Vendetta Stone (27 page)

THURSDAY, AUGUST
19

1

I wheeled my car into the IHOP parking lot just off I-24 and Bell Road near old Hickory Hollow Mall and entered. Just after midnight, the start of a new day, Mendez waved me to his table. Seated with his back to me, a thick, dark-haired man I didn’t know. Another cop or maybe a friend Mendez met after his shift ended.

“I hope you don’t mind that I invi
ted someone else,” Mendez said, apologizing to the man across from him who looked around.

“I though
t only my hairdresser knew,” Sergeant Mike Whitfield said. “Have a seat.”

“And I thought you were drying out,”
I said, glad to see him. It would make what I in mind easier to pull off. “Did you bust out? It’s good to see you even if I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

A few mo
re barbs were traded, then the real meeting began.

“So who gave you permission to call in a reporter?” Whitfield asked his partner.

“Nobody.” Mendez shrugged. “He called, asking about you. Said he wanted to show you something.”

I took
my cue as Whitfield shifted attention. I opened the cell phone, and clicked open a photo taken off my television screen.

“E
ither of you seen this man before?”

Whitfi
eld studied the pictures, and then handed the cell phone to Mendez. He shook his head.

“Who is he?” Whitfield asked.

“I have no idea,” I said, “but I’d sure like to. At our website is a photo of this man leaving the visitation. He took off right as I showed up to talk to Herb Fletcher. I found some video from the visitation which showed them together near the end of the line chatting away like best friends. I’ve described him to some folks tonight and nobody recognized him. I can’t say why, but I feel like he’s somehow connected to this case. Something ain’t right.”

Whitfiel
d studied the photo again. You couldn’t see the man’s dark eyes because of the shadows, just a twisted smile bathed in sunlight. Whitfield didn’t say it, but he thought I might be right.

“It’s kind of hard to make him out,” Whitfield said. “Got any other pictures?”

“Just the video at home and it’s not much better.”

“I’d like to get a copy,” he said, handing me back the cell
phone.

“I thought you might. I’
d like to help, but—”

“Your journalistic principles?”

“Something like that.” I figured they’d understand. But, no.

“We can get a subp
oena and charge you with interfering in an investigation,” Mendez said. A look from Whitfield silenced him.

“Yeah
, I suppose you could. I’m going to have to talk to my editors in the morning. On another subject, what’s up with the dye job and fake story about going into rehab? I’m feeling kind of used right now, Mike. I’m going to have to tell my editors about that, too. Maybe there’s another story I need to write.”

“Hold on,” Whitfield said. “Let’s talk this out
, and I’ll explain what I can.”

“
Not unless it’s on the record,” I snapped.

W
e all sat in silence for several minutes. I thought about getting out so late and what I hoped to accomplish through Mendez. I didn’t want a golden opportunity to pass, and that made up my mind, so I stood, said I’d be right back and headed for the bathroom. I caught Mike’s eye and left my cell phone on the table. In no hurry to get back, I washed my hands twice and then raked my comb over my hair. Long enough.

I never
asked, and Mike Whitfield never volunteered any information, but here’s what I
suspect
happened while I waited in the bathroom. I
suspect
Mike’s eyes followed, and when he heard the door lock, I
suspect
he picked up my cell phone and forwarded a copy of our mystery man’s cell photo to his own email address. I further
suspect
that Sergeant Whitfield put the cell phone back on the table moments before I emerged from the john because it sat
precisely
in the same position as when I left for the bathroom.

As I
said, these are mere suspicions. But as I came out of the bathroom, Whitfield stood.

“We talked it over,” he
said. “I don’t think this is the right time for an on-the-record conversation. Keep your trap closed, and I’ll do the same.” We shook hands and walked to our cars.

“N
ice not talking to you. But I want to be the first person to hear if something breaks.”

“My boss will call your boss,” Whitfield said and drove off.

I got home about one-thirty, bothered a little about what I
thought
occurred. I would also report the meeting to my boss.

T
he stage was set for quite a showdown, and I would be right in the middle of it.

Storms returned Thursday morning, and the Midstate buzzed over the deaths of Sarah and Herb Fletcher. Traffic at TenneSceneToday.com reached an all-time high with over eight hundred hits on my front pager, with bloggers speculating on why Herb killed Angela, how Sarah killed Herb, and what role Jackson played in their deaths. The editors kept libelous and abusive comments in check, but as soon as they deleted one, three more were posted. A sample:

A
t 4:10 a.m., H
OOSIERDADDY
wrote: “It looks like Jackson got his revenge; how hollow he must now feel. Hope your soul was worth it, murderer.”

A
t 4:47 a.m.,
DETERMINATOR
wrote: “In response to JONAS, my guess is the killer is still out there and Stony will catch him and feed him to the fish.”

At 5:10 a.m.,
MITSU
wrote: “The big question is why the Fletchers are dead. There MUST be a connection to all three murders. If Stone killed Herb he had reason.”

At 5:59 a.m.,
BUZKIL
wrote: “Stone Stone. I bet he killed all three.”

At
7:10 a.m.,
PASSION FLOWER
wrote: “I know the passing of the Fletchers is news, but the media coverage is sensationalized. You make money off these tragedies. Shame on you.”

At 8:3
2 a.m.,
RETCHIN’ GRETCHEN
wrote: “All of you people act like vultures. And not just

the
media, but those who write this jibberish. You should be ashamed. You make me sick.”

At 8:55 a.m., Chief King scanned page after page at the newspaper website, awaiting Whitfield’s call. So far the routine reports addressed what Jackson did, where he ate, who he met, if he’d made any progress toward finding the killer, if anyone suspicious seemed to be following him.

At 9 a.m., King’s private telephone buzzed. He answered on the second ring.

“We’ve lost Stone, but we have a lead on a suspect,” Whitfield reported.

King’s
irritation at losing Jackson abruptly shifted to excitement. Finally, a break.

“I just
emailed you a photo of a person of interest. It’s not a great shot, but maybe the lab boys can enhance it,” Whitfield added.

For the next ten minutes Whitfield
filled in his boss on the past twenty-four hours, from his decision to bring in Mendez to where he lost Stone, from his fruitless interrogation of Big Red to the APB put out on Red’s truck, from Mendez’s late-night phone call to the meeting with me. Whitfield expected to be fired, taken off the case, or demoted. None of the above.

“You make finding Stone priority one
, and I’ll start trying to find this man,” King said. “Get Mendez to stick with Boyle. Let’s see if Stone contacts him again.”

“I still have a job?” Whitfield asked, somewhat incredulous.

“You’ve made some mistakes, but Stone could have pulled that switch on anyone. He’s pretty clever and shouldn’t be underestimated,” King said, controlling his anger. “You should have called before you brought in Mendez, but we might not have this photo if he hadn’t known he could talk to you, so things even out. We need to get back ahead on this. Mendez is reassigned to you. I wish the newspaper wasn’t involved. I’m going to call over there. Get back to me.”

At 9:20 a.m., King hung up and dialed
TenneScene Today
Executive Editor Judy Flint. Her secretary said Mrs. Flint was in a meeting but would he please hold. Danise knocked on the door and entered. Besides Judy and me, the intense meeting consisted of city editor Carrie Sullivan, Managing Editor Ken McGuire, and Publisher Andrew Polk. I felt thankful for the interruption. I’d called Carrie from the house and when I got to the paper, they were waiting for me. I felt like the guest of honor at a mid-August barbecue. The main course.

“
Chief King on line two,” Danise announced.

“We’re finishing up here,”
the editor said. “Tell him I’ll call back in ten minutes.”

Danise left
, and Judy turned on me, a disgusted look on her face.

“You can leave, too,
Mister Hilliard,” she said. Judy and I have a very good relationship, but she’s STILL the boss.

After I left
, Judy went ballistic. “I want him off this story. Assign it to Tony or Shelley.”

“Don’t overreact, Judy. He’s been so far ahead on this story it would be a real mistake to pull him now,” McGuire said.

“He’s compromised our ability to gather the news fairly and impartially.”

“That’
s bull,” Carrie said. “Gerry’s the best reporter we’ve got. You know we’ve cooperated with the police on investigations before—last spring on the East Nashville rapist case, as a matter of fact.”

“That was different,” Judy fired back. “That perv mailed us a
letter bragging about his crimes. It was evidence.”

“And it helped catch him, did it not? And
Gerry was all over that story, too.”

Publisher
Andrew Polk, prematurely gray for his forty-two years, again proved the voice of reason. And the boss.

“The police are going to owe us one,” Polk
said. “If we hand them key evidence, we’ll demand an exclusive.”

Judy
backed off. “All right, Andrew, it’s your call. Everybody back to work. And tell Hilliard no more phone calls to the cops without talking to me first. I don’t care what time it is.” She dialed the police chief.

At 9:30 a.m., Carrie
lectured me how she once again saved my butt, when my telephone rang. Jackson Stone, the caller ID said.

“Where did you get this photo?”

Delmore Wolfe
sat in his car around the corner from Jackson’s house, waiting and trying to watch through the steady rain that streaked the windows. He couldn’t see much, but his Super Hearing earpiece picked up everything. He had driven past the house twice and down the alley behind it, spotting no cars and no signs of life.

A
police cruiser approached, and he ducked from view. Fortunately, the cop didn’t stop to check out his parked car. Everybody parked on the street in the close-knit community, where most of the cottage houses and Victorian homes were built in the early twentieth century and attached garages were rare.

Wolfe
grew angry. He counted on finding Jackson so he could follow him to that hot little psychiatrist. Jackson had scheduled a session with her, and Wolfe wanted one, too. He tried to think where Jackson might be this early. He sat outside the house for an hour or so, growing anxious and more paranoid. He lit another cigarette and washed a handful of pills down with the last sip of Jack and Coke, driven by demons that would not let him rest until he found his quarry. He picked up sounds of another car approaching. A red pickup pulled into the driveway. He couldn’t make out the features of the dark-haired man who got out and banged on the front door. Wolfe turned up his amplifier.

“You in there
, Jack?” No answer. The man walked around the house checking the back door and peered into windows. He left forthwith. Wolfe stayed.

Jackson
yawned, rolled his neck, flexed his shoulders, and rubbed at his lower back, still getting over the lumpy couch. He made coffee and got a paper at the market across the street from Eddie Paul’s Pub. He twice read my story and the sidebars. None of it went as far as television coverage in trying to connect the deaths. Our article quoted Stone as denying Channel 11 reports.

Jackson
worked at his second cup of coffee trying to decide what he would do today to speed up his search when a ravenous hunger hit him. He started to go back to the market, but decided to get going. He wanted fresh clothes for his eleven a.m. appointment with Doctor Karnoff, but didn’t want to swing by the house. He didn’t know if the cops would be there, but didn’t want to chance it. He’d disappeared and wasn’t ready to resurface. He got in Louie’s silver Malibu and tuned into George Dunkirk’s talk show as he drove through the rain to the Greasy Spoon diner for breakfast. Five minutes of mindless radio chatter and speculation about what happened to the Fletchers wore him out.

“If they knew,” Stone muttered as he slammed the
car door, wishing for enlightenment himself.

After ordering,
Jackson decided he wasn’t going to Murfreesboro just to change clothes. An “emergency” suit hung in the spare bedroom closet at his brother’s house. As he opened his cell phone to call Patrick, he noticed a photo in his inbox. The waitress brought breakfast, but Jackson never noticed. After five minutes of staring at the picture, that’s when he called me.

I stayed cool in front of Carrie. She’d climbed out on that proverbial limb for me, and if she learned I was talking to Jackson about the photo I’d shown to the two officers overnight, no amount of explaining would help. But I wanted to gather more facts and fill in holes before bringing it to her attention.

“I’m sorry, Mister
Jones,” I said. Carrie bristled at the interruption to her stern lecture, “but I’m working exclusively on the Stone murder case. I’ll pass on your number if you’d like.”

Jackson
immediately understood I couldn’t talk.

“I’ve got an appointment at Vanderbilt at eleven. I can meet you by the Parthenon in about an hour,”
Jackson said. “At the picnic shelter.”

“Sure thing. Good luck to you
, too, sir.”

I
hung up and tried to be attentive to Carrie’s sermon about a right way and a wrong way to track down a story, that I had come
this
close to getting fired or reassigned, that I’d better call Judy before I pulled another stunt like that.

“Sure thing,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call
you
when I’ve got something.”

Ca
rrie tried to be mad, but couldn’t. I took care of a few things at my desk, logged off my computer, grabbed my notepad, cell phone, and mini-recorder, then, like Elvis, I left the building.

As I pulled out of the newspaper parking lot and headed toward West End, Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston turned the ignition in the car and pulled out of the gas station across the street.

“So where do you think he’s going?” asked vid
eographer Greg Pittard, who filmed with his small hand-held camera as they trailed me.

“I’ll pull up beside him at the ligh
t and ask him,” Clarkston said.

S
till stinging from my verbal jabs of the previous night about closing in on the killer, Clarkston figured something on the DVD gave me the clue I sought. We enjoyed competing against each other and now more than ever, Clarkston wanted to kick my butt on this story. After I left the station last night, they went back and reviewed the first five minutes of the video five times—the only part I’d asked to see more than once. I’d done so for the purpose of throwing them off the scent. They behaved as I expected, just the way I would, had roles been reversed. It almost worked. Clarkston recognized faces in the footage and tried matching names. He wanted to look one more time, but Pittard said his shift ended ten minutes ago and headed home. So Clarkston restarted the playback unit. He watched the first five minutes and decided to look over the whole tape. Another five minutes passed before an urgent need to go to the bathroom hit. Clarkston didn’t turn off the scanner. When he got back, it neared the end of the tape. There was Herb in the line.

The mustach
ed man behind him looked somewhat familiar, but Dan couldn’t put a name with that face. Where had he seen that guy before?

Clarkston
couldn’t figure it out, so he decided to let me do the legwork, and he would be there to grab the spotlight.

The chase began, with Desperate Dan
running second.