Killer Nashville Noir:
Cold-Blooded
edited by
Clay Stafford
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2015 by American Blackguard, Inc.
This copyright applies to the collection as a whole. The individual stories therein remain the property of their respective authors.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition October 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-877-4
To Jacqueline
Special Thanks
I would be remiss if I didn’t thank those who helped make this anthology possible: Jacqueline Stafford and Eddie Lightsey who helped me bring about the first Killer Nashville in 2006 (and specifically Jacqueline, who has helped guide the past ten years); Gwen Hunter (aka Faith Hunter) who inadvertently connected me with the people who would share my vision for Killer Nashville; the writers herein who contributed their works; the staff of American Blackguard, including Beth Terrell (aka author Jaden Terrell), Maria Giordano, Tracy Bunch, and the ever-reliable Will Chessor who watches my back with his paranoid list as though it were his own; the staff, volunteers, attendees, and alumni of Killer Nashville; Barnes & Noble Community Business Development Manager and my brother-in-spirit Robbie Bryan who gets credit for the moniker Killer Nashville; independent bookstores; Greg and Mary Bruss of Mysteries & More, one of the most incredible independent bookstores ever on the planet (enjoy retirement, my friends); the Stafford clan: Jacqueline, Ellis, and Adeline who sometimes miss their dad more than they see him; Jill Marr, Andrea Cavallaro, and the staff at Sandra Dijkstra Agency who believed in this anthology from the start; Julie Schoerke, who makes me laugh, along with Marissa Curnutte, Sarah Frost, Chelsea Apple, and the support staff at JKS Communications; Randall Klein, Mary Cummings, Sarah Masterson Hally, Elizabeth Brown, Christopher Mahon, and the rest of the team at Diversion Books; our numerous supporters these past ten years, but especially Mystery Writers of America and the MWA authors who believed in Killer Nashville from the beginning: Frankie Bailey, Sandra Balzo, Sallie Bissell, Cara Black, Linda Black, Steve Brewer, Chester Campbell, Nora Charles, Jane Cleland, Carla Damron, Cindy Daniel, Nelson DeMille, Laura Durham, Mary Eaddy, Janet Evanovich, Linda Fairstein, Margery Flax, Lee Goldberg, Joel Goldman, Daniel J. Hale, Charlaine Harris, Jeremiah Healy, Lynne Heitman, Ted Hertel, Harry Hunsicker, Leslie S. Klinger, Robert Knightly, R.T. Lawton, D.P. Lyle, Michele Martinez, Karen McCullough, Paula Munier, Barbara Parker, P.J. Parrish (Kelly Nichols & Kristy Montee), Gary Phillips, Cathy Pickens, Chris Roerden, Lisa Scottoline, Brian Thornton, Charles Todd, James Lincoln Warren, Kathryn Wall, Bob Williamson, and master advocate and cheerleader Reed Farrel Coleman—I’ve not forgotten any of you; and Sisters in Crime; and Readers. Where in the world would we be without Readers? We all thank you the most.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Special Thanks
Introduction
“In Plain Sight” by Jefferson Bass
“Kissin’ Don’t Kill” by Catriona McPherson
“Ripple” by Baron R. Birtcher
“The Hunt for Skippy Walker” by Donald Bain
“Rich Talk” by C. Hope Clark
“Mailman” by Jonathan Stone
“High Noon at Dollar Central” by Maggie Toussaint
“Repressed” by Jeffery Deaver
“The Coal Torpedo” by Blake Fontenay
“Giving Blood” by Jon Jefferson
“Shutter Speed” by Anne Perry
“He’ll Kill Again” by Heywood Gould
“Lullabies and Lightning Storms” by Dana Chamblee Carpenter
“The Keepsake” by Mary Burton
“Peace, Sometimes” by Jaden Terrell
“A Matter of Honor” by Robert Dugoni & Paula Gail Benson
“Sad Like a Country Song” by Eyre Price
“Second Thoughts” by Steven James
“The Virgo Affair” by Daco
“Savage Gulf” by Clay Stafford
Author Biographies
Introduction
I love a good story, any story, and the idea has been circulating in my head for years of creating an anthology exclusively with Killer Nashville alumni. I’d prefer to let the stories speak for themselves, but as the founder of Killer Nashville, and since these are Killer Nashville alumni, it might be prudent to say a little about Killer Nashville itself.
Writers and readers of all genres—fiction and nonfiction—are, to me, some of the most important and awesome people on the planet. I can’t soak up enough of either. I read around 400 books per year, and even then, I feel I’m slacking. Why? Because the relationship between writer and reader cannot be explained in any other way than magical. Writers and readers both champion against injustice, they right wrongs, they say eloquently the things that others dare not say, they change the world; collectively in my romantic mind, they are the true Round Table. And the best writers do it in a way so entertainingly that we readers have no choice other than to be led along. That’s when I know I’m as close to heaven as someone can get here on earth.
I’ve always been envious of the past, romantic times that probably weren’t as romantic as their legends lend them to be, but nonetheless—The Socrates School, The Dymock Poets, The Inklings, The Factory, The Bloomsbury Group, The Algonquin Roundtable, Stratford-on-Odeon—assemblies where writers and thinkers met to share visions, network, and find first criticism for their works-in-progress. So, in this new electronic age, I had the idea for an intimate writing group that could dreamily span around the world and connect writers with other writers, connect writers to people in the industry, connect writers with information relating to publishing, connect genre writers with scientists, academics, government officials, and law enforcement in order to make for truthful writing, and—most importantly—connect writers with readers. I envisioned a place where new writers could mingle with old writers without egos or pretension. I saw a place where the torch of knowledge and craft could be passed, where an experienced generation could give back to the new. I saw a place where there was no arrogance or comparison between genre or literary, where it only came down to good writing and good stories, and the participants were secure enough in themselves to know that good writing can be found in any genre. I welcomed the idea of conversing with a writer or reader from Paris—Tennessee or France. Thus was the idea of Killer Nashville.
In 2006, we had our first literary conference—more a symposium—of around sixty close and distant friends. Last year, we neared 500 visitors from around the world, with six concurrent tracks over the course of nearly four full days, and just last month I was told that our Tweet impressions alone have jumped to an average of over 22,000 weekly. Killer Nashville has grown beyond my imagination, but it isn’t about numbers. I’m not a numbers guy. I’m a writer and a reader. Killer Nashville is a family, a community of people who gather together and support each other. It is a place where unpublished writers become published writers, where seasoned writers become better, and where readers discover new authors to love. We became so collective, in fact, that in 2013, Publishers Weekly recognized Killer Nashville as pla
ying “an essential role in defining which books become bestsellers” throughout “the nation’s book culture”. And what’s so cool about Killer Nashville is that its backbone is volunteer-based and has been from the very start. Sure we have to pay someone to do our website, but the spine of Killer Nashville is its volunteers giving their time to each other without ego and without hope of monetary reward. It’s all for one and one for all…for a good story. For me, it’s the best writer’s group to which I could ever belong. I have found my own romantic times.
Following that first year, the vision of Killer Nashville has expanded. The volunteers and small staff of Killer Nashville work year round making writers’ dreams come true. Our Silver Falchion Award honors authors of the best books readily available to a North American audience in any format within the past year in multiple genres. The Claymore Award is given to authors of unpublished manuscripts where nearly every winner and most of the finalists have found agent representation and a traditional book (even a movie) deal. We’ve helped hundreds of writers get their works published and we’ve helped even more expand their audiences to new readers. We’ve started a free online international magazine. Socially, the conference alone has brought over $1.5 million into the Nashville economy. Excluding our economic impact, we donate over $80,000 worth of books to organizations every year, encouraging adults and children alike to read. We’ve worked with literacy groups and universities. We’ve helped build libraries in Africa. We’ve encouraged authors to “adopt” children living in foreign poverty because if these children don’t eat, they can’t possibly learn to read, and they can’t change their communities. And, of course, in celebration of our tenth year, we now have an annual short story series, a new chapter for us—the first of which you hold in your hands—from the incredible staff at Diversion Books starring only Killer Nashville alumni with new stories, never before published, from first timers and veterans alike. From Hong Kong to Scotland, Italy to Australia, France to Africa, Canada to Brazil, and now from the great folks at Diversion Books, the network of writers and readers continues to grow.
But it all comes down to this, something magical that is not found in what Killer Nashville does, but rather in what a story does to you. No matter which charitable activities our authors are involved in, it all traces back to this, and this is what I alluded to in the initial paragraphs above. In the end, stories are a magical, transcendent dialogue. They are telepathy at its finest, and that’s why—after a lifetime of reading and writing—I still can’t get over the magic, I still can’t read enough. I can still sit down with these authors from around the world, read their words, and mentally have that conversation. A writer sees something, writes it down, and then sends it across the world—or even across millennia—to a new reader who makes it live again via books, electronics, spoken word, traditional means, nontraditional, audiovisual. It’s a relationship that never ceases to fascinate me, both as a writer and as a reader. The words written thousands of years ago are just as potent and entertaining as words written yesterday: Solomon, Plato, Boccaccio, Shakespeare, Grisham, Evanovich, Rowling…they all have equal time at bat. Because of this alone, I am in awe of writers every single day. I’ve had an incredible experience putting this collection together. Some of these writers—not saying they are old—are ones I grew up reading. These are heroes, some my heroes. It’s audacious to think I should be editing them. If someone had said eleven years ago that luminaries from my youth and childhood would become friends and mentors, I would have laughed in disbelief. Yet, that is what Killer Nashville does for everyone. Choosing these twenty original stories from hundreds and hundreds of authors has been overwhelming and daunting.
So without further ado, you now know what Killer Nashville does, but here’s the real fun, here are some stories from those who make Killer Nashville what it is. The collection is as purposely varied as our Killer Nashville family: from thriller to mystery, contemporary to historical, realistic to horrific. There are brand names here, but I have also been determined to give first-timers a shot. These stories are here for entertainment—without that there is nothing. But beneath each of these stories is a seething madness, which is only a hair’s breadth from us all, no matter how much we would like to think otherwise. It is a place where only writers and readers dare to go. I hope that, as you read these stories, you will be inspired—as I have been—to seek out the “longer” works of these incredible writers and other Killer Nashville alumni.
Thanks for buying this book and supporting the writers of tomorrow.
—Clay Stafford
IN PLAIN SIGHT
by Jefferson Bass
“If you have to puke, don’t puke on the bones,” I said.
Laughter—bravado on the surface, nervousness underneath—skittered through the group of students. Most of the thirty bleary-eyed undergraduates milling outside the wooden gate of the Body Farm would be fine, but judging from my experience in prior years—and my assessment of several queasy-looking faces today—a couple of these kids would lose their breakfast.
It was a sunny Saturday morning in late April. The spring semester was winding down, many of my students were desperate for extra credit, and the Body Farm—my outdoor human-decomposition research lab at the University of Tennessee—was due for its spring cleaning. Spring cleaning at the Body Farm didn’t involve dusting, weeding, or collecting empty beer cans; spring cleaning, Body Farm-style, involved collecting bones—bare and not-so-bare—and hauling them into the processing facility for simmering and scrubbing. A Saturday morning might not be the kindest time to schedule the project, I reflected. Even under the best of circumstances, tugging bones from leatherized skin and plucking them from greasy, decomp-saturated dirt was not a task for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach. For young novices whose Friday night parties had given way to Saturday morning hangovers, it could be particularly nausea-inducing. It was not entirely in jest that my facility—the Anthropology Research Facility, or ARF—was sometimes called the Brockton Anthropology Research Facility: BARF.
Unlocking the padlock on the outer chainlink fence, I swung the gate open, the corner of the gate scraping an arc across the asphalt for the final few feet. Then I unlocked the heavy chain securing the inner wooden gate—part of an eight-foot-high privacy fence that shielded the Body Farm’s rotting residents from prying eyes and delicate sensibilities—and led the students into the clearing inside, so they could begin the messy work of cleaning up.
Today’s bumper crop of skeletons—we planned to harvest forty—had spent anywhere from six months to a year-and-a-half ripening at the Body Farm. Most of the bodies had been donated, either through the wills of the donors themselves or by their families after death. A handful, though, were unidentified or unclaimed bodies from medical examiners in various Tennessee counties: John Does, Jane Does, and—in a few cases—people whose identities were known but who had no loved ones to claim them and bury them.
My graduate assistant, Miranda Lovelady, divided the students into ten three-member teams; two team members would collect and bag the bones, and the third would document each bone as it was found. Next, she handed each team a topographic map of the facility’s three fenced acres, with X’s and case numbers marking the location of every set of remains. On each team’s map, four X’s were highlighted in bright pink, indicating which four skeletons the team was responsible for bagging. Miranda’s many jobs, as my assistant, included overseeing the osteology lab and tracking body donations. As a result, she tended to have a better handle than I did on who was out here, and where, and since when.
Following in Miranda’s wake was another graduate student, Nick Costanza. Nick handed each team four red, plastic biohazard bags, as well as four copies of a diagram of the human skeleton. The diagram showed the bones of the body in outline form; as each bone was found and bagged, its outline on the diagram was to be inked in, creating a visual checklist of the skeletal elements. I didn’t expect us to find every single element—squir
rels, raccoons, and ’possums would surely have made off with a few small bones from hands and feet—but I felt confident that we’d recover somewhere around 8,000 bones by the end of the day.
Nick’s help was a pleasant surprise. A second-year master’s student, Nick was obviously bright, though lately—all of this year, in fact—he’d seemed to be floundering. His attendance had been spotty, and the first draft of his master’s thesis was months overdue. His offer to help today was an encouraging sign, a sign that he still cared about doing well in the program, or at least had enough insight to realize that he, like the undergraduates, could benefit from some brownie points.
“Thanks, Nick,” I said when he finished handing out the diagrams and biohazard bags. “Good to have you out here today.”
He started to smile but then seemed to have second thoughts, self-consciously clamping his lips together and reddening.
“Remember, it’s not a race,” Miranda cautioned as the teams prepared to disperse. “It’s more important to be thorough than to be fast. And it’s most important of all to be careful. If you step on a bone and break it, you’ve made it a lot less useful for teaching or research.”
“Step on a bone and you lose five of your ten extra-credit points,” I added. “Step on two, and we’ll be bagging up you a year from now.” More laughter, not quite so nervous this time. “Okay, let’s get to work. Lunch in three hours. Pulled-pork sandwiches and barbecued ribs.”
• • •
Eight hours, three barf bags, and six broken bones later—damaged skeletons, not injured students—the sun was dropping toward the low, wooded ridgeline of Sequoyah Hills and the Cumberland Plateau beyond. Miranda cross-checked her list of teams and assignments as the final groups straggled in with bagged skeletons.
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