A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “Thank you. I only wish there were other circumstances contributing to my promotion.”

  “Give any thought to running for election when the time comes?”

  She snickered a little. “I guess I’m more popular than you with the local politicians, but I’ve never thought I could draw enough horsepower to get nominated for anything.”

  I thought about planting another suggestion in Minas Tipton’s head. “You never know. Maybe some unlikely person will endorse you.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ve got a fairy godfather out there.”

  “Stranger things have happened. What I do know is that I’m going to invite you to Prospect PD to make an important first decision as the new DA. You up for a road trip?”

  “What is this all about?” She sounded skeptical.

  “You’re always so suspicious. I’m going to give you three people’s heads on a platter. How about Toby Bowman’s killers? Interested?”

  “Good Lord. That’s the Internet prostitute Leary wouldn’t go for.”

  “The same. Three juveniles. I don’t want to influence your decision before you meet these kids, but they’re between fifteen and seventeen, and you may consider trying them as adults.”

  “I might, huh? Go ahead, and influence me. Tell the story.”

  I did.

  “God, that was cold. Are these hardcore bad boys?”

  “Outwardly, the two brothers just look like your garden variety of East Tennessee teenagers. I haven’t met the third party yet. The youngest one is almost falling apart in the squad room. The seventeen-year-old told his story with a straight face, but his old man says he’s been mentally screwed up ever since the murder.”

  “Sounds like a perfect case to refer to a shrink. What’s the father like?”

  I explained his appearance. “At first glance, he’s a strange article, but it took a lot of character and a bushel load of scruples to drag his kids in here to confess to a senseless murder.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Sometimes I can’t tell if Moira is trying to be more sarcastic than me.

  “Stan Rose is writing up the first pair. By the time you get here, we should have the Fannin kid waiting for you.”

  “Why is Stanley doing the paper on this? They confessed to you?”

  “Long story. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “Okay, I’ll bring Shelby with me,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear your story.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Moira Menzies and ADA Shelby Johnson showed up just after POs Junior Huskey and Vern Hobbs walked in with Mitchell Fannin in cuffs.

  Initially, Mitchell denied any complicity in the murder and claimed that the Blissard boys were crazy. When his mother, Sarah Fannin, showed up and I rehashed the allegations, Sarah pleaded with her son to tell the truth. After a few moments spent with me prying my way into the kid’s brain and my implied threats of what could happen to him if he persisted in stonewalling us, Mitch finally gave it up and elaborated on his part in the crime.

  I promised that if he cooperated I’d speak to the District Attorney on his behalf. To make the kid and his mother feel like they had accomplished something, I brought in our acting DA and her chief assistant to take his statement.

  As Shelby worked with the boy, Moira and I walked up front. She told me she had no objections to trying all three as adults and letting their attorneys bring out any mitigating circumstances—if they could find any—for a judge to consider at sentencing. We both liked the idea of letting a court-appointed psychologist spend some quality time with the boys to see what made them tick.

  All this took us several hours. Shelby Johnson worked with Stanley to get the arrest paperwork picture perfect, while Moira and I started working on a fresh pot of coffee in my office.

  “Going to tell me why you kissed off this one to Stan Rose now? You aren’t feeling sorry for these juveniles, are you?”

  I waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Hardly. I just want Stan to start off his days as police chief with a bang.”

  She gave her wavy blonde hair a theatrical shake and showed me a pair of very wide baby blues.

  “Say that again?” she said. “Stanley is the police chief?”

  “He’d better be, or Prospect will witness the most spectacular civil rights protest since Selma.”

  Her eyes got even a little wider. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’re losing me. Where are you going? Did you quit for some ungodly reason?”

  “I didn’t quit. I was wondering if I’d accept a new contract in August when the mayor and city council took the decision away from me. I’ve gotten the sack.”

  “You what?”

  “They no longer want my services.”

  “Lord have mercy. Sam, I know you and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye—let me rephrase—you’ve driven me up a wall more times than I can count, but I’ve always thought—and said—you’re the best street cop and administrator this county has ever seen. What is their problem?”

  “Just best in the county? Not the whole state?”

  “Don’t start with me. I’m being nice.”

  I shrugged and got serious. “I guess I targeted too many crooked politicians. They couldn’t fire me without cause, so they’re happy not to renew my contract. They don’t have to explain that to anyone. Actually, there’s more, but you probably don’t want to know.”

  She frowned and gave a serious case of the evil eye. “I’m going to be the new DA, stupid. Of course, I want to know.”

  I explained who the council earmarked for the chief’s job, how I involved the Guardians to protect Stan’s rights and might have mentioned how I lobbied to get Bettye the job as interim sheriff.

  Moira smiled and shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding. Mister, you’re something else. Who would figure you as not only a civil rights advocate, but champion of women’s rights? N.O.W. might choose you as man of the year.”

  “That would be nice. I hope they invite me to lunch.”

  “I’ll bet you would. Listen, I like your ideas. If there is any way I can help this along, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, I will. For now, as soon as we’re finished with these three young miscreants, I’m going upstairs and hammering home the last nail in Ronnie Shield’s coffin.”

  With copies of the supplementary arrest reports in hand, I mounted the staircase in the marble lined lobby of the Municipal Building, heading toward Ronnie Shields’ office.

  Trudy Connor greeted me more warmly than she had in the previous five years. I suppose I was cashing in on the suffering hero syndrome.

  I waved the reports in the air with a moderate amount of flourish. “I’ll give Ronnie these soon enough, but I’ll tell you first that we’ve arrested three boys for the murder of Toby Bowman. It’s the last outstanding major case on the books here.”

  “Well, they—” she said, with me again wondering who they were.

  “Since I’m leaving, Stan Rose will handle our end of the prosecution.”

  She nodded and gave me a hint of a smile. “I suspect ya want ta see the mayor now?”

  “I do.”

  She winked and picked up the phone. “Mr. Jenkins is here ta see ya.”

  Trudy hung up the phone so quickly it gave Ronnie no chance to comment. Her way of exercising upward discipline. Who’da figgered?

  As usual, I found Ronnie sitting in his oversized swivel chair. He said nothing as I approached his desk.

  “I have two important things,” I said, “and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  Still no response.

  “I’d like to know what you and the council have decided to do about the chief’s job.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but I continued.

  “And secondly, I want you to know how Stan Rose has cleared the Toby Bowman murder by making three arrests.”

  “Do what?”

  I wanted to smack him for that. I sighed. “Stanley, the guy you didn’t thin
k worthy of getting the chief’s job, cleared that outstanding homicide. No one on earth would call that anything but excellent police work.” He didn’t need to know the circumstances.

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. You would know.”

  “That’s right, I do know. I plan on putting out a press release unless you would rather do that.”

  “Uh, no, I guess you should send it.”

  “Right. Now about the chief’s job?”

  “We had a meetin’ about that.”

  “And?”

  “Joe Rex is gonna git back ta me.”

  I felt on the verge of losing it. “For Godssake! You are the goddamn mayor.”

  He pulled his head back as if trying to avoid a straight-on punch.

  “Do you want your city to turn into something people remember like the Watts Riots?”

  When I didn’t swing at him, his entire body sighed. “Sam, why are ya doin’ this ta me?”

  “Because I want you to do the right thing. Okay, you have every right to fire me, but you do not have the right to destroy your own police department. Be a man or suffer the consequences.”

  “Lord have mercy, I don’t deserve this.”

  “Then avoid any distress and simply promote Stanley. To hell with Donna Wrangle. Can she cause you major trouble?”

  “No, but Joe Rex is the—”

  “Screw Joe Rex. Stanley is the best man for the job. No one can refute that. Don’t promote him and morale in that department will go down the crapper. My God, man. It’s so simple.”

  “You want me to defy the council?”

  “Not the whole council. Joe Rex is pulling the strings, and no one else has the balls to say he’s wrong. I want you to be the courageous one who stands up and says to hell with him. Stan is now a local hero. Get your ass in gear and put out a press release. You send it. Not me. Announce the arrests and his merit promotion. Then call Joe Rex, and tell him you’ve made a managerial decision, something the people elected you to do—a decision you have the right to make. Hear me, Ronnie. Stop dragging your ass.”

  “I’ve never defied the council before.”

  “Take this advice to the bank. If Hal Crofton busses in hundreds of protestors calling you a racist and, as often happens, things get out of hand and people start looting the stores and set fire to who knows what, those council members will blame it all on you and throw you to the wolves. They will not take an ounce of responsibility. They’ll say Ronnie B. Shields is the chief executive of this city, and his decision turned Prospect into an inferno.”

  Ronnie’s breathing looked so labored I expected to see him keel over with a stroke or cardiac arrest. He remained mute but began nodding.

  Finally, he spoke. “I believe you’re right, Sam. I believe they would hold me responsible.”

  “Mr. Mayor, you do the right thing, and I’ll back you 110%. If anyone tries to second guess you, I have enough friends in the media who’ll listen to me.”

  “I’m gonna git major flak from Joe Rex.”

  “And if you bypass Stanley, I’ll call Lon Crosby who’ll call Hal Crofton who’ll start the busses rolling.”

  He frowned. “You’d do that, wouldn’t ya?”

  I nodded. “Ronnie, I like Prospect. I’ve spent the last five years keeping the people safe. But I’m not going to lose this one. You bet your ass I’ll make that call.”

  “So all I’ve got to do is what you call the right thing?”

  “It’s the easiest way.”

  More exaggerated nodding. “Okay, will ya at least write the press release for my signature?”

  “Of course.” I looked at my watch. “It’s late. Can I tell Trudy to stick around after five?”

  “Yes, we’ll both be here.”

  “Thank you. Now I’m proud of you, Ronnie. You’ll look back on this and be proud of yourself.”

  He shuddered. “I hope so.”

  “You will.” I placed the arrest reports on his desk. “I’ll be back shortly with that press release.”

  At ten minutes to five, I walked back into the PD. Bettye and John looked up. Their expressions asked the unspoken question. I couldn’t keep a straight face for long.

  “Hot damn! Two down, and one to go. And I’ve still got a few days left.”

  “You usually don’t show this much emotion, Boss,” John said. “What happened?”

  I felt elation and knew it showed. “Stanley is in. The mayor rolled over and wants me to write a press release about the arrests and Stan’s promotion. Ronnie wants to do the right thing.”

  “Did you threaten him again?” Bettye asked.

  I smiled and pointed at my chest. “Who me?”

  “You’re a damn terrorist, Sam Jenkins,” she said.

  “But a nice one.”

  “Good job, Boss.”

  I bowed sheepishly. “Thank you, John.”

  Bettye pressed me. “The mayor really wants to do this?”

  “Wants may be too strong a word. I’d say he sees no viable alternative. He doesn’t want to see someone make a movie called Prospect is Burning.”

  “You’re lucky you don’t end up in jail.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful when you’re being pessimistic?”

  “Oh, put a lid on it.”

  At the stroke of five, the phone rang. Bettye answered.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, he’s right here. Hold on, please.”

  She covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “Billy Joe Elam for you. Want it inside?”

  I shook my head. “Here is good.”

  She handed me the phone.

  “Billy, what’s up?”

  “The judge is not feelin’ too good and wanted me ta give ya a message.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “Don’t think so. Little indigestion be my guess.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “He got you and Miss Lambert an appointment with Mr. Fanwick tomorrow at 9:30. Do ya know where his office is?”

  “Party headquarters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll find it. Thank you, Billy. And please thank the judge for me. I hope he feels better.”

  Bettye and I left Prospect PD at nine a.m. the next morning. In fifteen minutes, we pulled up in front of Republican Party Headquarters in an industrial area, near the intersection of US 129 and the Pellissippi Parkway in Alcoa—just a long chip shot from the Pine Lakes Golf Club.

  I wore a tan blazer, brown slacks and a pale yellow button-down shirt with a weathered tartan tie. Bettye looked attractive and professional in a lightweight navy blue suit.

  Foxy Fanwick could have been anywhere between seventy and the north side of eighty. He might have been twenty pounds overweight, but his big smile and genuinely happy face made him look healthy and almost honest.

  He spent ten or fifteen minutes talking with us about the sheriff’s job. Then, with as much grace as Attila the Hun’s chief of staff, Foxy asked me to vacate the premises so he could speak privately with Bettye.

  I never like to leave a friend of the female persuasion alone in the company of a suspected sleaze ball. It’s been a long time since Sergeant Lambert attended defensive tactics classes at the police academy, but I knew she was packing a Chief’s Special .38 in her handbag. If Foxy tried to get cute and lure her onto his casting couch, she could at least shoot him between the legs and curb his lustful desires. Maybe the old coot only wanted to give Bettye a chance to bow out gracefully if the closet skeletons he was looking for had black eyes. But I’m suspicious by nature and over protective of the women in my life.

  I twiddled my thumbs and listened to country and western Muzak in the outer office. The Party didn’t even provide any outdated magazines. Twenty minutes later, Foxy’s door opened. He ushered Bettye out—both were smiling.

  “Miss Bettye,” he said, all syrupy, “It’s been one real pleasure meetin’ you. I believe I can say Blount County has never seen such a beautiful Sheriff. I’ll be in touch, and
y’all be careful out there.”

  Three down. All I need now is to pick a good entrée for my going-away luncheon. It all seemed too easy.

  That afternoon I wandered back upstairs to speak with Ronnie Shields. I found him pondering the fate of the city of Prospect and the Free World as he watched a pair of manic squirrels circumnavigating the trunk of a big tulip poplar in the town square. He turned as I approached the edge of his behemoth of a desk.

  “Sam.” He didn’t look any happier than when I left him yesterday.

  I nodded. “Ronnie. People from the media have been calling, asking why there’s going to be a change of command at the PD. I answered all the calls with a quick, ‘I’m old and tired and want to retire again, and I’m just as pleased as punch to be able to pass the torch to Stan Rose. They might believe it—or not—but it’s official. I told you I wouldn’t throw you to the jackals, and I didn’t.”

  He did that exaggerated nodding thing again. Ronnie looked ten years older than when I left him less than twenty-fours earlier. I assumed Joe Rex Wilcox or some other political werewolf jumped in his…gave him a hard time after he announced that Stan Rose would be the new chief at Prospect PD.

  “Thank you, Sam. I don’t mind tellin’ ya that I’ve gotten some major fallout from what I done.”

  I thought that deserved a grammatically correct response. “From whom?”

  “Joe Rex is not happy.”

  “Ronnie, I think it’s time to stomp on Joe Rex and establish yourself as king of the hill.”

  “Do what?”

  I really could just smack him when he does that. “Joe Rex is acting like a bully. And bullies only flourish and terrorize you if you let them. Call him back, or I will. Tell him if he screws with you, I—Sam Jenkins—will come down on him like a ton of bricks. If he doubts I can do that, suggest that he and I play chicken and see what happens. I’m on a roll here, Ronnie, and sticking it to Joe Rex would be just icing on my cake.”

  “Should I ask you to explain that?”

  “No. But you can tell him I plan on withdrawing every nickel I’ve got from his stinking bank. Tell him I want a check waiting for me so I can take it to 1st Tennessee.”