by Eric Wilson
Her last words were provoked by anguish, but they were unfair. I didn’t take her son from her. I kicked at her doormat, watched dust swirl and whip away in the breeze.
“You’re right, ma’am,” I said. “I don’t know what it’s like for a mother.”
She was waiting—I could feel it.
“But you don’t know what it’s like either,” I added.
“How’s that?”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be a son and lose a mother. That’s something you’ll never go through. I watched my mom die. Shot just like your son, like Darrell. You’re not the only one feeling mad and lonely, and you’re not doing me—or yourself, for that matter—any favors by keeping the door closed.” I made a quarter turn, still hoping. “Just thought you needed to know that.”
“Now I know.”
“Can we talk? Please.”
“Get yourself gone, Mr. Black, before I give a call to the police.”
“I just wanna—”
“Good-bye.”
The porch light winked off, and I heard the retreat of scuffling feet.
As I trudged to my Honda, dead leaves swirled in my path, crisp and brittle. The same wind that weeks before had enhanced their fiery glory with waving gold and red now beat them down, demanding obedience to the wishes of the night.
SEVENTEEN
One by one, the mysteries of the past few days riffled through my mind. Driving often frees me in this way. Maybe it’s because my hands and feet are occupied, leaving my gray matter to wander at will.
Darrell Michaels. Shot before my eyes. Spare your soul … and turn your eyes from greed.
Jessica Tyner. A clump of her hair left in my bedroom, in a box.
Dianne Lewis Black. Her handkerchief, returned and then stolen again.
Freddy C. His warning. Stay alert … We got ourselves a problem.
Zigzagging through the streets of Nashville, lost in thought, I was slow to notice I was being followed. Considering the erratic route I’d taken, this had to be intentional.
A white Camry. Shimmering in my side-view mirror.
How long had it been back there? Had it tailed me to Neely’s Bend?
We were now traveling down Chickasaw Avenue. I recalled the excursion with my brother along the Natchez Trace Parkway and the enigma of Meriwether Lewis’s demise. I’d mocked Johnny’s suspicions then, yet here I was, cruising the late-night streets of Music City with this Camry sucking my exhaust.
The dude in the golfing visor?
Watching my mirrors, I made a few turns, sped up, slowed down.
Still there. If he wanted something, why didn’t he just come after it?
I crushed the brakes. My Honda swerved, caught, and came to a halt. In the mirror, I watched as the Camry lurched forward, the driver’s forehead nearly striking the windshield. It was the same mousy-faced, slump-shouldered man from Grinder’s Stand. If not for his antilock brakes, he might’ve been harder to recognize.
I was out of my car. Slamming my door to make a point.
“You got a problem? We gonna do this?” I marched straight for him, armed with the tire iron I keep under my driver’s seat. “Get outta that car, and tell me what you’re after!”
His eyes showed me all I needed to know. The heat behind my own eyes is a tangible thing, able to burn through the bravado of most men, and when that fire comes from long-burning embers, it’s not easy to douse. Some guys try to keep up the front longer than others, but I always know. I just know.
This dude didn’t have a chance.
He marked that fact and wasted no time with pretenses. In a flash, he accelerated in reverse, showing admirable skill as he kept it straight as an arrow. He was nearly a block away when he backed the Camry into a driveway—no bumped curbs or tire marks on the lawn—then shifted into first and squealed away in a haze of burnt rubber.
I thought I caught a glimpse of the letters on his license plate. BHT.
My car was no match for the chase. I made my way back onto Dickerson Pike, determined that I would find out who had killed Darrell Michaels and who’d attacked Jessica Tyner.
I was parched. Dog-tired. Ready for a dreamless sleep.
I angled home, driving west over the Woodland Street Bridge, immune to the magic of the lights shimmering on the Cumberland River. Farther south, in the Cool Springs area, stars blinked like warning lights against the bad weather’s dark edge.
I pulled into the parking lot next to Johnny Ray’s Ford Ranger. He owed me an explanation. An apology at least.
“Uncle Wyatt told me what you did.”
“I walk through the door, and that’s the first thing you have to say?”
“Hi, Aramis.”
“Is he here?”
“ ‘Course not,” Johnny said. “He’s no glutton for punishment.”
I kicked off my shoes. “I hope he leaves town as quickly as he came.” I dropped onto the couch.
“They’ve put him up in a motel out by the airport.”
“They? Meaning the TV show?”
“Uh-huh.” My brother tossed me a can of soda and took the armchair.
“Johnny, you had no right.”
“Just tryin’ to help, kid.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Where ya been anyway? I was gettin’ worried.”
“Out. Driving.”
“So why not do the show? What could it hurt?”
“I never asked for your help.”
“You wouldn’t recognize help if it hit you in the face.”
“Ask Uncle Wyatt about that.”
“Clocked him pretty good, from what I hear.”
“Yeah.”
“Feel better now you got the poison outta your system? Ready to let bygones be bygones?”
“Listen. I don’t wanna fight with you too, Johnny. Not now. But you set me up.”
“You never woulda agreed to it, and you know that’s the truth.”
“Not. Right. Now.”
Johnny Ray wouldn’t stop. “I talked with Ms. Fleischmann, and she tells me their crew won’t be leaving till tomorrow. She’s still interested in talking with you, thinks your story’s one that could touch viewers’ hearts.”
“The Best of Evil. A nice idea. Too bad it doesn’t work like that in the real world.”
“It can.”
I shook my head. “Shut up already. I’m going to bed.”
“Get some sleep, kid. You’ve had your plate full these past few days.”
“Good night.”
“And don’t forget,” he called after me down the hall. “Loews Vanderbilt. Checkout’s at eleven. Ms. Fleischmann said she can wait till then but not a minute longer.”
“Great. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m just sayin’, is all.”
That would’ve been that. End of story.
One little problem. Detective Meade knocked on the door before I’d finished brushing my teeth.
My previous encounter with the detective had been perfunctory. This time I sensed a shift in attitude.
“May I come in?”
“S’up, Detective? Something wrong?”
“I’d rather talk about it inside, if you don’t mind. The storm out here’s kicking up something fierce.” As if to verify his words, a crack of thunder shook the ground and filled the air with electricity.
“Sure. Okay.”
I pulled on a bathrobe and ushered Meade into our dining area. I cleared the table of Johnny’s papers, pencils, and granola crumbs. He’d written some lyrics and made chicken scratches, which I identified as the Nashville Number System—a means of writing music or chords or something.
“Water?”
“Please.”
I filled two glasses from the Brita pitcher in the fridge, then joined Detective Meade at the table. He was glancing around the room. He was a pro. Nothing obvious. Real casual.
“I like the calendar,” he said.
“Yeah? Lotsa great
lighthouses in Oregon.”
“Never been. It’s God’s country, from what I hear.”
“It’s beautiful, if that’s what you mean.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Aramis. Don’t mind if I use your first name, do you?”
I shrugged.
“You’re tired,” he said. “Long day, I take it?”
“Listen. I’ll level with you. I’ve had some scrapes with the law—not recently, of course—but this isn’t real comfortable for me. If you’ve got something to tell me, let’s get to it. I have to open my shop in the morning.”
“Black’s?”
“In honor of the family name.”
“A noble thing. Family comes first.”
“Gets complicated, if you ask me.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
My eyes snapped up. “What now? What’s going on?”
Leaning back, glass of water in hand, Detective Meade evaluated me with what seemed to be genuine concern. His gaze was steady. Raindrops looked like glass beads in his short hair. His black leather jacket gave off an earthy scent. Underneath, he wore a T-shirt from an impressionism exhibit at the local Frist Center for the Visual Arts.
I’d been to that one. Spent hours basking in the vibes of artistic genius.
He said, “I caught wind of your encounter with a television crew.”
“Word gets around. What’d you hear?”
“That you weren’t too thrilled to have a camera in your face.”
“That wasn’t it. Least not all of it. Who told you?”
“Well, the story was corroborated by Brianne. Real vivacious girl you’ve got behind the counter there.”
“She’s new.”
“Seems to be a bright girl.”
“Good to hear. I felt guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Leaving the way I did. In a hurry.”
“She was holding her own. Why did you leave? Because of the television crew?”
“Because of my uncle,” I said.
The facts spilled out. Against my better judgment, I found myself starting from the beginning—bits and pieces, weighing the detective’s reactions. Then details. Of course he knew about my mother’s handkerchief, but now he got the background details. Felt good to let it out, and I actually welcomed the detective’s apparent concern.
On some level, I was establishing my innocence. I wanted to build trust, earn his respect. My word is important, and even in Portland during the days of using and dealing, I stood by it.
On the streets, those without integrity are the scary ones.
But the scariest ones? The ones with integrity. When they talk, people listen.
“I think you should reconsider,” Meade told me.
“Reconsider?”
“Meeting with your uncle. I think he’s another piece in this puzzle.”
EIGHTEEN
Listen, Detective. I’m not planning to go on that show.”
“The Best of Evil. It’s an intriguing premise.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s television,” Meade said.
I set down my glass. “She’s brainwashed you, hasn’t she?”
“Who?”
“Carla. Ms. Fleischmann. Did she put you up to this?”
“Not at all.”
“Or that guy. Greg Simone.”
“I assure you I stumbled upon something all by myself. It’s part of my job.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it that way.”
“Apology accepted.”
“But I still don’t see the connection. Please. Fill me in.”
“It has to do with your mother’s handkerchief.”
“What has to do with it?”
Detective Meade moved forward on the seat, his leather jacket creaking beneath his arms. “Everything,” he said. “Or nothing at all. If you’ve got a little time, I’d like to take you back to the office and show you what I found. Then you can decide for yourself.”
Each summer the Nashville Scene holds a contest called “You Are So Nashville If …” Johnny Ray and I always pick up a copy when they post the winners, along with honorable mentions and chuckle-worthy submissions.
Some entries reveal political and religious issues: “… your church congregation is referred to as ‘the studio audience.’ ”
Others rib those who move here with dreams of making it on Music Row: “… you slip your demo tape into the bags of trick-or-treaters.”
I followed Detective Meade into the West Precinct building on Charlotte Pike and down a long hall to his windowless office. File organizers held his paperwork in neat stacks; pens stood at attention in an insulated, plastic Titans mug; behind his economy desk chair, a framed eight-by-ten photo showed him at Centennial Park, in front of the Parthenon, with his arm around a woman who was holding a baby wrapped in pink.
Under the photo, he’d tacked up a past Scene winner: “You Are So Nashville If … you think our Parthenon is better because the other one fell apart.”
I pointed. Gave an obligatory laugh. “That’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine too.”
“Is that your wife?”
“Of seven years. Our daughter’s five now, full of smiles, and a budding artist. She just started first grade.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for the married life.”
“You’re never ready. It’s all about choosing the one you love, then loving the one you choose.”
I nodded as though such sage advice was commonplace in my circles.
“Take a seat.” He slid a business card my way, which read Detective Reginald Meade, Investigations Unit. “Speaking of home, I’m looking forward to seeing my baby soon.”
Did he mean his wife? His daughter? His private life was none of my business.
“Am I keeping you?” I asked. “We can do this tomorrow.”
“Not at all. I’m working third shift, and it’s because of people like you that I’m here.”
“So.” I shifted in the seat, crossing one leg over the other and rubbing the back of my neck. “Let’s hear it, Detective. What’ve you got?”
“We’re still waiting on reports from the scene in Black’s. We’ll be getting ballistics info within a day or two. The lab’s doing tests—spectrographic, chemical, radiographic, all that good stuff. We’re cataloging latent prints, and the coroner’s office will be submitting a medicolegal autopsy for our investigation.”
“Real-life CSI.”
“Nothing that dramatic, and it takes a lot longer than an hour.”
“What about the guy in the Old Navy shirt? Any word on him?”
“A few of your customers remember seeing him, but no one’s identified him.”
“I’d never seen him before Thursday.”
“And he was there only five minutes?”
“At the most.”
“In all my interviews, no one actually saw him fire the gun.”
“It was under his coat.”
“Yes, you mentioned that in your statement.”
“At first it was just a flash of metal. When I realized he had a revolver, that’s when I hit the deck. Instinct more than anything.” “Might’ve saved your life.”
“What about Darrell Michaels? I could’ve dived forward and pulled him down too.”
“Never works that way, Aramis. Only in the movies.”
“I should’ve tried.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
“I feel …”
“Responsible? That’s a normal reaction.”
“Guilty.”
“Because you didn’t smell the evil in the air? Because you didn’t react with superhuman powers? Because you failed to recognize a killer?”
“Yes.”
Detective Meade reached into his bottom drawer. “Let me introduce you to others just like you.” He hefted the Nashville white pages onto the desk, where it landed with a thud. “They’re called human beings.”
“Thanks. I appreciate what you’re trying to say.”
“Believe me, our unit’s not done with this case.”
“I hope you catch the guy.” For Mrs. Michaels’s peace of mind if nothing else.
“We’re doing our best to apprehend the responsible party. We subpoenaed the security cameras from adjoining establishments in case there was footage capturing sidewalk activity. Unfortunately, we found nothing helpful.”
“Something’ll turn up.”
“We’re counting on it.” Meade thumbed through the files on his desk, pulled one loose. “As for the residential burglary you reported, well, I did some investigating. Initially I ran a background check on you to determine your character and credibility, not to mention your potential for a crime like the one perpetrated on the Vandy campus.”
“The assault on Jessica Tyner.”
“Exactly. And in all honesty, after pulling up your list of priors, I decided to have her come in and look through some photos. I added yours to the mix.”
“You what?”
“She said she saw you at the party—”
“Great.”
“She cleared you, though. Like the assailant’s other victims, she only saw him for a split second, but she says he was shorter and older.”
“Good. I mean, I’m relieved.”
“We have to consider every angle, every possibility. You’ve never been charged with a crime of that nature, of course, but it’s not unusual to see cross-contamination between drug dealers and sex offenders.”
“I’ve been clean over a year.”
“That’s to be commended.” He lowered his chin. “And I say that with the utmost sincerity and respect, Aramis. Couldn’t have been an easy thing to do.”
“Still not easy.”
“One day at a time. You’re on the right track.” He spread the file open. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Neighborhood Watch program. Directors and block captains funnel information our way, keeping us posted on suspicious activity in specific areas. Nationwide, we’re finding community participation to be a vital link in crime prevention.”
