Between Black and White

by Robert Bailey

  Bo brought his hands together and folded them into a tent. “I have done nothing but think about this decision since the minute I was arrested last Friday morning. My decision now is the same one I came to within two seconds after the handcuffs were slipped over my wrists. I want you, Professor.”

  “Why?” Tom asked.

  “Because there’s no one else I trust with my life,” Bo said, his voice cracking with emotion and fatigue. “No one but you.”

  12

  At 5:00 p.m. sharp, Tom parked the Explorer in front of a redbrick house on Jefferson Street about a block east of Ms. Butler’s. The sign in the yard was black with gold stenciled letters. “Curtis Family Medicine.” Finding Dr. Curtis had been easy—the manager at Ms. Butler’s had just pointed out the front door of the bed and breakfast and said, “Two football fields that way on the left. There’s a sign out front.”

  The rain that had poured all afternoon had subsided to a slow drizzle, and the air felt sticky as Tom stepped out of his vehicle and walked up the path to the front porch of the house. He started to knock on the door but then heard a voice to his right.

  “Can I help you?”

  Tom turned to see a man that looked to be in his sixties sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. Tom was a bit taken back that he hadn’t seen the man on his approach.

  “Uh . . . yes, my name is Tom McMurtrie. I was looking for Dr. Curtis.”

  “Well, you found him,” the man said, gesturing to himself and standing up. “George Curtis.”

  As they shook hands, Tom looked the doctor over. He was medium height with thinning salt and pepper hair. A pair of round wire-rimmed glasses adorned his face, and he was dressed casually in a short-sleeve button-down and khaki pants. His hand felt soft and small, his grip weak.

  “Please,” George said, gesturing toward the wicker couch adjacent to his chair. “Have a seat. I just finished with my last patient and was about to make a batch of lemonade. Would you like some?”

  Tom accepted, and a few minutes later he was seated across from George on the porch, sipping from a plastic cup. If anything, the air had gotten stickier, and Tom felt sweat pooling underneath his white dress shirt.

  “So what I can do for you, Mr. McMurtrie?”

  “Please, call me Tom.”

  “OK,” George said, not offering Tom the same courtesy.

  “I’ve been retained by Bocephus Haynes to represent him on the murder charges brought against him by the state.”

  George blinked several times, but his face and body remained perfectly still. Tom thought again of how he had approached the office and not even seen the man sitting on the porch. The doctor’s calm demeanor was a bit unnerving.

  “OK . . . Why is it that you want to talk with me? I’m sure you know that the victim, Andy Walton, was my brother-in-law.”

  George’s voice betrayed no emotion, but Tom now heard the accent. Southern aristocrat. The kind of voice an actor would use to portray a Southern plantation owner.

  “You saw my client and the victim just a few hours before the murder.”

  “That’s right,” George said. “Your client threatened to kill my brother-in-law. Said he was going to ‘make him bleed.’” George held up the index and middle fingers of both hands to make the quotation symbol. “I guess he made good on that promise.”

  “Were you concerned for Mr. Walton’s life at that point, Doctor?”

  George shrugged and took a sip of lemonade, his eyes never leaving Tom’s. “Not really. Andy’s always been able to take care of himself.” He paused. “To tell the truth, I’m shocked that Andy would let anyone, much less Bo Haynes, kill him in the way it went down. Andy . . . was a hard man.”

  “He was also dying, right?”

  Again, George blinked. “How did you know that?”

  Tom considered his response. So far George Curtis hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. Tom thought Andy’s cancer was a bad fact for the defense. He could almost hear Helen Lewis in her opening—If Bo hadn’t taken his revenge when he did, he might never have gotten the chance. But after several seconds he came clean. “Your sister told Bo at Kathy’s. She told him to let Andy die in peace.”

  George grimaced, his first outward show of emotion. “That’s why she blames herself,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew it had to be something like that.” He paused. “She hasn’t said a word since she saw Andy hanging from the tree.”

  “She saw?” Tom asked. This was new information.

  “Yeah. When the fire department arrived on the scene, the chief said that Maggie arrived just a few minutes after he did.” He paused and shook his head. “I’m not sure she’ll ever be the same.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Tom said, meaning it. “Would it be possible to talk with your sister?” Tom knew he was pushing his luck, but Maggie Walton was an important witness.

  “No,” George said, his voice hard. “That wouldn’t be possible right now. It’s just too soon.”

  The conversation lulled for several seconds, neither of them speaking, and Tom’s sense of discomfort grew. George had an intense gaze that made Tom feel like he was being inspected.

  “Doctor, can you think of anyone besides Bo who might have a bone to pick with your brother-in-law?”

  George shrugged. “Andy was a polarizing figure in this town. I think there was a general distaste for him. You have to understand, Andy didn’t grow up in Pulaski. He came from over in McNairy County. A lot of folks thought his money was dirty. Then there was his association with the Klan. Not sure many people ever got over that. The people here have always had to deal with the town being the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan, but it’s a past that Pulaski has tried to distance itself from. Andy’s involvement as Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee chapter was another black eye for the town. But . . . no one wanted him dead. Andy gave a lot of his dirty money to the town. To its businesses and to Martin College and the church.” Curtis chuckled. “What is the old saying? ‘He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s our son of a bitch.’ I think that’s how the town viewed Andy.”

  Tom watched the doctor tell the story. He’s enjoying this, Tom thought. It was time to give him a jolt. “Did you resent Andy for buying the family farm and saving your father from bankruptcy while you were in medical school?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Raymond Pickalew,” Tom said, his lips curving into a smile. “Ray Ray’s an old friend of mine.”

  George returned the smile, but there was no humor behind his eyes. As with Helen, the mention of Ray Ray’s name seemed to rattle the doctor. “Professor McMurtrie, it seems as if you are friends with all of the riffraff in town.”

  Tom’s grin widened. “Dr. Curtis, it seems as if you might have a—how did you put it?—distaste for Ray Ray.”

  “Raymond Pickalew is a no-count drunk, and he always has been,” George said, the slightest hint of an edge in his voice. Then, relaxing his shoulders, he leaned back in the rocking chair and wrapped his hands behind his back. “But getting back to your question, the truth is that I was relieved that Andy bought the farm. We all were. He saved our ass and allowed my father to die with dignity. We were all indebted to him for that.”

  Bullshit, Tom thought but didn’t say. He decided to switch gears.

  “Do you know Clete Sartain?” Tom asked.

  “Everyone knows Clete,” George said, chuckling. “He sacks groceries at the Johnson’s Foodtown and looks just like Santa Claus. He’s lived in Pulaski forever.”

  “Was he with you, Andy, and Mrs. Walton at Kathy’s on the night of the murder?”

  George scoffed. “He was there, but I wouldn’t say he was with us. He just happened to be there. Clete is a regular at Kathy’s.”

  “Was Clete in the Klan when Andy was the Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee chapter?”

  George shrugged and drank the rest of his lemonade. “He might have been. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Were you?”

  The
humorless smile returned to the doctor’s face. “Well . . .” He abruptly stood up. “I’m sorry to have to run, but I have an engagement at the church later tonight, and I’m going to be late if I don’t go now.”

  He didn’t offer his hand to shake.

  “Thanks for your time,” Tom said, also standing, but George did not acknowledge him. The doctor walked past his visitor through the front door of the office and closed it behind him.

  The sound of the sliding dead bolt was unmistakable.

  It wasn’t until Tom had reached the Explorer that he felt the cold chill on the back of his neck. Professor McMurtrie, it seems as if you are friends with all of the riffraff in town. The comment by George had struck Tom as defensive at the time, and he had gotten caught up in the back and forth, missing the hidden significance.

  Professor McMurtrie . . .

  Tom had not told George that he had been a professor in his former life. How could he possibly know that? As far as Tom knew, today was the first time that he had ever met George Curtis. Unless George had seen the same USA Today article that Helen had . . .

  No, Tom thought. Helen would have paid attention to that kind of news because she’s an attorney and she already knew of me.

  It didn’t make sense. Tom had yet to even file an appearance as Bo’s lawyer. George shouldn’t have known anything about Tom.

  Maybe he has a source in the DA’s office or the sheriff’s department, Tom thought, sliding into the front seat and cranking the ignition. He had met with Helen this morning and told her his intention to file an appearance. Perhaps she had updated the family. He had also visited Bo at the jail this afternoon, and a sheriff’s deputy could have called George and given him Tom’s name. Either way George could have then googled Tom and learned all about him.

  That’s got to be it, he thought, easing the car forward and dialing Rick’s number on his cell phone. As his partner’s voice came over the line, Tom took a last look at the medical office. Behind the open blinds of the front window, he saw the shadow of a man watching him. Ray Ray was right, Tom thought, feeling gooseflesh break out on his arms.

  The good doctor was a “strange bird.”

  13

  George Curtis watched McMurtrie leave from behind the blinds and followed the Explorer with his eyes until it stopped out in front of Ms. Butler’s Bed and Breakfast. That’s convenient, he thought, remembering something his late brother-in-law had always said.

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  George packed up his briefcase and locked the office. Then he walked two doors down to his house and opened the door. His cat, a black-and-white-striped feline named Matilda, came running toward him, but he paid her no mind, lost in thought over his encounter with Bo Haynes’s lawyer.

  McMurtrie bothered him. When he had learned earlier in the day that McMurtrie would be Bo’s lawyer, George had done some digging, and he hadn’t liked what he’d found. It had been McMurtrie, a former law professor, who had spearheaded the big trial win in Henshaw, Alabama over Jack Willistone, whose trucks had routinely carried loads for many of Andy’s businesses in Giles County. Over the years George had come to know Jack pretty well. George knew that anyone who got the jump on Jack Willistone had to be pretty tough.

  George’s encounter a few minutes ago with McMurtrie had done nothing to ease his concerns. The lawyer had already gotten some of the history. Knew Andy was an interloper. A scalawag who had come in and saved the day. And McMurtrie’s question to George had contained some challenge.

  Did George resent Andy for saving the farm?

  George lit a cigar and sat down in the den, turning on the television set. As an old episode of Friends came on, he scanned the dark house. He rarely kept lights on inside, as they gave him a headache, but the glow from the tube allowed him to see the familiar surroundings. The painting of Count Pulaski above the mantle of the fireplace to his left. The old rocker to his right that his mother had rocked him and Maggie in as kids. And beyond the television, the short hallway leading to the home’s two bedrooms, one of which was his, while the other was the “guest” room.

  At the thought of the guest room, George subconsciously smiled. He could count the “guests” that had stayed in that room over the past thirty years on one hand. There had, however, been one frequent guest.

  Matilda crawled into his lap, and he stroked her behind the ears, his thoughts returning to McMurtrie. And the history . . .

  Of course he had resented Andy. Hated the son of a bitch. But not because of the farm. George had never loved the property like Maggie. Sure, he had enjoyed hunting dove in the fall and had always been a good shot, but the lure of the land held nothing for him. He would rather have moved when their father hit hard times. Had even talked with Maggie about it. Let’s take what we can get for the farm and move the family to Nashville. Or even Atlanta. Anywhere . . .

  George sighed, and hearing the sound, Matilda purred. George had never wanted to save the farm. He had only wanted . . .

  His cell phone chirped in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts with the indication that he had a new text message. He pulled the phone out and clicked open the message.

  Coming over in a few.

  George rose from the couch and slowly walked to his bedroom. He opened the closet door and retrieved his gun case from the shelf below, where his suits hung. He brought the case over to his bed and flipped the latches.

  Inside there were only three guns.

  A .30-30 deer rifle. A .38-caliber pistol. And, of course, a twelve-gauge shotgun. Dove season was just around the corner, but George wasn’t thinking about doves. He removed the twelve-gauge and aimed it at the mirror across the room, seeing Andy in his mind. Handsome, cocksure, luckier-than-smart Andy. He flipped the safety off the gun and squinted, looking down the barrel. He tensed when he saw someone else’s reflection in the mirror.

  “Never know when one of those is going to come in handy,” the familiar voice said.

  George smiled at the other face staring back at him in the mirror.

  His guest had arrived.

  14

  As the sun set over the Strip in Tuscaloosa, Rick Drake and Powell Conrad sat in wrought-iron chairs on the outside patio of Buffalo Phil’s, devouring a plate of wings and splitting a pitcher of Bud Light. “Jack Willistone is serving a three-year sentence at the state pen in Springville for blackmail and witness tampering,” Powell said, dipping a wing into a plastic container of ranch sauce and taking a bite. “Eligible for parole in eighteen months for good behavior.”

  “What about the bastard that tried to kill Dawn?”

  “James Robert Wheeler,” Powell said. “Goes by the name of JimBone. He left his El Camino behind after his failed attempt to murder Dawn, and we took some prints off the steering wheel. After a couple of weeks we got a match in the army database.”

  Rick raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes, sir, James Robert Wheeler was in the US Army from 1992 to 2000. His specialty was explosives. In 2000 he quit, and there is really no official record of him since. It’s like he dropped off the face of the earth. But remember Mule Morris?”

  “How could I forget?” Rick asked, feeling goose bumps break out on his arm. Mule Morris, a key witness in the Willistone case, had died two months prior to trial when he lost control of his truck on Highway 25 in Faunsdale. The official cause of the accident had been brake failure, but Mule’s cousin Doolittle had swore up and down that Mule kept his truck in mint condition. “What about him?”

  “There wasn’t much of Mule’s truck left after the accident, but the forensics team in Faunsdale did find a few stray fingerprints on the wreckage.”

  “No way,” Rick said, anticipating where Powell was going. “Wheeler?”

  “Bingo,” Powell said. “Doo was right all along. Wheeler messed with the brakes on that car. We ran the artist sketch by several folks at Ca-John’s, and a waitress remembers seeing a man who meets his description sitting in the res
taurant that night. In fact, she remembers that he was sitting alone very close to where Mule was talking to a young man and an attractive young lady.”

  “Jesus,” Rick said. He and Dawn had met with Mule at Ca-John’s just a few hours before his wreck. He hadn’t remembered seeing any strange people at the tables nearby, but he was so focused on Mule he probably hadn’t paid any attention. “So he killed Mule?”

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind,” Powell said. “And we know he tried to kill Dawn.”

  “You think he’s still alive?”

  “They never pulled him from the Black Warrior, so we have to assume so. From Bo’s investigation in the Willistone case, we knew Wheeler had spent some time at that strip joint outside of Pulaski, so we contacted the sheriff of Giles County, Ennis Petrie, and put out an APB on him. Now every county sheriff’s office in Alabama and Tennessee has him on their ‘Most Wanted’ list.” Powell shrugged. “So far nothing has turned up.”

  “How did you hear he goes by JimBone?”

  Powell smiled. “That came from Jack Willistone. After we got the prints back from the army, me and Wade went over to Springville and paid Jack a visit. Jack said Wheeler goes by JimBone and sometimes he shortens it to Bone.” Powell shook his head and drained the rest of his beer. “Unfortunately, that’s all we got. Jack said JimBone was an acquaintance and nothing further.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Hell no!” Powell said, waving his hands up in the air, both of which were stained with wing sauce. In his lifetime Rick had met few people louder or more gregarious than Ambrose Powell Conrad. He had also met few who were smarter or better in a courtroom. “We just can’t find a link,” Powell continued. He wolfed down another wing and pointed at Rick. “But we will. It is a top priority of the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office and the DA to haul his ass in. We’ve been monitoring Jack Willistone’s visitor’s log, but so far we haven’t seen anything suspicious.”