A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “Oh, man, you’re gonna put me on the spot.” I took a moment to sigh for dramatic effect. “How about this? Tell me what the charges are, and I’ll give you an honest opinion if they might be in Leary’s repertoire.”

  “Look, I’m only one of the field men doing roadwork for these Nashville guys. I don’t want to jam up another cop, but this guy Tingle made some big accusations. Hang on. We’re moving again. I’ll get off 129 at Hunt Road. Lemme pull over and talk.”

  “Take your time, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I’m not a religious man, but I was praying Ralph wouldn’t ask why I had really called. I hoped he’d forget to ask. After a few moments, he came back on the line.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m off the road. Listen, you gotta promise you won’t repeat what I say.”

  “Cross my heart, buddy.”

  “Tingle says one of the uniformed cops who collared him called the dick on standby—Bo Stallins. Stallins got there and called Leary. I took Stallins’ statement yesterday. Then Leary did something odd. He told Stallins he was reassigning the case to two other detectives, Bonnet and Turner.”

  “That is odd. Those two have been detached from regular CID duty to work on the Riverside Strangler task force.”

  “See what I mean? According to Tingle’s statement, those two took over from Stallins and cleared the squad room. Then they took turns beating on this kid, repeatedly asking him what he did with the rest of the contents of the gym bag. Only the kid swears he took nothing. That wasn’t good enough, so they kept on grinding him through the ringer until Leary got there.”

  “Did the kid know Leary before that night?”

  “Not personally, but Leary introduced himself before he disappeared with the gym bag.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean he disappeared with the bag?”

  “Just what I said. He was gone for an hour or so and then returned to take a turn smacking Tingle around.”

  “So he took evidence out of the building? And then comes back to kick the kid’s ass?”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t heard the best part yet.”

  “Oh, jeez. Maybe I shouldn’t hear this, but…go ahead, tell me.”

  “When Leary returned, he brought the black bag back and gave it to Bonnet. Then he starts what Tingle called torture.”

  “Do I want to hear this?”

  “Hey, paly, you got me goin’. You’re in for the long haul.” Ralph took a moment to snicker like a little kid divulging a secret to his best friend. “Leary asks Tingle what he saw in the bag. Tingle starts out saying nothing. Leary didn’t buy that, so after a half-dozen slaps in the head, the kid says a gun and other stuff. Leary’s still not satisfied, so he pulls off Tingle’s jeans and Jockey shorts and makes him stand in the middle of the room with his thing hanging out, while Leary asks him the same question over and over. To show he wasn’t satisfied with the kid’s answers, Leary laid a few shots into the gut. The kid figures six or seven times.”

  “Meanwhile, the kid is ricocheting off the walls and floor with no drawers on.”

  “No,” Ralph said. “Bonnet and Turner are holding him up like a heavy bag. Now, Leary puts on sap gloves and before each question, he lays some knuckle to the kid’s head. After three of those, Tingle gives Leary a more complete inventory.”

  “Which was?”

  “You’re gonna love this.”

  “I doubt it, but go ahead.”

  “The kid describes a black automatic. Leary carries a .40 caliber Glock, so the kid has credibility. Then he says four or five magazines that he calls full of nasty porn.”

  “Isn’t all porn nasty?”

  “Yeah, but when Tingle was questioned in our office, it took Marty Saunders fifteen minutes to drag more out of him. Nasty to him meant young girls mostly, but a smattering of young boys—mostly Asian. He thinks they were foreign magazines. Besides that, he says there were a bunch of cases holding DVDs with nasty porn flicks.”

  “How young is young?”

  “Very young. All early teens.”

  Ralph couldn’t see me, but I shook my head in disbelief. “What does Leary say about this?”

  “He doesn’t. He lawyered up. He’s using J.R. Tolbert.”

  “Another big gun. Are you guys betting on Chalmers or Tolbert?”

  “If they square off, it will be in civil court. But at the moment, it’s a tag team match: Leary and Tolbert versus the FBI and Justice Department.”

  “Sure. You’re going to do him criminally.”

  “Yeah, we’re not Chalmer’s PIs. But wait, there’s more.”

  “You’re gonna super-size my order if I call within the next five minutes?”

  “Ha! How about add to the gym bag three or four vials of what Tingle the meth-head recognized as crack?”

  “And Leary didn’t immediately jump on a story that this stuff was evidence he just forgot to lock up overnight?”

  “Leary wouldn’t say spit. His lawyer said Tingle is a liar, and aside from the gun and a few items of gym clothing, there was nothing else in the bag.”

  “Because when he disappeared, Leary purged the contents.”

  “Good guess, Sherlock.”

  “This is some shit, Ralph. Who do you believe?”

  “I saw Tingle. Somebody tuned him big time. But look, he’s small potatoes, just a local shithead burglar who was looking for a dark house to hit. When he found Leary’s open SUV, he grabbed the bag and ran. Unlucky for him, less than fifteen minutes later, a deputy sees him trotting down the road in a neighborhood where there aren’t any resident shitheads and stops him. Tingle is nervous and jerky and didn’t come up with any reasonable answers, so the deputy calls for backup. Then deputy number two arrives, and they toss Tingle and look in the gym bag and get a surprise. There’s an ID tag with a familiar name on it attached to the bag, so they take their perp back to the Justice Center forthwith. Now the dicks and Leary get involved, and we’re back to the beginning of my story.”

  “Two more people involved. What do the uniforms say about the contents of the bag?”

  Ralph laughed briefly. “Cops are hot shit when you question them. I’ve talked to more eloquent dirt bags. Both say all they saw was a gun and didn’t look any further. The stories were so similar, I’d swear they studied a script.”

  “So, if we look to the future in my crystal ball, when they realize that they could go down for hindering prosecution, obstruction and accessories to everything that transpired in the squad room, you figure they’ll flip on Leary.”

  “Don’t forget lying to a Federal officer.”

  “Of course, something we locals can’t fall back on. Okay, another felony to add to their resume.”

  “It won’t be long. A couple of guys on the civil rights team are good interrogators.”

  “And I’m guessing neither of the two cops are close to having enough time on the job to retire and would lose their pension time as well as their freedom.”

  “You got it. Bonnet and Turner are close, too. Bonnet’s got almost twenty from three different jobs, and Turner is a few years short. Let’s see what kind of heroes they are.”

  “Any possibility Tingle is fabricating the porno and drugs to get back at Leary for the beating?”

  “Possible, but I doubt it. The bag went to the lab. If they come up with any trace of crack cocaine, Leary is toast.”

  “Not one of the sheriff’s finest hours.”

  “Not hardly.”

  If Dr. John H. Watson wrote the next scene in my workday, it might have read like this:

  The aging Irish detective burst into the police station in a state of abject flummox. His usually ruddy complexion had turned to a hue of crimson, and his breathing was most labored. Upon meeting with his chief constable, the overwrought sleuth attempted to compose himself, and after no small means of effort, ejaculated, “My dear Jenkins, you shall be most intrigued with the data I gleaned from the miscreant Bowman.”

  To thi
s, his long time friend and superior officer said, “Good lord, Gallagher, but you’re in a state of mental discomfort. Pray relax yourself, and regale me with what promises to be a most singular narrative.”

  In reality, this is what happened: “Hey, Boss, Boss, you gotta hear this. I talked to that mutt Arlo Bowman, and you won’t believe what he said.”

  “Oh, yeah? What happened?”

  “Oh, man, what a hump.” John Gallagher looked over at Bettye Lambert apologetically. “Sorry, Sarge, but you hadda meet this guy. Boss, he sounded like a card-carrying homophiliac.

  I raised my eyebrows. Bettye did her best to hide a smile.

  “You sure, John?”

  “Yeah, Boss. He as much as said that if he knew his son was gonna turn out to be gay, he woulda drowned him at birth.”

  “Wow, that’s radical parenting.”

  “And that’s not all he said, Boss. It was like talking with some Grand Wizard of the Klan. He said he knew his son was a hooker and hated him even more for that. He said all prostitutes—male or female—should be stoned to death, like it says in the Bible.”

  “That’s pretty harsh for just a misdemeanor.” I looked at Bettye. “Does it really say that in the Bible?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t look at me, darlin’. Ask your friend, the priest.”

  I looked back at John. “Did he elaborate on that?”

  “Not really, Boss. I quizzed him a lot, but he just ranted and raved about homosexuals and whores and how it’s getting to be like Solomon Gaddorah around here.”

  Bettye couldn’t contain herself. She tried to stifle a laugh, but it came out half way between a snort and a sneeze.

  “That’s Sodom and Gomorrah, John. Solomon Gaddorah was the prime minister of Israel years ago…or something.”

  He looked shocked. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Trust me. I’m sure.” I wanted to change the subject. “After all this talk, do you like this guy Arlo for killing his kid? Or even for any of the other murders?”

  John wrinkled his forehead and thought for a brief moment. “Maybe his kid, Boss. But he wouldn’t know shit…Sorry, Sarge…about cleaning up a crime scene. He was almost out of control talking about Toby, but he didn’t mention anything about the other victims.”

  “Was he fixated on stoning them, or could he be flexible enough to strangle them?”

  “Who knows, Boss? A guy like Arlo is crazy enough to do anything.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “Could he account for his whereabouts the night his son was murdered?” Bettye asked.

  “Says he was in a sports bar up in north Knoxville.”

  “Must be some class place,” I said.

  “If guys like Arlo hang out in that bar,” John said, “I wouldn’t walk in there alone.”

  Later that day, I received an unexpected phone call.

  “Hey, yew doin’ aw rot t’day?”

  I recognized the voice.

  “Windy?”

  “Yessir. Wendell P. Hatmaker. The one and only Windy, like the hamburgers.”

  He said the same thing every time he introduced himself.

  “I was going to call you about something, but you saved me the dime.”

  “Well boy howdy, ain’t that somethin’? Whatchew up ta?”

  “Me? I’m just lounging around up to my eyeballs in a couple of homicides.”

  “Heard ‘bout ‘em. Unnerstand y’all are part o’ that Strangler task force.”

  “A small but not insignificant part.”

  “I’ll bet. Hey listen, bud, I gotta talk with ya ‘bout your boss on that task force.”

  “I guess you heard about his troubles with the Feds?”

  “Did I ever. Cain’t say he’s one o’ my favorite people, and I’m gonna give ya some free ad-vice ‘bout him. Whether ya take it’s up ta yew. But what I’m gonna tell ya is gospel—gar-anteed.”

  “That’s one hell of a lead in. What do you know about Leary that I don’t?”

  “Plenny, ‘cause we ain’t never let none o’ this out nowhere. ‘Cept fer our boss callin’ the sheriff down in Blount County. Other’n that, we’ve done kept a lid on all this.”

  “Man, you’ve got my curiosity in high gear. What’s up?”

  “I kinda hate doin’ this on the phone.”

  “We’re secure down here. You got problems up by you?”

  “Ya never know.”

  “I can meet you somewhere.”

  “Might be better.”

  “I’m at your disposal.”

  “Could meet ya half way.”

  “There are not many civilized places between Prospect and Knoxville. We’ve got time before you finish a day tour. Give me thirty minutes, and I’ll meet you in the bar at Chesapeake’s. I’ll buy you a beer and listen.”

  “Okay. Works fer me.”

  “Just so I know, are you doing this on your own, or do your bosses want me to get this information?”

  “My boss knows, but he ain’t said nuthin’ ta the sheriff yet.”

  “I’m guessing this is big stuff.”

  “Look, Sam, you’ve done me a couple big favors and ain’t never asked fer nuthin’ in return. I figger I owe ya. And this might keep ya from snugglin’ up too close ta this Leary character.”

  “You’ve piqued my interest, partner. I’ll see you at Chesapeake’s in a half-hour. I’ll be the tall, dark and handsome stranger with a rose in his lapel.”

  “Ha! Not hardly.”

  I pulled into the lot for Chesapeake’s restaurant and parked next to a lackluster gold-colored unmarked Ford police car that I assumed belonged to Windy Hatmaker.

  Inside, I stood next to a two-foot tall by yard wide painting of three Maryland skipjacks docked somewhere on the Eastern Shore and waited for an attractive, middle-aged blonde to return to the hostess station.

  “One?” she asked.

  “I’m meeting someone at the bar,” I said.

  She smiled, slid a menu back into the rack and dipped her head a half inch. “Have a nice day.”

  Between the lobby and the barroom, I passed more nautical artwork depicting the tidewater region. Colored floats and fishnets hung on the rough wood columns, and the soft sounds of the big band era played through hidden speakers.

  I found Windy Hatmaker sitting at the bar behind a schooner of lager, talking with the bartender.

  I pushed a stool away to give me room next to Windy and spoke to the barman. “Did you check his proof? He looks too old to drink.”

  The young man who had been drying a highball glass smiled, but didn’t comment.

  Windy said, “Hey, whaddaya say, big feller? Yer rot on time.”

  “That’s me, Johnny on the spot.”

  I laid a twenty on the bar. “Can I have a pint of Black Bear? And when my father here finishes this one, bring him another.”

  “Yes, sir,” the barman said and moved toward the draught handles.

  “Let’s grab a table so you can tell me all your secrets,” I suggested.

  Windy slipped off the barstool. “Lead the way, Keemo-Sabby.”

  I picked up the glass of dark ale the bartender dropped off, the change from my twenty and left a couple bucks tip. We took a round table in the back corner of the lounge.

  “Okay, I’m all ears,” I said, dropping into a heavy wooden captain’s chair.

  “Ya prob’ly ain’t gonna believe this,” he began. “Well, mebbe ya will, now that this druggie burglar is makin’ a detailed statement against Leary. Best I kin tell ya is yer new boss ain’t no stranger up here in north Knoxville.”

  Windy Hatmaker was in his mid-fifties and medium-sized except for a double chin and basketball tummy. His clothes always looked like he bought them at the Salvation Army on half-price day. His uniform of the day was a green and black hound’s tooth sport jacket over a white shirt, striped tie and brown slacks. He wore his wavy gray-streaked, reddish brown hair combed straight back.

  “Let’s call Leary my temporary ass
ociate, shall we? Now, your statement sounds like it deserves an explanation.” I ended my line with a long drink from the glass of walnut-colored ale.

  “You hear anythin’ about Leary’s girlfriend?”

  I shook my head.

  “She’s a young junkie whore. Not bad lookin’, but got lots o’ wear and tear on her.”

  “How young is young?”

  “She must be ‘bout twenny-three, twenny-four now, but could pass fer younger with plenty o’ makeup. But they’s been t’gether fer years now. She’s jest a juvenile when they tied up—gar-ranteed.”

  “Well, if he likes them that young, maybe this girl is getting close to her expiration date.”

  “Ha. But she probably ain’t goin’ nowheres ‘cause she’s got him by the short hairs after all he’s been doin’ fer her. Got her a sheet full o’ solicitin’ and possession arrests. Pled out on all o’ them. Paid her fines. Mighta been on probation some. She likes ta drop Leary’s name when she gets arrested. Says they’s in love. Musta been grabbed and let go a lot more times than she was arrested. You know how some cops are.”

  I set my glass on the table with a click. “I’m sure Leary’s wife would love to hear this story.”

  Windy snorted. “Oh, yeah. But this one I’m tellin’ ya about ain’t Leary’s only extracurricular interest. He’s been grabbed himself plenty o’ times for patronizin’. Propositioned an undercover more’n once.”

  I shook my head, not totally able to believe what I was hearing. “Outstanding professionalism.”

  “I hear that. But buyin’ hookers ain’t all he’s inta. Been caught couple times tryin’ ta cop dope for his girlfriend.”

  “And he always gets off.”

  “‘Course we let him go. Would you arrest the chief deputy from the neighborin’ county?”

  I didn’t answer that, but I did sip more ale.

  Windy continued. “But I kin tell ya there’s plenty o’ hard feelin’s over him. Last time he got caught buyin’ dope fer his squeeze, my lieutenant complained ta the sheriff. Then, our boss called Leary’s boss and more or less said, either can him or keep him outta Knox County, ‘cause next time we’ll lock his ass up.”

  “That must have gone over like a lead balloon in Blount County.”