Vendetta Stone (4 page)

Back at the office, Carrie Sullivan’s brain cranked into overdrive as she looked over my dictation one last time before sending it to the online editor to post. In the next-to-last sentence, she inserted the word “graphic” between “in” and “detail” to give it more oomph, then wrote the headline that she wanted used by the online people. After a couple of tries, she settled on “Stone-cold killer? Husband says he’ll hunt down wife’s killer” and then deleted it. She’d used “killer” twice and dismissed “Stone-cold killer” as too trite for a news flash of this magnitude. She rewrote it to say “Husband Jackson Stone vows to avenge wife’s death” then deleted it, and wrote “Angela Stone’s husband vows vengeance,” saved it, and forwarded it to online to post.

Sullivan punched in Online E
ditor Alan Moore’s number while also emailing copies to Managing Editor Ken McGuire and Executive Editor Judy Flint.

“Suze, take over that school
funding story. I’ve got my hands full,” Sullivan yelled over her shoulder.

“
Online. This is Alan,” Carrie heard in her earpiece and turned to the computer screen, looking at her version of my story.

“It’s Carrie. Take down the Titans practice as your top story and put up what I just sent you. I forgot to add a tagline ‘Check back at
TenneSceneToday.com for details’ at the end of the story. Also give it a ‘news alert’ keyword. There’s art coming, and I should be able to file an update within an hour or so. But get this up pronto. We want to beat the six o’clock newscasts with this one.”

“Sure, but replace the topper? You know how many hits Titans stories get.”

“That’s an editorial decision, not online’s. And unless I’m way off base, this story will get more hits than anything in a long time. Gotta go,” she said as her other line buzzed.

“Newsroom. This is Carrie.”

“Start tearing up the front page. Heard back from Hilliard?” Ken McGuire said, his baritone voice causing her to lower the headset volume.

“Not yet. I talked to him about ten minut
es ago, and he’s getting some reaction and then going looking for Stone. Where, I don’t know.”

“What else?”

“Stone’s brother called and told Gerry to be at the East Precinct at five p.m. Casey’s shooting and supposed to get something here ASAP. We’ll re-post and add a photo, and then I’m meeting with the page designers.”

“I’ll be down in five minutes. Ju
dy’s at a seminar, but I’ll text her. I’ll inform the publisher, too, for this one. Tell Hilliard he’s got as much space as he needs.”

“The six o’clock news is about to st
art. Let’s see how they handle it.”

On the other side of town, Channel 11 news videographer Greg Pittard weaved in and out of rush-hour traffic to get to the station located just off Interstate 65 South and Harding Place. Clarkston called, and gave the news editor the gist of the footage.

“So where is Pittard
? We go on the air in fifteen minutes, and we sure don’t want to wait until ten o’clock for video,” said a frustrated Sam White, the fiftyish, pot-bellied director of the six o’clock newscast. He tried to keep up with producer Ellie Bligh, a former weekend anchor often referred to as “Captain Bligh” for her take-no-prisoners news judgment and a snappish attitude toward her staff.

Bligh glanced out a window as they walked toward the set. “That’s him now.
Is the intro ready?”

“Everything’s good.
We’re just waiting on the tape,” White said. “I’ll go over it with Julia.”

Pittard rolled
halfway out the door before the news van’s brakes screeched.

“About time,” Bligh
snapped as Pittard went straight to his editing bay. He hooked in to the machine and started punching buttons as the raw footage fed into the playback unit. Editors huddled with news writers around the screen, then scurried to edit what he’d shot. The producer and director came over to offer input.

“Five minutes,” Pittard heard Bligh say as he concentrated on his final cuts.

Getting a newscast on the air is in many ways like putting out a newspaper, except they produce five to six “editions” a day. The Internet has given us a chance to compete with their immediacy, without the chaos and equipment failures that sometimes accompany a live broadcast. Their jobs must be handled with precision both in front of the camera and in the control room, ready to deal with any glitches. In a frantic setting, most everybody stays cool. But not Ellie. For this story, she bounced from one task to the next, understanding all the ramifications after they hit the air.

Ratings
had slipped for the six o’clock newscast in the past quarter, falling two percentage points farther behind Channel 7, even though Bligh’s team consistently performed well and remained locked in a dead heat for ten o’clock viewers. She expected this story to put them back on top in the ratings, translating into more advertising revenue, and assuring her of a contract renewal for at least another two years. But she realized all the things that might go wrong if she didn’t crack the whip, explaining her frenetic leadership style.

Coming out of commercial, the six o’clock theme cued the teleprompter’s start. The red light on camera one flashed.

“Good evening and here’s what’s happening,” said Karen O’Day, the feisty, red-headed counterpart to graying, homespun co-anchor Cameron Knight. They worked well off each other and talked about syndicating their weekly gab-fest, “O’Day and Knight.” Bligh and other station officials saw the potential. “Our top story is an anguished husband’s emotional and angry reaction to his wife’s violent murder.”

In the control room, White’s di
rections were precise. “Camera two, cut to Knight, get ready to cut to video one,” White said. Camera two’s red light flashed. Knight spoke in grim tones.

“It’s been almost two weeks since Angela Stone disappeared from her East Nashville home and seventy-two hours since searchers found her body
across town in the Warner Park area. Less than an hour ago, husband Jackson Stone finally talked about her mysterious death. And it was a reaction no one expected. Our Dan Clarkston filed this report.”

Cut to video one.
Jackson Stone’s disheveled image and rage-filled message beamed across the Midstate. Cut to video two. Clarkston, professional but clearly sympathetic.

“You’ve just heard the shocking first public statement from an angry
Jackson Stone, whose wife Angela . . . .”

Jackson Stone moved swiftly after his disappearing act from the precinct. Nearly six p.m., as he pulled off Ellington Parkway, his thoughts turned to Angela’s funeral set for Saturday at noon, to be preceded by a ten o’clock visitation. So little time, so much left to accomplish.

His
first stop at Eddie Paul’s Pub had retraced one part of his life with Angela. Now, after his very public bounty on her killer, a much harder trip became necessary. He needed to return to the scene of the crime. He must return to his home in East Nashville.

Navigating the final leg of th
e journey to his neighborhood, Lockeland Springs, the surrealism of the short drive home hit Jackson as he passed rows and rows of hundred-year-old Victorian, craftsman, and bungalow homes that came in all shapes, sizes and colors.

The Stones
’ home stood out, one of three brick homes on their entire street. Neighbors took care to keep their lush lawns neat and well-watered so the August heat wouldn’t burn the grass. The shade trees and full-bloom flowers were wonderful and eye-catching, but the people made it a great place to live. Jackson, who with Angela served on the board of directors for the Lockeland Springs Neighborhood Association and helped coordinate annual block parties, couldn’t think of a single person in the area who might be capable of such a terrible crime.

Most viewed
the neighborhood as a Nashville melting pot, drawing people of every age, color, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and financial bracket.

A Korean family
moved in two years ago next to the widow Edmonds, who was spending her golden years raising her granddaughter. The Waldens, a young black couple with their own insurance company, boasted four kids, two of each. They lived across the street from the Stones. A gay couple, Joe and Bob, both in their mid-thirties, lived in the purple bungalow on the corner. The Fletchers owned the corner home next to Jackson and Angela, a tasteful, peach-colored Victorian with gingerbread carvings. The Fletchers were in their mid-forties and childless, just like the Stones, so the couples spent lots of time together. The young, single teacher down the street moved from Orlando to be closer to her musician boyfriend.

Friends and neighbors like that were why this crime seemed so unreal. Sure, violent
crimes still took place in 2010, but nothing like Nashville’s soaring murder rate when they moved there in 1996. And now, the unthinkable had happened. How in God’s name did Angela wind up way out at Percy Warner Park on the other side of town? Jackson prayed for an answer.

W
ishing to attract as little attention as possible, he ducked under the yellow police tape roping off the entrance to his home and slid his key into the lock. Taking a deep breath, Jackson steeled himself and entered. Something important needed retrieval from the upstairs attic.

Angela’s pr
esence, her touch, could be felt everywhere. Almost too much to bear, it forced him to plop into the antique oak rocker. Besides Jackson, Angela’s passion was antiques. She loved trolling the antique district off Eighth Avenue South and filled her house with finds. The primitive yellow pine den displayed her showcase. Against one wall stood a pine doughboy chest and atop it an original Tiffany lamp Jackson presented to Angela for their tenth wedding anniversary. They found the gold-plated andirons for their marble fireplace two years ago at the “World’s Longest Yard Sale,” which ran through four states from Alabama to Ohio. Before her death, an excited Angela talked about returning to the annual mid-August event that very week.

Jackson
headed up the steps to their bedroom. On the staircase landing, a half-circle, maple-stained accent table held an ornate silver-framed picture of Angela in her wedding gown. He turned and continued up to the master bedroom. The closed bedroom door ahead of him stood guard like a towering castle drawbridge. “You made it this far,” he said as he fought tears, and then pushed the door hard enough that it banged the wall.

Police
had removed the blood-stained sheets from the sleigh bed, but he spotted rust-colored streaks here and there, including one ugly smear running down the wall. A lot of violence occurred here. Jackson struggled between hoping Angela didn’t suffer and hoping she’d put up a fight. But investigators identified all the blood found in the bedroom as belonging to her. Jackson entered the large walk-in closet, flipped on lights, and grabbed the string to pull down the folding stairs that allowed him access to the attic storage area.

A burst of mid-Augus
t heat descended as he stepped up the first rickety rung. Two more, then he found the cord that turned on the attic light. It wasn’t the brightest bulb, but it would be enough to find what he sought. He scurried across the plywood flooring, took a left at the air conditioning ducts, and fell to his knees, pushing aside the pink insulation. He found the small metallic case.

Good, the locks are still sealed. The NCSI team didn’t find it.
Jackson didn’t know who would be after him, but sensed he must move fast. Time to get gone.

Thanks to the Internet, public reaction to Jackson Stone’s news conference poured in, swift and passionate. The first post to the article at TenneSceneToday.com logged at 5:58 p.m., thrilling Sullivan to see responses before the television newscasts started.

GRIEVINGSPOUSE
wrote: “I just wish I had the courage and fortitude to undertake the mission Mr. Stone set for himself. My husband Ralph died in a drive-by shooting two years ago and they still haven’t found who did it. Maybe Mr. Stone can track down my Ralph’s killer after he finds his wife’s murderer.”

At 5:59: p.m.,
NOWAYNOHOW
wrote: “My advice would be to let the police handle it. Revenge won’t bring back his wife.”

At
6:01 p.m.,
I.M.ONYERSIDE
wrote: “Jackson if you need help lemme know.”

At 6:02 p.m.,
OLDSPARKY
wrote: “The electric chair’s too good for ’em. I’m with
I.M.ONYERSIDE
on this one. Let’s form a posse.”

At 6:04 p.m.,
MYSYMPATHY
wrote: “Jack, I’m watching you on television as I write this. PLEASE don’t go down this road. I know you’re hurting but this isn’t how GOD would want you to respond. Take time to heal. Let GOD punish the wicked. It will happen . . . maybe not on your timetable, but it will. I’ll say a prayer for your wife. Peace be with you, brother. Amen.”