A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  She extended her hand, and we shook again. “If I didn’t answer your calls, I’d be just another lonely middle-aged psychotherapist. So, you bet, I’m your girl.”

  The next morning, I dropped into a chair next to Clete Dunn’s desk in a third floor room shared by two other investigators and several ADAs. The room looked relatively new like most of the Justice Center, but Spartan compared to the FBI’s field office in Knoxville.

  “You’re on the road early t’day,” he said.

  Clete was in his mid-fifties, had mostly gray hair, short, parted on the left and combed in a Joe College style across his forehead. He could have lost fifteen pounds but was far from out of shape. He wore a short sleeve white shirt, solid light blue tie and gray slacks.

  “I can’t understand why,” I said. “After I talk with you and drop off the latest case notes to Ryan Leary, we’re about dead in the water.”

  “No new leads?”

  “No old or new leads on the Rosanna Wakefield murder. That crime scene was so well sanitized I truly believe a cop stuck his fingers into that pie.”

  “I hate to hear things like that. Cops all over are taking cheap shots from every big mouth activist out there.”

  “Like the right Reverend Hal Crofton and his cronies.”

  Clete closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “Don’t even mention that name.”

  “It’s too bad humps like Crofton and the public in general put their mouths in gear before they know any relative facts or get a basic knowledge of the law.”

  He gritted his teeth. “That would be too much to ask…Please don’t get me started.”

  I smiled. “Okay. I’m off the soapbox.”

  “How ‘bout your second murder?”

  “The male prostitute? That one’s simple. Nothing makes any sense except a person in his occupation is always at risk. His being a Charlie’s List hooker is all that ties him to the other Strangler victims. We’ve conducted dozens of interviews and came up with zilch. I can’t even give you a juicy tidbit that I haven’t already told the media.”

  “Don’t know what ta tell ya, Sam. But I did run down a list of big SUVs in the law enforcement community. I got ya department owned ve-hickles only. You’re gonna have ta get your man to work on privately-owned SUVs in a cop’s household.”

  I nodded, and he handed me several sheets of paper.

  “Archie Faber drives a black Crown Victoria,” he said, “Which hasn’t been in for repairs or service lately. And he wasn’t drivin’ a loaner SUV that night. The top sheet’s got the names of a few people at the sheriff’s office who drive those big tubs. And it includes your buddy Ryan Leary.”

  I nodded again. “They are the police executive’s current ride-of-choice.”

  “Yep. Toss in my boss, the DA himself and the other pages show smaller PDs who run an SUV or two. I didn’t list any marked ve-hickles or get inta the Feds.”

  “That’s great. Thanks, Clete.”

  “Other than that, I got no good advice for ya.”

  “Good advice is currently at a premium.” I shrugged. “I might resort to using a Ouija board or getting help from that good-looking fortune teller with the business up on Alcoa Highway.”

  “Anybody asks ya where ya got the info on their ve-hickles, tell’em from that Gypsy’s crystal ball and forget I had anythin’ ta do with it.”

  Chief Deputy Ryan Leary hung his hat on the second floor of the Justice Center in a corner office overlooking a newly constructed Georgian-style bank headquarters, US Highway 321 and Blount Memorial Hospital. Ryan occupied a chunk of prime real estate. The task force and Lew Schmecke, legendary detective, were set up in a large utility room down the hall.

  I dropped a folder with copies of my two cases on Ryan’s desk.

  “Not a hell of a lot there,” I said as I sat in one of his guest chairs and sighed. “Besides the basics, there’s a list of anyone we interviewed, so you can try to get a match with names that have shown up before. Other than that…I don’t see squat.”

  “I’ll give this to Lew. He’s brought in a couple of his computer experts. They may turn up something.”

  Keep dreaming, sport. I’m complaining about paying Lonnie Ray seventy-five bucks an hour. What is that bottom feeder Schmecke charging you?

  “Let’s hope so,” I said.

  He thumbed through the reports and tossed the folder into his out box. “One male and one female? Both hookers? Both young?”

  “Yep. I’ll assume Wakefield, the female, was done by the Strangler. Bowman, the male, I’m not so sure. Unless the Strangler is trying to throw us a curve.”

  He nodded, looking thoughtful.

  I interrupted his thinking. “I heard Schmecke and two of your guys are exhuming a body?”

  “Uh-huh. Victim number four.”

  “And you’re looking at a pair of local cops?”

  He nodded. “One from Alcoa and one from Maryville.”

  Ryan needed to tell me more. “Do I know them?”

  “Peyton Longshore from Alcoa and Alfred Fenceline from Maryville.”

  “Longshore and Fenceline? Those are real names?”

  He laughed, but still looked tired and frustrated. “I’ll get one of the boys to fax you what we’ve got so far.”

  I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice. “Do they look promising?”

  “Still waiting for the results of the new autopsy.”

  That wasn’t much of an answer.

  I hadn’t exaggerated when I spoke to Clete Dunn. I literally had nothing more to do on the cases.

  In the early afternoon, Lonnie Ray Wilson walked into my office.

  “Hey,” he said, a little sheepishly.

  “How’s it goin’.”

  He shrugged. “Listen, I’m not going to charge you for yesterday.”

  I frowned and dropped the pen I had been using onto my blotter. “Why?”

  “I couldn’t produce. Sorry.”

  “Ah, typical male performance anxiety.”

  He grinned, but didn’t look amused.

  “I thought I could have tracked that guy Andy down. I wanted to explain.”

  “Sit. Speak. You want coffee?”

  Lonnie shook his head. “No thanks on the coffee.” He dropped into a guest chair and crossed his legs. “I found a trail, but couldn’t settle on a definite beginning or end. And, even if I could, I doubt the provider would give us any information.”

  “That’s not cricket.”

  “It’s the way those people are. And based on where they are I don’t think anyone around here could do anything about it.”

  “Really?”

  “I started out with an IP from Amsterdam. From there, I got bounced to Romania, then Turkey, Latvia, the Philippines…you don’t want me to keep going. Either this guy was well versed in covering his cyber ass or he paid for someone else to route his business around the world.”

  “I hate these progressive criminals.”

  “Yeah, not like cruisin’ the streets looking for bad guys, is it?”

  I shook my head. “Not even close. It sounds like Andy has something he wants hidden.”

  “You don’t do something like this to keep your mother from learning you visit porn sites.”

  “I wish I knew how to find Andy.”

  “I don’t know how else I can help with that. So the time is on the house.”

  “Nonsense. You worked. You get paid. That’s the way it goes. We’ve all come up dry with these cases. That’s police work.”

  “I just don’t feel right about it.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I might be calling you for something else. Repay me by making Prospect PD a priority customer.”

  “You got a deal.”

  The six o’clock news brought a surprise. Kate and I had finished dinner and were sitting in the living room sipping the remains of a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc, watching TV before attacking the dinner dishes.

  Jack Larsen, one of the co-
anchors from WNXX, shocked me.

  “Lawyers for Farris Tingle,” he said, “the accused Maryville man arrested for stealing a duffle bag from Blount County Chief Deputy Sheriff Ryan Leary’s department SUV has filed a Federal lawsuit against Leary, Sheriff Joe Don Hartung and several detectives and deputies. Tingle alleges being beaten, tortured, intimidated and threatened after his arrest.

  “Mr. Tingle, currently free on bail, has charges of grand larceny, criminal mischief and resisting arrest pending in Blount County Criminal Court. He and his lawyers held a press conference at the Federal building on Locust Street in Knoxville only a half-hour ago.”

  The video shifted to a crowd on the steps of the Federal building. A seedy-looking article, who I assumed was Farris Tingle, stood behind and to the left of a Blount County public defender named Scottie Ringgold. At Ringgold’s side, and the center of attention, stood a slick operator named Perry Chalmers, a five-hundred-dollar an hour shyster who usually produced positive results for the parties he represented.

  The audio came on, and Chalmers used a slightly southern accented and mostly theatrical voice to address a half-dozen reporters backed up by video and still photographers.

  “When I heard the circumstances of Mr. Tingle’s arrest,” he said, “subsequent questioning and pre-arraignment incarceration, I called Mr. Ringgold at the public defender’s office and offered my services pro bono. Mr. Tingle agreed to accept my assistance.”

  A reporter shouted, “What was the amount of bail?”

  “Mr. Tingle was released on $200,000 bond. His parents used their home as collateral.”

  “Who beat your client?” yelled another.

  “Mr. Tingle, still handcuffed, was initially pummeled by two plainclothes detectives. Later, he was beaten, tortured and threatened by Chief Leary of the Blount County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “What was stolen from Leary’s vehicle?” a third asked.

  “We’ve filed a Federal civil rights violation case with the US attorney. Mr. Tingle gave FBI agents a detailed statement that they will use as a basis for their investigation. It’s more appropriate that you ask a representative of the Justice Department for further information.”

  Before another reporter could shout out another question, Chalmers cracked a smile and continued. “I will tell you this. The evidence Mr. Tingle gave is damning. I am confident that the FBI agents will substantiate it all. I think you can expect a number of indictments forthcoming.”

  Too many reporters yelled the same thing, making it impossible to attribute a question to anyone in particular. “Indictments for what?”

  With a grin pumped up to high wattage and his pearly whites showing as sparkly as the grill of a ’55 Buick Roadmaster, Chalmers said, “Besides brutalizing Mr. Tingle and attempting to cover up the gross misconduct of these public officials, some very embarrassing things. I can only ask you to wait patiently for the results of the investigation.”

  The two attorneys and Farris Tingle pushed their way down the steps and through the group of reporters to where a late model Lincoln Town Car waited at the curb on Locust Street.

  Twenty-year-old Tingle was an unsightly specimen, at about five-eight and maybe a hundred and forty pounds. His dark crew cut hadn’t been trimmed in at least a month, and his cheeks hadn’t been scratched by a razor in twice as long. What he might have called a beard was nothing more than patchy stubble that looked more like dirt than facial hair. What skin I could see was scattered with tiny red pimples and with abrasions and bruises on his forehead, cheeks and chin. His pasty, ashen complexion suggested more than a passing fancy with methamphetamines.

  “That’s a good-looking troop,” I said.

  “Mmm,” Kate offered. “Isn’t Perry Chalmers a pretty high-priced attorney?”

  “Up there with the best. I guess he’s looking to write off his time as an advertising expense. He’ll get plenty of ink with this case.”

  “Do you think the chief and two detectives really beat that boy?”

  “The boy stole a cop’s gun from a cop’s company car. Leary has a history of bending the rules and not shying away from physical contact. What do you think?”

  “If he gets through this without losing his job, I think he should keep his hands in his pockets.”

  “That’s a very big if. Perry Chalmers does not play by the rules, and the FBI does not whitewash cases against cops, regardless of their rank.”

  “It’s a shame to throw away a big career over losing your temper.”

  “Who says he lost his temper? Maybe he enjoyed it. Either way, it’s a problem cops have faced since the days of the Ancient Egyptian PD.”

  “Did the pharaoh have an internal affairs bureau?”

  “That gives me an idea. I’ll write a story for Police Chief Magazine—The Rat Squad Throughout History.”

  “Oh, that should make you even more popular with police administrators the world over.”

  “As I used to tell my mother, I wasn’t put on earth to be popular, just efficient.”

  “So, tell me, efficient one, what do you think Perry Chalmers alluded to as being very embarrassing?”

  “That is a very good question, sweetie. Now I have something to do tomorrow. And I just might have an answer for you in twenty-four hours.”

  Chapter Twelve

  John, Bettye and I were huddled around her desk like three running backs, wondering what play to use next.

  “Did you hear that lawyer’s last comment?” John asked, referring to last night’s news conference. “Something very embarrassing. Like what?”

  “Well, it is embarrassing to leave your duty gun in your police car on the night someone breaks into it,” Bettye said.

  “True,” I said, “but Chalmers loves to build media tension before dropping a bomb that could imbed documentary shrapnel in the minds of potential jurors. He’s a sleaze, but he’s good at his job. There’s something else up his sleeve.”

  “What do you think was in the bag, Boss? What could embarrass Leary?”

  “Good question. If we ask our friends at the sheriff’s office, we’d only put them on the spot. They’d have to clam up or rat out a co-worker. If I were in Leary’s position, John, would you gossip about me to just anyone?”

  “Boss, how could you ask that?” He really looked offended.

  “See what I mean? You’re shocked I would even suggest such a thing.”

  “Yeah, I see your point.”

  “The blue wall of silence?” Bettye said.

  “Sort of,” I said. “We don’t know who was present when this alleged beating took place. If I called Shuman or Stallins or whomever snooping around, they’d think one of two things—I’m too damn nosey or I’m fishing for info for my friends at the FBI.”

  “But you’d never—” she said.

  “Well, I am nosey, but Ralph would never ask me to become his snitch—not really.”

  “You sure, Boss?” John asked.

  “Yeah. I trust Ralph. But nothing says I can’t ask him a few questions.”

  I called Ralph Oliveri’s cell phone and got him on the fifth ring.

  “Hey,” I said, “where are you? You usually pick up immediately.”

  “I’m driving, and some asshole just cut me off so he could drive into one of the car dealers near the airport. The traffic is ridiculous today.”

  “You’re in Blount County. Coming to see us?”

  “I’m working on something.”

  “Ahh. Some shit about that chief deputy down here, huh?”

  “Uh…yeah. I wouldn’t want that hanging over me.”

  “You working on that?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just nosey.”

  “Well, yeah, sorta.”

  “Part of the team? Who’s the lucky primary?”

  “You kiddin’? We’re just the grunts. They sent a civil rights team from Nashville. That lawyer, Chalmers, arranged for one before he brought his boy in to make the complaint.
We’ve got a supervisor, six agents and an AUSA who’ll act as special prosecutor hanging around the office.”

  “Yikes. They brought in the pros from Dover. I guess Leary is screwed.”

  “I don’t know yet. Is he the kind of guy who would torture a prisoner?”

  Time to work my magic.

  “Ralphie, hang on a minute. I was just shooting the breeze here. You really want to get serious about this?”

  “I was just askin’. You got any history with Leary?”

  “I guess I’m just a little sensitive because of what happened once.”

  “Like what?”

  “Off the record?”

  “You know I shouldn’t agree to that.”

  “Okay. The reason I called—”

  “Hey, with all the favors I’ve done for you, don’t you think you owe me a little help here? If you know something, you’d save me lots of work.”

  “A nudge in the right direction is one thing. Becoming an informant is another.”

  “I didn’t ask you to testify, did I?

  “Then is this off the record? I owe you, but—”

  He didn’t let me finish.

  “Yeah, yeah. Make it off the record.”

  “You sure? I really don’t want to be part of an official investigation. I’ve got too much to do with my homicides and this task force and all.”

  “Yes. I said off the record.”

  I cleared my throat. “Leary is no stranger to innovative interrogation techniques. He spent a number of years at the DA’s office, you know.”

  His tone went up a couple of octaves. “Innovative how?”

  “Come on, Ralphie, don’t get me in the middle.”

  “Oh, Goddamnit,” he said abruptly. “Traffic just stopped. A couple of trailers with two halves of a modular home and their escort cars are making a left turn from the right lane. They won’t get across the highway in this lifetime.”

  “You’ve got that right. A small, fast car can’t make an easy left off Alcoa Highway during the best of times.”

  I heard a horn blowing in the background.

  “Back to my question,” Ralph said. “Innovative how? Were you present when he tuned up a suspect?”