Killer Nashville Noir

by Clay Stafford

  She managed to sit. Her eyes continued to adjust to the darkness. She knew this place. The hollow echo and familiar creaks and moans, the smell of over 150 years of history embedded in the walls. She was in the basement of the Statehouse, in one of the alcoves where horses were brought for carrying passengers and cargo, and where, since the recent $51 million renovation, engineers had installed earthquake shock absorbers.

  Groaning, she pushed herself upright. Her gloves were wet. She brought them closer to her face. In the dim light, she could see where the material was blackened and dirty and smelled. Repelled by the odor, she slumped back and managed to get unsteadily to her feet, her hand clasping a rock that jutted from the rough granite wall. A pounding ache beat a steady drum across her temples and the back of her head. Instinct told her to find her way to the hallway that led to the security station, but her body would not do what she asked. She took a deep breath, turned, and focused on the glowing red exit sign on the landing above.

  Taking a hesitant step, her foot caught and she teetered, then pitched forward onto the floor, sprawling across whatever lay on the ground. Rolling over, she propped herself on her right arm and looked back. Hank’s face, in the dim red light, was turned toward her, eyes open.

  “Hank?”

  Even in the near darkness his eyes seemed unfocused. Sara realized he wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t moving.

  “Hank!”

  Shoving against the clingy fabric and cumbersome undergarments, she managed to get to her knees. She cupped Hank’s cheek in her hand and felt the fake Van Dyke beard peel away from his skin. She felt the hole where the top of his skull should have been, and screamed.

  • • •

  His cell phone buzzing on the nightstand was never a good sign.

  “You going to answer that or just let it ring?” His wife’s muffled voice came from the other side of the bed.

  When Agent B.A. Azevedo was on call, his wife was on call.

  B.A. reached for his phone as he corkscrewed out of bed and stumbled into the hallway, hoping Elizabeth would fall back asleep. Seeing Mary Louise Stanley’s name on the caller I.D. told him this wasn’t good.

  “Please tell me you’re calling to give me the day off so I can get an early start on my fishing trip?” He and Elizabeth were leaving town on Monday.

  “You know I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t have to, B.A. I respect a fishing trip as much as the next guy, but well, this one is going to require some delicacy.”

  “Delicacy?”

  “Sara Ainsley Sims.”

  Momentarily, B.A. couldn’t speak. “The senator’s daughter? What happened?”

  “She found a body in the basement of the Statehouse, an aide for Representative Barrett.”

  “The Speaker of the House?”

  “It gets worse.” Stanley said. “Sara might have killed him.”

  • • •

  A swarm of police vehicles and uniformed officers had taken over the Capitol grounds nearest the side public entrance, while media vans lined the designated parking places on Sumter Street and overflowed into the metered slots.

  B.A. ignored the reporters’ questions as he ascended the few steps to the side entrance. Fellow agent Sam Almond greeted him the moment he entered the lobby. Almond looked and sounded harried. He was built like the Shoney’s Big Boy mascot and would have loved to have shared that character’s wavy black hair; unfortunately, he was balding.

  B.A. noted the flowered trellis and other floral arrangements left from the evening’s festivities.

  “Body’s in the basement,” Almond said. “The CSI team’s waiting for you.”

  “Where’s Sara?”

  “In her father’s office.” Bert Sims had served in the State Senate for going on twenty-five years.

  “The Senator’s with her?”

  Almond nodded. “He says she’ll only talk to you.”

  “This day just keeps getting better and better,” B.A. sighed, thinking of his fishing trip. “What about the deceased?”

  “Henry Mattox. Worked for Representative Barrett.”

  “Where is our esteemed Speaker of the House?”

  “Also in her office. She says she was supposed to leave for the family cabin in Walhalla.”

  “Tell her to get in line.”

  “Yeah, I heard about your bass fishing trip. Where were you heading?”

  “Lake Jocassee.”

  “Too bad. They’re supposed to be really biting.”

  “That cheers me up.”

  B.A. looked at the stream of uniforms heading toward the basement. Early on a Saturday morning, most of the building personnel would not be coming into work, but a decision would have to be made about public access. Probably best to close the building for the day.

  “What do you want to do first, B.A.? I think we should talk to Speaker Barrett and send her on her way.”

  “That would appease her, huh?”

  “Go a long way,” Almond said.

  “Let’s start with the crime scene, Sam.”

  • • •

  B.A. ducked beneath a second set of yellow crime scene tape and signed his name on the log held by one of the agents. Almond had checked in earlier.

  The deceased, Hank Mattox, was on his side, eyes open. The basement light had been turned on. Mattox looked to have fallen awkwardly and now lay assessing his physical condition before attempting to stand. His half-missing head made that an unlikely scenario. Mattox was dressed in full Confederate Army regalia: a long, light-gray officer’s coat with gold buttons running down both sides of his chest and gold epaulets at his shoulders, black boots and sword, the ornate grim and pommel protruding from its scabbard. A fake beard lay in the coagulated blood beside his neck.

  Agent Lorilyn Sumner-Graves greeted B.A. with a tilt of the head and a raised eyebrow. He read her body language to mean this was going to be a barn burner. “What you got, Lorilyn?” B.A. asked.

  “What do I have?”

  B.A. already regretted asking such an open-ended question.

  “I’ve got bags under my eyes from lack of sleep and a pain in my behind that has nothing to do with this particular crime scene.”

  “The bags under the eyes I can relate to,” he said.

  “You hear anything about the Ethan Turney homicide over in Rosewood?”

  B.A. shook his head. “Only what was in The State and on the news, why?” B.A. knew Turney to be a small-time drug dealer who moved among university students and in upper-class circles. Two days earlier, time caught up to Turney. Somebody had put a bullet in the back of his skull in what appeared to be a drug deal gone wrong. The Columbia police department had been investigating.

  “You might want to talk to the detective they have working it: Jason McDuffie. Six months into investigations and this is his first homicide.”

  “What’s he going to tell me that you can’t, Lorilyn?”

  Lorilyn ducked under the third strand of police tape towards the body. B.A. followed. There was no going back now. Nobody crossed the third strand of tape where the victim lay without spending a day filling out paperwork and writing reports.

  Inside the perimeter, Lorilyn knelt, careful not to disturb the pool of blood. Wearing gloves, she gently turned Hank’s head the way a mother might when examining a son’s face to see whether he’d indeed scrubbed with soap and water. The right side of Hank’s face was blackened by powder, indicating he’d been shot at point-blank range with a large caliber weapon, perhaps a .38 or a .45.

  “A lot of powder,” B.A. said.

  “More common with a cap-and-ball revolver.”

  “Cap-and-ball?”

  “It uses powder to ignite the charge.”

  “That I understand, but who uses a cap-and-ball in this day and age?” B.A. asked.

  “Civil War soldiers.”

  “I know you natives don’t like to admit it, but the War of Northern Aggression did end, going on more than a 150 years ago.”

  “
Historically, the Late Great Unpleasantness may be a thing of the past, but not for those who do re-enactments.”

  “So what’s the connection with Turney?”

  “Turney’s killer used an old ball round, as well.”

  • • •

  Sara Ainsley Sims barely raised her eyes when B.A. stepped through the door from the outer office into her father’s inner Senatorial sanctuary. B.A.’s first thought was of the little girl he’d watched take her first steps. Compare that to Sara Ainsley now. She could have been a model for one of those bodice ripper romance novels, except that her Civil War re-enactor outfit was more historically accurate than a reader’s fantasy. B.A. noticed Sara’s bloodstained gloves lying on her father’s desk. He would want to bag those as possible evidence.

  Bert Sims leaned against the desk, immaculately adorned in a Confederate officer’s uniform: long gray coat, black boots, and gold shoulder epaulets, buttons, and belt. White gloves and a sword in its scabbard also lay draped across his desk. He and Sara looked perfectly at home surrounded by memorabilia from political campaigns, floor debates, and a Gamecock baseball displayed in a large hutch and adorning his office walls. B.A. made note that Bert was holding a cap-and-ball pistol in a picture from a re-enactment.

  Bert Sims pushed from the desk and extended a hand. “Thanks for coming, B.A.,” he said, as if he had summoned B.A. who had then dutifully complied. Bert Sims was used to being in charge and having his orders followed.

  B.A. turned to Sara. “How are you, Sara?”

  She gave a slight shrug.

  “I’ll let Sara talk with the understanding that what she says stays in this room.”

  B.A. shook his head. “You know I can’t do that, Bert. We’ve got a dead body in the basement. This is a homicide investigation.”

  Sims shook his head. “You’ve known Sara since the day she was born, B.A. You can’t possibly consider her a suspect.”

  “Thinking this early in the morning is optional.” He smiled at Sara. “I just got out of bed an hour ago with orders to get down here. So if Sara’s willing to talk, I’d like to ask her a few questions. She has the right to have an attorney. You know that, Bert. So does she.”

  “Go ahead B.A.,” Sara said.

  Bert raised a hand. “Wait. I’m going to call Huger.”

  B.A. knew Sims’ portly personal attorney. Everyone knew Huger, which was pronounced ‘hugh-gee’.

  “Daddy, I’ll talk to B.A.,” Sara said.

  Bert shook his head. “Not without Huger here.”

  Sara sighed. “Daddy, Huger is a wills and trusts attorney. What is he going to advise me? I know more about criminal law than he does.”

  That comment caused B.A. to smile. He knew Sara was a good lawyer.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “You know about last night’s event,” Sara began. “We organized it as a Civil War tribute and benefit for Foster Care. The money raised would go to help matching parents with foster kids.”

  “Foster kids?”

  “Hank Mattox represented the Speaker’s office on the organizational committee. Last night, he approached me early in the evening and said he had to talk to me.”

  “Did he say what about?”

  Sara shook her head. “He said it needed to be in private and asked that I meet him in the basement just after eleven o’clock.”

  “What time was this, when you talked to him?”

  “Shortly after ten.”

  “And you agreed to meet him in the basement?”

  “I know it seemed an odd request, but I had the feeling…it sounded urgent, like I was the only one he could talk to.”

  “Did you tell anyone about the conversation?”

  “He asked me not to, until after we’d spoken.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Just before eleven, I went to meet him. I took the escalator, then entered the basement. It was dark. I called out for him.” She shook her head. “After that, the next thing I remember was waking up on the ground and Hank…” Her voice broke.

  B.A. gave her a moment. “You don’t recall anything from the time you called out to the time you awoke?”

  She shook her head.

  “Could you have fallen in the basement?”

  “I hit my head.”

  B.A. nodded. “What did you do after you woke up?”

  “I got up, but I stumbled and fell. It was Hank. He was lying on the ground, face up. Dead.”

  “We’ll come back to Hank. Tell me about the event, Sara. Do you have a guest list?”

  “Security has one.”

  B.A. made a mental note to get a copy. “I noticed a place in the lobby for taking pictures.”

  “The Statehouse photographer agreed to assist us. She’s a foster parent.”

  “What else do you recall?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “It’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “Well, I thought I saw a shadow of a person. The silhouette of a Union officer. But now…maybe I just thought…”

  B.A. frowned. “You could tell by the shadow?”

  Sara frowned back. “You would recognize Mickey Mouse. I would recognize a Union officer.”

  “Probably from nightmares,” Bert commented.

  “No. Because when I was involved with the re-enactment group we had to have a set of each uniform so we could galvanize.”

  “Galvanize?” B.A. asked.

  “Be either Union or Confederate, depending upon what was needed. That’s how I learned the difference between the two uniforms. Truthfully, I’m sure I saw a Union profile.”

  “Could you see the face?”

  “It was too dark,” she said. “I don’t recall anything else. I have a nasty bump.” She touched the back of her head.

  “How much did you have to drink, Sara?”

  “A glass of champagne, maybe two.”

  “Sara’s not much of a drinker, B.A. She never has been. You know that,” Bert said, sounding annoyed.

  “Did you see Hank talking to anyone after you two spoke?”

  “Representative Barrett.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Sara sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall.”

  “Has alcohol ever caused you to black out before, Sara?”

  Bert bristled. “I find that question offensive.”

  “Daddy, please.” She turned her attention back to B.A. “Maybe in college, once or twice. But it’s like Daddy said. I don’t drink much anymore. I don’t have the luxury or the inclination to be hung over.”

  “By all accounts, Sara was not drunk…”

  “Of course not. And yet she appears unable to recall the details of the evening.”

  “She told you she must have hit her head when she fell.”

  “Except the lump is on the back of her head. If she had fallen forward, it should be on her front. The bump on the back of her head appears to be her only injury.”

  Bert eyed B.A. with curiosity. “What are you driving at B.A.?”

  “I know,” Sara said, her eyes showing clarity for the first time since B.A. entered the room. “The bump on my head’s not from a fall. Someone hit me.”

  • • •

  Speaker Caroline Barrett rose from behind her desk to greet B.A. and Sam Almond as they stepped into her ornate office.

  “We’re sorry to keep you waiting, Madame Speaker.”

  Barrett extended a cold hand, her grip firm. At 5’10” Barrett was a fit woman who carried herself even taller. She offered them seats across from her desk. “No apologies are necessary.”

  “I understand you were hoping to start a vacation today,” B.A. said.

  “Hank and his family are all I can consider now. What have you learned?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” B.A. said. “May we ask you a few questions?”

  “Please.” Barrett returned to the high-back leather chair and sat. “What would you like to know?”

 
“How long has Hank Mattox worked for you?”

  “Since August. I hired him straight out of USC Law School. He researched bills for me, primarily.”

  “Any problems?”

  “None. He was a hard worker, reliable.”

  “What about outside the workplace?”

  “He comes from a good family. His father’s a county council member in my district.”

  “Any concerns at all?”

  “None that come to mind.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. We discussed the bazaar. The staff left at noon to get ready. I gave them a half-day.”

  “And that was the last time you saw or spoke to him?”

  “I saw him at the bazaar. I believe I commented on his uniform. ‘Very Dashing.’ Something like that.”

  “Anything more in depth?”

  “It was a party. I see my staff enough during the week. I try to give them a break from me after hours.”

  B.A. smiled. “Did Hank have any enemies you’re aware of? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”

  She paused. “I’m aware that Sara Ainsley Sims found the body.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There was a connection between the two.”

  B.A. waited.

  “Hank initially applied for the job Sara got with Legislative Council. I wrote him a recommendation, but then, they were seeking an attorney with a criminal prosecutor’s background. Sara, of course, had that experience.”

  “Not to mention a daddy with seniority in the State Senate,” Almond said.

  “I didn’t say that. You did.”

  “But you found a job for him,” B.A. said.

  “Because, despite his youth and inexperience, he had a lot of potential.” She paused. Obviously reflecting. “I thought a great deal of him. I can’t believe he is gone.”

  B.A. nodded. “May we see where he worked?”

  “Of course.” They followed her out of her office and down the hall. She used a key to open another door, flipped a switch, and led them into a room with three desks. “Hank’s is the one over there,” she said, pointing.