Vendetta Stone (1)

by Tom Wood

  Now for the coup de grace.

  He slipped out the back door and used the shrubbery wall to cover his swift trip next door to the Stones’ house. He picked the back lock and entered the same way as when he assaulted Angela eleven days before.

  Light on his feet and careful not to leave traces of his second visit, Wolfe made his way to the upstairs bedroom and took three pairs of Angela’s underwear from the lingerie drawer. He then slipped back downstairs and out the back, relocking the door and leaving no evidence of his brazen daylight panty raid. Wolfe put one pair in Sarah’s purse in the upstairs den, then went to the master bedroom and put a pair in Herb’s sock drawer, stuffing them in the back where investigators would be certain to find them. The third pair he took back downstairs with him. He bent over Herb’s body and shoved the bikini briefs into Herb’s mouth the way an angry, humiliated, jealous wife would after she discovered indisputable evidence of her husband’s torrid affair with her best friend.

  Wolfe imagined how the investigation would all play out. Sarah confronted Herb with her suspicions. He denied all accusations until shown what she found. Wolfe could hear Sarah asking if he killed Angela. And Herb lashed out! He struck Sarah and chased her through the house, knocking over a lamp and other items. In the kitchen, Sarah got hold of the knife and stabbed Herb. And then she pushed the staggering man down the stairs. Finally, in her moment of despair over just what she’d done, Sarah hung herself. Yes, that’s just how it happened.

  Wolfe slipped out the back, and made his way to his old car. At the fleabag motel, he took a long hot shower then tossed his blood-splattered shirt and the Latex gloves in separate garbage bins.

  15

  Jackson Stone looked embarrassed as he cleared his throat, peered at the skeptical faces of the media before him, and plunged ahead with his press conference, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “Now where was I? Oh yeah. I asked my attorney if he had my back,” he said, a half-grin on his face. Allenby laughed and puh-shawed.

  “The video shows I grabbed you by the back of the neck. But it can’t be admitted as evidence.” Several media members chuckled, but Jackson didn’t. Ole Stone-face again.

  “But seriously,” Jackson said, “there’s nothing to add to earlier comments except to say that Stan’s assessment of me is one hundred and ten percent accurate, and I should add that I stand behind my comments and convictions. If I could get my hands around that killer’s neck right this second, I would choke the life out of him right here in front of you in front of all these cameras.”

  Allenby winced as Jackson’s emotions once again ran the gamut for the next few seconds, from helpless rage to being on the verge of a breakdown. After a pause, he gathered his strength and composure.

  “My wife meant everything to me, and I lack the vocabulary to tell you how much I loved her, how much I miss her now and will for the rest of my life. If you’re happily married like we were, you know. We shared everything—the same politics, the same traits, the same tastes in food and fashion, the same love of sports, the same love of life, the same sense of humor.

  “One thing we didn’t share,” he said, choking back tears again and then half-laughing at a precious memory, “was the same sense of direction. Even before GPS, she managed to find her way all over town without following directions. If she turned onto 15th Avenue and tried to get over to 17th . . . well, you’d get there eventually.”

  He tightened his lips, shook his head, then continued.

  “Whenever she drove, I’d always be digging out the city map or saying, ‘turn left here’ or ‘turn right there.’ It became a running joke for us, the pilot and her navigator. I always told her ‘you’d be lost without me.’ But the truth is I’m lost without her. I’m lost without her love.”

  His tears flowed, and Allenby took a step to support him. Jackson waved him off. Dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, he regained his resolve and voice.

  “That’s why I’m doing this. Yes, I want revenge. And if it’s in the form of a conviction and a trip to the electric chair, my wish would be to pull the switch. That jackal—not a man and less than an animal—who did this must be found so nobody else will suffer at his hands and so their husbands or wives and children and family won’t suffer the way we are suffering. That’s why today I am announcing a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of Angela’s murderer. I’m setting up a toll-free hotline and starting a website in her memory. If you saw anything or know someone who might have seen something, please contact me or the police. If you call the police, there will be an arrest and a trial. Call me, and I’ll be the judge and jury.”

  Allenby coughed a little too loud, and Jackson felt sorry for him having to stand there while his crazy client ranted again. Time to save the attorney from further embarrassment.

  “That’s it. I’ll take just a few questions and then join my family.”

  Hands shot up, and the press conference ended about twenty minutes later with no further outbursts or revelations. Shelley headed to the newspaper to begin writing her online story, while I zipped over to the Criminal Justice Center for Chief King’s news conference. If half as wild as Jack’s, we’d put out a fantastic front page on Sunday morning.

  Shelley arrived at the paper at two o’clock, and anticipated posting a story by two-thirty. No problemo. She opened a new Word document, typed in her byline, and took a straight-news approach. She would polish the lede for the print edition. She began:

  Jackson Stone, who on Friday shocked the Nashville community at large by saying he wanted to avenge the murder of his wife, bid a tearful farewell to Angela Stone at her funeral on Saturday in Belle Rive and then announced he is offering a $100,000 reward for information leading to the capture of her killer.

  Shelley deleted the redundant phrase “he is offering,” then replaced the phrase “saying he wanted to avenge the murder of his wife” with “vowing revenge for his wife’s murder.”

  Admittedly not great prose, but it was accurate.

  16

  Still in his dress blues, Chief King waited as everyone arrived from the Stone funeral. When I got to the CJC, the chief stood off to the side away from the microphones, getting an update from his P.R. chief, Darrin Jensen. Cameras and lighting in place, the smallish conference room filled to overflowing. Stepping forward, Wilson King, an imposing figure even when relaxed, wanted all of Nashville to know his position. Through the media, the chief gave his city the same stern lecture he imparted to Stone.

  “Thank you for coming out this afternoon,” he said in his usual brusque, no-nonsense manner. “I know you’ve all been to the services for Angela Stone this afternoon, and let me add my sympathy in the wake of this unspeakable tragedy. I wish to assure everyone that the police are pursuing every lead to find Mrs. Stone’s killer.

  “Like you and all of my fellow Nashvillians, I was shocked by the statements her husband made yesterday. I met with Mister Stone this morning for two reasons. One, I wanted to offer my personal condolences to him and let him know where the investigation stands. Two, I wanted to let him know that I understand the grief and the rage he is feeling, but I urged him to recant his public desire for revenge. When he failed to do so, I explained to Mister Stone why he needs to step back and let us handle this investigation without interference. I further informed Mister Stone that the police department is doing everything in its power to solve this crime. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation has also taken an active role.

  “In addition, we are being assisted by cooperating law enforcement agencies in surrounding counties and, if need be, from across the state.”

  King paused, recalling the confrontation that morning, and shook his bulbous head.

  “It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but I cautioned Mister Stone against trying to take the law into his own hands should he indeed continue on this quest and somehow find the murderer before the police.” A terse look came over King. “Mister Stone seems
to believe that revenge is a synonym for justice. No sir!” A fist slammed the lectern.

  “Revenge is not justice. And justice . . . true justice, swift justice . . . is not about revenge. Our society seeks justice, not revenge. Society does not condone such actions. I made it quite clear to Mister Stone that any criminal behavior on his part could result in charges being filed against him. He would be treated like any other criminal.”

  Then like a light switch flipped off, the chief’s anger melted. Thinking of Stone’s outburst made him reflect on his own family’s tragedy. His rare display of humanity would draw more people to his opinions than promises of retribution if Stone crossed that uncrossable line.

  “I can understand Mister Stone’s desire for revenge . . . or justice, I should say . . . and I empathize with him. My grandfather was murdered in Memphis in 1982, and it killed me. I was just twelve years old when his best friend shot him during a poker game. They’d been drinking and he laughed because he stole a two hundred dollar pot with a stinking pair of threes!”

  King pounded the lectern with his fist, and it made members of the media jump at this very private individual’s very personal revelation.

  “So, so angry, I wanted to punish the man who took Grampy from us. A year later, my mother moved us to Nashville. That angered me, too, and she made me talk with some counselors after I got into several fights at school. I got past my anger, or so I thought till today. But I never forgot what happened, and it was a major reason why I chose to go into law enforcement. I’ve never spoken about this and do so now to let Mister Stone know that I know the kind of pain he is suffering and that I will do everything in my power to bring his wife’s killer to justice. I’m aware of Mister Stone’s comments this afternoon, and I applaud his decision to post a reward for information leading to the apprehension of this menace to society. I trust Mister Stone will turn over any information he may receive to the proper authorities, who can be reached at 1-800-555-COPS.”

  The chief’s candor impressed, but he wasn’t finished.

  “I again caution Mister Stone not to attempt any acts of revenge,” King said with that same stern tone. “Time spent dealing with Mister Stone is time taken away from trying to catch Mrs. Stone’s killer. I met Mister Stone for less than ten minutes at his brother’s home. From that brief encounter I would characterize Mister Stone as a decent, honorable man who will choose the right path and work with the police in our manhunt, not go off on his own and become a killer himself. I do not believe that is the legacy Mrs. Stone would want to bequeath to her husband. Questions?”

  A dozen hands raised. We peppered Chief King for the next thirty minutes about the Stones, his background, and the general direction of the investigation. Finally, the Chief asked for one more question. Clarkston started to speak as my hand shot up and caught King’s eye. He nodded in my direction, leaving the Channel 11 reporter fuming.

  “You make a compelling case for why Stone should stop searching for his wife’s killer and even threatened him with arrest if he should cross a line,” I said, turning aggressive. “But who draws that line and is it an arbitrary line set by you or one of your officers? How far can he go to find Mrs. Stone’s murderer without crossing that line?”

  King’s gaze focused on me like lasers burning through steel.

  “You pose an interesting question, Mister Hilliard. The simplest answer is the law is the law,” he said, speaking in a harsh but measured tone. “If you break it, you are in trouble. If you refuse to obey it, you are in big trouble. If you flaunt it, you are in deep trouble. If you cross it, you are going to wish you hadn’t.

  “Now there’s nothing against the law in setting up a website to seek information or establishing a reward for that purpose. But if you use that information in an attempt to harm or injure another person, whether it’s physical or mental or cyber-bullying, you are breaking the law. If you make an illegal purchase of a weapon to commit an act of violence against someone you suspect of this crime, you are breaking the law. If someone supplies you with a weapon to commit an act of violence, that person is an accessory to breaking the law. See how it works?”

  Immense fists drove home his point, and he at last broke eye contact with me. He looked around the room.

  “Our job is to enforce the law, not make it or set its boundaries. But our officers retain the right to use a certain amount of discretion in interpreting when the law is being broken. If Mister Stone had made a direct threat against another person, he would be in custody right now. That’s not quite the case . . . for the moment, but we will be monitoring the situation. We would welcome any information that any citizen might be able to provide us to help solve any crime, not just this one. And while a person may invoke a citizen’s arrest when he sees a crime being committed, I would urge anyone not to attempt to do so. It puts you in danger and could endanger the lives of others. Call the police, and we will handle the situation as it may warrant.”

  Clarkston jumped in with a quick follow-up question. “So you’re concerned that if Stone succeeds in finding his wife’s killer, others might try to copycat his brand of vigilante justice?”

  The chief’s nostrils flared. “You bet I am.”

  17

  After the funeral and brief press conference, Jackson made a quick trip to East Nashville to see if the police had finished their investigation and when he could move back into his home. As he rounded a curve, an old blue car came barreling at him, the driver slowing down just enough to make the turn with his tires squealing.

  “Crazy sum—Hell’s only half-full; you’ll get there,” shouted Jackson, not knowing how prophetic or accurate his admonition would turn out. Three turns, and he was home.

  Putting the car in park, he got out and stared at the brick cottage. So normal. No yellow police tape to remind him of the horror. He could almost see Angela, on her knees by her flower bed digging at weeds encroaching on her petunias. Hopeful that he would somehow, some way, get through this ordeal without losing his sanity, Jackson fell to his knees and cried out loud.

  “Lord, help me understand. I want to believe everything happens for a reason, but I can’t fathom why this happened. I know Angela is with You now. I know I’ll see her again someday in heaven, but, God, I miss her. Help me. Grant me peace now. I want her here, now. You know my heart. You know my intentions are pure, even though it looks like I’ve lost my mind. Help me find Angela’s killer, Lord, let me be the one who brings him to Your justice. Amen.”

  Rising to his feet, he decided to head to his brother’s house. It was time to put into motion just how he would find the murderer. Glancing around the neighborhood, he noted both of the Fletchers’ autos were in their driveway next door,

  so he guessed that Herb failed to talk Sarah out of her funk and would not be going to Patrick’s.

  Jackson was pleased with his announcement of the Angela’s Angels website and foundation at the press conference, despite the blow-up with Allenby. Jackson had argued like a lawyer himself until he won over the attorney.

  “It’s a good cause, Stan, one that’ll do a lot of invaluable work in the community. And it gives me a platform to stay active in searching for the killer.”

  The inspiration for Angela’s Angels came out of the blue as he drove back to Patrick’s from the cabin. He was listening to the oldies radio channel, and between songs, the station aired a public service announcement for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Founder John Walsh, the host of the television show America’s Most Wanted, delivered the message.

  The Walshes’ six-year-old son, Adam, disappeared from their Miami area home on July 27, 1981, and his remains were found soon after, though the killer never was. John and Revé Walsh began their own foundation in Adam’s memory so his death would not be in vain. Their movement gained national attention, and their success over the years has resulted in the arrests of thousands of criminals.

  Twenty-five years to the day after Adam was abducted, President
George W. Bush signed the American Child Protection and Safety Act into law.

  Jackson had never met John Walsh, though his firm handled some ancillary work for Walsh’s NCMEC foundation. Jackson vowed that after the dust settled, he would reach out to Walsh for advice about setting up the foundation, setting up a tip line, and how best to go about solving crimes. Perhaps feeling pangs of conscience over his vendetta, Jackson wondered if Walsh ever considered pursuing a similar path of being the one to mete out his own brand of justice. If they ever talked, that would be one of the first questions Jackson would ask.

  18

  After his shower, Wolfe dressed and drove across town to a little hole-in-the-wall he spotted near the park just off West End. He was always ravenous after a hunt, and the nineteen-fifties atmosphere of Rotier’s reminded Wolfe of the old home place back in Arkansas where he had gorged on his first meal after his first kill as a teenager. Since then, it became another bizarre ritual, almost cannibalistic in nature, to visit a meat-and-three in that city and chow down following a fresh murder. He gobbled down a cheeseburger on rye bread with those crinkle-cut fries and a soda. Two kills in one day were a rare treat, so he ordered a slice of chocolate ice-box pie.

  “Thanks, hon,” he said to the cashier, brushing crumbs from his mustache, and then off his pants. He took a final slurp from the fountain glass and followed with a loud carbonated belch before throwing a ten and a five on the table and leaving. He crossed the street and walked to Centennial Park, where he took off his shirt and plopped on the lush grass, ogling the vast array of college coeds who were just returning to Nashville for the start of the fall semester.

  When the heat got to him, he drove back to the Dickerson Pike motel. Wolfe opened a beer, flipped on the old color television and turned on the baseball game. The bottom of the ninth, and Los Angeles led two to one with the middle of the Braves’ batting order coming up. Back-to-back strikeouts, and a long fly ball to center field. Game over.