Killer Nashville Noir

by Clay Stafford

  “A machinist in an auto parts factory. And he worked part-time. The rest of the time he was a guitar player trying to make it big in Nashville.”

  Bishop snorted. “Who in Nashville isn’t trying to make it big?”

  “Not me. Singing at Rudy’s is all the show business I want in my life. Too busy catching bad guys.”

  Bishop studied her a beat and then asked, “I don’t listen to country music but I’m guessing Lance Duvall was not a success in the record biz.”

  “Recorded an album. The only time it sells is when an article appears about Grace.”

  “Right. You retested the samples?”

  “Three times. The state lab now cringes with fear when I appear, but they got it done.”

  “Are you sure about the results?”

  “Positive. Want me to run through the summary again?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t appear to be listening when she reviewed her findings the first time. If he weren’t such a seasoned detective she’d have called him out on his inattention. But Bishop was good at what he did. Really good. So she tamped down several smart-ass remarks.

  Georgia looked up through the front window to see a tall, dark-haired woman pushing a wheelchair down Lower Broadway. In the chair was a withered, old man with thinning white hair and skin the color of chalk. “Here they come. What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. Tests are your thing. People are mine. Let me do the talking. You’ve a talent for annoying people.”

  He closed the file, rose, and tugged the cuffs of his dress shirt over strong wrists. “You can’t let it get personal in an interview, Georgia, no matter what your feelings. Can’t let ’em know the kind of hand you are holding.”

  “This isn’t a game, Bishop.”

  He flashed a grin and winked. “It’s always a game—us against them.” The bell rang overhead as Emily opened the door. Bishop strode to the entryway, glancing quickly at the security camera tucked in a high corner of the room, and held it open as she pushed her father inside.

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  Georgia rose and joined Bishop.

  “Mr. Duvall. Miss Duvall,” she said.

  The old man looked up at her and smiled. “Yes.”

  “I’m Officer Georgia Morgan with the Nashville Police Department. And this is Homicide Detective Jake Bishop.”

  Duvall’s pale, waxy skin was stretched across his face, reminding her more of a Halloween mask. “Thank you for meeting with my daughter, Emily, and me.”

  Emily was a tall, thin woman who shared her father’s sharp bone structure. When Georgia first spoke to Emily, she’d learned the woman was a trauma nurse. She offered her slender hand to Georgia. “Hello.”

  Georgia accepted the cool hand. “I hope we can help.”

  Bishop extended his hand to Duvall, his smile warm and welcoming. “Thank you for coming down to see us here at Rudy’s.”

  Mr. Duvall allowed his gaze to roam the room. The new owner had updated the electrical wiring and plumbing, but had opted not to change the bar’s look. “This place brings back memories. I played here many times in my early years. Even played with Annie, Ms. Morgan, your mother.”

  Georgia’s adoption was no secret, and Annie’s murder had been front-page news. She should be used to the comments by now. But tidbits about Annie always rubbed a nerve. “Really?”

  “Prettiest voice I ever did hear. Musicians stood in line to play for her. She was Rudy’s favorite singer.”

  Georgia pulled in a slow breath.

  Bishop cleared his throat. “Why don’t we chat?”

  Emily pushed her father’s chair to a table before she, Bishop, and Georgia sat.

  Duvall tapped his finger as he looked around the room. “This place brings back memories.”

  “Is this where you met your wife?” Bishop asked. “Here at the bar?”

  “Yes. I was playing guitar for a singer the night we met. I saw her right away and couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was so damn pretty.”

  Bishop was a sharp detective, one of the best, but he’d only spent a half-hour with the files before agreeing to help with the case and Georgia feared that his lack of homework might catch up to him.

  “She was a graduate of Vanderbilt University?”

  “That’s right. History major.”

  “Came from money,” Bishop said.

  Duvall’s wan eyes sharpened. “I never cared about the money. And if you’ve done any checking, you’d know I didn’t inherit a dime. Grace’s parents paid for Emily’s private school and college, but that was it.”

  “The case detectives agreed. They said money didn’t appear to be a motive.”

  “I always thought it was a robbery gone bad,” Duvall said.

  “Would have been my first guess, but her purse was found a few feet from her body. Her wallet had $119 still inside.”

  Georgia was impressed by Bishop’s command of the facts. So he had been paying attention when she gave him the rundown. She moved to open the case file and then stopped. The very graphic images of Grace Duvall lying in the parking lot were disturbing and she wasn’t sure how the family would react.

  A rattle of boxes in the back of the bar signaled the arrival of the bar’s new owner. KC Kelly, a former Nashville homicide cop, had bought Rudy’s a year ago, discovering he had a talent for slinging drinks and mingling with patrons. His head, shaved clean, glistened as a large blue Hawaiian print shirt billowed around a full belly. He’d worked the Duvall case twenty-eight years ago and had been happy to open the bar early for this interview. KC turned his back to them and began polishing glasses.

  “I would hate to go to my grave with people thinking I cared about her money. I loved Grace. Worshiped her.”

  Emily shifted in her seat, but said nothing.

  “I thought there for a while that I was going to die of this cancer,” Duvall said. “It was eating me up. But the doctors, along with Emily’s care, turned me around. I’m on the mend. It was like Grace was looking out for me. When Emily told me she contacted Ms. Morgan, I told her I wanted to come with her.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Bishop said.

  The old man closed his eyes, his face a mask of pain and loss. “I still see her lying in the morgue. So pale. Still so beautiful.”

  Tears glistened in Emily’s pale, blue eyes. “Dad still keeps a picture of Mom on his nightstand. When I was little, he showed it to me every night before I went to bed so I could kiss it.”

  For a moment, Bishop stared at Emily, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. Bishop had moved to Nashville a decade ago and never talked about his life in Boston, but Georgia sensed that something about Duvall’s story hit a personal note. That fed speculation that a woman was the reason behind his departure.

  Bishop reached for the murder file and opened it, appearing to study the close-up of Grace’s wide-eyed death stare. “According to witness statements, no one was hassling her that night. It was business as usual.”

  Duvall’s gaze dropped to the picture, lingered a moment and then rose up. “There were always men hitting on her in the bar. I hated it the way some would try to grab her ass. She laughed it off and said she knew how to handle them and not to worry.” The old man laid a trembling hand on the edge of the photograph of his wife’s murder scene. “She deserves justice.”

  Emily threaded her fingers together.

  “It’s not right,” he said. “I was her husband. I should have protected her.”

  Bishop leaned back in his seat and straightened his tie. “You’ve showed your devotion to her all these years.”

  “I want her killer found before I die. If this last year has taught me anything, it’s that time is fleeting,” Duvall said. “I want the world to know who took her from us.”

  Bishop nodded. “You’ve visited with us a couple dozen times since the murder?”

  “This will be my twenty-fifth visit.”

  “I admire your dedication.” B
ishop absently pulled another photo from the stack and studied it before laying it next to the second.

  Duvall stared at the pictures. “No one thought I was good enough for Grace. Her dad thought I was a loser, but I proved them all wrong when we eloped. I worshiped her.”

  Bishop sat back, his body relaxed as if he had all the time in the world. He studied the old man, who stared back at him with keen interest. “KC, come on over here.”

  KC set his glass down with deliberate care. He’d been quiet, but taken in everything. “Sure.”

  As KC moved toward them, Georgia said, “You might remember KC Kelly. He worked your wife’s case.”

  The old man studied KC’s lined face and full mustache. “We met a few times.”

  “We spoke often,” KC said. “I remember how torn up you were.”

  “Still am,” Duvall said.

  Bishop closed the file. “I had the chance to make a quick call this morning to your ex-sister-in-law. Jane Maynard. Nice lady. In her late-sixties now.”

  At the mention of Jane’s name, Emily relaxed. “Aunt Jane has been a second mother to me. She and Dad always tried to get along for my sake.”

  “Losing her sister was hard,” Duvall said.

  “KC suggested I call her. He’s got a memory like an elephant.”

  KC shook his head, his grin easy and comforting. “Not true. It’s full of holes. Getting old is a bitch.”

  Bishop tapped his index finger on the closed folder. “Jane said Grace was planning to leave you.”

  Duvall shook his head. “That’s not true. Grace and I had a fight that last day, but we talked it through. Grace loved me. Jane is just like her father. She’d do anything to cause me trouble.”

  “It happens,” Bishop said. “An axe to grind can twist memories. That’s why I went back and read Jane’s original interview statements, which KC took. Her statement hasn’t changed much.”

  “Grace was annoyed with me the last time she spoke to her sister. Makes sense that last impression soured her.”

  “I hear ya,” Bishop said. “Frankly, I’m not sure I believe Jane. KC wasn’t so sure about her either. Wrote down his misgivings in the file twenty-eight years ago. Besides, motive alone isn’t enough to make a case. And there was no physical evidence linking you to the scene.”

  Duvall looked at peace, grateful to have a sympathetic ear. “I was home that night taking care of Emily. She was sick with a cold. I slept on the floor by her bed.”

  “She was five at the time,” Bishop said. “And she told police she remembered you by the bed.”

  Duvall smiled at his daughter. “She’s my baby girl. I’d do anything for her.”

  Georgia knew Bishop could make nice when it suited, but during an investigation he didn’t chat just for the sake of it. Conversations, even strategic lies, had purpose.

  Bishop looked at Emily. “When you were packing up your father’s house after he moved to the nursing home, you said you dropped your mother’s picture when you were cleaning it.”

  Her hands tightened on the purse in her lap. “It was stupid of me. But it fell out of a moving box and hit the sidewalk. The glass shattered, but thankfully the frame was fine.”

  Duvall studied his daughter closely. “You never told me that.”

  She looked at him. “I know how you cherished the photo. I was going to replace the glass and you’d never be the wiser.”

  “Strangulation,” Bishop said more to himself, “is a very personal form of murder. You have to get so close to the victim.” And then to Duvall, “Amazing what the medical examiner can tell from bruising patterns on a body. The report said Grace was looking directly into her killer’s face when she took her last breath.”

  Emily raised a trembling hand to her lips.

  “That thought haunts me,” Duvall said.

  “Does it?” Bishop leaned forward. “Or does it excite you?”

  Duvall rested his fist on the file. “It does not excite me. You are talking about my wife’s murder. And why would I continue to come back to the cops year after year if I killed her?”

  Bishop stared at Duvall. “Because it was a way to relive the crime. Each time you talked about her death, asked for a recap of the details of the crime, you got a little thrill. Reminded you that you got the last laugh.”

  Duvall paled, his skin now almost translucent over the lined veins in his forehead. “That’s not true.”

  Bishop’s jaw tensed. “Each time you reached out to the media you remembered what you did.”

  “That’s not true!” he said. “I loved Grace.”

  Bishop’s expression hardened, shattering all traces of compassion in his dark eyes. “I bet you did love her. And then she decided marriage to a poor singer wasn’t what she’d thought it would be. You tracked her down to the bar, waited until her shift ended, and when she was alone in the alley you killed her.”

  “No!”

  “But you couldn’t resist a souvenir. When you hit her and knocked the earring loose, you picked it up after she was dead. When Emily took apart the frame to replace the glass she’d broken, she found Grace’s missing earring tucked behind the picture.”

  Georgia pulled a recently taken photo of the earring. “This was found in your picture frame. If you look at the crime scene photo, it matches the one still dangling from her ear.”

  The old man’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You needed a keepsake of what you did. The memory of the killing was always hiding behind her picture on your nightstand.”

  Duvall glared at his daughter. “You betrayed me.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks. “All this time I thought you loved my mother, but you killed her. I was so little when Mom died and when you told me you’d been home with me all night, I believed you.”

  “The earring places you at the murder scene and Jane’s testimony supports a motive. I can make a case,” Bishop said.

  Georgia lived for the moments when tiny details captured a killer. “I retested the DNA found on the earring in the picture frame three times. It had your DNA on it along with Grace’s.”

  Duvall sat back, folding his arms over his chest. A smile tipped the edge of his thin lips. “I’ll never see the inside of prison. When the judge hears I’m a cancer survivor and struggling, he’ll give my attorney a delay. I can drag this out for years, and let’s face it, I don’t have a lot of time left.”

  Rising, Bishop bared his teeth, this time his smile was feral. He rested his hands on his belt. “I promise you, Mr. Duvall, I will make it my personal mission to see you get the best medical care so you live as long as you possibly can in prison.”

  PEACE, SOMETIMES

  by Jaden Terrell

  The clock in the psychologist’s office was five minutes fast. A mechanical accident? Or a ploy to give the good doctor a few extra minutes between appointments? Adrienne Cooper had met enough shrinks to know that either was plausible.

  She wiped her hands on her skirt and looked at her watch again: 11:10. The van was late, but not too late. Nothing that couldn’t be accounted for by a bathroom break for the driver or a couple of long red lights. All the same, it made her nervous. Her client, Waylon Bayard, was no Hannibal Lecter, but he was proud and impulsive. What if something had gone wrong?

  Don’t think about that.

  Her colleagues thought she was crazy, going for diminished capacity and an overturned conviction after all this time. Erica, the firm’s senior partner, had told her just this morning that, in a case like this, just avoiding the death penalty was a win. But Adrienne knew better. A win was a win. Anything else…wasn’t.

  She went to the window and pulled an opening in the blinds. Looked back at her watch: 11:13.

  The receptionist, a doll-faced brunette who didn’t look old enough to be out of high school, flashed Adrienne a smile. “You know what they say about a watched pot.”

  As if on cue, the prison van pulled in
. Three guards, corn-fed white boys who looked like triplets in their military haircuts and khaki uniforms, shuffled Bayard in, his hands chained at his waist. His shoulders, bulked in the prison weight room, strained at the seams of his orange jumpsuit, and the dark flowing hair the camera had loved during his trial was now prison-short and graying at the temples. Time and confinement had matured his bad-boy good looks and, if anything, had made him even more handsome.

  Dangerously handsome, she thought. How many women have been lured in by that face?

  Even in chains, he moved lightly. He’d been a martial artist, she remembered. Tai Chi, Tae Kwon Do, Kenpo, Isshin-Ryu. The media, seduced as surely as his victims, had made much of his multiple black belts and juxtaposed his tournament trophies with those he’d taken from his victims.

  He winked at the receptionist, who pinkened and busied herself with her files. Afraid, Adrienne thought, but not too afraid for her gaze to follow him across the room.

  The girl wasn’t his type. He preferred slender blondes, much like Adrienne herself. He called them his Angels. There had been fourteen of them. Someone had asked her once if it bothered her, knowing she fit his victim profile, and she’d said something lofty about justice and impartiality, but the truth was, it did bother her sometimes. She’d be a fool not to think about it.

  She picked up the manila file beside her and moved past the guard on Bayard’s right just as the psychologist, a balding middle-aged man with a Freudian beard and mustache, came out of his office and nodded to the guards. “You can wait here.”

  Bayard grinned. “Yeah, why don’t you fellas do that?”

  He turned, smooth and fluid as a jaguar. Something glittered in his hand, and a moment later, the manacles clattered to the floor. He dropped the key, and a knife slipped out of his sleeve and fell into his palm. Proof that, for the right price, you really could buy anything “Inside”.

  So fast, she thought. I didn’t realize he could be so fast.

  His free arm snaked around her.

  For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

  “What the—” The guard to Bayard’s left reached for his gun, and Adrienne cried out as the tip of the knife bit into her throat. A thread of warmth trickled across her skin. The guard looked at his colleagues, who shrugged and raised their hands with an apathy that could only have been bought and paid for. Outnumbered, the guard on the left lowered his hand. “Okay, okay, just let the lady go.”