by Tom Wood
At 4:10 a.m., HOOSIERDADDY wrote: “It looks like Jackson got his revenge; how hollow he must now feel. Hope your soul was worth it, murderer.”
At 4:47 a.m., DETERMINATOR wrote: “In response to JONAS, my guess is the killer is still out there and Stony will catch him and feed him to the fish.”
At 5:10 a.m., MITSU wrote: “The big question is why the Fletchers are dead. There MUST be a connection to all three murders. If Stone killed Herb he had reason.”
At 5:59 a.m., BUZKIL wrote: “Stone Stone. I bet he killed all three.”
At 7:10 a.m., PASSION FLOWER wrote: “I know the passing of the Fletchers is news, but the media coverage is sensationalized. You make money off these tragedies. Shame on you.”
At 8:32 a.m., RETCHIN’ GRETCHEN wrote: “All of you people act like vultures. And not just
the media, but those who write this jibberish. You should be ashamed. You make me sick.”
At 8:55 a.m., Chief King scanned page after page at the newspaper website, awaiting Whitfield’s call. So far the routine reports addressed what Jackson did, where he ate, who he met, if he’d made any progress toward finding the killer, if anyone suspicious seemed to be following him.
At 9 a.m., King’s private telephone buzzed. He answered on the second ring.
“We’ve lost Stone, but we have a lead on a suspect,” Whitfield reported.
King’s irritation at losing Jackson abruptly shifted to excitement. Finally, a break.
“I just emailed you a photo of a person of interest. It’s not a great shot, but maybe the lab boys can enhance it,” Whitfield added.
For the next ten minutes Whitfield filled in his boss on the past twenty-four hours, from his decision to bring in Mendez to where he lost Stone, from his fruitless interrogation of Big Red to the APB put out on Red’s truck, from Mendez’s late-night phone call to the meeting with me. Whitfield expected to be fired, taken off the case, or demoted. None of the above.
“You make finding Stone priority one, and I’ll start trying to find this man,” King said. “Get Mendez to stick with Boyle. Let’s see if Stone contacts him again.”
“I still have a job?” Whitfield asked, somewhat incredulous.
“You’ve made some mistakes, but Stone could have pulled that switch on anyone. He’s pretty clever and shouldn’t be underestimated,” King said, controlling his anger. “You should have called before you brought in Mendez, but we might not have this photo if he hadn’t known he could talk to you, so things even out. We need to get back ahead on this. Mendez is reassigned to you. I wish the newspaper wasn’t involved. I’m going to call over there. Get back to me.”
At 9:20 a.m., King hung up and dialed TenneScene Today Executive Editor Judy Flint. Her secretary said Mrs. Flint was in a meeting but would he please hold. Danise knocked on the door and entered. Besides Judy and me, the intense meeting consisted of city editor Carrie Sullivan, Managing Editor Ken McGuire, and Publisher Andrew Polk. I felt thankful for the interruption. I’d called Carrie from the house and when I got to the paper, they were waiting for me. I felt like the guest of honor at a mid-August barbecue. The main course.
“Chief King on line two,” Danise announced.
“We’re finishing up here,” the editor said. “Tell him I’ll call back in ten minutes.”
Danise left, and Judy turned on me, a disgusted look on her face.
“You can leave, too, Mister Hilliard,” she said. Judy and I have a very good relationship, but she’s STILL the boss.
After I left, Judy went ballistic. “I want him off this story. Assign it to Tony or Shelley.”
“Don’t overreact, Judy. He’s been so far ahead on this story it would be a real mistake to pull him now,” McGuire said.
“He’s compromised our ability to gather the news fairly and impartially.”
“That’s bull,” Carrie said. “Gerry’s the best reporter we’ve got. You know we’ve cooperated with the police on investigations before—last spring on the East Nashville rapist case, as a matter of fact.”
“That was different,” Judy fired back. “That perv mailed us a letter bragging about his crimes. It was evidence.”
“And it helped catch him, did it not? And Gerry was all over that story, too.”
Publisher Andrew Polk, prematurely gray for his forty-two years, again proved the voice of reason. And the boss.
“The police are going to owe us one,” Polk said. “If we hand them key evidence, we’ll demand an exclusive.”
Judy backed off. “All right, Andrew, it’s your call. Everybody back to work. And tell Hilliard no more phone calls to the cops without talking to me first. I don’t care what time it is.” She dialed the police chief.
At 9:30 a.m., Carrie lectured me how she once again saved my butt, when my telephone rang. Jackson Stone, the caller ID said.
“Where did you get this photo?”
3
Delmore Wolfe sat in his car around the corner from Jackson’s house, waiting and trying to watch through the steady rain that streaked the windows. He couldn’t see much, but his Super Hearing earpiece picked up everything. He had driven past the house twice and down the alley behind it, spotting no cars and no signs of life.
A police cruiser approached, and he ducked from view. Fortunately, the cop didn’t stop to check out his parked car. Everybody parked on the street in the close-knit community, where most of the cottage houses and Victorian homes were built in the early twentieth century and attached garages were rare.
Wolfe grew angry. He counted on finding Jackson so he could follow him to that hot little psychiatrist. Jackson had scheduled a session with her, and Wolfe wanted one, too. He tried to think where Jackson might be this early. He sat outside the house for an hour or so, growing anxious and more paranoid. He lit another cigarette and washed a handful of pills down with the last sip of Jack and Coke, driven by demons that would not let him rest until he found his quarry. He picked up sounds of another car approaching. A red pickup pulled into the driveway. He couldn’t make out the features of the dark-haired man who got out and banged on the front door. Wolfe turned up his amplifier.
“You in there, Jack?” No answer. The man walked around the house checking the back door and peered into windows. He left forthwith. Wolfe stayed.
Jackson yawned, rolled his neck, flexed his shoulders, and rubbed at his lower back, still getting over the lumpy couch. He made coffee and got a paper at the market across the street from Eddie Paul’s Pub. He twice read my story and the sidebars. None of it went as far as television coverage in trying to connect the deaths. Our article quoted Stone as denying Channel 11 reports.
Jackson worked at his second cup of coffee trying to decide what he would do today to speed up his search when a ravenous hunger hit him. He started to go back to the market, but decided to get going. He wanted fresh clothes for his eleven a.m. appointment with Doctor Karnoff, but didn’t want to swing by the house. He didn’t know if the cops would be there, but didn’t want to chance it. He’d disappeared and wasn’t ready to resurface. He got in Louie’s silver Malibu and tuned into George Dunkirk’s talk show as he drove through the rain to the Greasy Spoon diner for breakfast. Five minutes of mindless radio chatter and speculation about what happened to the Fletchers wore him out.
“If they knew,” Stone muttered as he slammed the car door, wishing for enlightenment himself.
After ordering, Jackson decided he wasn’t going to Murfreesboro just to change clothes. An “emergency” suit hung in the spare bedroom closet at his brother’s house. As he opened his cell phone to call Patrick, he noticed a photo in his inbox. The waitress brought breakfast, but Jackson never noticed. After five minutes of staring at the picture, that’s when he called me.
I stayed cool in front of Carrie. She’d climbed out on that proverbial limb for me, and if she learned I was talking to Jackson about the photo I’d shown to the two officers overnight, no amount of explaining would help. But I wanted to gather more fac
ts and fill in holes before bringing it to her attention.
“I’m sorry, Mister Jones,” I said. Carrie bristled at the interruption to her stern lecture, “but I’m working exclusively on the Stone murder case. I’ll pass on your number if you’d like.”
Jackson immediately understood I couldn’t talk.
“I’ve got an appointment at Vanderbilt at eleven. I can meet you by the Parthenon in about an hour,” Jackson said. “At the picnic shelter.”
“Sure thing. Good luck to you, too, sir.”
I hung up and tried to be attentive to Carrie’s sermon about a right way and a wrong way to track down a story, that I had come this close to getting fired or reassigned, that I’d better call Judy before I pulled another stunt like that.
“Sure thing,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”
Carrie tried to be mad, but couldn’t. I took care of a few things at my desk, logged off my computer, grabbed my notepad, cell phone, and mini-recorder, then, like Elvis, I left the building.
As I pulled out of the newspaper parking lot and headed toward West End, Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston turned the ignition in the car and pulled out of the gas station across the street.
“So where do you think he’s going?” asked videographer Greg Pittard, who filmed with his small hand-held camera as they trailed me.
“I’ll pull up beside him at the light and ask him,” Clarkston said.
Still stinging from my verbal jabs of the previous night about closing in on the killer, Clarkston figured something on the DVD gave me the clue I sought. We enjoyed competing against each other and now more than ever, Clarkston wanted to kick my butt on this story. After I left the station last night, they went back and reviewed the first five minutes of the video five times—the only part I’d asked to see more than once. I’d done so for the purpose of throwing them off the scent. They behaved as I expected, just the way I would, had roles been reversed. It almost worked. Clarkston recognized faces in the footage and tried matching names. He wanted to look one more time, but Pittard said his shift ended ten minutes ago and headed home. So Clarkston restarted the playback unit. He watched the first five minutes and decided to look over the whole tape. Another five minutes passed before an urgent need to go to the bathroom hit. Clarkston didn’t turn off the scanner. When he got back, it neared the end of the tape. There was Herb in the line.
The mustached man behind him looked somewhat familiar, but Dan couldn’t put a name with that face. Where had he seen that guy before?
Clarkston couldn’t figure it out, so he decided to let me do the legwork, and he would be there to grab the spotlight.
The chase began, with Desperate Dan running second.
4
Jimmy Boyle was driving too fast on Interstate 24 West, slogging through the driving rain on his way to Nashville when his cell phone rang. He recognized Jackson’s number and put the call on speaker so he could keep both hands on the wheel.
“Hello,” Big Red said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m passing the Smyrna exit now. I should be there in about forty minutes. Where you calling from?”
“I’m almost at my brother’s house, and then I’m going to swing by Vandy. Can you meet me at the Parthenon?”
“Why sure, Jack. I’m in my brother’s car. I left yours in Lynchburg. You were right about being followed. That cop sure looked mad. But I didn’t tell him nothin’.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“Yep, but I don’t remember. Let’s see. Oh yeah, Mike something. A big, dark-haired fella, called himself a friend of yours, but I didn’t trust him.”
Jackson smiled. He wasn’t alone in the stealth department.
“Well, well. That’s interesting. Pretty stocky, with narrow eyes?”
“Yeah, you nailed him.”
“All right, Red, see you in a little while. Be careful, though. They might still be watching you. Let’s meet by the picnic shelter.”
Red looked in the mirror and spotted a Tennessee state trooper keeping pace with him about ten car lengths behind.
“Oh man, you might be right,” he told Jackson. “There’s a highway patrol—wait, he’s getting off the road. Looks like you got nothin’ to worry about. Seeya in a few minutes.”
Red hung up and watched the trooper exit as he crossed into Nashville’s Davidson County. Actually, Red should have been looking ahead. He passed a black car just pulling onto the interstate. It kept pace with the oblivious Jimmy Boyle, who tuned in to the oldies channel.
“Thanks for your help, Trooper,” Barry Mendez said as he took over in the unmarked police car.
“Let us know if we can be of further assistance,” the state cop radioed back.
“All right, Red. Where are you taking me?” Mendez said.
Delmore Wolfe felt stoked, and not just from the drugs. His gamble paid off. Tiring of sitting outside Jackson’s house, Wolfe had spent an hour prowling around East Nashville for Jackson’s car.
He swung back by the Stone house and took a sharp left. Another cop car did a drive-by. Wolfe reckoned others sought Jackson and decided he better find him first. Then a cool thought crossed his mind. They’re going to arrest him for Herb’s murder. I bet that’s why the cops are looking so hard for him. They’re closing in.
Another thought wiped the grin off Wolfe’s face, and his chest tightened.
He might be at the psychiatrist’s office right now.
Panicking, Wolfe entertained one last possibility.
Maybe he’s gone to see his brother.
Wolfe hit the gas, and it took about twenty minutes to reach Patrick Stone’s home. A silver Malibu sat under the carport canopy, one he hadn’t seen before. He parked down the street for about five minutes, waiting to see who came out of the house. His Super Hearing device picked up muffled sounds inside before the door opened and a man came out. Wolfe couldn’t tell who because the umbrella obscured his view. He cracked a window for a better look as an umbrella lowered.
“We’re late for our appointment,” Wolfe said as he glimpsed Jackson Stone’s profile. Jackson backed out of the driveway and took off. So did Wolfe. With all his plans falling into place, he contentedly followed Stone to his meeting.
But time was running out for Mike Whitfield, frantic to find Stone. He left messages at various phone numbers, and sent emails, then visited Stone’s brother at his Brentwood office.
“My wife arranged for Jackson to talk to a psychiatrist the other day, but neglected to tell him about it until we got there. He got mad and we left and haven’t talked to him since,” Patrick said.
“If there’s anything you can tell me to help me find Jack, or if you should talk to him, please let me know,” Whitfield said.
“There is one thing. A reporter left a message last night describing a . . . I don’t know, suspect? It sounded like he wanted to warn Jack about him.”
“Yeah, I know. I talked to the reporter last night. We’re looking for the same guy. I think he’s looking for Jack.”
That worried Patrick. He presumed Jackson could take care of himself, but might not be thinking straight. If the cops were worried . . . .
“What is the name of the psychiatrist Jackson saw?” Whitfield asked.
“Doctor Erica Karnoff. She’s over at Vandy.”
Whitfield thanked Patrick, then dialed Chief King’s private number as he sped back to Nashville.
“Sir, I’m headed Vanderbilt to meet with a Doctor Erica Karnoff. I’ll keep you posted.”
5
The storm that hung over Nashville had approached from the southeast, welcome relief from the heat wave. Temperatures had hovered around one hundred degrees for the past two weeks. It was the middle of hurricane season in the South, and when one moved inland in such dry conditions, the ensuing downgraded storm could still come so hard that flash floods overloaded sewers and sent water backing into the streets. It was
one of those days.
Cars splashed sprays five feet as they hit the standing water along West End. Thunder boomed as the storm settled in above the Vanderbilt campus. Across the street at Centennial Park, lightning lit the dark skies like spider veins.
On a typical August day, the park teemed with sunbathers, joggers, mothers pushing kids’ strollers, businessmen eating lunch, grandparents and grandkids feeding the Lake Wautauga ducks, homeless men panhandling or scrounging through the garbage cans for food, and musicians playing guitars or fiddles or banjos or bongos.
But the rain kept everyone away from the sprawling park, home to the Parthenon, an exact replica of the ancient wonder in Athens, Greece, which boasted magnificent columns topped by pediments of gods, goddesses, warriors on horse-drawn chariots, centaurs, Minotaurs and gryphons. Inside the temple stood a forty-three-foot-tall, gilded statue of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, with a thirty-five-foot spear and shield at her side, and in her right palm, Nike, the goddess of victory.
It was under renovation, almost finished with one scaffold remaining.
Jackson approached Centennial Park from the west side of Nashville, followed by Delmore Wolfe, hot on the scent. Unaware of the tail, Jackson dialed Doctor Karnoff’s office.
“This is Jackson Stone,” he told the receptionist. “I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Doctor Karnoff, but I might be a few minutes late.”
“I’ll let her know,” she said. The other line buzzed, and she punched it.
