Published 2017 by Prometheus Books
A Murder in Music City: Corruption, Scandal, and the Framing of an Innocent Man.
Copyright © 2017 by Michael Bishop. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image © Shutterstock
Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke
Cover design © Prometheus Books
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Prometheus Books recognizes all registered trademarks, trademarks, and service marks mentioned in the text.
Inquiries should be addressed to
Prometheus Books
59 John Glenn Drive
Amherst, New York 14228
VOICE: 716–691–0133•FAX: 716–691–0137
WWW.PROMETHEUSBOOKS.COM
212019181754321
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bishop, Michael, 1956- author.
Title: A murder in Music City : corruption, scandal, and the framing of an innocent man / Michael Bishop.
Description: Amherst, New York : Prometheus Books, 2017. | Includes index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2017013766 (print) | LCCN 2017031053 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633883468 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633883451 (pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Herring, Paula, 1945-1964. | Murder—Tennessee—Nashville—Case studies. | Murder—Investigation—Tennessee—Nashville—Case studies.
Classification: LCC HV6534.N18 (ebook) | LCC HV6534.N18 B57 2017 (print) | DDC 364.152/30976855—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017013766
Printed in the United States of America
Foreword
by Richard Walter
Preface
PART I: THE BABYSITTER STORY
Chapter One: Saturday Night Slaying
Chapter Two: Leaving Texas
Chapter Three: 1964 Investigation
Chapter Four: Third Bullet
Chapter Five: Criminal Trial
Chapter Six: Jo Herring's Letter
PART II: THE HERRING FILE
Chapter Seven: Forty Stories
Chapter Eight: Neighbors
Chapter Nine: Inmate #62250
Chapter Ten: Something's Fishy
Chapter Eleven: Police Archives
Chapter Twelve: Six Girls
Chapter Thirteen: Trial of the Bloody Man
Chapter Fourteen: Red Ace
Chapter Fifteen: Lawyers
Chapter Sixteen: Autopsy Report
PART III: TRUE DETECTIVE
Chapter Seventeen: Girl Next Door
Chapter Eighteen: Vandy Kids
Chapter Nineteen: Bridge Club
Chapter Twenty: True Detective
Chapter Twenty-One: Return of Jim Squires
Chapter Twenty-Two: Got Any Veterans?
Chapter Twenty-Three: Prescription for Murder
Chapter Twenty-Four: Sinners
Chapter Twenty-Five: Research or Reinvestigation?
PART IV: HOUSE FULL OF HELL
Chapter Twenty-Six: Sherlock Holmes
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Controlling the Victim
Chapter Twenty-Eight: American Veterans
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Coach and Player
Chapter Thirty: Clear Blue Sky
Chapter Thirty-One: House Full of Hell
Chapter Thirty-Two: Graveyard Dead
Chapter Thirty-Three: Sherlock in Atlanta
Chapter Thirty-Four: Bad Night in Nashville
Chapter Thirty-Five: Queen of Metro
Chapter Thirty-Six: Class of 1963
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Final Resting Place
Epilogue: Where Are They Now?
Acknowledgments
Notes
Index
This book chronicles a web of debauchery and intentional wickedness that results in unapologetic murder, miseries, and the scapegoating of the innocent. How and why does this happen? The reader is advised that “man” is the only animal in the kingdom that has the ability to understand the past, present, and future and to make moral decisions of right and wrong.
Furthermore, inasmuch as choice is part of decision-making, it follows that “man” is the only animal that has the option of not living up to its full potential. Needless to say, there are many developing and full-blown scoundrels who exercise the latter option. For those who choose to improve their personal and social life through attitudes, mores, and ethics, however, laws exist to disapprove, judge, and punish those who violate the social codes of the society. As the reader will see in the forthcoming pages, there are those people who covertly attempt to have a foot in both crime and law. These moral chameleons are exploiters who deserve a special place in hell.
While exploring a murder case that was never intended to be understood, Michael Bishop intuitively understood that investigative skill means asking the right question rather than simply hearing the answers. Obviously, the answer is worthless if not responding to a poignant question. To ask that question is talent at its best. We can hope to get lucky, but luck is mercurial and a risky approach, often leading to a disastrous end. Instead, it is wisest to use skills and talent that lead to pattern development and recognizable motives, methods, and opportunities. Watch for the clues in this book, and the author will lead you from chaos into understanding. Ah, the journey should be fun. No, I will not be a storyline spoiler and tease out nuggets of gold for explanation. Instead, it is the work of the reader to participate in the process of understanding.
Finally, kudos to the author for writing a talented exposé on behalf of belated justice, with a provocative storyline and keen observations on the human condition that tends to limit truth to the perception of truth.
Hope you enjoy the book!
Richard Walter
Forensic psychologist,
and consultant to law enforcement agencies
In November of 2016, I made a road trip to the lovely mountains of northern Pennsylvania to have breakfast with my friend Richard Walter. Just after sunrise on the appointed day, I plotted a course over a two-lane blacktop road to the small village where the world's living Sherlock Holmes had taken up residence. Upon arrival, a warm greeting, and expressed astonishment by my host that I had so easily found him, I drove us to Richard's favorite breakfast eatery. On the way to the restaurant, I posed a simple question to the eccentric intellectual.
“Richard, does anyone in this town have any idea who you are, or that the living Sherlock Holmes resides here?” I asked.
“No, I don't think so,” he said.
Moments later, I parked the car in front of the local diner he had chosen and we entered to the comforting aroma of coffee, bacon, and biscuits. Perhaps a full two seconds passed before my host was being hailed by the dozen or so locals having breakfast.
“Hey Richard! How are you man?”
“Hey Richard! Did you see that program on television last night, about JonBenét Ramsey? We need to talk!”
“Richard, is this the guy you said was writing a book? When does it come out?”
After being seated, and while reviewing the breakfast menu, I casually volleyed a dry comment over to my host. “So, you're pretty much anonymous here, is that what you were saying?”
An hour later, we sat down in Richard Walter's kitchen as a prelude to discussing the foreword needed for this book. I had previously broached the topic by phone with Richard, and he had graciously said he would be honored to write it.
Over the course of the next few hours we discussed again the Paula Herring slaying and his insights into the murder. At midday, as I was gathering my papers and photographs, about to depart, the living Sherlock Holmes presented me with a batch of his freshly baked soft gingersnap cookies. I could not stop smiling and laughing at this surprising gift, and before I could back my rental car out of his driveway, I also learned that they were the best gingersnap cookies I had ever eaten.
A few days later, the foreword arrived, and I quickly realized that I had failed to ask Richard a few essential questions that a reader might find of keen interest. So, I called him on the phone to confess my oversight, and he bailed me out with the answers below. Enjoy.
MB: Do you get a lot of requests for help from wannabe detectives or novice investigators?
RW: A few, but mostly I decline the requests. The Vidocq Society members routinely tell people not to bother. I don't disagree with that assessment.
MB: How do you choose the ones you help versus the ones you decline?
RW: It helps if you're smart, and I find the case interesting, as in this murder. Most of the requests I get are from lazy fools with harebrained ideas, who've done no work, have no theory, and just want to exploit me. You can imagine my response to those inquiries.
MB: Which brings me to the Paula Herring story.
RW: In your story, you had innately asked the right questions long before you reached out to me for assistance, and I could tell you were determined to find the truth.
MB: If we could go back in time, to the night of the Paula Herring slaying, how would you have interviewed the person you deemed most likely to have committed the murder?
RW: You ask them to tell their story. Talk about their home life. You inflate their ego and note that they are a major player in the city. You ask about their friends, short-term goals, long-term goals, values, where they spend their time, but really you want to know where they spend their money. You try to identify their sexual orientation and friendship patterns. When you explore their group loyalties, you may find that instead of the local civic club, it's the guys at the local bar. By the time you switch gears and tell them what you are thinking, they are ready to lawyer up. Especially so if your analysis of the crime scene and the person most likely to have committed the murder are a match with the person you've just been interviewing.
MB: What's the secret ingredient in those soft gingersnap cookies?
RW: A half-cup of a particular brand of molasses. If it's not available, make a different cookie.
Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. In certain instances, I have attempted to recreate events and conversations from my recollection, interview notes, and audio recordings.
Lock the doors, or you'll end up like Paula Herring.
—Metro Nashville's first urban legend
Paula Herring's murder had been predicted for months. That the victim was a pretty, blond coed wasn't all that surprising to authorities, especially since a number of young women in one of Nashville's newest subdivisions had been targeted by a rapist for more than a year. Metro Police had predicted that the activities of the rapist would eventually escalate to murder. It was just a matter of time and circumstance, they said, and on this Saturday night, February 22, 1964, it appeared that an eighteen-year-old babysitter had provided their tragic confirmation.
A few miles north of the crime scene, at the Municipal Safety Building in downtown Nashville, twenty-year-old Jim Squires was working his newspaper's graveyard shift, the uncoveted Saturday night assignment usually reserved for cub reporters.1 Years later, Squires would oversee a Pulitzer Prize–winning staff of his own as editor of the Chicago Tribune, but on this night he waited patiently for the police dispatcher to alert him that a story was in the making.
Just ninety days after President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, there were a number of stories that Squires could have covered. He could report on the frenzied activities of four young English musicians who had just taken the country by storm. But the Beatles had flown from New York City back to London on that very day, having completed their first American tour. Or he could focus on the trial of the inept men accused of kidnapping nineteen-year-old Frank Sinatra Jr., in December of 1963, or on the anxiously awaited prize fight in Miami Beach between heavyweight boxing champ Sonny Liston and a twenty-two-year-old challenger named Cassius Clay, a fight slated to take place in less than seventy-two hours.
But, as fate would have it, shortly after 11:00 p.m., the young journalist heard the voice of the night dispatcher from the wall-mounted speaker above his head directing cars forty-three and forty-four to an address on Timberhill Drive.2 Squires had covered the police beat long enough to know that these were the car numbers assigned to Metro's homicide detectives. And on this night, wherever they went, he went.
It was a cold night, with daytime temperatures on Friday and Saturday barely reaching the freezing mark. By the time Squires arrived at the home on Timberhill Drive, the outdoor temperature had fallen to twenty degrees Fahrenheit, with a trace of snow in the air.
The address provided by the police dispatcher turned out to be a modest red-brick, ranch-styled home with three small bedrooms, a sloping front yard, and an attached, one-car garage. The home was fairly new—part of the Crieve Hall community, a group of houses only a short drive to the southeast from downtown Nashville, and one of the many new subdivisions that had sprouted up as part of the post–World War II growth era.
Jim Squires found almost a dozen uniformed officers, a couple of homicide detectives, and investigators from the district attorney's office already working the brutal crime scene. It didn't take Squires long to discover that it was as baffling as it was bloody.3
At approximately 11:00 p.m. that night, Jo Herring, a widow and a nurse at Vanderbilt University Hospital, had returned from a dinner engagement and entered the house with her two male companions. Jo's eighteen-year-old daughter, Paula, had volunteered to stay home and babysit her younger brother while she worked on a book report for school.4
According to one of the dinner companions, after parking the car the three made their way through the side door of the attached garage and into the den. That's where they found Paula; fully clothed, the blond girl was lying facedown and lifeless on a blood-soaked rug in front of the television set. Her pretty face was ghostly, bloodied, and bruised, and the entire front of her white blouse was stained a horrific crimson.
Jo Herring immediately dropped to her knees and attempted to find a pulse on her daughter's body. One of the men, the driver of the car, became nauseous and, without so much as a word, exited through the garage, got back into his car, and drove away. The other man grabbed the telephone in the den and placed an urgent call to the police. While he was on the phone with the authorities, Jo Herring's little blond son, six-year-old Alan, emerged unharmed from his bedroom. According to the trembling child, he had been put to bed earlier in the evening but had awoken to find Paula lying on the floor in the den. When she didn't respond to his pleas to “get up” he went back to bed until his mother returned home from dinner.
Hearing about this from the police on the scene, Jim Squires knew he was under pressure to phone in the biggest story of his young career. And since the Nashville Tennessean's chief rival didn't publish on Sunday, Squires had the story all to himself, as long as he phoned it in on time. While the young reporter waited for additional details, the detectives and investigators reviewed the puzzling scene before them.
Paula Herring had been found lying facedown on the floor, legs spread, with one foot hooked around the front leg of the television set. And though her arms were close to her sides, her hands were in an awkward, palms-up position, as if someone had just removed her coat. Paula's medium-length blond hair, splattered with blood, obscured most of her face. In addition to the white cotton blouse she'd been wearing, Paula had on a gray wraparound skirt, penny loafers, and dark, knee-length socks.
Just before midnight, the Metro Nashville coroner, Dr. W. J. Core, arrived at the crime scene to fulfill his obligations to the city and to the Herring family. As the detectives and investigators gathered around the elderly medical examiner, Core, a short, rotund man, provided confirmation of their initial assessment: Paula Herring had taken a brutal beating, been choked and strangled with bare hands, and, when that didn't finish her off, two gunshots in the back, apparently fired execution-style from a .32-caliber automatic, had done the deed.5
As Dr. Core carefully examined the body, he added that the victim also had been shot once in the upper left chest. And though initially it appeared no sexual assault had taken place, Core noted that he couldn't be completely certain of that fact until further examination took place at the morgue. As for time of death, the doctor could offer only an estimate, but based on the body's rigor mortis and the clotting of blood, he placed it near 10:30 p.m., in part because the hands of the shattered wristwatch Paula was wearing had stopped at 10:32 p.m. That the victim's younger brother had unknowingly slept through the tragedy was mind-boggling to everyone in the room.
A few moments before Paula Herring's body was removed from the home on Timberhill Drive, police allowed the Nashville Tennessean's young journalist to make his way into the den and phone in his story, a story that sent the community into a panic on Sunday morning.
A few days before Paula Herring came home to Nashville from the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, a winter storm developed in the southeastern United States. The storm moved northeast through the Smoky Mountains and dropped feet, not inches, of snow from East Tennessee and North Carolina on up the eastern seaboard into Virginia and New England.1 In many areas, power lines were down, roads were closed, and citizens were nervous. But not Paula Herring; she loved it.
A Murder in Music City Page 1
