by Stuart Woods
“Sure,” Tucker said, and left. As he drove the twenty miles to Talbotton, his apprehension lifted a little. He had finally committed himself to a course of action, and he felt better for it. It occurred to him that he should call John Howell and bring him up to date, as he had promised he would.
He parked in front of the courthouse at a parking meter instead of in one of the official slots, realizing he had unconsciously avoided even that chance of conflict. In the sheriff’s department he was received politely, but cooly, by the clerk, who obviously knew who he was. Patrick had somebody in his office, and he would have to wait.
He waited for nearly an hour, growing increasingly restive. He read old copies of Signposts and the Ford Times and avoided drinking from the water cooler, because he didn’t want to have to go to the bathroom, not wanting to create an incident by going to what might be a white facility, and not wanting to ask. Finally, Patrick emerged, shook hands with his departing visitor, and saw Tucker.
Patrick grinned widely. “Well, if it ain’t old Tucker. What brings you down here, boy?”
Tucker did not blink at the “boy,” knowing that white southerners used it liberally among themselves and that it wasn’t necessarily a racial slur, although it might be, coming from Patrick. “I’ve got some business for you, Bobby.”
Patrick waved him into the office and offered him a chair. Tucker noticed that Bobby was wearing every piece of brass available from the police equipment catalogue—badge, collar pins, tie clasp, and a gold eagle on each epaulet of his tan gabardine uniform. A powdery-white Stetson hung on a hat rack in the corner.
“Well, now, Tucker, boy,” he practically crowed, “what can I do for you?”
Tucker laid the file before him and opened it. Carefully, he took him through the disappearances, pointed out the geographical distribution of the last sightings, then gave Patrick his conclusions. When he had finished, Patrick said nothing for a moment, simply smiled slightly. He closed the file and handed it back to Tucker.
“Tell you what, Tucker,” he said. “Let’s go down the hall and see Judge Greene. You tell him all about it. He’s the man who’ll have to issue a search warrant, anyway. Okay?”
“Fine,” Tucker replied, relieved. He had not known quite what to expect, but he had not anticipated such quick cooperation.
They were received immediately and cordially in the judge’s chambers. The judge was a grandfatherly man who listened closely to what Tucker had to say, nodding sagely now and then. When Tucker had completed his presentation, the judge looked at Bobby Patrick and chuckled slightly. Patrick chuckled back. Then the judge laughed aloud and Patrick laughed back. Then the two of them laughed until neither could speak. Tucker got up and left the office.
Patrick caught up to him as he started his car. “Hey, listen, Tucker,” he grinned, suppressing further laughter. “That’s the most fun we’ve had down here since I took office. You know, Foxy and the judge have been friends for thirty years, hunted together. They’re like that.” He held up crossed fingers. “Anytime you got something as entertaining as that story, you just come on down here; we want to hear it.” Then his face turned cold and hard. “Listen, I know your ass is in a sling with Skeeter Willis, and as far as I’m concerned it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. If you think you can wiggle out of that bind by coming down here with a piece of shit like this, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m not gonna get you off the hook, and you better leave old Foxy alone, too. If I hear about you bothering him again, I’ll put your ass under the Talbot County jail, you hear me?”
Tucker backed out of the parking place without a word and drove slowly back toward Delano, watching his rearview mirror until he was across the county line, humiliated to the core of him. He checked in briefly at the station, then spent the rest of the day driving listlessly around the town, the file on the seat beside him. He was at a dead end. He had no place else to go.
On Wednesday morning Billy borrowed a single-engine Cessna from a supporter and, with Hugh Holmes, flew out of Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial Field at Warm Springs for north Georgia. Holmes had identified a dozen legislators not yet firmly committed to either camp, and Billy meant to talk to each of them face to face. Since Georgia was the largest state east of the Mississippi, he needed the plane to do it.
He was worried about Holmes. The banker was looking tired and drawn, and Billy wanted him to stay home and confine himself to telephone calls, but Holmes had insisted on coming along.
“There’s a favor owed me here and there,” he had said. “It’s time I did some collecting. But don’t get your hopes up.”
At breakfast on Thursday morning Elizabeth put Tucker’s eggs on the table and said, “You’ve got some vacation time coming. I talked with my brother, John, in New York; they want us to come up and visit. Why don’t we do that? Maybe even see some shows? You need some time off.”
The idea appealed to Tucker. At the end of his rope with his Foxy theory, and in limbo until the business with Hoss Spence was settled, there was nothing important demanding his attention. He had thought, too, that they might not be in Delano much longer, the way things were going. His credibility with the local people had been damaged by the newspaper reports of his arrest, and there was a feeling that the incident had cost Billy the general election. If Billy lost in the house now, the burden on Tucker would be unbearable, even if he were completely vindicated in court. He wasn’t sure where they would go, but they had always enjoyed New York on their visits there, and the anonymity of the place appealed to him. He might find some private security work there, and a few days in the city would give him an opportunity to feel out a new situation for them.
“Honey,” he said, “if Mr. Holmes and the city manager don’t object to my taking some time on short notice, I could get squared away this morning, and we could get a plane from Atlanta tonight.”
He went through things with Bartlett at the station and could see no problems. Holmes was out of town, but the city manager had no objections. He booked a flight and began to look forward to the change of scene.
“How about the missing-persons thing, Chief?” asked Bartlett. “Anything come of that?”
“No, nothing,” he said wearily. “That one is over.”
“I’d like to know what you thought you had.”
“When I get back I’ll lay it out for you. Maybe someday something will break on it.”
The phone rang, and Bartlett answered. “It’s for you, Chief. John Howell.”
Tucker picked up the phone. “How you doing, John?”
“Not bad. Just wanted to see if anything was new with you. Is there a trial date set for either Spence or you yet?”
“No. I expect it’ll get settled after the house vote next week. I’m just about to take a week off. Elizabeth and I are going to visit her brother and his wife in New York. I’m pretty beat, really.”
“Yeah, I can imagine. Anything ever come of your detective work on the missing boys?”
“Well, yes and no. Some more stuff turned up, but it’s a dead end now. I’ll loan you the file if you think you can really get a book out of it. It’ll have to be a novel, though.”
“I’d like to see it. What time is your flight to New York? Can I buy you a drink at the airport?”
“Sure, why not? Why don’t we meet at three o’clock in the upper-level bar. Our plane’s at four-thirty, so that’ll give us time to talk. I’ll bring the file; you can photocopy it and mail it back to me in Delano.”
Tucker and Elizabeth drove north, past the Spence place, through Warm Springs. At the Greenville city limits, a sheriff’s car pulled behind them and followed closely. Tucker drove very slowly into the town, through the square, and out the other side. The car continued to follow them. Tucker did not recognize the driver, but he could see him using the radio. He said nothing to Elizabeth, who was dozing.
At the Coweta County line the car turned around and was replaced by a sheriff’s car from that county. Tucker dro
ve on at a steady forty-five miles an hour, a full ten miles an hour under the speed limit. At the Fayette County line the scene was repeated, and at the border to Clayton County, yet again. By the time they arrived at Atlanta Airport, Tucker’s shirt was sticking to him, in spite of the open car window.
John Howell closed the file. “Tucker, you’ve got to take this to the feds.”
Tucker set down his drink. “What are you talking about? This isn’t a federal case.”
“It might be. There’s kidnapping. The Lindbergh Law.”
Tucker looked at his watch. They had been late arriving at the airport because of the surveillance, and Elizabeth was downstairs waiting in a ticket line. “I don’t know, John. I don’t have any experience with that, but I think the FBI won’t get involved in kidnapping unless there’s a request from local authorities. It’s a state crime, as well as a federal one, and I’m not the local authority in this case.”
“There’s something else,” said the reporter. “An old law they’ve dug up; they’re using it in Mississippi and Alabama in the murders of civil rights workers. When they can’t get a local conviction they’re bringing a federal case for depriving an individual of his civil rights.”
“I’ve read about that, but do you think the feds would go for a warrant based on that law? It seems kind of far-fetched to me.”
“There’s one way to find out. I know a senior agent in the Atlanta FBI office. I’ll call him right now and get a reading.”
“I don’t know, John. Maybe when we get back from New York.”
The reporter extracted the most recent bulletin from the file. “Tucker, this kid was last seen in Florida, what—less than two weeks ago? He was reported in Buena Vista on Monday. If he was still headed north that would take him through Delano. This is Thursday. If Foxy connected with him, Tucker, he could still be alive.” Howell waited. Tucker said nothing. “I’m going to call my guy at the bureau now,” Howell said firmly.
“All right,” Tucker replied. “I want to see about Elizabeth. I’ll be in the Delta checkin area.”
Howell ran for the phone, while Tucker took the escalator to the lower level. Elizabeth had nearly reached the counter. Tucker stood with her as they slowly made their way forward. Finally, when they were at the counter, Howell appeared, out of breath.
“We’ve got an appointment right now. He’s waiting for us.”
Tucker hesitated.
“Come on, Tucker, one more try. If this doesn’t work you can at least say to yourself that you did your best.”
Tucker turned to Elizabeth. “Listen, honey, I want you to go on without me. I’ll call you tonight at your brother’s, and I’ll try to join you tomorrow. John is right. I have to do this.”
Elizabeth nodded. “All right. I’ll book you on the same flight tomorrow. Call me tonight and tell me if you’ll be on it.”
He kissed her, picked up his bag, and walked quickly from the terminal building with Howell.
They sat in the office of the agent in charge of the Atlanta office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. John Howell’s agent friend, Ben Carr, had taken them to his Chief after hearing Tucker’s story, and Tucker was unwillingly reminded of being taken to the judge by Bobby Patrick. He had the distinct feeling that Carr had simply wanted to have him turned down at the top.
Pope, the AIC, seemed skeptical, but willing to listen. “So you believe this man has murdered and concealed the bodies of, what—sixteen young men, seventeen if the police officer, Butts, was among them? And this has happened over a period of, let’s see”—he stared at the ceiling as he figured—“forty-three years?”
“Mr. Pope,” Tucker replied, “I’m not saying that all sixteen of these boys are planted around Funderburke’s place, but the geographical pattern of the disappearances makes all of them candidates, I think. Suppose only half a dozen of them are actual victims. Is six murders enough to get the FBI interested?”
“Chief Watts,” the agent shot back, “the bureau would be interested if there were only one murder, but apart from the two bodies found in the twenties, there is no hard evidence of any other murder. It’s all circumstantial.”
“That’s an awful lot of circumstance, isn’t it?” asked John Howell, pointing at the bulletins spread out over the desk.
The AIC stared for a moment at the bulletins. “There are no blacks among those who disappeared, right?”
“Right,” replied Tucker.
“I see what you’re getting at, Mr. Pope,” Howell injected. “But do you have to be black to get your civil rights violated? And anyway, wouldn’t it look better if that law were being enforced more broadly than just in civil rights cases? Wouldn’t that make the government’s use of the law more credible?”
“Possibly,” Pope admitted. “Listen, I’m going to have to talk to somebody in Washington about this.” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly six o’clock, so my chances of reaching anybody in authority today are poor. I’m going to have to get back to you tomorrow.”
“You can’t ask a federal judge for a search warrant on your own authority?” Tucker asked.
“Frankly, I’d feel better having some support up the line,” the AIC answered, “and I should think you’d feel better that way, too, considering the political flap last week, in which Funderburke was an element. In fact, it might help if you could get Lieutenant Governor Lee to make a call or two.”
Tucker shook his head. “No, that would be inappropriate. This case has no connection with his office, and I can’t ask him to stick his neck out in his present situation.”
“I understand. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get some word.”
“You’d better bunk with me tonight, Tucker,” Howell said. “Mr. Pope, here’s my card. You can reach the Chief at that number.”
Billy and Holmes sat in the living room of a small-town lawyer in Toccoa, a north Georgia mountain community. The man, Fred Mitchell, was becoming agitated.
“Billy, I just can’t give you an answer. Granted, you won my county in the general election, but Mullins took it in the primary. I’ve got to think about that. There’s this business with your policeman down there; I think you made a big mistake getting that man hired; I’m getting pressure from all sides on this thing, and on top of everything else I’ve got my sister on my neck. Her boy has run away from home for the third time, and she thinks I’m helping him, hiding him. She’s about to drive me crazy. And I’ve got a case coming up in court tomorrow, and I’m ill-prepared for it; so if you’ll just let me try to get some time to think about this without pressure, I’ll call you when I’ve decided. I’m sorry I can’t give you an answer now, but I just can’t.”
They stood up and shook hands. Billy and Holmes left for the grass strip where the Cessna was parked. Their next stop was in Athens, and Billy wanted to make it before dark.
21
TUCKER SAT in the hard, wooden chair at noon on Friday and waited for Agent in Charge Pope to finish his telephone conversation. Tucker hurt all over. He had slept on a leather sofa in John Howell’s tiny, bachelor apartment, and the sofa had been too short for his frame. He wanted the man to give them the bad news so he could catch a plane for New York. He had spent a restless night on the uncomfortable sofa worrying about this, and now all he wanted was to be done with it.
Pope hung up the phone. “All right,” he said, “We’re going to ask for a warrant.”
“Fantastic!” John Howell cried.
Tucker was amazed, but he felt something else was coming.
“But,” said Pope, “there is going to have to be an agreement on some limitations.”
“What sort of limitations?” Tucker asked.
“First of all,” Pope said, counting on his fingers, “there is going to be no team of men going in there and tearing the place apart. Washington doesn’t feel that the situation warrants that; they feel—and I can tell you this went all the way to the attorney general’s office—they feel that if you think it warrants
looking into, and local agencies won’t cooperate, it should be looked into. But there is going to be no digging, no prying up floorboards, none of that. I’m going to send Carr and another agent, Sutherland, down there. If they turn up something they feel warrants an all-out search, Carr will report it to me, and I will make the decision, in consultation with Washington, on whether to go further. Clear?”
Tucker nodded. “Yes.”
“Second,” said Pope, ticking off another finger, “you, Chief Watts, may accompany Carr and Sutherland, in uniform, as an observer. You are not to question or address yourself directly to Funderburke. If you have a question, address it to Carr or Sutherland, and one of them will ask it if he feels it is relevant. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Third,” Pope said, pointing a finger at John Howell, “he is not to go near the place unless evidence of a crime is discovered. Clear?”
“Now wait a minute,” Howell began.
“This is an absolute condition of our application for this warrant. We are not going to be a party to dragging an innocent man through the New York Times. If we find evidence on which we can base a prosecution, then you can go in.”
“Clear,” said Tucker.
Pope looked at his watch. “If you get over to the federal courthouse in a hurry, you can probably catch the judge when he recesses for lunch.”
Billy and Holmes were having a late lunch in the Georgian Hotel in Athens, when Holmes was paged for a telephone call. He was gone only a short time.
Holmes sat down heavily. “That was my secretary. A friend of mine at the federal courthouse in Atlanta called. Tucker Watts showed up at Judge Henderson’s chambers an hour and a half ago with two FBI agents and got a warrant to search Foxy Funderburke’s place.”
“What?”
“I told you a while back that Tucker had been asking some questions about Foxy. It came out in newspaper stories.”
“Yes, but why? I haven’t seen Tucker since we got him out of jail, so I never had a chance to ask him about it. What on earth is he looking for at Foxy’s?”
