by Joel B Reed
I thought the old man was going to argue. He glared at the tall man, as if trying to figure who he was, then nodded and hobbled off to the nearest bench.
“You’ve got to pardon Luther, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “He hasn’t been quite right in a long time.” His voice was rich and well modulated, soft and gentle, but giving the sense of being able to shatter windows were it raised.
Dee extended his identification which he had not put away. “I’m Stephen DiRado, from the Arkansas CID. Who are you?”
“I’m Albert Jones, Officer. I pastor the church here.” He looked at me. “Who is this?”
I introduced myself, extending a hand. The pastor took it. His grip was like his voice, firm and gentle with a hint of great strength held in check. “Dr. Phillips is our consultant on this case,” Dee explained.
“Yes,” the pastor murmured. “I’ve read a great deal about you in the papers, Dr. Phillips. You did very good things when you were with the CID.” He turned to Dee. “I read the same about you, too, Mr. DiRado. It’s a pleasure to meet you both, though I wish the circumstances were different. Poor Wilbur. Yet, with his condition, it may have been a blessing.”
While his manner was open and welcoming, I saw wariness in the reverend’s eyes. I also sensed there was also a lot more to this man than one would expect from a simple country pastor. It may have been the way he spoke, in his choice of words and the lack of any accent. Or it may have been the way he wore his once elegant suit, as if it were fitted to his body by a tailor. Despite his limp, he moved like a dancer, with purpose and no wasted motion.
“His condition?” Dee asked.
“Didn’t your medical examiner tell you?” the pastor asked. “Wilbur had bone cancer. He was facing a world of pain.”
“He told us, pastor,” Dee replied. “I just needed to know if we were singing from the same page. Are you suggesting this might have been suicide? Or a mercy killing?”
“Not at all, Mr. DiRado. Just that he was spared a lot of suffering.”
“How widely was his cancer known?” I asked. His eyes met mine directly, and I saw something there. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I recognized it as something I would not care to meet in a dark alley.
“I would imagine only four or five people knew. He asked me to keep quiet about it, not even put him on the prayer list.” The pastor shook his head. “He was a proud man. Said he didn’t want to trouble his family or be a burden.”
“Why did Luther tell us he did it?” Dee asked.
“He accidentally shot another cousin of ours,” Albert Jones told us. “We were all very young and it wasn’t his fault. It was someone else’s gun, and Luther didn’t know how to handle it properly. He hasn’t been right ever since.” He looked at the old man, now sitting quietly on the bench. “It might surprise you to know that Luther is actually younger than me. The accident aged him very fast.”
It was hard to believe this strong man talking to us was Luther’s senior. I had placed Albert Jones in his early sixties and Luther in his eighties. Now I realized I was at least a decade short. It also occurred to me the good pastor was someone who probably knew everything worth knowing about Oak Grove and its people. Whether he would choose to share this knowledge with us was another question. I decided to take the lead.
“I would like to know more about that accident, pastor,” I told him. I saw shutters go down behind his eyes. “I wouldn’t ask you to violate any professional confidence, but it would help to know anything you can tell us.”
I could see the man was torn. Nor was it fear that troubled him. Looking back, I think he was considering the lesser of evils. Talking to us might open up areas of the past he would rather stay closed. Yet, not doing so might prompt us to probe into other areas even more unpleasant. I think he decided that in talking to us he could steer the conversation along the least unpleasant line.
He pulled out a pocket watch. Like the suit, it was very old and very elegant. “I have a prayer service in a half hour and I need to get ready for that. Perhaps some other time.”
“We’ll be here tomorrow morning,” I told him. “Would that do?”
Albert Jones nodded. “Meet me here at the church at eleven.” Not waiting confirmation, he turned and walked over to Luther. When he said something, the old man got up and followed. Together they disappeared into the church.
Dee sighed. “He knows something. I can smell it.”
I nodded. “Finding out what it is may be a problem.” Later, as we drove out of Oak Grove and the church caught my eye, something fluttered around the threshold of awareness in my mind. There was a critical question I needed to ask the pastor. Yet, for the life of me I couldn’t figure what it was.
2. The Village Smithy
When Dee picked me up early the next morning, I had a better sense of the case. The motel was an easy walk from the jail and I spent a couple of hours going over the file. Then I went for a walk, something people don’t seem to do very much in Nashville. I only saw one other soul out walking, a young woman in a sweat suit leading an old German shepherd that was having trouble keeping up with her pace. She passed me like I was standing still, and I had a moment of sympathy for the old dog. I walk at a good pace, clocking in at three miles in an hour, but she was going half again as fast.
As she passed, I wondered, as I always do, what her hurry was, how she might use the time she may have saved. For me, walking is not exercise so much as a time to get away, a time to set aside the concerns of the day and simply be still for awhile. So I don’t wear headphones or listen to whatever it is people listen to as they walk or run. I listen to the sounds of the night, which is the time of day I prefer to be out, or to the music of the spheres. As I listen, I wait for whatever insights the universe may have to offer. The interesting thing is that answers to many of the hardest questions that develop in a case come to me while I walk. Moving my legs seems to get the gray matter going, too, and I read somewhere that this is true for most people.
Late October weather can go either way in this part of the world, but that night it was cool and clear, and there was a hint of winter ahead in the air. Like many small, rural towns, Nashville is one of those places where they roll up the sidewalks at dusk. The only night life I could see as I walked the town was at the drive-in burger barn.
Even there business was slow. Wednesday night is church night in rural Arkansas and I wondered why there were so few cars at the half dozen or so churches I passed. The tune from an old song drifted through my mind, but the times were not changing. They had changed a long time ago.
Other than that, no blinding insights into this minor mystery came to me on the walk. Nor were there any insights into the case. When I got back to the motel, I read for a while and went to bed relaxed. I slept well, feeling refreshed and ready for the day when I woke. By the time Dee arrived, I was dressed and hungry for breakfast. Dee, on the other hand, looked haggard. When I asked, he told me he had been on the phone half the night talking to Little Rock. However, he had found an AA meeting in town and seemed to be in pretty good spirits.
Among those he talked to the night before was the state medical examiner, and as we ate breakfast, Dee told me the results of tests that were just now coming in. Since it was such a politically sensitive case, the ME had asked the FBI lab to verify some of his findings, and that always takes a while. Nor were there any great surprises. The ME was simply covering his ass and did not expect anything new to be uncovered. What killed Smiley Jones was the bullet that passed though his eye, and the only real questions were who did it and why. Whether the fatal shot came second or third would only be important if there were a trial.
“What bugs me is where the bullets went,” Dee said, taking a sip of coffee. “We looked in all the obvious places, and some that weren’t so obvious. Nothing. It was like they evaporated.” He chuckled. “I even wondered if someone had come up with a way to make them out of ice.”
“Well, assuming it was a hand loaded
.223, that might not be surprising,” I answered. “Suppose someone reloaded military shells and used the original solid nose bullets. If they didn’t hit a building or one of the trees close by, they’re probably lodged somewhere out under the kudzu. I doubt they’ll ever be found. Not that we should stop looking.”
Dee nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But you would think that out of three shots, we could find at least one.”
I shook my head. “This isn’t the city, Dee. There aren’t many buildings to catch them. Then, too, our shooter may have chosen his vector with that in mind.”
Dee smiled and I realized what I had just done. Calling the shooter as ours rather than his meant I had staked a claim. I was committed. They could fire me and send me packing, but other than that, I was in for the long haul. “Well, I hate to bring up the possibility of a pro again,” he said, “but can you see your average killer being that careful...?” He left the thought unfinished.
I cleaned my plate and grabbed the bill. Dee tried to argue but I told him it was on the Natural State and I asked the waitress to bring us a couple of foam cups and to fill my thermos. From what I’d seen, there wasn’t a place to get coffee in Oak Ridge. At least, there wasn’t for peckerwoods like us.
It was foggy that morning as we headed out of Nashville and things did not improve. By the time we got to Oak Grove, the fog turned into a heavy mist and we were having to use the windshield wipers. When we got there about nine, there was no sign of life in town. Those who had jobs in other places were long gone and the weather was not good for being out. I was glad I had thought to bring along my rain gear. Even so, we were likely to get soaked if we had to go tramping around in the brush. I wished I had brought a change of clothes, too.
As gray as it was, there was little point in going over the outhouse right then. So Dee and I sat on the porch of the community center, sipping coffee and talking about the case. I knew our presence had not gone unmarked, and after about a half hour I saw someone slip out the door of the store across the road. It was a child, a boy of nine or ten, wearing a dark rain slicker. When he saw me looking, he disappeared behind the corner of the community center.
Dee had seen him, too. He looked at me, raised an eyebrow in question. I shook my head and we continued to talk quietly. At some point I became aware we were being watched and glanced around. I saw the door of the center move slightly, as if nudged by the movement of air, but I knew it wasn’t that. There was no breeze that morning, and the door was held closed by a spring latch.
“Let’s take a look inside,” I suggested. Dee followed me into the center and we stood there for a moment, letting our eyes get adjusted to the dim light. Dee started to switch on the lights but I stopped him. Turning on the lights might draw more attention than I wanted at the moment.
As dark as it was, there was still plenty of light to show the layout of the center. One big room took up most of the space inside and this was divided into two equal sections. There was no ceiling in the room, only bare rafters with ceramic light fixtures strung down the center of each section. Wooden benches took up most of the space under the lights, but aside from those, that part of the room was bare.
At the end of the room opposite where we stood, there was a low platform with a wooden podium and four wooden chairs. To one side of the platform, in the corner nearest the outhouse, there was a door set at floor level, and an old piano stood facing the podium at the other side. There was a large blackboard directly behind the podium, but as far as I could see, there was no chalk nor any erasers. Except for the blackboard, we could have been in a traditional country church.
The sun must have been breaking through the clouds, for there seemed to be a little more light coming in through the windows. I walked to the center of the room and stood quietly. The light rain falling on the roof made a soft murmur, but I could hear nothing else. Nor was anyone there. I glanced at Dee, still standing by the door, and saw him nod toward the back corner.
The back door was open part way now. Against the light I could see the dark silhouette of someone’s head craned around the door. I couldn’t see the features or the eyes, but I was sure it was the boy I saw coming out of the store.
We stood like that for full minute, looking at each other and neither making a move. Then the door opened wider and the boy came into the room. He stopped a dozen feet away from me and looked at me gravely. I smiled but said nothing.
“Who you?” The words sounded like balloons popping in the still room.
“I’m J.S. Phillips,” I told him gravely. “This is Officer DiRado. Who are you?”
He ignored my question. “He police?”
“Yes,” I answered. “State Police. I’m just a guy who’s helping him out.”
The boy thought about this for a moment. “I got sumpin,” he said. I nodded, but didn’t reply. After a moment, he added, “Sumpin you wont.”
“What is it?” I asked, taking a seat on one of the benches.
The youngster moved a bit closer. “How much you give?” he demanded.
“That depends on what it is,” I answered. “If it’s something good, I’ll give you a dollar.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out some change.
“Three dollar,” he told me.
I put the change back in my pocket and shook my head. “No, if it’s really good, I’ll give you two dollars, one to look and one if I want it. But you got to show me first.”
He considered this for another long moment. Then he nodded and held out his hand. I could see what looked like a spent rifle shell casing. What caught my attention was the color. Brass dulls with age, turning green as it weathers. Even if it’s kept inside in its original box it changes color slightly, taking on a dull patina that grows darker over months and years. This casing the boy held out in his hand was still bright, which meant it was brand new. I felt a thrill of excitement, but tried to keep it off my face and out of my voice.
I took my time, as if I were giving the matter careful consideration. I reached for my wallet and took out two ones, holding them in my hand. I laid one of them on the bench in front of me and said, “All right I’m interested. Turn it around so I can see the open end. Again, he thought for a moment, then did what I asked.
The neck of the case was small and I nodded. “All right, I’ll take it,” I told him. I laid the other bill beside the first and leaned back. “What I really want to know is where you found that.”
The boy approached carefully. Then, in a flash, he grabbed the two bills and jumped back where he started. I carefully picked up the empty shell casing, using a wire I keep in my pocket for just this purpose. I looked at the base. “It’s a .223, all right,” I told Dee. “Remington commercial casing. Civilian issue, not military.”
Dee stayed where he was. I took out a self-sealing sandwich bag and put the shell in, tucking the whole works into a shirt pocket. Then I took a five out of my wallet and looked at the youngster. His eyes widened when he saw it was a five, but other than that, he showed no interest. “I was looking for that,” I told him. “Now I’d like for you to show me where you found it.”
The boy said nothing. He nodded toward the five I still held in my hand and pointed to the bench. “No,” I said. “You have to show me first.”
He looked at me gravely for a long moment, then shook his head. I put the five back into my wallet. After a moment, he walked back to the door, then stopped and looked at me. I sat for a moment, then took the five out again. His eyes grew even wider than before when I tore the bill and half. Then I laid one half onto the bench. “All right,” I told him. “You take this half now, and I’ll give you the other one when you show me where you found it.”
“Ain’t no good now,” he told me. I wondered if it was just my ear or if he was losing some of his rural Arkansas accent.
I didn’t think I would be able to convince him otherwise. So I picked up the torn bill and took two more ones out of my wallet and laid them on the bench. “All right. Two now and
three more when you show me.”
He considered this for a moment, then nodded. This time he walked up to me and did not run back after he picked up the bills. “I’m Jazz,” I said, offering my hand. “What’s your name?”
He looked at my hand for a moment, then shook it. “My name is Robert,” he told me, his voice completely without accent now. His eyes were solemn.
“I bet your last name is Jones,” I told him.
“How much you want to bet?”
“A quarter.”
“You lose,” he replied. “It’s McNutt.”
“All right, Robert,” I laughed and tossed him a coin. “Why don’t you show us where you found it.”
Robert moved to the door and waved for us to follow. When we emerged, we found ourselves in a small clearing behind the community center. The tree line curved south from the corner nearest the road, making a hidden pocket in what looked like solid forest and brush. It was about fifty feet across at its widest and ran over the edge of the ridge. I looked around and saw we were not standing far from a line of photinias, the same one that gave the privy privacy. Yet, I could not see the outhouse from where I stood.
Robert stopped just outside the door and seemed to be lost in thought. Then he turned and walked to the west corner of the building. He stopped there a minute and looked out. Then he turned back to us and spoke in a quiet voice. “You wait until I’m across.”
I heard Dee snort softly, the way he does when he is getting impatient. “What’s the deal with him?” he asked so quietly I could barely hear.
I chuckled. “He doesn’t want to be seen with us.”
“So it’s not cool talking to PO-lice around here,” he murmured.
“Something like that.” I saw Robert wave to us from the other side of the road. “Or it may be he’s got a good deal going, and he doesn’t want his mama to spoil. Let’s move.”
