A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  I swished the scotch-flavored liquor around the glass and watched the ice cube spin. “Yet things happen.” I took a sip. “That ex-football player still your bouncer?”

  “Farley? He is.”

  “Yeah. Farley Gayton. Does he still make periodic visits outside to check on things?”

  “He does.”

  “This is better cold. I’ll bet it’s good over vanilla ice cream.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, Lord have mercy.”

  “Will you have Farley call me?”

  I guess she got over the idea of her expensive liqueur being used as a desert topping and smiled. “‘Course I will, sugar. You think this Rosanna met her john here, and after that he killed her?”

  “Could be. If I ever find Andy, I’ll ask.”

  Chapter Eight

  When I returned to Prospect PD, I found a beehive of activity. John and Bettye were on the phones, while Lonnie Ray kept finding names for Rosanna’s customers.

  “I have never had to threaten so many people to get them to cooperate,” Bettye said.

  “A little embarrassing when you’re caught on the customer list of a twenty-year-old prostitute.”

  “I listened to John persuade a few people,” she said. “He’s good. After that it was easy.”

  John Gallagher hung up his phone and looked at us. “Did I hear my name mentioned?”

  “Yeah. The sergeant said you’re good at making threats and violating Constitutional rights.”

  “Years ago I learned how from my favorite lieutenant.”

  “Liar. You were on the job long before me.”

  “Can’t fool you, can I, Boss?”

  “How have you made out with these clients?”

  “The married ones volunteered to come in,” Bettye said. “They don’t want us anywhere close to their homes. We’ve given them appointments starting tonight. Some others weren’t so eager to cooperate, but we’ve got addresses, and they’ll talk to us.”

  “Good. Anybody sound promising?”

  Bettye shrugged, and John shook his head.

  “Any leads on this Andy?”

  “Nothing,” John said. “Lonnie is spending a lot of time on him, but so far hasn’t found spit.”

  “Disappointing. It sounds like Andy knows how to hide.”

  “Yeah,” John said. “Maybe like he knows how to cover up a crime scene.”

  “Anyone on your list admit being cops? Maybe Andy uses two names.”

  “I had two Knox County deputies,” Bettye said.

  “You recognize their names?”

  “No. I may be wrong, but they sounded more like embarrassed party boys than promising suspects. They’ll be here tonight.”

  “Remember that ol’ boy from Knox County, Detective Windy Hatmaker? He owes me. I’ll give him a call about these party boys. Ring Stanley and tell him to plan on spending time in the office tonight. He can help us grill these sex-crazed people.”

  Bettye grinned. “Already have.”

  “Good. Now, what do you know about our police applicants?”

  “Two are still overseas and not scheduled to get out of the service for a while. One returned a few months ago and got discharged. Terri Donnellson.”

  “Terrance or Theresa?”

  “Terri with an I. She spent four years as an Army MP. Just got a job as a store detective in Knoxville.”

  “If we have to make a quick choice, it’s good to know someone with prior police experience. I hope she has an honorable discharge and didn’t pick up any bad habits.”

  “I can’t comment on her habits, but she has an honorable discharge. Got out as a sergeant. She sounded intelligent on the phone.”

  “When’s she coming in?”

  She handed me a file folder with Terri Marie Donnellson written on the tab. “Tomorrow at nine. You can read all about her.”

  In between threatening phone calls, John Gallagher ran a quick background investigation on Toby Lee Bowman, our latest murder victim. While Rosanna Wakefield attended a year of community college learning her bookkeeping and computer skills, Toby quit high school in his junior year. From there, we know he became a favorite of Knoxville PD, the Knox County Sheriff’s Office, Oak Ridge PD and the Anderson County sheriff. They bagged him numerous times for soliciting, loitering for sex, shoplifting, drug possession and one minor commercial burglary—things typical of a young man banished from his home and disinherited by his father after Pop learned about his son’s homosexuality. On several occasions, twenty-three-year-old Toby checked in as a guest of the Knox and Anderson County jails for a total of almost three years.

  John had scheduled a meeting with Toby’s mother for the next morning. He volunteered to escort Emma Lee Bowman to the morgue to make a formal identification.

  An hour later, while I was calling my wife to break the news that her favorite husband would only be home for dinner and then head back to work to interrogate a long line of men known to patronize a young prostitute, John Gallagher strolled into my office and took a seat in one of my guest chairs. He held a yellow lined pad in one hand and adjusted the red and blue striped tie that ended two buttons north of his belt and rested on his round belly.

  I hung up the phone. “What’s up, John?”

  “I kept digging and got a pretty fair story now on Toby Bowman. You already know about his priors, but I called his mother again and have been on the phone with her for almost an hour. She doesn’t know where his cell phone is, and I kinda figure the killer took it, but she’s got his laptop. Says it’s old, but he left it in his room. He lives with her, but, according to her, he’s in and out—gone for days at a time. She confirms that he was still driving the ’99 Civic that’s on file with Department of Safety. She gave me permission to search Toby’s room and agreed to let a couple of evidence technicians toss the place tomorrow when I pick her up. I called Jackie. His LT said he and David could meet me there. They know what to look for.”

  “Good. I’ll let Lonnie Ray handle the computer to maintain continuity. Maybe he’ll see some similarity with Rosanna’s laptop that would get by us. Give him a call and have him show up here when you think you’ll be back.”

  John nodded. “Mrs. Bowman said she split with her husband ‘cause o’ how he treated the gay son, but she still had an address and number for him. Name’s Arlo.”

  “Give Arlo a ring and set up an appointment.”

  “Will do, Boss.”

  I walked into the living room at 9:50. Thanks to Netflix, Kate was watching an episode of The Ladies Number One Detective Agency. Perhaps she was planning on opening a similar business. I hoped she wanted to do it in Tennessee and not Botswana.

  “Hello, Sweetie,” she said. “Long day?”

  “Pain in the ass day. I’m not sure how much we accomplished. These interviews tonight were a bust.”

  I pushed the pause button on the DVD player’s remote.

  “Want a drinkie-poo?” Kate asked.

  “Sure, and don’t be stingy, doll-face. A hardboiled gumshoe like me needs his booze after a tough day o’ gettin’ beat up and stonewalled.”

  She answered with her Mae West impersonation. “Sit down, Bogie, and I’ll get ya some hooch.” As she passed by, Kate ran a hand up my thigh.

  Two minutes later and the lady detectives were still on hold.

  “We interviewed thirty-three lads who decided to take their love to town. I tried to scatter them around the PD so they wouldn’t get embarrassed and clam up if they were seen by other johns. And we didn’t want them to get together and conspire to concoct self-serving stories. That was the hard part.”

  “Did they all come in at once?”

  “Of course not. John staggered the appointments. But some came in early, and others left late. It happens.”

  “And between you, John, and Stanley, you learned nothing?”

  “We learned that some were pathetic cases. Some were decent enough guys, and a few were total nitwits. We did not meet one guy who ad
mitted ever having been called Andy. Every time a new body came into the room, John called the number Rosanna Wakefield listed on her computer file for Andy and got nothing. That phone must be turned off or thrown away. Nothing but voice mails that John didn’t use.”

  “So, absolutely no leads?”

  “They had either good, solid alibis or stories we could never disprove. Except to eliminate those people, we learned nothing.”

  She placed her hand on my thigh and squeezed. “Oh well, tomorrow’s another day.”

  “You got that right, Scarlett.”

  I pushed the resume button and a cute but overweight African female detective continued to question a bartender about someone’s claim to have spent the previous night drinking in his bar.

  As the scene faded to black, Kate asked, “So, what are you going to do next?”

  “That’s a pretty skimpy night gown you’re wearing. I can think of only one appropriate thing.”

  Chapter Nine

  I walked into the PD the next morning at 8:45. Annoyed at having worked late the night before. Annoyed because it was drizzling outside. Beyond annoyed that a monster drop of rainwater from the overhang—probably an entire quarter cup—somehow slapped me on the neck and ran down my back when I tapped in my four digit code at the back door. And I was just sick and tired of trying to investigate two homicides with only three assistants—four if you count Lonnie Ray Wilson—when I really needed sixteen. And I was not in the mood to interview a police applicant when I really wanted to advertise the job and end up with a couple dozen people from which to choose.

  I should have known something was unusual when Bettye said, “Good morning, sir,” but I wasn’t paying attention.

  I rubbed a hand over my neck and began telling her, “Damn blob of rainwater ran down my collar and—” when I noticed a young lady sitting in one of the guest chairs along the left wall of the lobby. I stopped kvetching. “Morning, Sarge.”

  Bettye smiled. “Miss Donnellson got here a little early.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She was staring at me. I looked back. “Hi, I’m Sam Jenkins—in charge of this understaffed, overworked herd of elite law enforcement professionals.”

  She began to stand. I waved a hand at her.

  “Sit. Give me a minute to take my coat off.”

  She resumed the sitting position.

  I did a three-quarter about-face and walked to my office where I took off my raincoat, shook it out and hung it on the back of the door. I stuck my umbrella—the one I had already folded up before the torrent of rainwater cascaded down my neck—against the wall and took a deep breath, wondering if I should pour myself a cup of coffee or return to the reception area and fetch our only job applicant. I chose the latter.

  “Ms. Donnellson, come in, please.”

  She rose from the chair carrying a thin briefcase and a tan raincoat. I extended an arm, pointing her through my office doorway. She entered the room and stalled a few feet in front of my desk.

  “Give me your coat,” I said.

  She looked at me as if I had suggested she remove all her clothes.

  “Your coat? I’m going to put it on this chair, and you can sit in this one.” I pointed at each respectively. She smiled and handed me the raincoat.

  I took the coat with my left hand and extended my right, which she shook.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “Sit, please.”

  She did, and I began to circumnavigate my desk clockwise, but stopped three-quarters of the way around.

  “Would you like coffee? Sergeant Lambert makes a fresh pot every morning.”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you, sir.”

  She looked a little nervous.

  “That wasn’t a test or a trick question. If you’d like coffee, say so. I’ll fix you a cup. I worked more than twelve hours yesterday, got a lousy night’s sleep and I’m going to have coffee. Sure you don’t want one?”

  She took a long moment to answer. “Thank you, sir. Black, no sugar, please.”

  I poured two the same and set one on the edge of my desk in front of her. That done, I walked around my desk and dropped into my big swivel chair.

  I shook my head. “I know you’ve done some police work in the Army, so you’ll understand this. I’ve got two homicides working plus all the other crap that comes in via 9-1-1 and a mayor and city council to placate. It’s only me and twelve cops. I need at least three times that many. You sure you want to work here?”

  She smiled. “Yes, sir, I do. I need a good job.”

  Terri Marie Donnellson wore a navy blue pantsuit and a white open collar blouse. She was almost pretty. No, she was pretty. She was almost beautiful, but as a package, she was incredibly attractive. Long brown hair that could be pulled back, twisted up and discretely worn under an MP helmet, a clear olive complexion that suggested a Mediterranean heritage, but her family name was clearly Gaelic. Soft and expressive brown eyes. Not quite full lips and prominent cheekbones. But the best part—the imperfection that made her look so much better than an out-of-the-box Barbie doll, was her nose. It looked as if it had been broken and was now set off a sixteenth of an inch to the left. I wanted to know what happened.

  “I looked over your application. You’re twenty-seven and have been in the Army for four years?”

  “Yes, sir. Four years and five months.”

  “You were an MP?”

  “Yes, sir.” Terri Marie sat at attention, her knees together, her briefcase on her lap and her hands atop the case. She answered as if she were sitting before a panel of officers who might elect her Soldier of the Month.

  “Who were you with?”

  “Sir?”

  “Tell me with whom you were assigned whilst in Uncle Sam’s Army.”

  “Oh, yes sir, sorry. I was with the 716th MP Battalion”

  I noticed her looking over my shoulder at the shadow box behind my desk that held the medals, badges and assorted doo-dads I’d earned during my time in the Army.

  “I remember the 716th being in Saigon. A kid I knew from New York was assigned to, I think, Charlie Company, received a Silver Star during Tet of ’68.”

  “Yes, sir, we’re very proud of the battalion’s service in Vietnam.”

  She still looked as tight as an Army snare drum.

  “Relax, Ms. Donnellson. I may bark on occasion, but I don’t bite. Drink your coffee before it gets cold. I spent more than twenty years in the Army system, but I’m not like most of the company commanders you might have met.” I shrugged. “I guess that’s because I don’t choose to behave like the average C.O. and never had a normal company.”

  Terri took a deep breath and smiled again. Then she picked up her cup and sipped the coffee.

  “The 716th is at Fort Campbell now, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “But I’m guessing you’ve been overseas.”

  “Yes, sir. Two deployments to Afghanistan.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Another smile and another sip.

  “Tell me about your Afghan adventures.”

  She nodded for a brief moment. “My company was assigned to town patrol during my first tour. The second time there, they chose me to be a provost marshal’s investigator.”

  “A military squad dick?”

  “Not exactly, sir. We handled misdemeanors and other investigations not sent to CID.”

  “Sounds like good duty.”

  “Yes, sir. I loved that job.”

  “Yet you finished four years and five months and separated from the Army. Why?”

  “I wanted to be a cop, sir.”

  “You already were.”

  “Not exactly, sir. I wanted to be a civilian cop. I think there’s a big difference. In the Army, they never let you forget you’re a soldier first.”

  “Okay. When did they promote you to sergeant?”

  “Just before my second trip to Afghanistan.”

  “Congratulations. I guess
you were a sharp troop.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I smiled. “Can we cut the crap, Terri?”

  Her face almost hit the floor. “Sir?”

  “Let’s stop the sir and Ms. Donnellson business. This is not a line company in the Army. We’re pretty informal at Prospect PD, and I’m afraid that’s my fault. I’m going to call you by your first name, and I suggest that you call me Sam—unless you can’t quite get your head around that right away. Then Boss works for me. You look savvy enough to know you should call me Chief or Sir when there’s a civilian or some media type within earshot, but at other times, I’d prefer not. But remember, if you ever salute me, I might get capped by a sniper.”

  She relaxed her shoulders and smiled. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now, I see you graduated from South College with a BS. What did you get that degree in?”

  “Behavioral Sciences.”

  I grinned. “Sounds like BS to me.”

  She smiled again. “Maybe fifty percent. The rest was geared toward police work.”

  “Good. Have you taken any more courses on the GI Bill?”

  “A few law classes. I’ve just started.”

  “You want to be a lawyer?”

  No, sir. I want to be a cop. But I figure if I’m going to enforce the law and face off against a lawyer in court, I need to know at least as much as they do.”

  “Wow. Good answer. I couldn’t agree more.” I downed a third of my cup of coffee rather than let it cool off. “Look Terri, if I hire you for this job, it’s going to be contingent upon you passing medical and psychological exams, a background investigation and physical agility test. No problem with those, right?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about a polygraph exam? Any problems you’d rather the rest of the world not learn?”

  “No, sir, uh, Chief. I mean, boss.”

  “Good. You don’t look like you would.”

  She gave me a small smile. “No skeletons.”

  “You would have to start working here before the tests. Meaning you’d have to quit the job you have now. That work for you?”