by Lia Farrell
A couple minutes later, he heard Wayne and Dory’s voices.
“Hey,” Detective Nichols said.
“What the hell were you two thinking?” Ben felt a rush of adrenaline race through his body. His nostrils flared and he hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “You’ve just tipped off our prime suspect. Couldn’t you have waited one damn day for me to get the search warrant?”
“Hang on,” Nichols said and Ben heard his detective say something to Dory. Then her voice came on the line.
“We already got the warrant, boss. Fuller’s at Covington’s place now, looking for the murder weapon.”
Ben sighed, partly in relief and partly in exasperation. “Why the hell didn’t you call me? What evidence did you use to convince the judge? Seeing as there wasn’t any, it must have been a tough sell.”
“I told her we had an eye witness who could identify him.” Dory’s voice sounded unsure, apologetic.
“Oh you did, did you? I take it you were talking about Mrs. Laurel Anderson. If Fuller doesn’t find something incriminating in Covington’s apartment, the defense attorney is going to make mincemeat out of poor little Mrs. Anderson. I can hear it now. ‘The only witness the prosecution could produce was an eighty-three-year-old lady who is short-sighted and saw someone leaving the Booth Showhouse by the side door at dusk.’ If this guy, who’s already killed twice, gets off again, it’s going to be you who tosses and turns at night, Dory Clarkson.”
“I’m truly sorry, sir.” Dory sounded chastened.
“I trust you at least remembered we can’t keep him more than forty-eight hours without arresting him? What time did you bring him in? Has he asked for his attorney?”
“Wayne and Deputy Fuller picked him up after lunch. I clocked him in at one thirty-four p.m. We’re going to put him in a line-up tomorrow morning. We got lucky on the attorney issue; his lawyer’s out of town.”
“You best kneel down and pray Mrs. Anderson identifies him. Who else were you going to have in the line-up?”
“Lester and Dean are in the drunk tank; they’re both about Henry’s size.”
“Keep your fingers crossed that Deputy Fuller finds the gun. Even if Mrs. Anderson is certain about identification—which I think is a long shot—without the weapon we have nothing.”
“Yes sir,” Dory said.
Ben hung up, still raging.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Detective Wayne Nichols
A summer thunderstorm was crashing down when Detective Nichols ran into the sheriff’s office the morning of August 8th. Once inside, he dripped across the tile floor to his office. As he passed the line-up room, he saw Dory ushering three men inside. One was Henry Covington; the other two were from the usual parade of miscreants. Dory had managed to get all three men to dress in identical T-shirts and jeans. He watched as she hung numbered signs around their necks.
Detective Nichols opened the door to the line-up room and signaled for Dory to see him when she was finished. She walked into his office a few minutes later.
“Did Deputy Fuller find anything in Covington’s apartment?” he asked.
“No gun that matched,” Dory said gloomily. “The boss is going to have a hissy. Covington had three pistols and four rifles, all registered. We sent them to the lab, but Rob said he doubted they had been recently fired. No cordite smell. Rob did find a box of the ammo of the kind used to kill Ferris, but of course that’s common.” Dory looked positively depressed.
The sheriff walked into his detective’s office. He frowned at both his detective and his office manager and asked what Deputy Fuller had found at Covington’s place.
“We got nothing,” Dory said and Ben’s mouth quirked in a tight line.
Deputy Phelps knocked on the door frame. “Mrs. Anderson is here for the perp walk,” he said.
Sheriff Bradley and Detective Nichols walked out into the waiting room to greet her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Anderson, thank you so much for coming down to the station,” Ben said. “We have a line-up of suspects in the room we’d like you to take a look at.”
Mrs. Anderson was dressed in a white cotton blouse and navy blue skirt. Her hair was white and curly, baby fine. Her skin was lined, but her pink cheeks still looked soft.
“I’ve seen line-ups in detective stories on TV,” she said, smiling. “I never thought I would be the one to point a trembling finger and say, ‘That’s him.’ ”
“I certainly hope you can identify the man for us,” the sheriff said and she took his arm. He led her to the one-way view screening room.
“Can they see me?” she asked, sounding a bit fearful.
“No, they can’t. Don’t worry. We’re not going to release them until after you’re safely back at home. I don’t want to risk my star witness,” the sheriff reassured her with a grin.
Mrs. Anderson took her time looking at the men standing in line. Detective Nichols switched on the small mike, “Turn left.” Two of the suspects turned left, and one turned right. Wayne rolled his eyes. Under his breath he murmured, “Your other left, idiot.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Anderson,” Sheriff Bradley said, soothingly.
“Turn right,” Detective Nichols told them. They did so and both Ben and Wayne looked intently at Mrs. Anderson. “Face front,” the detective told the three men.
“Do any of them look like the man you saw come out of the Booth Showhouse on August second?” the sheriff asked.
“I think number two. The one in the middle?” Her voice was uncertain, and she seemed to be asking for confirmation. “But I couldn’t swear to it, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Ben said. “You did very well. Thank you again for coming.”
Detective Nichols watched from the window as the sheriff escorted her out of the building to her car, standing beside it until she pulled out of the parking lot.
“All of you, in the conference room. Now!” the sheriff yelled when he came back inside the building. Once they were assembled he said, “Mrs. Anderson pointed to Covington in the line-up, but said she couldn’t swear it was him. Do any of you have anything I don’t already know?” he asked, glowering. “Somebody better have something.”
Deputy George Phelps raised his hand. “I do, sir. After I got through the list of the fraternity brothers, I reviewed the CCTV footage, like you said. At four thirty-six p.m. on the day Tom Ferris was shot, the Final Touch florist brought in their arrangements. The camera shows them unloading the van in the parking lot. Two young women brought in the flowers. A man walked up to them and must have offered to help, because he picked up the largest arrangement and brought it inside. The flowers were so tall, nobody saw his face.”
“You are a jewel,” the sheriff told him. He turned another frown on Dory, Detective Nichols, and Deputy Rob Fuller. “So, while the rest of you were disobeying orders, writing requests for court orders based on nothing but conjecture or coming up empty, George here got our guy. Please tell me it was Covington who carried the flowers inside the Booth Showhouse.”
Deputy Phelps blushed and nodded.
“You’re certain you recognized Covington?” Wayne asked, intently.
“It was him.” George was beaming. “He got out of his car and I ran the plate. It was his vehicle.”
“Did you see him leave the Booth Showhouse after that?”
“No, there’s nothing on the tape showing him leaving. He must have left by way of the side door and was most likely the guy Mrs. Anderson saw.”
“All right, excellent. We’re back on track. And I got Captain Paula to give me Ryan Gentry’s computer and one other item—Ryan Gentry’s belt. Detective Pascoe thought he was thrown from the window by somebody who lifted him by his belt.”
After the buzz of questions died down, Wayne said, “I’ll get the belt to Emma Peters and have her check it for fingerprints and DNA. Obviously we’d expect Ryan’s fingerprints to be on it, but if Henry Covington’s prints or DNA are on that belt, we
have him cold for that killing.”
“Do we have someone in town who could get into that computer?” Deputy Rob Fuller asked.
“The Mont Blanc Police Department has a forensic IT guy who comes by every couple of weeks. He rotates there from the Nashville post. I’ll try both places,” Dory said. Turning to Ben she asked, “Sheriff, do you want me to retract my request for the court order and apologize to the judge?”
“No,” Ben said. “Thanks to Deputy George here, it looks like we’re on the verge of solving the Ferris case. When we started this one, I told Detective Nichols what we had was a new case on top of an old case—like two sleeping dogs. It appears we’ve stirred up the dogs.” He smiled.
“Don’t get cocky yet,” Wayne said. “We don’t know what, if anything, the lab will give us on the belt. Without that, we’re back at square one with the Ryan Gentry case.”
“What’s your theory for that one?” Dory asked.
“I think it might’ve involved fixing college football games,” Ben said. Several pairs of eyebrows went up. “I met with Nellie Franz, the housekeeper for Sigma Chi. She told me there was an awful lot of money sitting around in Henry Covington’s room. Way more than young kids should’ve had.”
“Was Covington on the football team?” Wayne asked.
“He sure was. Played tight end.”
“Okay. How does that involve Ryan Gentry?”
“Ryan Gentry was the treasurer for the fraternity. I think Townsend may have laundered some large deposits through the Sigma Chi account. Thus, the need for the IT guy.” Ben stopped talking and narrowed his eyes at Dory.
“I’m on it, boss,” she said, and darted from the room.
The sheriff and Detective Nichols were walking into the interrogation room when Deputy Phelps appeared with Covington in cuffs. He shot them a questioning look. Ben nodded, indicating he could join them for the interrogation. Deputy Phelps turned on the audio equipment and sat down. Henry Covington was dressed in jeans and a faded blue shirt with a button-down collar. His light brown hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. His gray eyes regarded them with wariness. Detective Nichols indicated a chair across from Ben.
“Sit down, Mr. Covington.”
The sheriff spoke first, announcing the names of everyone present for the audio capture system. “Sheriff Bradley, Detective Nichols, and Deputy George Phelps present to interview Henry Covington on August eighth about his involvement in the death of Tom Ferris. Covington, you were informed of your rights when you were brought in yesterday, correct?”
“Yes,” Henry said with a nod.
“Say it aloud that you’ve been Mirandized,” Detective Nichols insisted.
“I’ve been informed of my rights, okay?” Covington glared. He sounded sulky, aggrieved.
“You’ve been identified as leaving the Booth Showhouse five minutes after Tom Ferris was shot to death,” the sheriff said. “We have you on tape coming into the house helping the florist bring in the arrangements. And we have you exiting the house through the French doors on the side. You turned around and closed the shutter dogs. We’ve sent those prints to the state lab.”
“We’ve got you, Covington,” Detective Nichols said bluntly. “You shot Ferris in the back. We’re assembling evidence showing that this wasn’t your first murder. You killed another fraternity brother of yours at Sigma Chi fifteen years ago.”
Covington’s face blanched slightly. For the first time, he started to look uneasy.
“You’ve got squat,” he replied, recovering quickly. “You haven’t got any real evidence or you would’ve already arrested me rather than just hauling me in here. I want my lawyer. I already asked for him yesterday. I’m not saying anything more until he gets here.”
“Okay, who is it?” the sheriff asked.
“Rod Coniglio, with the Townsend practice. Here’s his number.” Covington handed the sheriff a small white business card.
“Premeditated murder carries an automatic life sentence in Tennessee, unless there’s some extenuating circumstance,” Sheriff Bradley’s voice trailed off. Henry Covington didn’t say a word.
“You better start talking, Henry.” Detective Nichols got up and began to pace the small room. Standing behind Covington, he leaned forward and said, “You didn’t shoot Ferris on your own initiative. Somebody told you to shoot him. If you want to get a reduced sentence and get paroled before your son’s on Social Security, you need to tell us who told you to kill him.”
Covington shook his head and started to stand up. Detective Nichols grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back into his chair, hard.
“You sit your ass down,” he said, eyes snapping. “We’re not done here yet.”
They heard a tapping and the sheriff tilted his head toward the door. Both Detective Nichols and Deputy Phelps rose and followed him out of the room.
Dory was standing in the hall. “His lawyer’s on his way,” she said.
“Let’s wait in my office.” Ben led the two men down the hall. Deputy Phelps sat in the chair, the detective leaned against the wall, and Ben paced until they heard the buzzer indicating Rod Coniglio’s arrival.
“Show him to the interrogation room, Dory,” the sheriff said over the intercom. “Meet him back there please, Wayne. Let me know what happens. You’re dismissed.” The sheriff nodded at Deputy Phelps.
Detective Nichols opened the door and gestured for the man to precede them into the room. He was expensively dressed in a silver-gray custom-made suit, white shirt, and purple silk tie.
Pausing at the threshold, he asked Detective Nichols, “Why are you holding my client? What’s he been charged with?”
“We have evidence he shot Tom Ferris in the back and killed him.”
“What evidence? Do you have the murder weapon?”
“We have definitive proof that he was in the Booth Showhouse at the time of the murder.”
“So, you have opportunity. That’s it?” Coniglio waggled his eyebrows, looking amused. He sat down next to Henry and put his hand on his client’s shoulder. “You don’t have means? You don’t have a motive?”
“Your partner Townsend ordered the killing.” Detective Nichols spit out the damning words. His eyes bored into Rod Coniglio’s. The attorney shook his head, gave Wayne Nichols a supercilious smile, and looked at Henry.
“Whatever you think you may have on my client or on Townsend comes under the heading of privileged communication. We’re leaving.” He and Henry Covington stood up and both men turned to leave.
Detective Nichols stepped back and watched them go. The smooth son-of-a-bitch was right. All they had was circumstantial evidence. Without the murder weapon they didn’t even have enough to make an arrest. He slammed his hand on the conference room table.
They had already searched Covington’s condo and his car and came up empty. He could have disposed of the gun, but Wayne thought he wasn’t the type. All the guns he had were registered and in a special locked cabinet at his place. They were obviously Henry’s prized possessions.
He buzzed Ben and they agreed to have Deputy Phelps follow Covington and his attorney. He hoped they could find evidence on Covington and Townsend’s involvement. He wondered if they’d played their hand too soon.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sheriff Ben Bradley
“Dory,” the sheriff called out as he and Detective Nichols walked toward the front office.
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“We’ve got to find that murder weapon. I’ve just had an idea. Does Henry Covington have a hunting cabin?”
“He might. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Do it now.” The sheriff’s voice was low. “When Rob searched Covington’s apartment he found every gun he’d had since his first twenty-two rifle. I’m betting he’s still got the murder weapon, but he’s going to get rid of it now that he knows we’re on to him. We have to find it before he does.”
Sheriff Bradley and Detective Nichols had their heads togethe
r and were deep in conversation when Dory walked back into Ben’s office half an hour later. Both men perked up, looking at her eagerly.
“Good call, boss. Henry owns a hunting cabin up on Pinhook Hill, close to the summit. I found a map. Just coordinates, latitude and longitude. There’s a lot of logging roads up there. It’s going to be tough to find at night.” Dory waited for his answer.
“Deputy Fuller,” the sheriff called.
“Sheriff?”
“Come in here, Rob.” When everyone was assembled, the sheriff said, “We’re going to keep following Henry. We need to have at least two cars on him. Deputy Phelps took the patrol car. He just called in. At the moment, Covington is at the Townsend firm on Main Street. George is going to stay on him until I tell him otherwise.”
“He’ll spot the patrol car, boss,” Deputy Rob said.
“I know, I want him to. Once Henry leaves the office, he’s going to try to ditch him. Rob, I want you in an unmarked car. You’ll take over as lead once he spots George.”
“He might go to Randee Scofield’s place,” Detective Nichols said.
“Agreed. If he goes to see Randee, let us know by police radio. Dory, I want you to call her. See if she’s ever been to the hunting cabin and if you can, get directions.”
“We’re betting he’ll head out of town after dark on Old Hickory Boulevard going north,” the detective said. “Once he’s past the entrance to White’s Creek State Park, he has to enter that whole spider’s web of logging roads to reach his hunting cabin.”
“What vehicles are we watching for?” Deputy Fuller asked. “He was driving a 2011 white Lincoln town car at the Booth Showhouse.”
Wayne Nichols looked at his notes. “He’ll probably drive his truck up north. It’s a white 1996 Ford F-250 four-wheel drive. It might have a camo wrap. Dory will get you the license numbers.”
“On it,” Dory said.
“After you take over following Covington, Rob, I’m going to have George switch vehicles and drive up to White’s Creek,” Ben said. “It’s the closest little town on the road to Pinhook Mountain. Dory, give him the map, will you? Once Covington turns off the main road, you and George will veer off, call us and find a place to park. He’ll spot you if you stay with him once he enters the fire roads.”