-car garage. Life there was under control.
Inside in the cool tranquility of the house, the tension of the day began to dissipate. If I asked myself, “Do I need this job?” the little voice inside me would have replied, “What would Juanita, Randy or George be doing if that asshole Buck Webbster handled this case?” The answer jumped off the page. I found no way to argue with that.
Rather than debating with myself, I found more interest in the bottle of Glenfiddich sitting in our liquor cabinet.
Katherine stood in the kitchen drying a tall glass. Bitsey wagged her tail and gave a short, throaty bark to greet me.
Kate turned to me and kissed my cheek. “Hello, Sambo.”
“Hi ya, Kats. What’s shakin’?”
“You okay?” she asked. “You look tired.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. After you make me a drink, why don’t you call Nonie, and tell her Georgie should be out tomorrow morning. I doubt he’ll even get arraigned. I think this whole business is over. He’ll be free tomorrow.”
“Will he?”
“Yeah, have her call Joe Costello early in the morning—before the nine o’clock arraignments calendar, and he’ll tell her what she has to do. At least she’ll have a more peaceful night if she knows what to expect.”
“You have this thing solved? Did you make an arrest?”
“No arrest, but this issue is dead…like Cecil Lovejoy. Case closed, as far as I’m concerned. We’ll talk about it over dinner.”
“Yes, you’ll have to explain this one to me, but George is off the hook? You’re sure?”
“Yes, Tonto, my work here is finished. How about that drink while I put away my gun and silver bullets?”
“What are you havin’, Kemosabe?”
“Scotch, two cubes, in a short glass,” I said, then made my way upstairs to put on a clean shirt and leave my gun and holster in the drawer for the night.
When I came downstairs, she handed me the beverage I requested.
“I missed lunch today. That’s unacceptable. What’s for dinner?”
“I was pretty busy today, acting as your liaison officer with my troubled friend. I didn’t take anything out of the freezer. Sorry.”
“Ugh! I’m starving. I won’t last too long.”
“How about Mexican again?” she suggested. “El Jibarito is just ten minutes down the road, amigo. I even wore my cowgirl outfit to make the decision easier for you.”
Kate’s hair looked perfect, her makeup appeared fresh, and she wore a pair of tight blue jeans and a sleeveless, denim blouse that looked very sexy. Not exactly from the Dale Evans collection, but I guess it represented Western wear to a Polish girl from Long Island. As usual, the waiters would fawn all over the beautiful senora and pretend I didn’t exist.
I took another long sip of the Scotch already cooled by those two little ice cubes. With the day over and the solution to the murder in the palm of my hand, I felt relaxation begin to creep over me. Being gainfully employed again, I needed practice managing the stress of a police job. So far, whisky was the handiest tool.
With a little luck, everything would work out to a satisfactory conclusion. My ‘mop up’ mission was all that remained. That peaty brown water from the River Fiddich made me feel better. It warmed my stomach and began to release the remaining tension from my arms and shoulders. I rolled my head around and heard more cracking than when a fat man sits on a bag of pretzels. My mind slipped into overdrive. I saw enchiladas poblanos in my future; I could almost taste the chicken and mole’ sauce.
“Good idea, sweetie,” I said. “I’ll finish this drink, and you can drive. I’ll buy you a big margarita when we get there. Come, muchacha, we ride. Arriba!”
* * * *
Later that evening, I called Bettye and told her about the conclusion to our investigation being in sight. In the morning, I’d need phone calls to be made and taken and someone to stay in the office while I diddled around on the road. With luck, my latest strategy would begin and end in the next day or two.
George might be released unconditionally, or he might be arraigned and eligible for bail. Joe Costello would either work a deal with the D.A. to release George prior to arraignment, based on the new, mysteriously obtained evidence, or he’d arrange for a bail bondsman to put up the cash for George’s release. I felt confident the first option would be the more likely scenario.
If my idea came to fruition, all would be well. If not, things might backfire, and I’d look like an idiot. And I had no plan B in mind.
Chapter Thirty
I arrived at the office a few minutes after Bettye. For a moment, I watched her setting up for a day’s work. She noticed me and returned my stare with a questioning look. At eight o’clock, the Municipal Building is usually empty. Police personnel are the exception.
“Hi,” I said.
“Good morning, sir.”
Bettye tried waiting for me to speak again, but my silence must have annoyed her. She didn’t wait long.
“Well?” she asked. “You were gone a long time yesterday. What happened? Sam, are you goin’ to have a job after this? What did you mean, by the wa
y, errant youth? If you’re goin’ to use words like that on the radio, you better get us a new dictionary. Why are you in this early? What if—?”
“Whoa! Time out.” I gave her the football referee’s hand signal. “You sound like our friend Glenda Mae. Don’t you Southern girls ever come up for air?”
She frowned, wrinkled her nose and looked at me for a few seconds before speaking.
“Seriously, Sam, are you goin’ to get into trouble over…whatever it is you’ve done? I didn’t get much information from Stanley or from you last night.”
I gave her a serious look. “Who would dare censure me? I am champion of those caught in the undertow of life. My thoughts are pure, and my deeds are just.”
“Who said that? Laurence Olivier?”
She could be sarcastic if necessary.
“No, I did.”
“You’re a piece of work, Sam Jenkins.”
“But I have a kind face.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened, or did you plan to keep me here all day just to try out some new jokes?”
Oooo, very sarcastic.
“Gee, can I assume our honeymoon is officially over?” I said.
She chuckled at that.
“This is a long story, and I have to be at arraignments before nine o’clock. Listen and save your questions for later. I’ll be back and tell you everything. Right now, you need a quick version of what happened, as do the other guys, so after I leave, you can call them, explain a little, and have them stand down. Everything’s under control.”
She acted perfectly, sat down, crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap, waiting for my explanation.
“I found Randy Mashburn up on the Foothills Parkway, in no trouble, just in a quiet spot thinking about his future. On the phone Juanita told me Cecil learned the kid is gay and threatened to out him to the whole Lovejoy clan and anyone in East Tennessee who would listen.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy.”
“Randy agreed to return home. I drove him, as you probably know since his car ended up in our lot. What you don’t know is that I think I’ve figured out who killed Cecil Lovejoy.”
“Stanley told me you said that. Are you going to explain?”
“Yes, but it’s complicated. I need to find out a few more things before I have enough evidence to make anything public.”
“And where did you come up with this new idea?”
“From what I heard and saw yesterday. Keep your fingers crossed. As soon as I cover a few bases, I should have this all wrapped up.”
“Well, bless your heart. But you won’t tell me what you think?”
“Remember, we aren’t supposed to be investigating. What you don’t know, you don’t have to tell anyone who asks.”
“Why do you get involved in things this way?”
“I have a personality flaw. Look, yesterday the TBI people arrested George Morgan for Lovejoy’s murder. I only found out about it late yesterday after his wife called Kate.”
“George Morgan, your friend? The man from the car club?”
“Yeah, it sounds bogus to me. I think they’re using George as a patsy to satisfy Pearl Lovejoy and her father. He only had a flimsy motive, but the big argument at the car show made him look bad. They’re grasping at straws.”
She nodded, agreeing with me again or just encouraging me to explain more.
“But I have a feeling George’s attorney recently uncovered exculpatory evidence to create enough reasonable doubt for the District Attorney to drop any charges the TBI filed against him.”
“And how would you know all that?”
“Don’t ask, and don’t tell anyone else if you’re suspicious. I’ll come back here as soon as I leave the Justice Center, and we’ll talk more. I’ll explain everything.”
“Sam, you are amazin’.”
“I have an important loose end to tie up and need to see Ronnie Shields. Make an appointment with him for eleven o’clock. That should give me plenty of time at the court. Tell Trudy it’s a matter of life or death, and I can’t be put off.”
“Suppose he’s busy?”
“I have faith in you, my darling. Move heaven and earth to achieve your quest.”
“Was that Lawrence Olivier?”
“James Mason. Pretty good, huh?”
“You’re quite an experience, Sam Jenkins. You surely are.”
“See you later, kiddo.”
Personally, I never thought the two senior investigators from TBI ever found enough probable cause to charge George and make a summary arrest. But that’s only because I’m one of the sharpest and most modest cops I know.
I didn’t want to tell Bettye, or anyone else, about my new suspicions. I’d be grasping at straws myself, and I didn’t want to explain my stunt of handing the photos over to a defense attorney. Things would work better if no one had to lie to defend me—or turn me in to the mayor if they didn’t see things my way.
* * * *
Just before 9 a.m., the Blount County Justice Center began to come alive. A few deputies and court officers walked around the hallways. Civilian workers started arriving and made their ways to different offices. The arraignments part of the court opened up to handle those defendants arrested late the previous afternoon and during the overnight tours. Two corrections officers led a few defendants into the courtroom—George Morgan wasn’t one of them.
I stood in the hall outside the assistant district attorney general’s office for a long time. Without seeing him make an appearance in the courtroom, I assumed Joe began his pitch to an ADA with the power to grant him a deal. I waited impatiently.
Then I learned Joe Costello lived up to his reputation as a tenacious and crafty lawyer. Using Cecil’s photos, he convinced the on-duty ADA to ‘unarrest’ George Morgan prior to his arraignment. No kidding, unarrest is a real legal term. The ADA saw the handwriting on the wall and chose to save the people of the state of Tennessee the expense of a trial most likely ending with an acquittal.
It was after ten o’clock when Costello walked into the hallway. He saw me and smiled. I fell into step next to him as he headed out of the building.
After hearing a short explanation, I spoke. “Earned your money this morning, didn’t you?”
“Yep, got me another satisfied customer.”
“And the TBI will leave George alone now?”
“Would seem silly for them to get embarrassed more than once.”
“Good. It’s a shame George had to spend money for this, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes the system sucks, but it’s the best we’ve got.”
“I hear you.”
“I never told George how I got the information I used to get him unarrested,” he said. “I assume you haven’t told his wife either.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Good. And is it safe to assume you didn’t charge him for what you did on his behalf?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said.
“So, I guess with a friend like you…he got a good deal.”
“Better than nothing.”
“Those photos came to me at a time when I was under the attorney-client confidentiality rule. That’s what your five bucks bought ya.”
“Good. Thanks. I wish I thought of that.”
“Yeah, right. Probably wasn’t all that ethical, was it?
“Probably not, but what the hell? I’ll live with that.”
“Yep, me too.”
“Had some moral value though.”
“I think it did,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“May I make another assumption that you’ll want to hold onto these for safe keepin’?” He offered me the nine-by-twelve envelope holding the original pictures obtained from Ralph Oliveri, boy G-Man.
“You may assume that, Counselor. Some coincidence you represented the guy arrested for Lovejoy’s murder, huh?”
“Yep, amazin’. And thanks for that retainer. It covers my gas money this mornin’. If you need me t
o keep ya outta trouble, ya know where to find me.”
“Oh, yeah, my five bucks. I was meaning to talk to you about that.”
Costello laughed and waved as he closed the door on his black Lexus. I watched him drive from the Justice Center parking lot and through the green traffic light across from Blount Memorial Hospital.
I stood there for another moment in the morning sun. I felt relaxed again. So far, so good, I thought. Jenkins one; other guys zip.
It was time to see the mayor and find out how Judge Tipton learned so much about yours truly in such a short time.
Chapter Thirty-One
As I walked up the marble staircase to the second floor, the idea of my personal information being traded among those who actively sought to stymie my investigation nagged me incessantly.
I hated the thought of Bettye being responsible, but I couldn’t continue to have her within the loop if she leaked information to Minas Tipton, or even worse…to Buck Webbster.
Ronnie Shields probably knew about my unauthorized investigation, but hadn’t mustered up the courage to tell me to stop doing something legal and proper. Without ceremony, Ms. Connor announced me, and I soon sat in one of the green chairs with that snarling fish staring down at me through glassy yellow eyes.
“Ronnie, I’m sure you’ve heard I made progress on the Lovejoy murder.”
He grimaced, but said nothing.
“Maybe progress is the wrong word. I seem to have created a tidal wave some people are unhappy about.”
“I thought we agreed the TBI would handle the investigation,” he said, his normal campaign smile conspicuously absent.
“We agreed they would take primary responsibility for the case. And I gave them everything I had. But I continued to look around in my spare time. We never crossed paths. It seems they decided to look in other places. I don’t think they pursued the proper avenues.”
“Yes, well.” Ronnie didn’t look overly happy with my diligence.
“I met a guy named Minas Tipton. I assume you know him,” I said sarcastically.
The mayor nodded.
“During our conversation, I learned he possessed way too much personal information on me than his assistant could have gathered in only one or two days. That troubles me…greatly. Where do you suppose he got that information?”
