Vendetta Stone (3 page)

“No, I need to get this done today,” Jackson said, and turned to the precinct commander.

“Sir, I’ll make a brief statement after you finish, but I don’t want to take questions afterward. Can you get me out of here without running a media gantlet?”

“There’s an exit right off the community assembly room that goes out into our parking lot. It’s not accessible by the public, and the fence can only be opened by a cruiser making contact with the sensor panel. But we can override if you pull your car inside,” Reynolds said.

Jackson didn’t apologize for his earlier outburst, but thanked the officers and looked at his watch. At five till five, they headed into the lobby. Jackson peered in and saw the media gathered around the front lectern, his brother sitting in the back. He motioned for Patrick to step outside as Allenby went inside.

“Look, I need to borrow your car,” Jackson half-whispered. “I can’t explain right now, but mine’s parked behind the public health center just down the street. That’s where your car will be in about fifteen minutes. Pull your car around the building and inside the fence and park by that door. Leave the keys in the ignition.”

Reynolds talked to a patrol officer, wh
o went around out front and let the civilian car enter the restricted area.

Patrick nodded and followed the cop outside. Jackson went into the briefing room an
d sat next to Allenby up front.

Jackson studied the reporters and camera crews as Reynolds discussed various aspects of the investigation and then offered to take a few questions. Several hands raised, and Reynolds fielded them deftly, answering in the vaguest of terms. Jackson’s intense concentration broke when Reynolds called his name.

I remember thinking how bad he looked. I glanced around for our late-as-usual photographer,
Casey Leiber, and spotted her. She blew hair out of her face and squatted just below camera range of the television lighting so she didn’t use her flash. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jackson’s brother Patrick re-enter the room, take a seat in the back, and nod. I looked forward and a somber Jackson Stone nodded back.

As Jackson stepped to the lectern, he seemed to lapse into a fog as if deciding whether he wanted to go through with his plan to talk. The collective media grew silent, tension filling the room. Those hushed seconds seemed to last forever.

“Jack?”

Allenby’s barking voice cut through the fog, and Jackson recognized his surroundings and the difficult path he’d chosen. He cleared his throat and mumbled a “scuze me” and wiped a tear from the corner of his left eye. Steeling himself, he understood his dangerous plan
would change his life forever. He couldn’t imagine how many other lives it would alter—and in some instances end.

After he said his first two shocking lines: “I don’t want justice . . . I want revenge,” a resolute Jackson stood there for several long seconds, watching the various reactions of the media—eyes popping wide open with astonishment, words forming but only mimed, the note-taking freezing in mid-scribble, some audible gasps. We were all caught off guard at this unexpected development.

For veteran newsmen and women, press conferences like this were supposed to be routine. For the electronic media, it meant interviewing the police spokesman, getting the grieving family member on tape for a thirty-second sound bite
, followed by sympathetic words from the anchor back at the station, then moving on to the next big story. For print media like myself, I wanted hard facts from the cops to wrap around some colorful comments that might warrant better play for my story.

“Colorful” described my face as I flushed with excitement, realizing the impact of the story that had fallen into my lap. In all my years on the police beat, I’d never heard a victim’s relative issue such an outrageous declaration. And he wasn’t done.

Click-click-click-click-click. The cameras of the print media whirred non-stop as Jackson shook with rage, then took a deep breath. He looked down at his hands. When they no longer trembled, Jackson clinched them and continued. He stared at the cameras, his outward calm making his words more chilling.

“Whoever did this to my wife, he better hope the police find him before I do. I will spend the rest of my life hunting down this scumbag if that’s what it takes.”

Jackson then aimed his right index finger at the cameras as he spoke with an air of assuredness, glaring from camera to camera for maximum effect. Cameras zoomed in for close-ups of the unshaven, haggard face. Rumpled as he looked, his mind remained clear and his eyes blazed. This guy meant business.

I stole a quick glance at others seated up front. Commander Reynolds and Jackson’s attorney, Allenby, appeared stunned. Allenby, in particular, looked ready to jump out of his chair and wrestle the mike out of Jackson’s hands. But with every wrenching second of this “meltdown” being recorded, neither man moved. I didn’t dare tu
rn to the back of the room to gauge Patrick’s reaction.

“And when I find you, you won’t d
ie quick. That’s no threat, that’s a promise,” Jackson continued, speaking slow and sure with occasional pauses for emphasis. “I promise you I will start by breaking both of your legs. While they’re healing, I promise I will torture you for the rest of your miserable life in ways I’ve just begun to imagine. When I think you’ve finally suffered enough—and that’s going to be awhile, I promise—I’ll gut you like a deer and take my time doing it. Then I’ll feed your carcass to the dogs. You’re real good at hurting helpless women. Let’s see how
you
cry, how
you
bleed.

“Look over your shoulder every day, because I’m coming. It may not be tomorrow or next week or next year, but I’ll find you. And if the cops find you first, I’ll still find a way to get to you.” He paused. “I will end you.”

Then it was over. Just like that. Jackson turned to his left and darted to the exit door, gave it a shove, and stepped outside. He jumped in Patrick’s white Ford station wagon and sped away.

What had pushed Jackson to this point?

Not the first question racing through my mind at his shocking press conference, but it required answering first.

I would eventually discover that it was not a snap decision, but one Jackson had reached over several hours through a series of recollections followed by a connect-the-dot chain of events.

The plan came out of his most memorable hunting trip with his father in 1975.

“That’s what makes this a sport, Jacky,” Larry Stone explained that crisp, late October day as they walked the woods of northwest Davidson County near the Cumberland River. “It’s just you and me, relying on our senses and our tracking skills to find that big boy. Then you watch and wait for the shot—count on getting just one—and when that moment comes, you’re going to use all your well-honed abilities to make that shot count. You don’t want the animal to suffer. You want a clean kill.”

The ten-year-old nodded. Deer hunting differed from other sports he played, but pitting newfound skills in a test of man versus beast challenged Jacky. A glance down a path off to his right quickened his pulse.

“Da
d, look over here. Fresh tracks.”

“We’re close, kiddo, keep your eyes and ears open.”

Crack!
The morning’s silence shattered at what first sounded like a firecracker exploding, then another.

Cr-a-a-a-a-a-ack!
A furious whistling followed that echo, and the youngster looked up. A flock of small birds flew overhead.

“Stay alert,
Jacky.” They double-timed it over the outcropping toward the shots and stepped into the clearing where two twenty-something hunters stood over a ten-point buck. The heavyset redhead drew his knife, preparing to gut the deer.

“Howdy, fellas, looks like you just beat us to him. We’ve spent all morning tracking that big boy for a few—”

The salt block on the ground melted Larry’s smile, and Jacky recalled the lecture about luring deer into the open. His shivers came not from the October winds blowing in off the nearby river, but in the startling transformation in front of him. His six-foot dad seemed like a giant as he stared down the two young hunters who were of equal size, just not equal heart.

“You two are gutless,” Larry said. He then leaned back and talked over his shoulder to explain to his son, though his eyes never le
ft the men. “Deer love salt, real hunters hate it. Little punks like these give real hunters a bad name. Baiting a field may be legal, but it ain’t sportin’ . . . it’s just killin’.”

The uncertain younger hunter on the left glanced at his friend as Larry Stone took three methodical steps to his right so that the sun blinded the youths. A savage grin came across Larry’s face as he glared.

“And anybody can kill, can’t they, fellas?”

The hunter still gripping the knife took a slight step forward as he started to say something, but Larry cut him off, elevating his rifle enough to let them know he meant business. Eye contact broke as the hunter looked down to realize the barrel pointed at his belt buc
kle. Maybe an inch or two lower.

“Way I see it, you’ve got two bad choices, kid,” Larry said. “Use that blade or try for your rifle.” He paused and sneered. “I’m feeling generous, and I’m giving you a third, one-time-only offer. Get out of here.
Scram!
”

It produced the same effect on one as if he’d shouted “boo!” Jacky stifled a laugh as the younger of the two hunters fled for the surrounding brush.

Then Jacky stiffened, realizing the knife-wielder stood his ground. Unlocking eyes with Larry, the scruffy hunter leaned to his right and spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. He dropped the knife point-first, and it stuck.

“You’re pretty tough with that rifle, old man. You’re not taking our deer.”

Larry’s sneer turned into a threatening grin.

“Jacky.” The boy didn’t move, and
his father spoke again, harsher. “Jacky!”

“Yes sir?”

“Take this,” he said, handing over his rifle.

“Yes sir.”

Larry Stone then began removing his hunting jacket, speaking calmly yet chillingly to his son. “Jacky, take this and go stand over by the trees. This won’t take long.”

“Yes sir.” Jacky’s adrenaline surged as he graspe
d the camouflage jacket and stepped back while his father stepped forward. That decided the young hunter. He didn’t want the deer—or his knife—and cut into the woods in the same direction as his friend.

“I’m calling the cops. You’re crazy, mister,” the fleeing hunter shouted as he scrambled out of sight.

“That’s right,” Larry Stone yelled back. “Run! And don’t come back!”

Larry turned and winked to Jacky, then picked up the knife. “C’
mon, son, let’s get to work. We’ve got maybe an hour. The food bank is going to love us.”

Thirty-five years later, Jackson still remembered how easy those two guys had lured their prey with a baited field. What bait might lure Angela’s killer into the open? What bait would be impossible for the murderer to ignore? The answer came in a burst of clarity, he’d mapped out his plans based on it, and he had just voiced it to all of Nashville.

Himself.

He’d put the target squarely on his back.

Almost before any of us journalists reacted, Patrick Stone’s car sped around the back of the building, went through the opened gate, turned left, and emerged on the far side of the precinct beside the adjoining railroad tracks. Jackson took a right, drove under the train trestles, and disappeared. The car switch baffled the media. When we learned of the ruse much later, it struck me as pretty clever. Jackson whipped the station wagon behind the by-then closed Public Health Building, stuck the ignition keys under the front seat, got into his Honda, and pulled away. The getaway plan worked perfect as we all watched for the wrong vehicle.

Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston, with his cameraman hot on his heels, headed for the front door, knowing the route of the police lot’s only exit. I watched a couple of the other TV people go out the same side exit as Jackson, then reverse course and head for the front door. The precinct commander, Reynolds, tried to gain control of the confusion, but gave up and retreated to his office, recognizing a disaster when he saw one. Disgusted, the lawyer Allenby berated Patrick Stone. I jotted down all this to spice up what I now considered a Page 1A story. First, I needed to find my photographer.

Clarkston’s bolt out the front door made him the lone reporter to see Jackson’s vehicle and the direction it took. A recreational runner, Clarkston still couldn’t get to the street quick enough to see what other maneuvers Jackson made after dropping out of sight.

But he spotted a couple of teenagers walking along the road in the same direction and hoped they remembered seeing a white wagon. Clarkston caught up to them just before the train underpass. So focused on the young couple, he failed to notice the
royal blue Honda Accord that drove in the opposite direction past the police station and turned left on Ellington Parkway to head toward the city. Flabbergasted, Patrick Stone recognized his brother’s car, but he wasn’t tattling.

“Did you kids notice the station wagon that just drove up that way,” Dan Clarkston asked the teens, “or which way it turned?”

The vacant-eyed girl didn’t respond at first, and then recognized Clarkston, the most popular electronic journalist in the mid-major market. In his late thirties, Dan’s lean, angular face fit his runner’s body. Known around the media for an inflated ego, occasional outbursts of temper, and bouts of vanity, Clarkston wore a light gray summer suit, with a striped red tie to play off the teal shirt.

“Hey, you’re that guy on TV that my parents still watch,” the girl said.

“Yeah. So did you see a car like that?”

“Nah,” the slacker boyfriend said, flicking his cigarette. “What
’d the guy do, rob a bank? Police station’s right back there if yawanna report it.”

Clarkston grinned.

“Tune in at ten to find out.”

“Stuff it, old man.”

The teens went on their way as Clarkston turned back to Greg Pittard, the cameraman he was teamed with. He moved around Pittard so the background shot included the police station.

“Ready to roll?”

Clarkston gathered himself, smoothing down a few stray gray hairs.

“On three . . . two . . . one.”

Clarkston spoke with an air of authority while also trying to show a degree of compassion. He’d practiced this “signature style” thousands of times and nailed it again.

“You’ve just heard the shocking first public statement from an angry Jackson Stone, whose wife Angela was brutally murdered ten days ago in East Nashville. A senseless crime like so many others, it sent shockwaves through this community and put pressure on police across the city to find the murderer who committed such a heinous act. But Jackson Stone just upped the ante and gave Metro police a new mandate—find a killer before he does. How will police react to this unprecedented—and most public—challenge? Is Jackson Stone the kind of man who can carry out such an act of vengeance? We’ll try to answer some of those questions on our ten o’clock report.”

“And cut,” Pittard said. “If we hurry, we can make the six o’clock newscast.”

“You drop it off, then get back over here for some police reaction. And then we’re going to try to find this nut-job for an exclusive.”

Spotting my photographer,
Casey Leiber, I waved her over and speed-dialed city editor Carrie Sullivan.

“Newsroom. This is Carrie.”

“Got a big one, boss. Can you take some dictation and get this posted ASAP?”

“Go,” she said, opening a new Word document on her note-covered, coffee-stained computer.

This called for old-school journalism, not at all the normal procedure these days. But Carrie, twenty years younger than me and just five years out of journalism school, lived for moments like this. In the Internet era, print remained a passion for the fast-tracking daughter and granddaughter of two of Nashville’s finest newsmen of the previous generation.

I’d known Carrie all of her life, dating back to when I began working for her dad as a young reporter. Harry Sullivan took me under his wing, seeing a fire in me, I guess, that matched his own. We broke some great stories and I spent many a weekend at my boss’s house playing cards and watching ballgames like a surrogate son since Carrie was an only child. After Harry retired, I tried my hand at editing when the time came, but soon returned to reporting.

So Carrie trusted me enough that when I called in with “a major breaking news story,” she believed me.

“Hang on,” I said, then lowered the phone.

“What’d you get?” I asked Casey. “Something good, I hope.”

“I like this one.” She thrust the digital camera at me.

“Me, too. Okay, get something to the paper as quick as you can and then we’re going hunting.”

I paused to collect my thoughts while
Casey went inside to transmit her photos.

“I’m back, Carrie, with a wild one here. Seems our Mister Stone has gone off the deep end.
Casey’s about to send some art from his press conference. Get this up as quick as you can, and I’ll start writing as soon as I get a police statement.”

“I’m ready,” Carrie said, having already typed in my byline.

“Open paragraph. Grieving husband Jackson Stone swore revenge Friday against the man who brutally murdered his wife Angela ten days ago. Period. New paragraph.”

A sucking gasp. “Oh, wow. Okay, go.”

“In making his first public statement since this crime sent shockwaves through an outraged community comma Stone’s vow for vengeance at the East Nashville precinct appeared to shock police officials comma his lawyer and family members. Period. New paragraph. Quote. I don’t want justice comma I want revenge comma close quote said Stone comma who then described in detail how he would kill the perpetrator if he found him before the police could. Period. New paragraph. Stone then abruptly left without taking questions. Period. Close.”

It had been y
ears since I last dictated a story, and it felt good. And I deemed the effort well worth it if we posted our story online before the TV guys hit the air at six p.m. I glanced at my digital sports watch. Five-forty.

“Great job, Gerry. Try to find a friend, family member, or someone who can reach him, get some police reaction, not just the official line but the guys on the street, if possible. Then we’ll update online and come back with the print version. I need everything by eight o’clock.”

I sprinted toward the parking lot and Patrick Stone.