A Murder in Music City

by Michael Bishop

  “Hi, how can we help you? Do you have an appointment?”

  “Oh, no, ma'am, actually I'm just dropping by to meet Mr. Shepherd. I wasn't sure if this was the law office of the Jerome Shepherd that might have attended Vanderbilt University back in the sixties?”

  “Yes, that's him. He should be back any minute now. He went to grab a sandwich. How do you two know each other?”

  I smiled and chuckled at her question as I stood in the middle of the waiting room.

  “Well, this will sound a little odd, but maybe not so much given that this is a law office. I want to ask him about an event that took place back in February 1964 when he was a student at Vanderbilt University.”

  The paralegal dropped her paperwork and looked directly at me. “He won't stop talking about it. I bet I've heard that story a dozen times since I started working here.”

  My mouth must have been open down to my knees, but I was able to squeak out a few words: “Are you talking about him being arrested on a Saturday night in Nashville?”

  “That's the story! I'm not kidding; I've heard it at least a dozen times right here in this office.”

  As her words echoed in my ears, out of the corner of my eye I saw movement on the front lawn, and I turned to see a well-dressed man making his way up the front steps, carrying a sandwich bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

  “There he is. He can tell you all about it.”

  I smiled at the man entering the front door of the Craftsman home. Shepherd was wearing a white starched shirt with loosened tie and gray suit slacks. His frame was medium build, just under six feet tall, and he had wire-rimmed glasses and thinning, gray hair. He offered a friendly “Hey, how are you?” upon opening the door, and raised both hands to announce, “Lunch.” I laughed and had an immediate good vibe. Jerome's receptionist did the introductions and then spilled the beans. “Mr. Bishop is from Nashville, and he wants to hear you tell that Vanderbilt story about the night you were arrested in Nashville in the 1960s.”

  Shepherd looked at me and smiled a puzzled smile. “Is that right? Do we know each other?”3

  I laughed. “She's right. I did drop by just to hear about that night. But there's more that I should add about my motivation. I'm, uh, how shall I say this? I'm researching an old murder case that took place on a Saturday night in Nashville, Tennessee. It was on the very weekend that you were arrested, February 22, 1964.”

  Jerome looked at his paralegal.

  “Do I have any appointments this afternoon?”

  “Not a one. You've got a clean slate until your dinner meeting,” she replied.

  At this news, the lawyer waved me toward an adjoining room. “This should be the most interesting meeting I've had in a long time.”

  “I wouldn't argue with that,” I replied.

  As he sat down at his desk and further loosened his tie, I took a seat opposite him and settled in for what I hoped would be an enlightening conversation.

  “You want something to drink or perhaps part of this wonderful fast food lunch?”

  “Oh, thank you, no, I ate earlier.”

  As he took a long sip of his drink, he pulled a sandwich from the paper sack. “So, I take it you're a private investigator working for a family member perhaps?”

  “That would be an obvious guess, and a good one as well, but no, I'm actually a private citizen living in Nashville, who stumbled upon some information in a file that makes me think the babysitter murder case may have ended in a wrongful conviction. I'm not certain, but I'm leaning that way.”

  “So, you're a lawyer?”

  “Maybe I should have been, but, no, I'm just a salesman, as they say. I work in the technology and healthcare sector.” What I didn't offer was that my interviewing skills, thanks to the Paula Herring project, were beginning to improve, a definite side benefit to my sales career when meeting with strangers, prospects, and clients. It allowed me to quickly read body language, watch for microexpressions that might indicate deception, and analyze any words coming my way as if I were reading them off of a teletype machine. But I kept these new skills close and never let on the amount of analysis taking place behind the pleasant smile and calm facial expression that I was transmitting to the person on the other side of the desk.

  After taking the next few minutes to walk through the background of how I had happened to find my way into a law office in East Tennessee on this day, Jerome released a long, low whistle.

  “You know, not many people do what you're doing.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, let me tell you about that Saturday night, and then we'll see how this compares with what you know; does that work for you?”

  “Certainly.”

  About to take another bite of his sandwich, he paused. “Oh, wait a minute. Are you here because you're looking at me as a suspect in the murder?”

  “No, no, I'm sorry I didn't make that clear up front,” I said.

  He laughed and said, “Well, that's a relief. Don't take this the wrong way, but should I be?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said with a smile, and as I settled back to take notes, Jerome Shepherd began telling his story.

  “We were Dekes, Delta Kappa Epsilon fraternity. Fairly prestigious, and just so you know, more United States Presidents have been Dekes than any other fraternity. Even Dan Quayle was a Deke.”

  “Impressive.”

  “On that Saturday night, we'd had a party out on Davidson Road at a log house we called ‘on the rocks.’ Lots of pledges, students, even some Danish Airmen were there that night. I have no idea who brought them. And my friend John Wilkes is driving a turbo-charged Corvair back into town, early Sunday morning, down West End Avenue, and I'm in the car with him. Wilkes had to go into town because he was the pledge trainer, and the pledges had to clean up the fraternity house that morning.”

  “What time of day was this?”

  “Sunday morning, very early, like daybreak Sunday morning. So we're riding down West End, and we're almost back to Vanderbilt when I decide it would be a great time to fire a few rounds from the pistol I had bought from a pawnshop in Nashville. So I rolled down the car window, and fired three shots.”

  “And then what happened?” I asked.

  “Neither one of us realized that there was a cop car right behind us, about to pull us over for speeding. My firing the gun made the cops think I was shooting at them.”

  “Um, bad move, right?”

  “Yeah, they encapsulated us. They pulled us over, two cops with guns drawn. They made us get out of the car and made me reach back into the car to retrieve the gun I had fired. They held a gun to Wilkes head to ensure I complied with their request. I did exactly as told, all in slow motion, I remember that.”

  “You were arrested, I take it?”

  “Yes, we were taken in a paddy wagon to jail. Wilkes got out later in the day on that Sunday. The school head of security came and bonded him out.”

  “What about you?”

  “The security guy said he was authorized to get only one of us out of jail, and it wasn't me, so I stayed for three days before getting out late on Tuesday. I had already had some run-ins with the Vanderbilt administration, and the arrest was just icing on the cake. My dad told the cops to just keep me there for a few days. He wouldn't bond me out. So after I did get out, school officials immediately told me I could withdraw from school or they would withdraw me.”

  “You finished undergrad and law school elsewhere?”

  “Correct.”

  “And Wilkes, what happened to him?”

  “I took the heat and saved Wilkes, because I knew my Vanderbilt career was over. He finished undergrad at Vanderbilt and then law school. John Burwell Wilkes was a big deal. He was the first night court judge in Nashville, and before that he clerked for Charles Galbreath and eventually built a career as an airline executive.”

  “No kidding,” I replied. “So I forgot to ask, the gun you had was a .32-caliber pistol?”
/>
  “Yes.”

  “Beretta?”

  “No, I only wanted a gun made in the USA, nothing foreign. I believe it was a Remington.”

  “Did you realize that the cops were possibly looking at you and Wilkes as suspects in the babysitter's murder?”

  “Yes. I remember on the way to jail in the paddy wagon, the driver was saying that the cops were looking for kids, that some students had murdered a girl out in Crieve Hall.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I asked.

  “I'm sure, yes. And that would have been a big, big stink if Vanderbilt students had murdered a University of Tennessee coed. That would have started a war. You get the picture?”

  One of the comments I noted during my dinner with Paula Herring's friend and next-door neighbor was about Jo Herring being a bridge player. It was this card-playing proclivity that spurred me to track down her bridge group for any insider information she might have shared with the players.

  I had the name of a woman who had lived around the corner from the Herrings in 1964 and appeared to still reside at the same address on Briarwood Drive. Much to my surprise, even though she was almost eighty, she was in good health and more than willing to meet with me to discuss her former neighbors.

  The house was yet another red-brick, ranch-style home with windows trimmed in white paint and dark shutters. The neat yard, tidy landscaping, and sloping front lawn reminded me of the house on Timberhill Drive.

  I soon found myself seated in the front living room on an ancient couch, accepting a glass of iced tea from a charming and impeccably dressed woman with gray-white hair, wire-framed glasses, and a warm smile.

  After explaining my research regarding the strange and tragic events of 1964, she began to offer responses in a voice hinting of a Boston background, delivered at a pace just a half step slower than typical.

  It didn't take me long to appreciate the clear diction and professorial style. We hit it off immediately.

  In a room surrounded by family photographs, I began slowly easing into the topics I wanted to cover by asking the general state of the neighborhood at the time of Paula's death, carefully avoiding words that might be deemed as insensitive.

  “Miss Hattie, I heard that the neighborhood was like an armed camp around the time of Paula's tragedy. Is that how you remember it?”

  “Yes. You couldn't go to the door. And you thought that there was a deranged killer at large. And when you did look outside you'd see the police dressed in those dark uniforms, looking like black penguins searching all the ditches after Paula's murder. It was a shock to all of us.”1

  “And Paula's mother?”

  “I knew the mother was alcoholic, but I didn't know she was entertaining men. It wasn't something she ever mentioned. She called me early that Sunday morning. She wanted me to come down to her house.”

  “Really? About what time was that do you think?” I inquired.

  “Oh, just at daybreak. So I got dressed and walked around the corner to her house. It was a short walk to their house.”

  “She needed your help?” I asked.

  “She just needed me to be a little bit of comfort to her; then I came home and a little later the police came by and asked me what I knew. And did I know Paula was coming home that weekend. I didn't know she was here until after I heard that she had been killed.”

  “Very interesting; so you get the call at daybreak, you spend a few hours at Jo Herring's, come back home, and, shortly after, the detectives knock on your door and want to know what you may have heard or seen at Jo Herring's house?” I asked.

  “That's right. Jo had asked me a few weeks earlier to ride with her to Knoxville to see Paula, but I refused, because the weather was bad and Jo was alcoholic.”

  “How did you get to know Jo Herring?” I inquired.

  “Jo and I, well, we used to sit out in the sun together and played bridge together. But I was married with a family, and what went on in the evenings other than the bridge I didn't know. I felt so sorry for her. I really did. It was awful.”

  I was taking notes as we talked, and at the mention of bridge I needed to confirm the few details I knew about the game.

  “I never played bridge, but I'm thinking this is the card game played by foursomes, where two players partner up against the other two players, right?”

  “That's right. We played a lot of bridge in those days.”

  “So you got to know Jo, Paula, and Alan after they moved into Crieve Hall?”

  “Yes, but I never knew Jo's husband before he died.”

  I shook my head as I noted that it was one tragedy after another for the Herring family. “First the dad, then the daughter found dead.”

  “Well she made the remark to me that it was all her fault. Both her husband's death and Paula's,” she said.

  As I heard these words, I stopped making notes and looked directly at my hostess.

  She continued. “That's right. I don't know what she meant by that. I just assumed she meant her drinking problems had created all of this drama.”

  “Did you play bridge with other friends who may be living today?” I asked.

  “Well, yes, there was a nurse friend also who played. She was Jo's close friend who lived on Battery Lane. I went over there with Jo to play bridge many times.”

  “Do you remember a name?”

  “I think her name was Amanda. She was much younger, and she had been a nursing student at Vanderbilt. That's when she got to know Jo Herring.”

  “I would love to find her,” I responded.

  “You should try. Amanda was Jo's really close friend, who was with her when they discovered Wilmer Herring's body at the Noel Hotel.”

  My heart was pounding at this news, and it must have shown on my face.

  “Jo Herring was the person who first discovered her husband dead at the Noel Hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she had a nursing student, this Amanda person, with her at the time?”

  “That's right.”

  I wanted to believe this nugget of new information, though it just didn't sound right to me, so I continued with a few additional questions.

  “So, when it came to Paula's murder?” I asked.

  “Well, it was so publicized. It was horrible, and it was all over the news, all the time. It rocked the town. We weren't used to that sort of thing in a suburban neighborhood; it was such a shock.”

  “I understand that Jo Herring moved away from Nashville some months after Paula was killed?”

  “Yes, at my urging. You see, she would go ‘dry out’ every once in a while. And in one of those drying out periods, I said ‘Jo you need to go where family can help you. You've got to go back to Texas.’ The situation here was really awful, and I didn't want to sit by and watch it.”

  At this point, Miss Hattie noticed my empty tea glass and exited the living room to replenish my drink. Moments later, she was back and continued the story.

  “Jo told me her trauma had really affected her, and she went to work for an allergist after she left Vanderbilt. I know the allergist took a chance on her.”

  “I would think so. Did you hear that Jo Herring was released by Vanderbilt University Hospital after Paula was killed? I mean that they fired her?” I asked.

  “No, I didn't know that. I know it wasn't long after she left here, or so it seemed to me, that I didn't get Christmas cards anymore. So I suspected she had died.”

  “Yes, sometime around 1976 in Texas as I understand it.”2

  “It was a sad, sad story.”

  The chance that I could find a woman named Amanda based on a decades-old remembrance was, in my opinion, simply ridiculous. There was little to go on except a first name, and even that was questionable, since it was based on Miss Hattie's aging memory. I might as well have been asking people to help me track down a dog that had crossed a Nashville street corner on a Saturday afternoon in September 1960. As I pondered this dilemma, I remembered that I had at least one solid
fact. Amanda had been a nursing school student at Vanderbilt and had a connection to Jo Herring as an instructor at some point prior to 1960. I could guess a range of age and perhaps correlate it with Vanderbilt Nursing students in the 1950s.

  After a couple of weeks of challenging research at more than one Vanderbilt University Library, along with cross-referencing Tennessee death records, the field eventually narrowed to a woman named Amanda from Savannah, Tennessee. Amanda had been a nursing school student in the 1950s, an attractive young woman with brunette hair and a winning smile. I parlayed this information into Amanda's current address and phone number, some fifty years after she had graduated from nursing school.

  Two days later, after a couple of rings, a woman with a youthful sounding voice answered the telephone. My introduction was the standard one I had used successfully in dozens of calls: “Hello, I'm calling about an event that took place forty years ago that involved you.”

  After the initial stunned silence, followed by my expanded explanation, the woman on the phone volleyed a couple of questions at me:

  “Why? How did you find me?”3

  After going into detail on how she had been found after so many decades, I said, “Well, I've been doing some research into the Paula Herring story. It was the first big homicide case in Metro Nashville history, in part because it was so tragic, and in part because the whole community was in an uproar over the perceived lack of police protection in the suburbs. But I'm primarily interested in the death of Paula's father at the Noel Hotel in Nashville, around September 1960,” I said.4

  “Why is that important now? Don't you accept the police report?”

  “There wasn't one,” I replied.

  “How in the world could there not be?”

  “Part of the reason I'm calling is to see what light you can shed on this. There are no records anywhere—none,” I said.

  “How can that be? They knew I was there at the Noel Hotel with Jo.”

  I gulped hard at this response, given that it appeared to confirm Hattie's remark about Amanda having gone with Jo to find Wilmer's body at the hotel.