Vendetta Stone (1)

by Tom Wood

  The Stones remained seated in the pew as those around them rose to leave.

  “Bye, Mister Stone,” one young voice said as his mother shushed him down the aisle. Jackson felt drained, as if he’d just survived a ten-round fight. His conscience waged a battle, knowing the preacher’s words rang true but what he must do also felt right. Supported by Sheila and Patrick, who rose when Jackson did, they made their way to where Brother Bob waited. He thrust a hand at Jackson.

  “Hope I didn’t rough you up too much. I was—”

  “I know. Doing your job,” Jackson said coldly and left without shaking the preacher’s hand. Patrick apologized and said his brother didn’t mean it.

  Jackson emerged from the church, and I plotted an intercept course, cutting across the parking lot to re-introduce myself.

  “Hello again, Mister Stone. Gerry Hilliard from TenneScene Today and—”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?”

  “I played a hunch you would be in church today and since I couldn’t reach you by telephone yesterday, I wanted to give you an opportunity to respond to Chief King’s comments about possible charges you could face if you continue to pursue this vengeance thing. And I’m curious about your reactions to the reverend’s sermon this morning. I sat in the back and watched. I half-expected you to get up and walk out.” I grinned at that last line, and it seemed to be the ice-breaker in our chilly, budding relationship. It also caused a turnabout in Jackson’s attitude.

  Jackson chuckled as his brother arrived, red-faced as if he’d just eaten the tongue-blistering medium quarter breast at Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack. “Yeah, the thought crossed my mind. Wait here a minute, and I’ll be glad to talk. Maybe you can join us for lunch. Talk to my kid brother.”

  Jackson sprinted back into the church, where he found Brother Bob. He met the preacher with true humility.

  “I want to apologize for the ‘just doing your job,’ line, Brother Bob.”

  “No offense, Brother Jack. We’ll talk about it soon.”

  “This is all still . . . raw emotion right now, but I promise I’ll explain everything someday . . . soon, I hope.”

  Jackson came out of the church and got in the backseat of Patrick’s car. I followed them to Patrick’s house in autopilot mode as I thought about where I wanted to steer our conversation. Sheila heated leftovers as the brothers led me into the den. We chatted a minute, then got down to business. I opened my notepad, turned on the recorder, and set it on the table between us.

  “Sunday August fifteenth. Jackson and Patrick Stone. So what’s going through your mind after that sermon?”

  “Honestly? I’m kind of numb. I loved the headline, but I sure didn’t see that coming. But I’m even more determined than ever to find Angela’s killer. I anticipated some harsh reaction, that not everyone would agree with or condone what I am trying to do.”

  “Describe your meeting with Chief King.”

  “Without getting into all the details, you heard the same basic spiel at his news conference. I didn’t know about that until I picked up the paper this morning.”

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders in a what-can-you-do fashion, adding, “I can’t say I’m surprised by the Chief’s reaction. He’s got his job to do.”

  Jackson paused, reflecting that he made the same comment to the preacher. He still felt bad about that and chose his next words with care.

  “I don’t hold any animosity toward the chief or the police. I’ve supported the police on many levels and became acquainted with several at the East Nashville precinct before this happened. I sincerely hope they find Angela’s murderer. He’s still out there somewhere and has to be stopped. If they can’t stop him, maybe I can. Someone has to. Might as well be me.”

  “How about possibly facing criminal charges? As the chief noted, it could be considered premeditated. Did you ever consider not going public with your mission, as you’ve called it?”

  Jackson shook his head.

  “The answer to both of your questions is no, I didn’t. Criminal charges are one thing. A conviction is another. I’ve got a good lawyer, and I think any jury would be sympathetic to what this monster has put us through. He deserves to die.”

  Jackson scooted forward and looked me in the eye to make sure I got the message.

  “The second thing is I can’t do it alone. I need the public’s help to find this psycho. I’ve put up a hundred thousand dollars of my own savings and as soon as we get the paperwork complete, the public will be able to make donations at my Angela’s Angels website. All contributions will be used to: one . . . find Angela’s killer, and . . . two . . . increase the reward money as necessary, and . . . three . . . solve other murders and help other victims’ families long after we’ve found Angela’s killer.”

  “What makes you think you can solve this crime if the cops can’t? I read your bio, so I know about your military training.”

  My follow-up question caused Jackson to stiffen and cross his arms, almost belligerent.

  “I’m not going to answer that, because I’ve got some definite leads that I want to check out and you never know who will read this—maybe even the gutless coward who killed an innocent woman and I’m guessing has killed before. I want to stop him before there’s another victim. I don’t know why, but I feel he’s still in Middle Tennessee somewhere. I’ll track him around the globe if that’s what it takes and spend the rest of my life in that pursuit until he’s found.”

  I hunched over, scribbling in my reporter’s notebook in case the recorder fouled up.

  Sheila brought in a tray of sandwiches, part of the cornucopia of food brought over by caring friends and neighbors.

  “Oh not for me, thanks,” I said and stood. “I need to get to the office and start writing. Deadlines, you know.”

  Jackson walked me to the front door, and I dug a business card out of my wallet, writing my home information on the back. My turn to lecture, just like the police chief and the preacher.

  “You’re in the ad game and know how to manipulate the media. But if you’re honest with me, I’ll be fair with you. You’re hot news now, but the day will come when the next big story bumps you off the front page. I won’t be your mouthpiece, but if you’ve got something you think I need to hear or know, call me anytime. That’s day, night, at the office, at home, or on my cell. I can help you get your message out. And I would rather see you face-to-face than at a news conference. I’ll be glad to converse off the record, and we’ll talk about what is on the record. But you can’t say something and then say ‘that’s off the record.’ No take-backs. And I’ll keep my editors in the loop on every conversation. Fair enough?”

  With the ground rules established, I stuck out my hand, and Jackson accepted it.

  3

  Scenes from a gorgeous Sunday afternoon:

  Sally Thompson grew frustrated. The Channel 11 general assignments reporter left message after message for every phone number Clarkston left her while he enjoyed a beautiful Sunday at the lake or wherever he was. She couldn’t find Jackson Stone or his cell number, just an email address for his office. Patrick Stone’s voicemail asked her to leave a message. Darrin Jensen’s pager went unanswered, and she dared not call the police chief without going through his PR flak first. She looked at the latest blogs on the station’s website and other media sites for inspiration. She found it. A sampling:

  Classic Country 750-AM: At 11:57 a.m., BACKSTABBED wrote: “Jackson Stone better watch his back because somebody might plant a knife in it. And if the killer doesn’t get him first, the cops will. You’re a dead man walking, whacko Jacko.”

  Channel 11: At 12:22 p.m., CAROL177 wrote: “Great headline in the paper this morning, bet you guys are jealous. Your coverage has been pretty good, but it seems like the media has been leaning too much toward the police. Treat Jackson fairly and don’t judge him too harsh.”

  TenneSceneToday.com: At 12:45 p.m., EXCOP replied to CAROL177: “Stone is planning


  to play Judge and Jury and you don’t want him judged too harshly? You’re a fool and so is Stone if he thinks he can get away with using his wife’s death as an excuse to take the law into his own hands. Murder is murder any way you cut it.”

  That settled Sally. What did average Nashvillians think about Jackson Stone’s plans and the police’s reactions? She speed-dialed her weekend videographer. “Grab your camera. We’re going to Centennial Park.”

  What a good idea, she thought as she climbed into the passenger seat of the newsvan. Even if it didn’t pan out to be a great story, just hanging out at the park would be great.

  Sergeant Mike Whitfield didn’t like working weekends, but with everybody—from the mayor’s office to the chief to the media to the public—watching how the police handled the Stone case, pressure intensified to solve the case. Detectives handled most of the workload, but relied on Whitfield’s street-smart instincts to determine what forensics couldn’t. He’d played a major role in finding the East Nashville rapist last year.

  “There’s gotta be a clue here, somewhere.” Another report flew across the desk littered with a stack of papers detailing physical evidence, none pointing to the killer’s identity. Fingerprints in the house belonged to the Stones and their closest family and friends. The city-wide manhunt for Angela began in East Nashville and slowly fanned out over a twenty-mile radius. It took more than a week for the search party to reach Warner Park, but once they did, police dogs discovered her body less than a half-mile from the golf course. A couple of volunteers swore they combed over that area less than twenty-four hours before the call went out that a search dog sniffed out her shallow grave. No trace of her car.

  The autopsy revealed the cause of death as asphyxiation, and the ribs broken by something swung—a metal rod or a tire iron—indicated a left-handed killer. Neck and facial bruises showed Angela was unconscious before she died, which meant the murderer didn’t rush. Sexual abuse, but no semen. No flesh underneath her fingernails, no bloody shoeprints, no tell-tale traces, no muddy tire tracks at the scene to help identify the killer.

  “Nothing, dammit,” he said in frustration as his phone rang. “East Precinct. Sergeant Whitfield.”

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant. Chief King here.”

  “Yes sir,” Whitfield said, straightening in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me you’ve found something to crack the Stone case.”

  “Sorry sir. There’s nothing useful. But that suggests we’re dealing with somebody who knows how to cover his tracks.”

  “Not surprising. What else?”

  “Detective Williams rechecked the FBI database for comparisons to other cold case files and ongoing investigations around the South, with no hits. There’s a missing connection. I’m going back to the crime scene tomorrow.”

  “Send somebody else,” the chief ordered, “and be in my office at ten a.m.”

  After leaving the Stones’ house, I sped to the paper about one-thirty. I sent a budget line for my story to the weekend editor, wrote a ten-inch website version about Stone’s visit to church, and got it posted. I then copied that story, opened a new Word document, and began writing for print. I re-read my notes and listened to the recorder once to make sure I accurately typed a quote. Then I called Reverend Armstrong, apologized for not sticking around after church, and told him the gist of my story.

  “I think I’ve said enough,” the reverend said when I asked him about the quote, “but I look forward to reading the article.”

  Quickly, I filed a twenty-inch story on the day’s events, left the paper, drove twenty minutes on I-65 North to pick up Jill in Hendersonville, and turned right around to drive back downtown to Greer Stadium, just ten minutes from the paper. Ordinarily, I’d be ticked, but not on Jill’s birthday. She’d been a good sport about my working on a regular day off.

  I sat my large beer in the cup holder, stood with Jill, and removed my ball cap as the young woman belted out the national anthem at the Nashville Sounds’ Class Triple-A game against the Salt Lake Bees. The paper could find me if news broke or an editor raised questions about the story, and I’d tucked a printout of my story in my pocket.

  The Sounds scored two runs in the bottom of the first inning on Eddie Smith’s two-out, two-run double, but the right-fielder threw him out at third base trying to stretch it into a triple. The Bees threatened in the top of the third when my phone began vibrating. I couldn’t hear because of the loudspeakers and cheers of the fans at the first out. I tapped Jill on the knee. “Be right back. Want anything?” She shook her head.

  I left the box seats and flew up the concrete steps two at a time until I reached the concourse. I found a sheltered site and flipped on the phone. The missed call came from the paper, and I dialed the weekend editor.

  “David, you rang?”

  “Yeah. We got a little tight for space, and I wanted to go over a couple of changes. We’ll run your story full on the website.”

  “Hang on a second,” I said and pulled out my printout, reading along as he went over the proposed changes in the copy about halfway down.

  “Finally, in that paragraph where the preacher is talking about the sixth commandment, I paraphrased the last part to say that his Sunday message was for all Christians, not just Stone. It picks up with the quote, ‘Terrible things happen to good Christians every day.’ ”

  “That’s fine, Dave. ’Preciate the call. Anything else?” There wasn’t. “Tell Lex to frame that headline. Inspirational,” I added, then got in line to buy a couple of small plastic souvenir helmets filled with ice cream. Vanilla for me, chocolate for Jill. They’d reached the top of the fourth inning when I got back to my seat. The Sounds were leading 4-2, but eventually lost 5-4 on a three-run shot in the bottom of the ninth by Boomer Malone.

  Delmore Wolfe spent the afternoon in a daze after reading the morning newspaper at the diner. Pushing the cold, tasteless cheeseburger away from him, he rose to pay the bill and took the paper with him back to the motel. He showered and tried watching the game, but his mind kept going back to that blaring headline Police to Stone: Thou shalt not kill.

  Wolfe tried to write in his journal, but couldn’t concentrate. Growing impatient, he tore the front page off the paper, got out his pen, and blacked out the words Police to and not. That left the headline reading Stone: Thou shalt kill.

  He flashed an evil smile—I think I will—as he slashed a big X through the picture of Stone, marking the crossing diagonal lines over and over until he obliterated Stone’s features.

  The cackling laugh finally ceased when Wolfe’s appetite roared. Pushing six o’clock, he headed downtown for food and some good, country, butt-kicking music.

  Wolfe stopped in at a couple of the Printer’s Alley lounges and strip clubs before heading down to lower Broadway for a quick stop in Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. The world-famous bar built its reputation in the 1950s and ’60s when some Grand Ole Opry members would slip in for a cold one between sets on Friday and Saturday nights at the Ryman Auditorium. He downed a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons, then wandered into Robert’s Western World, once a clothing store converted into a bar that served one of the best burgers in town. Its claim to fame: Helping launch the career of BR549, a band which took its name from an old Hee-Haw running gag. That was the telephone number of country comedian Junior Samples’ used car dealership.

  Wolfe pulled up a stool at the counter and ordered a longneck and a rare cheeseburger. Bobby Ray’s Bumpkins were just taking the stage for their first of eight sets that would run until about two in the morning. The new house band completed its soundcheck as Wolfe’s food arrived. Before stepping to the mike, Bobby Ray leaned behind an amp and picked up a big tin can which he sat on a stool. Taped to the can, a picture cut out of the newspaper. A sassy Angela Stone on stage at the 2009 CMA Country Music Festival, looking Pure Palomino.

  “Don’t know if y’all saw the paper the last couple of days, but you probably know that Na
shville’s Jackson Stone is starting a website to raise money to find the guy who killed his wife Angela,” Bobby Ray told the dozen or so tourists seated around the bar/boot store. “Our drummer’s wife met Mizzus Stone at the outreach center earlier this year, so we talked it over and thought we’d contribute tonight’s tips to this good cause. Hope y’all pony up on the way out.”

  Wolfe sat there for a minute as the music started, then threw a ten on the counter and left. He’d lost his appetite. He didn’t put any money in the tip jar.

  After checking with the precinct to see if he could return to his house, Jackson got home about four, unpacked the car, and took the first steps to putting his shattered life back together. Going into the bedroom proved the hardest part. The police had confiscated the sheets and mattress pad for testing, and he saw other signs of disturbance. He vacuumed, made the bed, and put his clothes away, then heated some of the leftovers that Sheila had packed for him.

  At five-thirty, he drove across town to Belle Rive Baptist—the church where he grew up, where he found Jesus, got married, developed lifelong friendships—to attend evening services. He didn’t expect a repeat of the morning service from the preacher and didn’t get another lecture. But the fallout from that sermon continued, pro and con. Everyone spoke to Jackson about his plans, some harshly.

  After services, the Keanes and Blakemores cornered Jackson before he could get away.

  “How are you?” Mary Keane said. “I mean, really.”

  “I sure didn’t expect Brother Bob to go off on me like that this morning. I’m just going to try to focus on work and help find Angela’s killer.”

  “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Joan Blakemore said. She opened her purse and handed him five one hundred dollar bills. “This is in memory of Angela.”

  Surprised by the amount, Jackson accepted it humbly.

  “Joan, Wally, it’s too generous, but thank you very much.”