A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  At 10:30, John Gallagher walked into my office as if he owned it. And with nothing more than a, ‘Hey, Boss,’ poured himself a cup of coffee and sat in one of the chairs in front of my desk.

  “So, what’s goin’ on,” he asked. “Whaddaya hear?”

  “Not a damn thing. And that bothers me. I wish those political goons would make up their minds and do something.”

  “You’re always so impatient, Boss.”

  “Yeah, right, and you personify inner tranquility.”

  “That’s me. Cool as a cucumber.”

  “You know something, my Irish friend, most people would leave loose ends for the next guy, but not me. Do you think we can clear the Toby Bowman murder in the next few days?

  John looked at me as if I suggested climbing Mount McKinley wearing shorts and flip-flops.

  “How?”

  “Good old-fashioned po-leece work.”

  “Boss, we’ve tried that. Doofy Arlo looked like our best hope, and that fizzled out. What’s next?”

  I sighed. “I pay you for good ideas, Detective Gallagher.”

  “Boss, you pay me to type and file papers. I work cases to keep from going nuts.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “When you were a squad dick, how many cases did you carry that went cold and unsolved?” he asked.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’ve got no new ideas. This may be one of those we just can’t clear by arrest.”

  I didn’t want to admit defeat. “Maybe. But maybe a good lunch would help us think. You interested?”

  “Sure. How about Howell’s”

  “You’re one of his best customers.”

  “I know. They’re cheap and good.”

  John and I got back to the office at five to one. Bettye needed to run a few errands, so John puttered around at his desk, and I answered the phones and dispatched a few calls to the sector cars.

  At 1:40, a man in his early-forties walked into the lobby dressed in a current set of sage green Army camouflage fatigues and a maroon beret. A pair of unhappy-looking teenagers followed him in.

  As he stood in front of the desk, I noticed that there were no name or US Army tapes over his pockets, no rank, no insignia on his shoulders or any flash or unit crest on the beret. He carried a wrinkled brown paper bag in his right hand.

  I nodded. “Hi, can I help you?”

  He must have looked at my open collared pale blue shirt and made a deduction. “Yes, sir. You a detective?”

  ”Not exactly. I’m the police chief. But I can help if you want to report a crime.”

  He nodded for a brief moment and looked terribly sad.

  “Yes, sir, I guess we do. That is, my sons here need ta do that.”

  Not sure if he was implying that they were criminals or victims, I asked, “How old are your sons?”

  If I thought the guy in cammies appeared sad, the pair of kids looked like they just watched some malevolent hooligan eviscerate their favorite pet.

  He pointed to the taller boy. “Elijah here, he’s seventeen. Jacob, this one,” he poked a thumb at the shorter boy, “he’s fifteen.”

  Elijah stood almost as tall as his father but lacked the weight and width of the older man. He had short dark hair and was attempting to grow a beard but couldn’t quite pull it off. He wore a faded red T-shirt with a pocket logo I couldn’t read and a pair of Real-Tree camouflage pants. The shorter boy had longer hair and wore a plain white T-shirt over washed-off blue jeans.

  “What’s your name, sir,” I asked.

  “Ethan. Ethan Blissard.”

  I began to write down the cast of characters. “Like the snow storm?”

  “Sounds kindly like it, but ain’t spelled the same. B-L-I-S-S-A-R-D.”

  “Uh-huh. Thanks. Are you in the army, Mr. Blissard?”

  He looked down at his cammies as if he noticed them for the first time. “Uh, no, sir. I jest respect and appreciate what the people in the military’s doin’ fer us. And you po-leecemen, too. Thank ya fer ya service.”

  Ethan Blissard was beginning to throw me off balance.

  “You’re welcome. And thanks for the thought.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were your boys victims of a crime?”

  Ethan hung his head and shook it gently from side to side. The two kids dropped their chins to their chests and didn’t look up.

  Finally, Ethan said, “No sir. They done somethin’. Somethin’ terrible.”

  “The boys are juveniles. Just how terrible was this thing?”

  Blissard turned toward his sons and spoke. “Elijah, the man asked what ya done. Look at him while he’s talkin’ and tell ‘im.”

  The older boy lifted his eyes, looked at me and swallowed hard. Tears showed on the younger boy’s eyes when he looked up.

  Ethan spoke again, in a voice that didn’t sound harsh, but definitely came across as a parental command. “Go ahead, son. Tell the man what ya done.”

  In a voice barely above a whisper, the boy said, “We killed a man.”

  That grabbed John’s attention—mine too. He stopped what he was doing and turned in his chair. I first envisioned a hit-and-run accident or some other unintentional act.

  “You’re sure about this?” I asked. “You know for a fact this person died?”

  The boy looked as if he was having difficulty holding up his head—like someone with a bad case of the flu. But he managed and continued to look me in the eye.

  “Yes, sir, he was dead alright.”

  I turned my eyes to the father. “Mr. Blissard, you said, they did this. Did Jacob also kill someone?”

  He nodded slowly. “Same person. And one o’ their friends done it, too. Only he ain’t here.”

  John spoke for the first time. “Your boys and a friend all killed one person?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I immediately thought of Agatha Christie’s famous novel Murder on the Orient Express.

  “Who’s the third friend?” he asked.

  “Boy name o’ Mitchell Fannin.”

  “How old is Mitchell?” I asked.

  “Jacob’s age. Fifteen. Mebbe a little older. Could be sixteen. They’s in the same grade in school.”

  After Ethan finished speaking, Bettye cleared her throat to let us know she had returned and was standing behind us.

  I stood and faced her.

  “Sarge, this is Mr. Blissard and his sons. John and I will be taking some information from them. We’ll use the squad room. Will you handle the desk?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you need me to do anything else?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Just a moment.” I turned and spoke to Ethan Blissard. “Will you follow Detective Gallagher? He’ll take you back to a private room. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  He nodded and offered me the paper bag.

  “I expect ya’ll be needin’ this.”

  I unrolled the paper and looked inside at a blue steel revolver, an old Colt Detective Special. My guess of a hit and run just flew out the window.

  “Is this loaded?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. Still got a couple live shells in it. I didn’t want ta touch nuthin’.”

  “Is it your gun?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  So much for keeping your weapons secure.

  To Gallagher, I said, “John, I’ll meet you down there in a minute.”

  He nodded and ushered the threesome down the hall.

  “What’s that about?” Bettye asked.

  “Murder. Manslaughter, maybe. The kids and a friend killed someone.”

  “Who?”

  I smiled. “Beats me, Blondie, but I’ll find out.”

  She returned the smile. “I know you will, darlin’.”

  “With only a few days left, it looks like I’ll go out with a bang.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “See why you’re my favorite desk sergeant?”

  She batted her eyelashes. “Who me?”


  I let Humphrey Bogart issue my next statement. “I gotta put this roscoe in the evidence locker, sweetheart. Then me and the Irish gumshoe will be playin’ shamus in the squad room for some time. While I’m gone, doll-face, call Stanley, and tell him ta get his keister in here pronto.”

  “Pronto? My, my. What will he be doing?”

  “Making a few arrests for murder.”

  “Mr. Blissard,” I said, “we don’t plan on abusing your sons or violating their rights in any way, but I’ve got to ask, do you want a lawyer present before we listen to what they’ve got to say?”

  “I expect they’ll need one fer court but rot now they need ta tell ya what they done.”

  The boys sat in armless chairs facing me. I sat behind a battered gray steel desk. Ethan stood behind his sons, and John pulled up a chair facing the trio.

  “In a case like this, Mr. Blissard, you’re the one who would have to waive your sons’ rights to legal representation. Would you sign the form for Detective Gallagher before we continue?”

  “Yes, sir. They need ta git all o’ this offa their chests. Ever since they done what they done, Elijah, he’s been moody, actin’ all sick-like. Jacob, he’s about the same. The school’s been tellin’ his mother how he’s havin’ troubles they cain’t explain. They need ta git this offa their consciences and git straight with the Lord, so they can git on with their lives.”

  Yeah, I thought, so they can get prepared for the jail time they’re facing.

  Ethan signed the document John handed him.

  “Tell me one thing first, Mr. Blissard. Do you know who the boys shot?”

  He nodded. “Not personally, but it’s that homasexural boy y’all found in the creek.”

  It’s not often that someone wanders into your police station and confesses to a crime. It’s even less frequent that a civilian dressed head to toe in Army camo drags his sons in and makes them ‘fess up to killing the victim of your open homicide—one which you have precious little hope of ever clearing.

  “Okay,” I said. “That young man’s name was Toby Bowman. I’d like to speak with your sons now, one at a time. You need to be present with the one I’m talking to. I’d like to begin with Elijah. Jacob can sit in another room. That work for you?”

  “Yes, sir. Yer the po-leeceman.”

  “John, take Jacob to the juvenile room. Give him a soda if he wants one.”

  “You got it, Boss.”

  John led young Jacob across the hall. The door closed, and the unmistakable click of the bolt being thrown to lock the door from the outside bounced off the walls in the narrow hallway.

  John returned immediately. I assumed that Jacob wasn’t in the mood for a Pepsi. John sat next to me. Ethan took the seat vacated by his younger son. He snatched the beret from his head as if he thought we’d be angry at him for not removing his headgear indoors. He folded it as neatly as would any soldier.

  “Elijah, my name’s Sam Jenkins. I’m the police chief here. This is Detective John Gallagher. We’ll both be talking with you.”

  The kid nodded.

  “You used the gun your father handed me to shoot the young man I identified as Toby Bowman. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “It’s my Daddy’s.”

  “I know. Where did you find it?”

  “His closet.”

  “How did you know Toby Bowman?”

  “Didn’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Didn’t know him. Jest found him on Charlie’s List.”

  “Toby advertised himself on Charlie’s List as a male prostitute. Were you looking to, uh…engage his services?”

  “Do what?”

  “Did you want to hire him to have sex?”

  The kid looked shocked. “No, sir. We jest called him.”

  “Who are we?”

  “Me and Jacob and Mitchell.”

  “What did you call him for?”

  He hesitated. He looked at his father, looked at me, looked at John. And ended up looking back at Ethan.

  “Tell ’im, son. Tell ’im like ya told me.”

  After another long moment, Elijah said, “Called ’im ta kill ’im, sir.”

  I’ve heard a few bizarre motives in my time, but this promised to be a doozie.

  “If you didn’t know him, why did you want to kill him?”

  Elijah did the roving eye routine again and this time came back to me. “It’s a long story, sir.”

  “We’ve got all the time you need, son.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, sir, we’d been talkin’, me and Jacob and Mitch. And I guess it’s me who said, ‘Whaddaya think it’s like ta kill a man?’ The other two, they didn’t know. But Mitch, he says, ‘Ya wanna see what it’s like?’ So, I says, ‘We might could.’”

  Neither John nor I said anything. Ethan remained silent. Elijah paused for another moment to catch his breath before continuing.

  “And then I said, ‘Wonder what it feels like ta shoot a man, knowin’ he’s gonna die on ya.’”

  I waited for twenty seconds as Elijah just sat there staring at me. “And what happened next?”

  “Mitch said, ‘Your daddy’s got him a handgun. We could use it. Whaddaya think?’ So I said, ‘Yeah, my daddy’s got him a gun. You really wanna do this?’”

  The conversation went on for another twenty minutes. We established that each boy wondered what it would feel like to shoot and kill another human being. That was it—their sole motivation.

  The boys’ discussion led them to mention the Riverside Strangler cases and how, if they hooked up with an internet prostitute, the police might infer this was just one more from the serial killer. But none of the boys were up for killing a woman and figured that a male prostitute needed killing anyway.

  Cold. Impersonal. Inhuman. But it was their plan, and they implemented it quickly and easily. Poor Toby Bowman had no idea what he was walking into.

  “Who shot him first,” John asked.

  “I did then Mitch then Jacob.”

  “Was Toby alive after the first shot?” I asked.

  “Don’t know, but we each wanted to see what it felt like.”

  I nodded. “What did you do after firing the shots?”

  “Drug ’im down ta the creek.”

  “Did you pick the creek as a meeting spot because it gave you a place to dump the body?”

  “’Cause o’ the other killin’s were all by the water, and we figgered we could mebbe float him away.”

  “But he didn’t float away.”

  “No, sir. Too shallow. We jest left him.”

  “What did you do with Toby’s car?”

  “Mitch drove it down ta Chilhowee Lake and drove it off inta one of them real deep spots near the road. Me and Jacob followed and picked ‘im up.”

  Thanks to these kids and Ryan Leary, the lakes in and around Blount County will have more scrap metal in them than the jungles of Vietnam.

  “Did you feel bad after you shot him?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. It looked as if he had to think about an answer. “I guess.”

  I took a deep breath myself. “Okay, son. Now I’d like you to write all this out for us. In your own words, but Detective Gallagher will help if you need it. Your dad and I will sit with Jacob.”

  “Yes, sir, that’ll be fine.”

  Elijah switched places with his brother. I spent a long time with Jacob establishing essentially the same facts we had previously learned. That done, I started him writing.

  After reading the statements from our two juvenile killers and obtaining the address of their accomplice, Mitchell Fannin, I felt a five-star tension headache careening around inside my skull. With statements in hand, I walked up front looking for a half-dozen Advil and my share of comfort from Bettye.

  Stan Rose intercepted me before I could cash in on either of the aforementioned necessities.

  “What’s
up?” he asked.

  I shrugged without moving my head too much and making myself feel even worse. “You won’t believe this, but a guy masquerading as an Army paratrooper waltzed in with his two kids in tow and made them confess to the Toby Bowman murder.”

  Stan’s eyes popped. “Say what?”

  “You heard me, big guy. In my waning days as leader of this pack, we get the big one. And, my large friend, you’re going to put your name on the arrest reports and get the credit. Then, if our dipshit of a mayor still harbors any thoughts of appointing that senior school crossing guard as chief, at least the Knoxville Press Corps can, with good conscience if they have one, ask why you didn’t get the job.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you heard from Alonzo recently?” Stan asked.

  “No,” I said. “And that ticks me off no end. No one is telling me anything, and you know how lack of timely information makes me feel.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “I see you’re a man of few words this morning. No problem. Go back to the squad room, and let John brief you. Then process these two juveniles. Before you finish, we should have a third one in custody, and you can start all over again. For now, I’ll call the DA’s office to see if they want to prosecute these children as adults.”

  “How old are these children?”

  “Seventeen and fifteen are in the back room. The third accomplice is fifteen or sixteen.”

  “Three kids killed the male pross?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Any good reason?”

  “They wanted to see how it felt.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’re giving this to me? If they called you back to testify, you could make a small fortune in per diem wages.”

  “It would only put me in a higher tax bracket. Besides, you’re my buddy and the guy I want to see as the next chief at PPD.”

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now start typing.”

  “As you wish, bwana.”

  “Hello, Moira,” I said. “I’ve meant to call you before, but a few things have happened in rapid succession. Anyway, congratulations. I understand you’ll be the interim DA until the next election.”