Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series)

by Joel B Reed

  Leslie seemed cheerful and friendly, like a large, overgrown pup, but I wasn’t sure just where I stood with him. I decided it would be better to confront any issues he might have before we left town. “I hope I did n’t get you in a jam with your boss,” I told him, watching carefully.

  He seemed surprised I mentioned it. “You mean with the rifle? No sweat. It was my own fault for getting sloppy. He didn’t even say much. Just moved me back to patrol.”

  “So no hard feelings?” I asked.

  He shook his head and grinned. “No, I’d rather be out on patrol, anyway. I don’t like driving a desk much.”

  “I don’t either,” I said. I told him what I had in mind.

  Leslie echoed the sheriff’s assessment. “I was in on the first search, but there wasn’t a whole lot there like there is with some old people. Mostly his clothes and some musical instruments. What there was has probably disappeared by now, but we can give it a try.”

  It turned out he was right. Smiley had lived alone in his own house, and it was obvious he had taken care of the place. Yet, the front door was missing, as was the kitchen sink and the commode. The place was bare of furniture and the only thing that remained was trash scattered around the polished wooden floor. Not even coat hangers remained in the one closet. “It sure don’t take long out here,” the deputy observed, looking around. “Unless someone moves in, the floor boards will be gone soon.”

  The way he was eyeing the oak flooring, I wondered if he was considering it himself. “Not much left for his family, is there?”

  The deputy gave me a startled look. “Hell, it was probably his family who done this,” he said. “Cousins. He didn’t have no kids or even an ex-wife.”

  “Any evidence he was gay?” I asked, watching the deputy closely.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me, him being a musician and all, but I ain’t heard a word about that. He had the reputation of being a lady’s man and I hear a lot of ladies thought he was their man.” He laughed.

  “Sometimes that’s a screen,” I said and I could tell he didn’t follow. “You know, what people in the gay community call window dressing.”

  “Window dressing?” he asked, looking at the bare frames where even the curtain rods had been taken.

  “It’s the way some guys hide the fact they are gay. They have a family or lots of girl friends.”

  “Jesus!” he said. The look of revulsion on his face almost made me laugh. When the implications hit him he frowned. “Then how do you know...?”

  I shrugged. “Mostly, you don’t. That’s why I was asking.”

  “Yeah,” he said absently, looking deeply troubled. I realized I had opened the door to a vast abyss before him, and there was nothing I could do to close it. “You know, we’ve got a guy like that in the sheriff’s department,” he told me. “A real ladies’ man. You don’t think...?”

  “Good heavens, no,” I said, improvising. The last thing I wanted to do was stir up trouble in Tanner’s office. “Not out here. Smiley was a city guy most of his life. That’s why I asked.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I see what you mean.” It was obvious he didn’t see, and it was equally clear he was still troubled. Yet, I hoped I had given him a way back to shore. What he said next told me I had failed. “There are some weird folks out there. Guy has to watch himself.”

  Out of habit, I sorted through the trash. Most of it was just that, but in one of the back rooms, I turned over what I thought was a sheet of yellowed paper and found myself looking at an old photograph. It was black and white and the paper was stained a bit from age and dust, but the image was still clear. Nor was it a snapshot. It looked professionally composed, almost like a publicity shot, though there was no name of the photographer on the back.

  The picture showed six young African American men dressed in their Sunday best. One of them was older and a bit taller and wore a black suit with a white shirt and a wide conservative tie. He looked to be in his early twenties, but he could have been forty or more. There was something that looked like a white carnation in his lapel and he was smiling broadly, his large white teeth as bright against piano keys against his dark skin. It was that famous smile that had given Wilbur Jones his sobriquet.

  Directly in front of Smiley was a much younger man about the same age as Robert McNutt was now. He was wearing what looked like a grey blazer and black dress pants and was seated facing the camera directly. His tie was much narrower, but he, too, wore a white carnation in his jacket lapel. What struck me immediately was how much he looked like Wilbur, whose hands rested on the youngster’s shoulders. Most viewers would probably think they were looking at a father and his son—a son born in his father’s exact image.

  The other four men were much younger than the man in the center, in their middle teens and a bit older than the youth. Two of them stood to either side of Wilbur, and they were dressed the same way as the young man in front, with grey blazers, black pants, and carnations on their lapels. They were all grinning, too, and small beads of light reflected from the shine on their shoes.

  While all of these four young men were about the same height and build, only one of them bore any resemblance to the two in the center. This young man stood directly to the left of the man in the center, and except for his height and age, could have been the older man’s twin. Or perhaps the youngster’s twin.

  I recognized the photo as one I’d seen in the article on Smiley. There, the man in the middle was identified as Smiley, but the other men were described as members of his church choir. Now I recognized the man to his left as a much younger Slide Jones, and the man standing immediately to Smiley’s right was Luther Adams. Next to him I recognized the young Albert Jones, and from what I had been told, I knew the youngster was Edward Posey.

  The man I did not recognize, standing next to Slide Jones, had to be Luther Goodman. Dressed up and posed for the photograph, I would not have recognized him from the picture in Luther Adams’ Bible. I guessed the photo I was holding must have been taken some time before his death.

  Whether it was the clothes or the formal setting of the photo, all the young men looked older than I expected. Or it could be Albert Jones was mistaken about how old they were when Goodie was shot. I made myself a note to check the date in the county records.

  Something at the very bottom of the photo caught my eye. It was a line of small type and I had to move to better light to make it out. When I did I saw it said that the photo was by one Jackson Smith of Arkadelphia. So it was done by a professional, and I guessed it must have been a publicity photo for the young man’s choir from Oak Grove Baptist Church. Assuming Jackson Smith was still alive, he might be able to tell me exactly when the picture was taken.

  “I hear they were really good.” Leslie’s voice startled me. He had come to where I was standing by the window and was peering over my shoulder.

  “They were a bit before your time, weren’t they?” I asked, irritated with him for sneaking up on me but trying not to show it.

  “My mama used to listen to them all the time,” he said, oblivious to my rancor. “She had an old record they made when they first started. It was good but all scratchy.”

  My rancor turned to interest. “Did she know much about them?”

  Leslie laughed. “As much as any white woman, I guess. Her daddy used to get upset by her spending so much time at the n...at their church.”

  Leslie looked at me nervously to see if I had caught his near slip. I ignored it, more concerned with any information he might have than with his political correctitude. “Do you think she would mind talking to me?” I asked. “It could help our case here.”

  “I don’t see why not,” he replied, relieved. “Only thing is, after our daddy died, she went to live with my sister in Orlando. Down in Florida. She won’t be home until just before Christmas.”

  I got the sister’s telephone number and asked Leslie to let his mother know I might call in a few days. When it comes to gossip, there’s very l
ittle crossover between the white community and the black community, and I doubted Leslie’s mother would be much help. On the other hand, she might, or she might know someone in the black community who could give me a different take on Smiley Jones and his choir boys. I didn’t expect much would come of this, but one never knows. Over the years there have been several times when some of my biggest breaks came from the most unexpected sources. I made myself a note to follow up on this and tucked it in my pocket.

  There wasn’t much more we could do at Smiley’s place. The house was empty and there were no sheds or other buildings to search. I needed to talk to Albert Jones, but I didn’t think Leslie’s presence would help, so I let him get back to patrol. He told me he was on split shift that day and hoped to get in a little fishing in between.

  I watched Leslie drive away, then stood there a while. I wasn’t looking for anything or even thinking. I was listening to the silence of the house, like a dog testing the wind with its nose for whatever scent it might bring. I was listening for what the silence could tell me about the man who lived here, about the people he lived among, and for anything this could tell me about why he died.

  Yet, there was nothing there. Too many strangers to this place had passed through, raiding the house for its possessions. Their tracks had made this home a public place, and whatever sense might remain of Smiley’s presence in this place had been trampled in their greed. I would need to look elsewhere for a sense of the man who lived here.

  I looked down at the photo I was holding, now secure in it’s plastic bag. As I looked at it, I was overcome by a profound sense of loss. Normally, I try to stay away from such feelings. They can be useful in an investigation, but they can cloud the issues and rob the investigator of objectivity. For such feelings are as much about the beholder as what is beheld.

  This time it came on too fast, and I was faced with a difficult choice. I could fight the feeling and risk losing whatever it might tell me, or I could be present to it and enter the fog of crime. I decided to listen to whatever this side of my soul had to tell me, and I fixed my attention on the photo.

  The sense of sadness and waste that washed over me at that moment was almost like a physical blow, I was looking at six young men full of confidence and hope. They were full of hope knowing the deck was stacked against them, just as it had been for their fathers. They were male and they were of African descent, and the world they were born in did not prize them. It was afraid of them, and in every generation it ignored those among them who it could not destroy.

  Of these six young men, one would be dead within a year or two, taking with him the will to live of the companion whose hand was on the gun. Another would turn to a life of crime, exploiting his own people and providing them with the means of their self destruction. The eldest among them would die a violent death at the hands of an assassin, and the youngest would be sent to die or rot away as a prisoner of war in the jungles of Vietnam.

  Yet, as I had this last thought, I realized that I only knew of Edward Posey’s death or being missing by hearsay. While I don’t hold to the high level of proof the courts require, I do believe in being thorough. I made a mental note to check Posey’s family background and military record if I could, but the first thing I had to do was get his full name and date of birth from Vital Records. Then I had the thought it might be easier to check the courthouse records since I was already in the county where he was born. The hospital records might have what I wanted to know, too, as might the church. Baptists are not like Anglicans or Presbyterians when it comes to keeping records, but I might get lucky.

  Since I needed to see Albert Jones anyway, I decided to ask him about it. It was just past one and I thought church services should be done. I drove to the parsonage, but no one was there. So I walked to the church. Neither the pastor nor his wife were there, but there was an elderly couple cleaning the place. They told me the pastor and his wife had gone to Nashville, taking Luther Adams’ mother to make the arrangements for his funeral. I was surprised to hear she was still alive until I remembered that Luther looked far older than he was. His mother could easily be alive and in good health in her eighties. Most people of color in rural Arkansas don’t reach such an age, but it does happen.

  On a whim, I asked the couple if they knew anything about Edward Posey or his family, and my luck turned. It turned out they were his aunt and uncle and they were able to give me enough information to save a lot of time with Vital Records. They were even able to tell me just when he was born, dating this the way country people do by connecting it to other events.

  I tried to ask them more about Edward, but the man told me they needed to finish their cleaning so the church would be ready for Luther’s funeral. I could see there was little use pushing the issue, so I thanked them and asked if I might come back and talk to them when they were not so busy. They looked at each other for a long moment, then reluctantly agreed. When I asked where they lived, they looked at each other once more before the man pointed with a frail, thin arm and told me how to find their place. He said they were usually there in the evenings except Wednesday, which was church night, and Monday night, when their favorite shows were on television.

  There was little more I could accomplish in Oak Grove at the moment, so I decided to head back to Nashville, intending to take a shower and review my case notes again. As I drove, I thought about the case. I had a growing sense that the solution lay somewhere in the history of those six young men in the choir. I had no idea what the connection might be, but I had a strong sense it was there waiting for me to uncover. The silence at Smiley’s place had apparently told me more than I sensed when I stood listening.

  6. Vital Records

  When I arrived at the courthouse in Nashville on Monday, there was not much left of the morning. Nellie surprised me on Sunday afternoon by driving down from Fort Smith and waiting for me in my room. I was glad to see her and glad for a break from the case. Not much was open Sunday evening, so we drove down to Hope and ended up checking into the motel there. They had a hot tub, and Nellie thought to pack my swimming suit and a change of my clothes along with hers. Nor did we rush our farewells the next day.

  I was able to find the office I needed fairly easily, but there my luck turned again. The records were guarded by a curmudgeon with the looks and the disposition of an ill-tempered bulldog. When I asked to see the index of birth records, he demanded to know why I needed the information. I produced a photo ID issued when the CID designated me as a reserve peace officer and told him I was investigating the murder of Wilbur Jones. I also reminded him what he already knew: that the records I needed to see were public records that were available to anyone on request.

  He took exception to that and refused to let me see the records. Normally, I would back off and try to work around someone like that, but that day I was fed up. I told him again I was investigating a murder and if he did not produce the records, I would charge him with obstructing justice.

  I was very careful to be very polite when I said all that, but it made no difference. The bastard was just being petty, and while that’s not a crime, I was fed up. I warned him again, but he dug in his heels and told me not only what he thought of us city boys from Little Rock, but also what I could do with my state ID card. He went on to say that one less black bastard in that county was fine with him.

  That was too much. I was over the counter like a cat and slammed him down on his own desk, cuffing his hands behind him before he realized what was happening. I stood him on his feet and walked him out of the courthouse and down the street to the jail, with him cursing me all the way and telling me what he would do when he got loose. As we crossed the street, we attracted a crowd and I spotted several people trying hard not to grin.

  It was not one of my finer moments, but it was effective. There must have been fire in my eye because the deputy on duty booked the curmudgeon without question, ignoring his curses and threats and taking him away to a cell. Then, when I got back to th
e records office, a nervous clerk emerged from a back room and quickly produced the index I requested. She smiled nervously and jumped like a startled deer every time I asked a question.

  There were a number of birth records for people named Posey, but none for Edward or Edwin or Ed. Judging from the age of the pastor, I figured Eddie must have been born in the late forties, and there were records of twelve Posey babies born between 1945 and 1950. I asked to see those records and weeded out seven of them right away. Arkansas lists race on birth records, and those children were born to white parents. With children of mixed ancestry, race is always shown as the same as the minority parent, although the race of both parents is given.

  I looked over the other five records carefully. I set aside the first three because the name of the mother was different from the one spoken of by Eddie’s aunt and uncle. When I saw the fourth one, I felt a rush of excitement. The aunt and uncle had come very close in remembering the date, and the mother’s name was the same as they had given me. What was interesting was what they had not said, for on March 15, 1948, a child was born to an unwed young woman of fifteen at her parents’ home in Oak Grove, Arkansas. The child was named Wilbur Edward Posey, and his father’s name was listed as Wilbur O. Jones.

  I thought about that for a while, wondering why this information was not common knowledge among people in Oak Grove. Then I glanced at the bottom of the registration and found my answer. The birth was not recorded until three years later, and it was the child’s grandfather who had come in to swear to the accuracy of the information given.

  At that point, there was no doubt in my mind that Edward Posey was the love child of Smiley Jones. What I did not know was whether Eddie knew this. Were he not dead or missing in action, this would be a classic motive for murder if he knew. So the next step would be to confirm his death.