A Murder in Music City

by Michael Bishop

  More than that, why would a girl staying home to write a book report, curled up on a couch in the den, be dressed up in a new outfit and new penny loafers? Wouldn't she have been in pajamas or some warm and comfortable clothing more suitable for a long study session?

  But if the actual plan had been to encourage her mother to go out to dinner, put her little brother to bed, and then await a young man who would arrive after Paula was “alone” at home, then the outfit she wore would have been exactly as expected. If things had gone terribly wrong between the young man and Paula while they were in the den, the assailant could have left the premises just before Jo Herring arrived and without being seen by Paula's little brother. If the young man had parked his car at the Crieve Hall Church of Christ on Trousdale Drive, the street to the west of Timberhill, and walked directly to the Herring home through a couple of yards, he also might have escaped notice by the neighbors. It was a troubling thought.

  When Kay Masterson, one of Paula Herring's dorm mates at the University of Tennessee, had sent me a copy of a 1964 true detective–styled magazine, it was my first look at one of the most popular publications of the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s.1 What I might initially have described as a disturbing and morbid genre turned out to have been enormously popular with the public, to the tune of a couple of million subscribers per month during its heyday. But with the advent of competing pulp fiction paperbacks, such as the ones John Randolph Clarke read, the detective magazine genre began taking a nosedive in popularity and eventually ceased publication by the mid-1990s.2

  The photographs inside the magazines were so graphic that multiple psychiatrists and forensic psychologists had determined that a high percentage of the perpetrators of sexual crimes comprised the main readership of such magazines. It was not a comforting thought. To put it simply, the detective magazine genre had been used as a type of sadistic pornography, but, with the advent of the Internet, the World Wide Web effectively replaced the magazine delivery model and ultimately provided a different source of even more graphic material for some of its disturbed readers.3

  Unfortunately, I now had a need to discover what had been written in the genre about the Paula Herring murder case. After an extended search, I stumbled upon a source of archived detective magazines from the 1950s and 1960s, from a company known as Patterson Smith. I phoned the company, based in New Jersey, and explained that I needed to supplement my research into a 1964 murder case with any magazines that might have covered the crime in the same timeline. When asked about key words for indexing the search, I offered up a short list of names to use for cross-reference: Paula Herring, Jo Herring, John Randolph Clarke, and Red Clarke.

  The Patterson Smith contact softened my view of the genre by noting that, in many cases, the old magazines had provided clues and comfort to family members researching past tragedies or themselves exploring cold murder cases. Two weeks later, the Patterson Smith representative let me know that they had found multiple sources of coverage of the Paula Herring slaying, and, for a reasonable fee, I could receive a handful of the original magazines in my mailbox. I didn't hesitate to place an order.

  Three days later, I received the publications, each individually wrapped in plastic to protect pages that were now almost four decades old and yellowing. The magazines ran sixty-five to seventy-five pages each. Their dimensions were the size of any modern-day magazine, and when initially circulated ranged in price from twenty-five to thirty-five cents, published by companies based in New York, New Jersey, and Chicago. I noted that a three-year subscription could be had for the tidy sum of $11.00 for most of the publications.

  Inside every magazine, the nostalgic advertisements of yesteryear were splashed from front to back. In 1964, one could become a fingerprint expert or detective simply by training at home via correspondence course; or one could study law in their spare time while earning a degree from a correspondence institution located in Chicago. Rupture relief for men and the shrinking of hemorrhoids also appeared to be recurring themes throughout the periodicals. Or one could learn electric appliance repair, and earn five to six dollars per hour with this new skillset.

  Every magazine front cover was produced in full color, but the interior pages and photographs were in simple black and white. The editors appeared to know their readership, as each issue showed an attractive woman in some pose of intrigue or distress on the front cover.

  The cover of one magazine revealed a young, blond woman in a low-cut black dress, holding a lever-action rifle while investigating a strange bump in the night. Another showed an attractive redhead lying in a small wooden boat, with a rope and anchor tied around her neck. Yet another magazine had a photo of a sleeping blond woman with perfect hair and red lipstick, being approached by a Danny Kaye–lookalike, who was dressed in a gray trench coat and holding a bottle of what must have been chloroform in one hand and a handkerchief in the other.

  Upon closer inspection, almost every magazine carried the story of Paula Herring on its front cover, perhaps knowing that the slaying of a pretty college coed would increase sales of the publication. It would be a few weeks before I would learn that newspaper reporters, especially those working the police beat, were the ones who usually leveraged their police insider contacts to write stories for the magazines, often under fictitious names. In the economy of the 1940s and 1950s, the “penny a word” articles were a source of extra income for reporters and their alter-egos.

  In August of 2002, when I first heard that Jim Squires was coming back to Nashville, I panicked. Not so much because I was in awe of the former Nashvillian—which I was—but mostly because I was afraid that my work schedule would prevent me from meeting Squires while he was in town, which in turn would prevent me from interviewing the famous author about the night of Paula Herring's murder.

  In the ensuing span of almost forty years since Squires had penned his first story on Paula Herring's murder, he had gone from working for John Seigenthaler Sr., who himself would later become founding editorial director of USA Today, to overseeing his own Pulitzer Prize–winning staff as editor of the Chicago Tribune. After that, he had served as Ross Perot's first presidential campaign spokesman, then settled into a life of breeding Kentucky race horses and writing books of literary merit and critical acclaim.

  The reason for Squires's most recent return to Music City was to promote his book about breeding the 2001 Kentucky Derby winner, a spectacular stallion named Monarchos, a horse who had turned in the second fastest time in Derby history, second only to Secretariat himself.1

  By the time Saturday arrived, it already had been a long, hot, and busy week for the celebrated journalist. He had taped an interview with John Seigenthaler Sr. for the local public television affiliate, then a stint on one of the morning talk-radio programs, followed by a midweek autograph party at a swanky book retailer, and ending with an appearance slated for BookManBookWoman, a city favorite for used books, located near Vanderbilt University. My plan to meet Squires hinged on both of us arriving early at this last event, hopefully allowing me a few uninterrupted moments to discuss the Paula Herring story with him before the autograph seekers descended.

  I made it to BookManBookWoman just before noon, as I had hoped. And Squires had unwittingly contributed to my plan as well, having arrived early for his own event. From inside my car's vantage point, parked along the street in front of the aging red-brick building, the fifty-nine-year-old Squires looked almost regal as he sat at a writing table inside the store's front window. With a full head of more-white-than-silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses resting atop his nose, Squires appeared to be thoughtfully inspecting each of the dozen or so newly minted books stacked before him, awaiting the first of his many fans and well-wishers.

  The entry bell gave a modest ring as I entered the popular bookstore and quickly recognized my greeter as one of the store's owners. When she asked if I needed assistance, I introduced myself and replied that I wanted to meet the famous author. She didn't seem to notice the manil
a folder that I was carrying at my side as I made the request.

  The owner escorted me past rows of bookshelves and up two steps into an adjoining room, where Squires was waiting for his guests on an elevated section of the floor next to the front window. There, in ceremonial fashion, she made the introduction before returning to her sentry post:

  “Mr. Squires, I'd like you to meet Michael Bishop.”

  As Squires stood and extended his hand, I offered not only a compliment but a truth that I was sure would please him:

  “Mr. Squires, I've already read Horse of a Different Color, and I must tell you that I loved your call of the Derby. It was just like being there, only better.” Squires responded with a genuine smile, offered a polite thank you, and made a sweeping motion for me to take a seat across from him at the writing table.

  Up close, I decided that Squires indeed looked more like the horseman whom he had become rather than the journalist and author whom he had been for most of his working life. And from my close proximity the transition seemed to suit him well, as evidenced by the tailored white shirt and stylish leather boots that he wore. Assuming that I was there for an autograph, Squires spoke first:

  “Do you have a copy of my book with you? I'd be happy to sign it for you if you do. Or you can purchase one, of course.”2

  “No, actually I don't,” I responded, “but I do have something you might be interested in seeing.”

  Without another word, I brought the manila folder into view, retrieved a copy of a photograph from it, and placed the large print carefully on the table in front of me. Slowly, I pushed the photograph across the table toward Squires with my fingertips.

  “Do you remember this?” I asked.

  Squires didn't answer immediately. His gaze never left the sobering image of the blond girl lying facedown on the floor in a pool of blood, in what appeared to be a family den, circa 1960s.

  “I sure do. That's that poor little girl—Paula?”

  Before Squires could conjure up the victim's last name, I rescued him.

  “Herring. Paula Herring.”

  “I sat right there on the edge of the sofa next to the victim, trampled all over the crime scene, too. Unfortunately, we did that in those days. In fact, I nearly threw up there in the den, and would have, but I'd had exposure to these kinds of cases before.”

  As he spoke, Squires held the photocopy in both hands, as if attempting to extract additional memories from the print.

  “That was my first big murder case.”

  “I know,” I replied. “February 1964; a long time ago.”

  “Did he ever confess?” Squires inquired.

  “You mean John Randolph Clarke?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, he never did,” I said.

  With the instincts of a good journalist, but still studying the photograph, Squires ventured his next question.

  “Anything unusual come up since then?”

  “Yes, quite a lot, actually,” I said.

  Not unexpectedly, after a few moments of additional conversation we were interrupted by a group of men and women who were determined to meet Jim Squires, an American success story. The leader of the pack, a woman dressed in skin-tight country-western clothing, almost fell into the author's lap, ignoring the fact that he was already in mid-conversation with me. Her mouth ran nonstop with questions about Kentucky bloodlines and famous broodmares.

  As Squires looked up to see who was interrupting our conversation, I retrieved the crime-scene photo from him and returned it to the folder before prying eyes could grasp the subject matter. I quickly said that I would try to find him later, waved goodbye and, a few moments later, left the bookstore.

  JESSE HENDERSON: PHONE CALL

  Jesse: (answers phone) Yeah?1

  Me: How've you been?

  Jesse: Who is this?

  Me: Your new friend, the guy who stopped by to visit with you.

  Jesse: Oh yeah, the cheap detective.

  Me: What did you call me? A cheap detective?

  Jesse: Yeah, you know that old movie with Peter Falk.

  Me: Yeah, well, I guess I am a cheap detective of sorts. Hey, I've got a few things for you. Thought I'd drop them by; a few books and some candy bars.

  Jesse: You don't have to do that. You still looking for those killers?

  Me: Did you say killers?

  Jesse: You're that little boy, aren't you?

  Me: I'm sorry, I'm not following you. Little boy? You think I'm the Herring girl's little brother now grown up and coming back to town looking for answers?

  Jesse: Yeah, that's what you're doing.

  Me: No, no. But what if that were true? I'm not saying it is, I'm just asking if you can help me?

  Jesse: You still think I was involved in all that?

  Me: I'm not sure. I could believe about anything. There's probably some statute of limitations that has run out by now, don't you think?

  Jesse: Not on murder; it don't ever run out.

  CLICK.

  Me: Hello? Hello?

  Approximately ten days later, I made an unscheduled visit to Jesse Henderson's apartment building and waited again for a resident to allow me to enter the brick fortress. When I stepped off the elevator on Jesse's floor, I could see activity in the hallway near his unit. A few steps later, I was peering into the open front door of his apartment, an apartment filled with sunlight and a couple of men with ladders painting the bedroom and the walls in the small living area.

  “Where's Mr. Henderson?” I inquired.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who lives here?” I said.

  “Oh, he moved out. I don't where he's gone. You can check with the office on the first floor.”

  As he said this, he applied a roller full of paint to the wall and continued to talk. “I think they said he'd moved out of state, seemed kind of sudden if you ask me. Most of them move out at the end of a month.”

  A few days after the Jesse Henderson experience, I stopped by to visit Charles Galbreath at his office in downtown Nashville. When I stepped through the doorway of his ninth floor suite, I was surprised to be greeted by Galbreath himself, and amused to find him pecking away at an old boat-anchor typewriter. But then I quickly realized that his legal assistant was probably out to lunch and that Galbreath was fending for himself in her absence. After a brief re-introduction, I asked him again if he really felt like his former client had been innocent of murder.

  “Oh no, he did it. I'm sure of that.”2

  “What? I thought you said you'd bet your house that he was innocent?”

  Galbreath stopped typing and looked up at me with a face full of exasperation.

  “James Earl Ray? He shot Martin Luther King, no doubt about it. Why would you think otherwise?”

  I quickly mirrored his exasperation before responding. “I'm talking about John Randolph Clarke and the Paula Herring murder!”

  “Oh, I thought you were talking about Ray.3 Yes, Clarke was innocent. He didn't shoot that girl.”

  “Well that's a relief, I thought you were about to tell me that James Earl Ray was with John Randolph Clarke on the night of the Herring girl's murder.” As I said this, I recalled the news of Ray's recent death in a Nashville prison in April of 1998, exactly three decades after having murdered King in Memphis, Tennessee. My attempt at gallows humor didn't last long, as I posed an obvious next question to Charles Galbreath:

  “You worked with James Earl Ray?”

  “Yes, I worked on a contingency basis for him while we tried to get his Mustang returned, and I'm just now cleaning up my files.”

  When he said the word Mustang, I remembered that James Earl Ray had left his white 1966 Ford Mustang in Atlanta, Georgia, within hours of King's assassination. Ray had driven the car from Memphis to Atlanta and then abandoned it in an apartment complex parking lot in order to catch a bus to Canada and escape capture in April 1968.4

  I quickly moved on to the Paula Herring case. “Mr. Galbreath, hypothe
tically speaking, is it good news or bad news if I can prove that John Randolph Clarke was truly innocent?” I asked.

  “That's good news, because then we can get a pardon for him,” he said.

  “The governor would pardon him, even if Clarke is dead?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, I think I found someone who may have been a coworker of Sam Carlton's. However, at this point I'm not sure what he knows or how helpful he wants to be,” I replied.

  “You think Carlton and one of his coworkers killed the girl?”

  “I don't know,” I replied.

  “I always thought Sam Carlton knew the girl's mother.”

  “It wouldn't surprise me,” I said. “Jo Herring lived in two places that would have been a short distance to Sam Carlton's house. One was a rental house on Elysian Fields and the other was Timberhill Drive. It wouldn't surprise me at all.”

  “Well, if you end up getting a confession, we can get a pardon for John Clarke.”

  “But there's no gun, no fingerprints, no blood, no DNA evidence, no autopsy report, no police files,” I noted.

  “You don't need the other stuff if you have a witness with corroboration. And when are you going to be finished with your research?”

  “It's still ongoing.”

  After inquiring with his previous landlord, I discovered that Jesse Henderson had exited his apartment on White Bridge Road for a property in the little community of Joelton. You can find Joelton, Tennessee, via an easy twenty-minute car ride northwest of Nashville. It's a pleasant trip through farming country dotted with a few subdivisions.

  Without a specific location to search for Jesse, I was back to the proverbial drawing board in hopes of finding the strange little man who appeared to be living life in a solitary confinement of his own making. And I was dismayed to realize that if Jesse Henderson was residing in an assisted living facility, there would be no electric or water bill account as a way to locate him, and my attempts at finding him by telephone ended in failure. The only option I could think of was to attempt to find every retirement home in the Joelton area, then call each one and ask to speak with Jesse Henderson. It was not an attractive chore, but it was one that I would pursue nonetheless.