The Election (7 page)

The sheriff turned and watched as Billy forced Jed to stand, cuffed his hands behind his back, led him the few feet to the patrol car, and patted him down before opening the left rear door. Jed climbed inside the back seat without a struggle.

After securing Jed, Billy sat down behind the steering wheel and got on the CB radio to Butch. “SO 2 to SO 6, over,” he called into the radio.

“SO 6, go ahead,” Butch Johnson blared back.

“Butch, Jed blew a .13 on the breathalyzer. Sheriff wants you to search his truck.”

“Roger,” Butch responded.

“SO 2 to central dispatch, over,” Deputy Laymon continued.

“Central dispatch, over,” the female dispatcher replied over the radio.

“Bonnie, will you call Lieutenant Sloan in homicide and tell him that the sheriff wants him out here at the Thompson farm on Old Medina Road? It looks like we got ourselves our first homicide of the year.”

After hearing Billy comply with his instructions, Craig crouched his six-foot-two frame over the lifeless body of Jesse Thompson. He removed his hat, revealing his red hair and bushy eyebrows, and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his right hand and wrist. It sure was hot. His fair skin was going to burn fast under today's scorching sun.

Department procedures prohibited him from touching the body, but that didn't prevent him from examining the fatal wound. Immediately he noticed the precise location of the bullet hole in the middle of Jesse's forehead and how clean the entry was. The dead man's eyes were still open, and that bothered Craig. So he violated his own department's procedure and slowly rubbed his hand over Jesse's face to close his eyes.

He couldn't believe Jesse Thompson was dead. He and Jesse had been friends for thirty years. Jesse had helped him get elected the first time in 1984 and had made sure he was reelected every time since then. Jesse had also supplemented Craig's income with monthly envelopes full of cash, and Craig always complied when Jesse needed him to look the other way or carry out a threat against someone who was causing trouble for Jesse.

Even though Jesse had only been dead about fifteen minutes, the hot summer sun and humidity were not being kind to the corpse. Craig heard footsteps and looked up. Billy Laymon handed him a blanket. Craig used it to cover Jesse Thompson's body.

 

As directed by the sheriff, Deputy Butch Johnson began his investigation of Jed's old red Dodge truck. He found the driver's-side door still ajar. It creaked as Butch pushed it open wider to look inside. A whiskey bottle in a brown paper sack lay on the driver's-side floorboard. Some of the whiskey had spilled out and formed a puddle around the mouth of the bottle. The bench-style cloth seat was torn in several places, and the vinyl dashboard was cracked above the radio. Even though the door to the truck had been open, the interior still reeked of alcohol.

Butch wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief before walking around to the rear. The bed contained tools, empty beer cans, and an old spare tire. An army green tarpaulin covered the rest of the contents, so the deputy leaned over to pull it back.

“What is that?” he mumbled to himself in disbelief.

He threw the tarpaulin back further to fully reveal what lay underneath…and froze.

He'd found the murder weapon. His heartbeat quickened from the adrenaline rush, and his mouth became dry. He swallowed hard, trying to moisten his throat.

Racing back to his patrol car, he grabbed the CB radio mic and said frantically, “SO 6 to SO 2, over.”

 

Billy and Craig were still crouched beside the corpse of Jesse Thompson when they heard Butch's excited voice over the radio. Billy opened the driver's-side door and responded, “SO 2, over.”

“Billy.” The deputy's voice crackled loudly over the radio. “You won't believe what I just found. I was searching Jed's truck just like you told me to, and there was this green tarpaulin in the bed. I didn't know whether to move it or not, because I wasn't sure what we were looking for.”

“Butch,” interrupted Billy, “just tell me what you found.”

His interest piqued, Craig joined Billy at his patrol car.

“Like I was saying,” continued Butch excitedly, “there was this tarpaulin in the back of the truck, and I pulled it back. You won't believe what was under it.”

“Settle down, Butch, and tell me,” Billy stated.

“A Tango 51 sniper rifle with a scope and suppressor.”

Sheriff West stared at Deputy Laymon. Neither spoke, but the sheriff could see the disbelief on the deputy's face.

Five seconds of shock elapsed.

Then Butch inquired, “Billy, are you there? What do you want me to do?”

Billy raised the mic to his mouth and said, “Hold on.” He looked at the sheriff for instructions.

Sheriff West studied Jed, sitting in the backseat of the patrol car. “Tell Butch to tag the rifle and secure it in the trunk of his car. He will need to log it in the evidence room himself. I don't want any chain of custody problems. Then arrest Jed for murder, and take him to central booking. I'll wait here on homicide and the coroner.”

 

En route to Memphis International Airport

The assassin complied with all traffic laws on his trip from the Thompson farm to Memphis International Airport. His flight was scheduled to depart at 10:00 a.m., and he would arrive at the designated gate with only minutes to spare. Just before entering the corporate limits of Memphis, he dialed a preset number on the wireless phone. The call was answered, but no one uttered a sound from the other end of the line.

“He's dead,” he stated to whoever was listening and pressed End to disconnect.

The wireless phone, the map, the picture of the mark, and everything else in his possession associated with this contract would be destroyed before he reached the Memphis airport.

Jackson, Tennessee

Golf was one of Jake Reed's favorite hobbies, although he hardly found time to get away from the office. Today was one of those rare occasions. He had played several of the courses in the area, and the Par 5 fifth hole at the local country club was one he always enjoyed.

The setting around the hole was picturesque. The tee box backed into the shadows of a grove of grand oak trees. Other species of trees stood like sentinels along the beginning section of the hole, and the green, 525 yards ahead, was protected by several deep sand traps. Floral trees and shrubbery flanked the rear of the tee box and likewise behind the green. As he addressed his teed golf ball, Jake scanned down the fairway to a narrow landing that was bathed in early-morning sunlight.
That's where I need to land it
.

High school and collegiate baseball had developed a very natural, fluid swinging motion that helped Jake carry a single-digit handicap. He swung his new driver—one he'd purchased after watching a late-night infomercial that promised greater distance and better accuracy—and heard the
ping
of solid contact with the ball. Looking up, he watched the ball sail at least 240 yards down the middle of the fairway. It landed and rolled another twenty or thirty yards before it stopped.

I might have a go at the green in two today.

Jake twirled the club in his hands as he descended the small embankment back to the waiting golf cart. “This club was the best thousand bucks I've ever spent,” he boasted to his playing companion, Steve Herndon.

“Nice shot, you lucky dog,” Steve commented as Jake sat in the driver's seat of the cart. “Now if only you could putt,” he jabbed.

Jake's wireless phone rang as the golf cart rolled away from the tee box. He glanced at the number on the caller ID. The call was coming from his office.

“This better be an emergency,” Jake declared to Steve when he pushed the button to receive the call.

It was Madge. “Jesse Thompson's dead,” she blurted.

Jake inhaled. His thoughts ran wild. “What do you mean Jesse Thompson is dead? I just spoke to him yesterday, and he was fine.”

“I was just told he was shot this morning at his farm on Old Medina Road,” she replied. “The sheriff's department is calling it a homicide. The rumor I hear is that the entire back half of Mr. Thompson's head was blown off. It's so horrible, I don't even want to think about it.”

“Do they have any suspects?” Jake asked. He hoped she'd say no, but he had this awful feeling…

“They've arrested Jed McClellan,” Madge explained. “He's being held at the criminal justice complex.”

Jake felt like a heavyweight boxer had punched him in the stomach. Jesse Thompson was dead.
Did Jed really kill him?

Jake remembered his conversation with Jed from the previous afternoon. Jed was angry, but Jake convinced himself that the man was rational. So he hadn't followed through on his gut instinct to call the authorities.

But what if Jed wasn't rational? He was, after all, desperate, and desperate men did irrational things.

Had Jake been blind to the obvious? Was he unwittingly part of the plot to harm—even kill—Jesse Thompson? How could he have been so stupid?

“I'll get a quick shower at the clubhouse,” Jake told Madge. “I'll be in the office in about thirty minutes.”

There would be other times to play golf. This matter was too important to wait.

 

Naval Observatory, residence of the Vice President, Washington DC

Vice President Burke and his entourage left San Francisco just after six o'clock Pacific time Tuesday evening, arriving in Washington at 3:00 a.m. eastern time Wednesday. The primaries were grueling, but they didn't hold a candle to the endurance test associated with the general-election campaign. Sleep—particularly sleep in his own bed—was a precious commodity. When he finally got to bed at 3:45, he left instructions that he was not to be awakened. No appearances were scheduled until that evening, in Baltimore, only fifty minutes away. There was no need to get up early.

It wasn't long before Ed was dead to the world.

 

“Mr. Vice President,” came the voice of Ed's personal assistant from outside his bedroom door. “Mr. Vice President, are you awake?”

The knock at the door startled Ed out of his dead sleep. His heart raced for a few seconds. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand.
9:52.
He knew his top aide would violate his specific instructions only if something was terribly wrong.

“What is it?” he muttered from his bed.

“Sir, there's been a murder,” she replied. “And I think you should know about it.”

Slipping on the bathrobe that was lying at the foot of the bed, he walked to the door. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, trying to shake off his drowsy state as he opened the door. “Did you say
murder
?”

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but I thought you would want to know. Jesse Thompson was killed this morning.”

Disbelief consumed Ed. He staggered backward the few steps to his bed and collapsed on the edge with his face buried in his hands. He and Jesse Thompson had been friends since they were freshmen at Vanderbilt. They stood up in each other's weddings.

Jesse Thompson, dead.

“Are you sure?” Ed asked, hoping he'd misunderstood what was just said.

“We're certain, sir. It happened a couple of hours ago.”

“Tell me what you know,” he demanded, his vision fixed on the beige carpet beneath his feet.

“Not much at this point,” the aide admitted. “He was at his cattle farm and a disgruntled bank customer shot him with an assault rifle.”

“Do you know any of the funeral arrangements?”

“Things are still pending,” she responded.

“Let me know as soon as you hear something. I will attend the funeral, and I need to schedule a press statement for early afternoon.”

“I'll get right on it.”

 

Madison County Criminal Justice Complex, Jackson, Tennessee

A murder in Jackson was rare and usually not newsworthy to anybody outside the Mid-South. But this murder was different. The victim was a personal friend of the vice president of the United States. Reporters from all the major news networks descended on Jackson like vultures. Large white broadcast vans with satellite antennas on their roofs were parked outside the criminal justice complex by the time Jake arrived to see his client.

His client, that is, if Jed wanted his help. Who could blame Jed if he wanted someone else to represent him? Jake knew he hadn't done a very good job to this point. And he still wondered what he could have done to prevent this tragedy. Why didn't he try harder to convince Jesse to stop the foreclosure? Why didn't he tell the authorities about Jed's threats?

Jake shook his head. Here he was, already convicting Jed of the crime, and he hadn't even spoken with the man about it yet.

Jake pulled into the parking lot in front of the red-brick Madison County Criminal Justice Complex and parked his Volvo in a space reserved for attorneys. Only the judges had the privilege of parking inside the secured lot on the north side of the building. Jake entered through the tinted front doors and passed through the metal detector. The elevator carried him to the second floor, where he began his quest for Sheriff Craig West.

Jake soon found the sheriff in the break room, bragging to his deputies about how he knew all the time that Jed McClellan had shot Jesse Thompson.

“Sheriff, I need to see you for a minute,” Jake called from where he stood at the door.

“What can I do for you?” replied West, turning toward Jake.

“I need to talk with you about Jed McClellan.”

“There's nothing to talk about.” West scowled. His hands settled on his hips in a defiant gesture.

Jake didn't like the look West was giving him…as if he were sizing up an opponent.

“We got ol' Jed dead to rights, and there's nothing you can do to get him out of this one,” the sheriff claimed. “We found him at the murder scene, the murder weapon was in his truck, and I just found out that Jesse was scheduled to foreclose on Jed's house today. That's motive, my friend. Personally, I hope Jed fries. Jesse was one of my best friends.”

Jake could tell by the sheriff's clenched jaw that the lawman wasn't going to be of any help. He had no reason to be. After all, he was a suspicious, opinionated man who always thought everybody was guilty of something. And he didn't like Jake very much to start with. Worse, if the rumors about West's and Jesse Thompson's collaborations were true, that was even more reason for West not to be helpful. His income had just been slashed by half with the death of his benefactor.

“Where is he?” asked Jake.

“He's still in booking,” West announced. “You can see him in about thirty minutes.”

“I want to see him right now,” Jake insisted. “I'm his lawyer, and I demand to see my client.” He clenched his jaw as tightly as the sheriff's.

West finally relented. “He's down the hall. Interrogation room one.” He nodded toward the room.

Jake walked briskly in the direction West indicated and met two detectives in the hallway as they left the interrogation room. “Is Jed McClellan in there?” he inquired.

The first detective smirked. “Yeah, he's in there. Go in if you want. We're through with him.”

Jake peered at Jed through the small window in the door. The room was dimly lit and uninviting. A one-way mirror was built into the wall immediately adjacent to the door. Other than a metal table and four tattered chairs, the room had no furnishings.

Jake cursed Sheriff West under his breath for lying to him about Jed still being in booking. Jed looked terrible. He needed a shower and a shave. The booking officer had confiscated his belt and shoestrings. His clothes were wrinkled and unkempt, and he obviously had been crying.

Jake opened the door.

Jed immediately glanced up. “Am I glad to see you,” he stated with relief as Jake entered the room.

Jed's smile brightened the dismal room, and that set Jake at ease. He still had to find out what happened, but at least he knew Jed wanted his help.

“You look terrible,” began Jake. “Are you OK?”

“I'm OK. Just ready to get outta this place is all. How long you think they're gonna keep me? I need to get home to Ruth. She's probably worryin' about me.”

Jake tensed. Now he knew Jed didn't understand what was really going on. Or that he was now public enemy number one and would not be going home anytime soon.

“Jed, Sheriff West told me they found you at the murder scene and the murder weapon was in your truck. Is that true?”

“I didn't kill Jesse Thompson.” Jed's voice pleaded for Jake to believe him. “Lord knows I wanted to, but I didn't. I found him like that. His brains all blown out. I don't know how that gun got in my truck. Somebody must have put it there, but it ain't mine.”

“Tell me what you remember,” Jake instructed as he sat down in a chair across the table from Jed. “Everything.”

Jed told Jake about leaving the Bad Dog and driving to the cattle farm to talk to Mr. Thompson about stopping the foreclosure. He stopped at the gate and just spotted the man when he fell. When Jed reached Mr. Thompson, he was dead. Jed saw a small black pickup speeding away. Then he called the police.

“Did you see who was driving it, or anything else about it?”

“No, I just saw the truck.”

Sheriff West had conveniently failed to mention the pickup when Jake talked to him earlier. Jake made a note about it. Any glimmer of hope would have to be chased.

“This is a mess.” Jake replaced the top of his ink pen and slid it into his shirt pocket. He ran his fingers through his brown hair. “It doesn't look good, Jed. It doesn't look good at all.”

“I know, Jake, I know.” Jed buried his face in his hands. “But I didn't do it.” He looked up at Jake. “You've gotta believe me.”

Jake's policy had always been to never evaluate whether his client was innocent or guilty. His job was to take whatever facts he was presented with and turn them as best he could in favor of his client. So he chose not to respond to Jed's last statement. He stood up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he paced around the table.

“I anticipate that the DA will seek the death penalty,” he contemplated, talking more to himself than to Jed. He crossed his arms over his chest as he continued pacing. “He may offer us a deal to keep you alive if you plead guilty to first-degree murder.”

“The death penalty?” Jed turned to follow Jake, who was still pacing around the table. “But I didn't do it. And I ain't pleadin' to nothin'.”