by Scott Pratt
“I’ve always admired your candor, Elizabeth,” he said. “So good riddance to Mr. Clancy, and don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
“As is yours with me,” she said with a wink.
The senator cringed, and his face flushed. It was the only time that day I saw him lose his composure, even though it was only for a second.
“Yes, and I appreciate that more than you know, Elizabeth,” he said. “Now, down to business. I’m prepared to do what it takes to get Darren elected to the office. Claire has already started setting up an organization. We’re calling in favors from old friends, and believe me, because of my position on the appropriations committee, I have plenty of old friends. Money won’t be a problem. We’ll outspend Morris ten to one if we have to, absolutely drown him. You’ll have to do the dog-and-pony shows, the rubber-chicken circuit. You’ll have to speak to Ruritan Clubs and veterans’ organizations and neighborhood associations. You’ll have to speak to the press, but only under tightly controlled circumstances. Claire will advise you on all that. I don’t even think we’ll have to do a smear campaign on Morris. I hate doing that, for one thing, but he just seems to have done such a poor job, I think we can beat him without it. We can keep him busy putting out fires, start rumors and things like that, so he won’t have time to pay much attention to you. Originally, I would have done these things just for Elizabeth, but something has happened, and I want your word that you’ll do everything you can to investigate and, if a crime was committed, hold those responsible accountable, including the sheriff of Knox County.”
I shook my head slowly. It was an involuntary movement.
“Am I to take that as a no?” the senator said.
“I’m sorry . . . no . . . it’s just that when you mentioned the sheriff, it threw me for a second. He showed up at my apartment yesterday. Broke in. He was sitting at my kitchen counter when I came back from a run.”
“What did he want?”
“He was trying to intimidate me. It didn’t work out for him.”
“Good. My hope is that he’s going to wind up behind bars where he belongs. But back to what has happened. A good friend of mine, Art Brewer, contacted me a few days ago. He lives here in Knoxville and has been extremely successful in the insurance business. He has a grandson, Gary, who graduated from the University of Tennessee and then joined the marines because he wanted to join the fight against ISIS. He wound up leading combat platoons in Afghanistan and Syria, did three tours, was wounded several times, and was highly decorated. But he came home a changed young man. Art said he was haunted by nightmares, was paranoid and restless, had no interest in holding a job, and had turned to drugs and alcohol to medicate himself. Art also said that his son, Gary’s father, told Art that Gary had gotten into bare-knuckle boxing, which I think is something akin to cockfighting using men instead of roosters. Gary’s sister, who is the closest in the family to him, said he went off last Sunday to do a fight somewhere in the western part of the county, and he didn’t come back. He hasn’t been seen since. Art called the sheriff’s department and, as you would expect, has received no help. The Knoxville police say it’s out of their jurisdiction if it didn’t happen in the city, District Attorney Morris has not asked the TBI to help with the investigation, and the FBI says they have jurisdictional problems as well.”
“Not if official misconduct is involved,” I said.
“Exactly,” the senator said. “If a public official is engaged in corrupt practices, the FBI has every right, in fact they have a responsibility, to investigate.”
“So why don’t you pull a few strings?” I said. “Seems to me that you could get the FBI in Knoxville to do pretty much anything you want.”
“I can, but they’re going to need an in,” he said.
“You mean an informant.”
“Call it what you like.”
“You want me to get elected DA, act like I’m on the take like Stephen Morris and the sheriff, and help the FBI bust them all.”
“And find out what happened to Gary Brewer,” the senator said. “That’s the most important part. Find my good friend’s grandson.”
My stomach began to churn even worse than it had earlier.
“I have to tell you, Senator Tate, I hate snitches. The thought of becoming one makes my skin crawl.”
“But you’ll do it,” he said. “You’ll do it for me, and for Grace, and for your own redemption.”
I downed the last of the lemonade in my glass and looked at him.
“If you get me elected, I’ll figure out a way to find out what happened to Gary Brewer and hold people accountable,” I said. “I give you my word. But I have to draw the line at becoming an FBI informant. I just can’t become a snitch for them. I’ve seen people do it, and it always turns out badly for the snitch. It’s a deal-breaker, sir. I’m sorry.”
The senator looked at me sternly. He obviously wasn’t used to people saying no to him.
“You’ll find Gary Brewer,” he said. “Dead or alive. You’ll make it your mission.”
“I will.”
“Very well. Let’s get this done.”
CHAPTER 18
Sheriff Tree Corker squeezed off another round as gunshots echoed off the surrounding hills. The sheriff and Roby Penn were firing at rats that scurried around a garbage pile fifty yards away. They were on Roby’s land, a forlorn, forty-acre patch of woods and weeds about seven miles northeast of Knoxville. The garbage heap had grown over the years as Roby had piled everything from old tires to rotted food, empty paint cans, and crumbling lumber. The rats had settled in about five years earlier, and now they were everywhere.
“You can’t shoot for shit,” Roby said as yet another blast emanated from the barrel of one of the sheriff’s Pythons. Dirt shot up about ten feet to the right of a rat that sat on its haunches, chewing on something it was holding in its paws.
“That wasn’t even the one I was aiming for,” the sheriff said. “He ducked down behind the pile just before I pulled the trigger.”
“Yeah, right, and the Pope’s a Buddhist,” Roby said.
It was ten in the morning on Sunday, and the heat and humidity were already starting to rise. The sheriff’s cruiser sat nearby, a shiny black Ford LTD with large gold stars on the hood, the trunk lid, and both sides. “The High Sheriff of Knox County” was airbrushed in gold on each front quarter panel. The sheriff pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, lifted his cowboy hat, and wiped his forehead.
“Gonna be hotter than a three-peckered billy goat today,” he said.
He holstered his Python and sat down on the tailgate of Roby’s pickup truck as Roby took aim and fired with an illegal, fully automatic M16 chambered in .556 millimeter. Roby squeezed the trigger, and a rat did a backflip as the round tore his head off.
“I hate rats,” Roby muttered.
“Then why don’t you clean up this damned mess?” the sheriff said. “All it’d take is some kerosene and a lighter.”
“Because then I wouldn’t be able to come out here and kill the little bastards. I said I hate rats. I didn’t say I don’t like killing them.”
“So what’re we gonna do about this Darren Street?” the sheriff said.
“I don’t like it,” Roby said. “Him just showing up out of nowhere like this. You think he might be a plant?”
“A plant? You mean some kind of informant?”
“Yeah, you think the NSA or the CIA might have sent him down here?”
“To do what?”
“Spy on us, you dumbass!” Roby yelled. “Take us out. Maybe send us off to one of those supermax federal pens I’ve heard about that’s underground and you don’t ever see any light or hear any kind of noise.”
The sheriff had noticed Roby getting stranger over the past year. Conspiracy theories such as the one he was spouting were becoming more common. He’d also noticed that Roby never seemed to sleep or eat. He drank whiskey like a town drunk, but the sheriff didn’t remember the last time he’d
seen Roby eat a sandwich.
“Nobody sent him here to spy on us,” Tree said. “Relax. He just hates Morris.”
“You said you talked to him?”
“Yeah. I broke into his apartment and surprised him.”
“Talk about money?”
“It didn’t come up. I didn’t get the sense he was interested.”
“Well, then, we just keep making our money. Hell, maybe he won’t even want a cut.”
“I just don’t know,” Tree said. “I mean, it isn’t like he’s spick-and-span Mr. Clean or anything. He’s supposedly killed five men, and he had this look in his eyes when I talked to him. Like he wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody. Like he didn’t give a shit.”
“He ain’t killed no five men,” Roby said. “He’d be in prison or dead.”
“He’s been in prison, but they sent him up for a murder he didn’t commit, and he got out of it after a couple of years. There are a lot of stories about him. He’s supposed to be a tough man. He makes me nervous.”
Roby picked off another rat as the assault rifle cracked. He lowered the weapon to his side, turned to the sheriff, and said, “If he bothers you so much, if you really think he’s going to cause us problems, then take care of him.”
“Take care of him how?”
“Figure something out. Make him have an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Dammit, Tree, do I have to figure everything out for you? You’re the damned sheriff of Knox County. You got as much power as God Almighty. You got deputies that’ll do anything you ask them to do without batting an eye or asking a question. If you think he’s going to be a problem, fuck him up. Kill him.”
The sheriff hated it when Roby spoke to him about killing people as though it were nothing. He couldn’t imagine taking a life, and he was afraid of and didn’t understand people who thought nothing of it. Roby was one of those people, and the more the sheriff was around him—especially within the last year—the more he feared him. Roby had always been an angry man, but his anger had escalated.
“Killing people isn’t really my style, Roby. You know that.”
“I ain’t killing him for you, not unless he gets into my business. Wait a minute. I take that back. I might kill him just for sport.”
“Don’t kill him, Roby. He hasn’t done anything to you. Let’s just see how it goes.”
“See how it goes. Like it did with that marine. I got stuck getting rid of him. You should’ve taken care of that.”
“You gonna start that up again? It happened at your place during one of your events. It was your responsibility. I’m dealing with the fallout, and believe me, there’s plenty of it. His granddaddy and his daddy have been wearing me out.”
“What have you told them?”
Roby turned to face the sheriff, and his eyes were like lasers, flashing heat and anger.
“Same old same old. We’re investigating. We’re on it. We’re doing everything we can, but we don’t have any leads. From what I understand, the marine had gone pretty psycho lately. I’m trying to convince them that he’s walking the Appalachian Trail or headed for the Grand Canyon or something. I keep telling them he’ll pop up soon.”
“He won’t,” Roby said. “He ain’t never gonna pop up. As a matter of fact, he’s in a barrel six feet under that garbage pile right there. Put him there myself with a front-end-loader attachment to my tractor.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” Tree said. “I didn’t want to know what you did with him.”
Roby walked over to the bed of the truck, removed the clip from the rifle, cleared the round from the chamber, and laid the rifle in a case.
“I gotta go, Tree,” he said. “There’s a fight up in Hawkins County I want to see.”
“Bare-knuckle?”
Roby nodded. “I ain’t promoting, but I have a pretty good idea of who’s gonna win. I know the boy that runs the fights up there real well. One of the fighters is going to put on a good show and then take a dive. I’ll take home enough money to make it worth the trip.”
“Give some thought to what we ought to do about this Street,” Tree said.
Roby shook his head. “I think it’d be better to do something about Morris. I wouldn’t mind being rid of him once and for all.”
“You can’t kill a district attorney, Roby,” Tree said.
“Didn’t you tell me he said if he lost he might go to the feds and tell them what we’ve been into for all these years?”
The sheriff had let it slip and had regretted saying it the moment the words passed his lips. “He did say something like that, but I don’t think he was serious.”
“Well, from my way of thinking, better to deal with him before he goes to the feds than after.”
“I don’t think the feds really give a damn about us, Roby.”
“Maybe they don’t, but you know how much I hate them. I hate them, I hate the TBI, I hate the police, the tax man. Anything to do with the government, I hate. Hell, I’d hate you if you weren’t my nephew, and sometimes I hate you, anyway. If the feds came nosing around, the bodies would start piling up pretty damned fast.”
“They’d just kill you,” Tree said. “You can’t fight them. Remember Ruby Ridge? Waco? And the boys out west at that Malheur wildlife refuge last year didn’t fare too well. One of them is dead, and a bunch of them are in jail.”
“I ain’t Randy Weaver or David Koresh or any of them others,” Roby said. “Feds, state troopers, TBI, I don’t give a damn. They come messin’ around here, they’re gonna die.”
CHAPTER 19
I looked around at the trees full of bright-green leaves, the calm water, and the sky dotted with high cumulus clouds as the pontoon boat made its way slowly eastward on the Tennessee River. We’d already passed Thompson-Boling Arena and the cavernous Neyland Stadium and were headed for the fork where the Tennessee River split into the French Broad and Holston Rivers. I was at the wheel of a pontoon boat that had been rented by Claire Tate. Also on board were Claire and a reporter from the only daily newspaper left in the city, the Knoxville News Sentinel. The conversation had been sparse and felt forced.
The reporter’s name was Janie Schofield. I’d been reading her stories for years since she covered the criminal courts. She was around fifty, a quiet brunette who wore glasses and stayed in the background most of the time. She didn’t sensationalize and seemed serious about her work. I’d talked to her a few times over the years, but I couldn’t say I knew her well.
Janie was wearing a yellow sundress. She had a nice tan, and the color went well with her brown skin. Claire was covered in sunscreen. She was wearing a two-piece purple swimsuit with a pink wraparound cover-up and a pink broad-brimmed hat. Both of them were wearing sunglasses. I was wearing blue swim trunks and a white tank top. We looked like a few friends out for an early-afternoon cruise. All three of us had a can of beer in our hands, but nobody was drinking quickly. I stopped the boat about fifty yards off the shore of Island Home Park and dropped the anchor.
“I suppose you’re wondering what we’re doing out here on this lovely day,” Claire said to Janie.
“I think I might have a couple of educated guesses, but you certainly have my curiosity piqued,” Janie said.
“Darren is going to run against Stephen Morris for district attorney general. I’m his campaign manager. My grandfather is supporting him openly. He’ll be coming to Knoxville in late October to appear with Darren at a rally.”
Janie looked at Claire, then at me, then back at Claire again.
“I’d heard a rumor that Mr. Street was planning a huge lawsuit against the doctor that was involved in the death of his little girl and that he had asked your grandfather to intervene with the Tennessee Medical Licensing Board,” she said. “My source was obviously mistaken.”
“Obviously,” Claire said. “We’re giving you an exclusive, a scoop in the old journalistic parlance, I believe.”
“Yes, you are,”
Janie said. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch, but I do have some other information I’d like you to check into through your own sources. If it turns out to be true, you may have a prizewinner of a story on your hands.”
“Is that right?” Janie said. She looked skeptical, which, I was sure, came with the territory in journalism, just like in law. “What kind of information might that be?”
“What do you know about Jim Harrison?” Claire said.
“Jim Harrison? The Jim Harrison who works for Morris?”
“Right. He supposedly handles special investigations for the district attorney, but he never brings any cases. Have you ever seen him in a courtroom trying a case or conducting a hearing?”
“Come to think of it, no, I haven’t.”
“That’s because his real job is, for lack of a better term, bagman for the district attorney.”
“Bagman?”
“You’re familiar with the term, correct?”
“Of course I’m familiar with the term. A bagman is a collection boy, a courier. He picks up money from one place and delivers it to another.”
“Dirty money,” Claire said.
“And he picks this money up from whom and takes it to whom?”
“He picks it up from the Knox County sheriff and gives it to Stephen Morris. I’m sure he keeps a small piece for himself.”
“And where is the Knox County sheriff getting this money?”
“Various people. Pimps, operators of gambling establishments and strip clubs, cockfighting and dogfighting promoters, bare-knuckle-fighting promoters, human traffickers.”
Janie looked startled. She quickly drained her beer and asked me for another one. I reached into the cooler and pulled one out, popped the top, and handed it to her. I was as confounded as she was. When we left the boat dock earlier, I had no idea the conversation was going to go this way.
Janie took a long drink of the second beer, wiped her mouth, and said, “Forgive me, Miss Tate. I have all the respect in the world for you and for your grandfather, but what you’re telling me is explosive stuff. Do you have any evidence that any of it is true?”
