“He was the mother's boyfriend, right?” she inquired.
“Apparently, yes,” I said.
“And his wife was a teacher, I think?” she asked.
“Yes, she was. Callie Clarke taught in Metro, and by all accounts was a very good teacher.”4
“I heard she gave up her life savings to pay for her husband's defense, to help him.”
“Yes, ma'am, I understand that to be true also. And I'm told she visited the prison every week. She believed her husband to be innocent of the charges,” I said.
“Well, Paula was all muscle. She must have had a real struggle with the man that did it. She would've put up a big fight. It was on my mind for years.”
“You may have had one of the last conversations with Paula,” I said sadly.
The phone call came in early on a Friday morning. And it came from a woman who was traveling through Nashville later that day, a woman I had previously assumed I would never find, Carmen Lee. In the years since I had been to Clarksdale, Mississippi, I had done the only thing I knew to do. I repeatedly dialed a number that no one ever answered. About every tenth call a voice messaging system would pick up, but it only asked the caller to leave a message and never confirmed where I was calling. My only hope was that whoever owned the phone would eventually get tired of my messages and actually return my call. And she did.
Part of the reason I was never going to give up my search for Carmen Lee was found in an inscription from Paula Herring's high school yearbook, an inscription Paula's brother, Alan, had graciously provided to me after I sent him the trial transcript. I frequently quoted from this note whenever I left a message for Carmen via the phone number I had received in Clarksdale, Mississippi:
Dear Paula,
What can I say? You are absolutely great!!! I can't begin to tell or even start to write what your friendship has meant to me. I can't express it in words. I hope we will always be close and closer than we are now. Basketball was great. I don't think I'll ever get as much pleasure from the sport again. We've had some hilarious times together that will never be duplicated. I can't imagine you graduating this year—but next year will be mine!! Maybe we'll go to college together!!
I hope I've meant something along your road of life and now that the road is ending in high school I hope the one in college will be just as successful! I am sure it will.
You know I'll never forget every time you, Mrs. Ellis, and I went everywhere and really had a time. I wish you all the luck in the world and I'm very serious. If there's ever anything you want me to do—let me know—I'll be there.
As ever,
Carmen5
Instead of the in-person meeting that I longed for, due to a delayed flight and a short layover, Carmen and I spoke by phone. What she had to say about her friend Paula Herring, though, turned out to be worth the multi-year wait.
“I've probably thought about Paula Herring nearly every day for years. She was my best friend in high school. So how can I help you now?” she asked.6
“I'm curious why so long to respond?”
“I've moved quite a lot with my work, and your note was eventually forwarded to me long after you sent it.”
“The weekend that Paula was murdered, you were in Nashville, still attending Overton High School, your senior year, would that be about right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you know Paula was at home that weekend?” I inquired.
“Did I know? She came to our house for breakfast on Saturday morning!” she said.
I looked toward the ceiling and grabbed for my chin, thinking that the breakfast memory was probably a mistake, just a confusion with many such Saturday morning events while the two were in high school together. “I never heard that she visited anyone that weekend,” I countered.
“She came to our house on that Saturday morning, the happiest I had ever seen her,” she replied.
“Was she by herself or with her little brother?” I asked.
“No. She was alone. We were literally still eating breakfast when she knocked on the door. She stayed for about an hour. My parents always enjoyed her company, and it was fun to catch up.”
“Would Paula have walked to your house for breakfast?”
“No, she drove their family car,” she said.
With this news, I recognized another perjury dilemma. During the questioning of witnesses in the criminal trial, Jo Herring had been certain to mention that she had worked first shift at Vanderbilt Hospital on Saturday, February 22, 1964. And first shift at Vanderbilt meant starting at 7:00 a.m. and ending around 3:00 p.m. So how could Paula Herring have had the family car on Saturday morning at the Lees’? Jo Herring would have driven the car to work, or at least she testified that she had.
While I was in mid-thought, Carmen offered another gem.
“It was February and plenty cold, I remember that. We were making plans for that night.”
“What plans?”
“She was coming to the basketball tournament that night in Madison. We were in the tournament, playing against Donelson High. And then I was going to ride home with Paula after the game to spend the night with her,” she said.
“You were going to spend Saturday night at Paula Herring's house?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I could only imagine the tone of incredulity in my voice as I continued. “I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood. We're talking about the night Paula was killed? Did you in fact go to her house after the basketball game?”
“No, when she didn't show up at the game, I just assumed she'd found something else to do, and the game was over late, so I went home, went to bed, and the next morning my parents woke me up to tell me the news,” she said.
“Oh, I'm so sorry. That must have been some kind of shock,” I said.
“It. Creeped. Me. Out. I was scared out of my mind after her murder. For the rest of the school year, I slept in my parents’ bedroom. I was seventeen years old; it was awful.”
“I can only imagine the shock if you had gone on over to Paula's after the game. I guess it goes without saying that the two of you were close friends?”
“I was probably her best friend. The plan was that when I graduated in May of 1964, we were both going to be at the University of Tennessee at the same time.”
“Let me guess, after Paula's death you went to school elsewhere?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
“How well did you know Paula's mother?”
“Looking back on it, it was kind of funny. I didn't know much about her mother, her lifestyle. I knew her, obviously, but I also didn't know the scoop on Paula's dad until later, after Paula had died,” she said.
“Apparently, not many knew about Paula's dad, either. Paula told her college friends that her dad had been killed in a car accident. Carmen, did the police ever question you about your plans for that Saturday night with Paula?”
“No, the police never questioned me about anything, the plans, nothing.”
“How about your parents? Did they get a visit? Were they questioned?” I asked.
“No, never.”
“Anything else you can remember?” I asked.
“Well, I remember Paula was crazy about her little brother, and I adored him as well. He was a cute little boy. But there is one thing I should probably mention,” she said.
“Sure, please do.”
“Paula's mother called me to come over to her house. It was a few days after Paula had been killed, maybe that same week, I think. And Paula's mom obviously knew about our plans for that Saturday night,” she said.
“Well, just so you know, Paula's mother kept your visit quiet. She never told the police about the plans you and Paula had made. And she clearly wanted to see you in person to learn what you knew about Paula's state of mind the last hours of her life,” I said softly.
“Paula's mom asked me a lot of questions. And I hadn't been there too long when she asked me if I wanted something to drink. I was sitting a
t their kitchen table, and I could see that she already had a glass of lemonade or something made up, but I could only see one glass on the counter.”
“Uh-oh,” I replied.
“Yeah, I just had a gut feeling. And I started getting scared, and I said, ‘No, thank you.’ I practically ran out of that house. When I got home, I told my parents that there was something wrong with her. I was scared of Paula's mom after that kitchen episode,” she said.
“So what happened after that?” I asked.
“I never went back to that house again, ever.”
On a day when my mind was still puzzling over Jesse Henderson's comments to me, I wondered if “Lizzie” was actually named Elizabeth and “Lizzie” was her nickname. It was a short trek, mentally speaking, to the first time I had stumbled upon a courthouse citation in North Alabama where a man named Jesse Henderson had been a witness at a wedding where the bride was named Elizabeth Smith. At the time, I had copied down the particulars of the event but had lost my notes and never revisited the topic.
But now my gut was screaming to me that the bride just might be the Lizzie my research had uncovered, Gina's mother and Jesse's former girlfriend. And the guy she married could be Mr. BlueSky. Was it possible?
I quickly made the trek back to North Alabama, copied down the details again, and raced back to Nashville to spend a day tracking the groom through the old city directory at the downtown library. But this time, instead of moving forward from the date of the wedding, I went in reverse year after year after year. I discovered that the groom, Carl Raylee, had been a lifelong resident of Nashville until the end of 1964, when he and his bride had vanished. This time I noticed that their Alabama wedding date had been mere days after John Clarke's conviction in Jackson, Tennessee.
After my library work confirmed the last street address available for Raylee, the next morning I was standing on the front porch of an abandoned house situated within walking distance of Vanderbilt University and West End Avenue. Using my laptop computer and cell phone, it took less than an hour to find the owner of the property, who confirmed that a man named Carl Raylee had rented the house from her for years but had finally moved to an assisted living facility somewhere in the area. She was very fond of her friend Carl, and she remembered that he had a brother in Charleston, South Carolina.
The third attempt was the right one. “Hello, I'm calling from Nashville, Tennessee. I haven't spoken with you before, but I'm hoping you can help me find an older gentleman named Carl Raylee.” I quickly added, “Mr. Raylee's former landlady told me that he has a brother living in South Carolina, and that's why I'm calling this number.”
“I believe I can help you. Why are you looking for Carl? He's my older brother.”1
“It's an honor to speak with you, sir. I'm a good bit younger than Mr. Carl, but he and I are mutual friends with a World War II veteran here in the Nashville area named Jesse Henderson, and unfortunately Mr. Henderson just passed away. I was trying to contact Mr. Raylee to let him know that one of his old buddies had passed, and I'm not sure how to do that, though I'm certain he would want to know about his friend.”
“Well, I just spoke with him yesterday afternoon. You said you live in Nashville?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” I was holding my breath at this point, hoping for a location that would be an easy drive, and I got my wish.
“He lives close to Nashville in one of those assisted living places. You ever heard of Spring Hill, Tennessee?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. It's a little town about thirty miles south of the city. I know it well. Would it be okay to visit with your brother and pass along the news about Mr. Henderson?” I inquired.
“Certainly so,” he said.
“Mr. Raylee's health pretty good these days?” I asked.
“Oh, you know, he complains about minor aches and pains and such, but his mind is good,” he said.
“That's excellent. I will certainly tell him I spoke with you, of course. Any chance you'd have the name or address of the facility where he's living?” I asked.
While I copied down the name and general area of town, I remembered to ask a couple of questions that had haunted me for a long time. “I assume Mr. Raylee is retired, but what kind of work did he do back in, say, the 1960s era?”
“Oh, let's see, I know he worked for Vanderbilt Hospital, the university hospital, there in Nashville for many years. I'm not sure about any other work,” he said.
“You don't say, the hospital?” I asked.
“Yes, he was a buyer, a purchasing agent for the hospital for several years. Oh, let's see now, that was in the 1950s and 1960s. He used to tell me he bought all manner of things. Some days it was medicines and hospital supplies, some days he'd buy live animals for their laboratory research.”
“Was he a married man?” I asked.
“He did marry late in life, but oddly enough I never met the bride. I don't think it worked out, sad to say.”
“Well, I do appreciate your time, and I'll let him know that we spoke, and I thank you, again.”
“Tell him his family said hello.”
“Yes, sir. I certainly will,” I replied.
A quick drive to the little hamlet of Spring Hill put me in the parking lot of a nursing home just off the main road through town. I had charmed many a receptionist throughout the Paula Herring journey, in part because I was usually dressed like a state inspector carrying a leather portfolio, or else I carried nothing and looked like a family member or friend checking in on a patient.
Either way, I was always warm and friendly when asking for the room of the person I wanted to interview. And without prompting I would also offer a single reason for my visit, which was always the same honest statement: “I'm hoping to visit with Mr. or Ms. John Doe so they can help me with some old Nashville history.” I always made certain to enunciate “old”—as in, interesting but harmless. I usually failed to mention that the old Nashville history I was interested in included one of the biggest murder cases of the last half century in Tennessee.
After walking through the glass door security system, I could see that it was set up to allow entry, but anyone trying to exit the building had to have electronic assistance from the front desk.
After multiple visits to nursing homes, I also had learned that, as a general rule, late morning was the time when the residents were most awake and lucid. They'd had some breakfast, their medication, a cup of coffee to get their nervous system cranked up a bit, and perhaps a bath, and they were usually out of bed and dressed for the day. So I usually arrived around 10:30 a.m. and hoped for the best.
After signing in with the front desk clerk, I asked how to find Mr. Carl Raylee, and they sent me on a winding tour of the facility toward a long hallway on the south wing, filled with multiple staff members and more than one housekeeping cart.
Stopping outside the last doorway, I saw two names listed; one of them was Carl Raylee. I peeked inside and saw two residents, both elderly men, both sitting in wheelchairs. But which one was my mystery man? While I paused to think about it, a female staff member dressed in a white nurse's uniform stepped around me and asked if she could help me with anything.
“Yes, ma'am, I'm here to visit with Mr. Raylee,” I said.
“Sure, I'm going to take Mr. Kennedy here to the atrium for some fresh air, and you and Mr. Carl can visit all you want,” she said.
“You're so kind,” I heard myself say, and then I watched to see which one of the two men she chose.
She chose the man closest to the door, a wiry, little gentleman with thick, black glasses and a full head of hair, who appeared to be half asleep but with an active leg shake. The other man didn't seem to be too interested in my appearance in the doorway. He was the much larger of the two residents. Dressed in dark blue warm-up pants and comfortably seated in a large wheelchair, one foot was wrapped in a compression bandage, while the other was in a large running shoe, the type with Velcro for straps instead of shoelaces. He also wore
a faded, gray t-shirt.
As the staff member moved Mr. Kennedy from around the bed through the doorway, I tried to get a better assessment of my interviewee. Even as an octogenarian, this was a large man. He had a thick chest and large shoulders, but he wasn't overweight. He had big hands, a bull neck, and a very short haircut, less than a half inch of gray hair all over his head, balding a little at his temples. He was not wearing glasses. If he was standing, I estimated he would be over six feet tall.
In his comfortable attire, Carl Raylee looked like an old boxer, a man who had just spent the previous hour punching a heavy bag in the gym and then retiring to his room while he cooled off and waited for his glass of six raw eggs.
“Good morning, Mr. Raylee. How are you feeling today?” I asked. I had heard my brother-in-law, a minister and nursing home executive, use this same greeting with the elderly, and they seemed to enjoy the opportunity to describe their physical state to anyone taking the time to ask.2
“Good morning,” he replied. “I'm alright, I reckon.”3
His speech was clear but gruff. He looked up at me with his head cocked at an angle and one eye half closed, as he sized up the stranger before him. I decided to make it easier for our discussion and grabbed a chair, positioning it in front and to the side of his wheelchair.
“We haven't met before. My name is Michael Bishop.”
I offered a handshake, in part to gauge his strength, and he offered a huge right paw in return, a strong one.
“Good to meet you.”
“I spoke with your brother in South Carolina earlier today, and he said to tell you hello,” I offered.
“That right?” A lift of the chin, and a nice smile drifted across his face like a passing cloud.
“Yes, sir, I did.” I thought it might be useful to move the conversation back to the 1960s era, so I added, “Your brother said you grew up in Nashville.”
“Yes, we lived out on Central Pike, in a big old house.”
“That was a long time ago, wasn't it?” I said.
“Sure was.”
“You lived by yourself?”
A Murder in Music City Page 23
