Memphis Legend

by Brian Crawford

  Before getting out of my car, I did a perfunctory check of my surroundings. E’s Salvage Yard had the look of a successful business. It was clean. The building was well maintained. The signage was clear and visible. Someone had even planted some hybrid roses of various colors next to the building. I could see customers waiting at a counter through the front window. The last thing I noticed was the security cameras. There were two covering the parking lot and front door and one more aimed at the front gate. Even though Charles had said that the big brother had managed to make the junkyard successful, I had not expected it to look like it did. After stepping through the front door, I nearly changed my mind one last time.

  There were three men behind the counter with eight men waiting to be helped. Oddly enough, one of the clerks was discussing the potential sale of an expensive scientific calculator with a customer. It was a peculiar conversation for an automobile junkyard. Then I remembered that Charles had mentioned that Jackson was thinking about opening a pawn shop in town; maybe he was doing some of that business out of the salvage yard for now.

  “Not that we would have anything for that beautiful car out there, but how could I help you?”

  The man addressing me was a pleasant-looking man approximately my age. His accent was Tennessee. It had a pleasant tone and cadence to it that exhibited a degree of warmth and intelligence. Although he was three inches taller and not as blocky, it was easy to see he was Junior’s brother. There was a familiar set about the eyes.

  “I’m not here for parts for the car. I was hoping to find Junior Estes.”

  “Maybe I could help.”

  “Maybe. I’m Dr. McCain.”

  He broke out in a warm smile, not forced, but also one that did not reach the eyes. It was a practiced smile.

  “So you’re the fella my brother tussled with. He’s right; you don’t look like any doctor I ever saw. How did he word it? Yeah, ‘surfer hair on steroids.’ I heard tell it you were some kind of Navy SEAL or something, but now that I met you I can see you are too big for a SEAL.”

  “You have military experience?”

  “No, but some of the fellas from around here went in for that sort of thing, and one thing I also noticed is that they were always under 200 lbs, usually closer to 150, and they are always tough as nails. Mean too.”

  “I heard you were pretty smart, Jackson. I guess I heard right.”

  He did not look the least bit surprised when I mentioned him by name, not even a flinch. “Now that we are both aware that you did your homework, Dr. McCain, how can I help you?”

  “I have a simple request. I would like a truce with your brother. My beef is not with him, nor is it with this town. All I want is to bring the man who killed my friend’s son to justice. Nothing more, yet nothing less either.”

  “Is your last sentence meant as a thinly veiled threat, Dr. McCain?”

  “No. I’m just trying to convey my level of conviction.”

  “Meaning you don’t plan on leaving our fine town until you have administered justice?”

  “I’m not planning on ‘administering’ any type of justice, Jackson. I’m only planning on pointing the proper authorities in the right direction. It will be very legal and very proper. Vigilante justice is not my plan if that is what you were implying.”

  “You seem like a reasonable man, Dr. McCain. And I do admire your level of conviction to your friend. You are causing me to rethink my preconceived notions of Yankees, no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Jackson said, “However, you are exhibiting a level of naiveté that I would not have expected considering your education level.”

  “How’s that, Jackson?”

  “You seem to be under the illusion that our fair chief, Sam Parker, is the proper authorities. Seems like it’s going to be hard to get any cooperation from the very man who would like to see that the truth doesn’t get discovered.” Jackson lifted one eyebrow very slightly, inviting the question without stating the obvious.

  “Jackson, I wish I had met you first instead of your brother. Things might have started out differently between us. As is, neither of us is probably ever going to trust the other completely, yet I thank you for your kind words and your warning about local law enforcement. It is something I have already considered.”

  “Aha, so you are not all hair and muscles. So what you want to know is whether I can convince my brother to stay out of your way.”

  “I hadn’t planned on having this conversation with you, but yes, I would like to avoid any further trouble with your brother.”

  “I’m not sure who you talked to, and it doesn’t matter, but they were right; I am the one that is easier to get along with. However, I am not my brother’s keeper, as the Good Book says. All I can promise is that I will say something to him.”

  Actually, Cain had responded to a question from God with another question, “Am I my brother’s keeper,” but I did not feel like correcting Jackson; I was going to have to ignore my pet peeve for the moment. Instead, I replied, “Thanks.”

  “No need. Now that it looks like Chief Parker’s boy might have something to do with your friend’s death, it’s in Junior’s best interest to distance himself from Eric. I will try to appeal to his sensible side.”

  Jackson’s revelation that he was aware of some of the details of the murder came as a surprise. “So, the talk around the water cooler is that Eric had something to do with Paul Deland’s death?”

  “We don’t have a water cooler, but it is a small town. People talk. What was that thing Ben Franklin said about secrets?”

  “Three people can keep a secret as long as two of them are dead,” I said. “At least that’s how I remember it.”

  Jackson said, “Sounds about right.” With a nod towards some of the others in the room, he said, “Not to be rude, but I should help my guys get caught up. Good luck, Dr. McCain. I will try to convince my brother to mind his manners.”

  ***

  Charles Mann had described Jackson Estes as a good businessman that many in the town liked and trusted, and after my meeting with Jackson I had to admit that my first impression was favorable. His used auto parts business was busy, it was clean, and it looked profitable. As I sat in my car, I looked around the salvage yard. The flatbed truck I had spotted earlier was leaving. Someone was driving the Oldsmobile that had been on the flatbed back with the rest of the junk cars. Interestingly enough, the car sounded like it ran just fine and the rear and left side of the vehicle looked undamaged. The gentleman that had bought the electronic calculator was leaving. He was carrying an SLR camera with him as well. Jackson was definitely running the pawn shop out of the junkyard for the time being.

  I left thinking that I had visited a few junkyards with my dad and I could not recall one looking as good as E’s Salvage Yard. If Jackson had half as much influence with his brother as he had talent in running a business, then maybe I would not have to worry about Junior Estes hampering my investigation any longer.

  Not wanting to return to Memphis without giving Boyd his pager, I decided to drive around Emmettsville in my shiny red car with the top down and the radio playing being as obvious as I could to see if any police cruisers decided to follow me during the daylight hours. I cruised Main Street; I drove around the police station a couple of times, and I even drove over to Falco’s more than once. No one seemed to pay me any attention.

  While stopped at a traffic light, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. At first, I did not recognize myself. The man in the mirror looked too happy, too at ease to be me. It almost looked like I had more color. Maybe it was all the sun I was getting riding around in the convertible, although that did not explain the smirk on my face.

  Boyd had been wrong when he said I liked the adrenaline and excitement as much as he did. It was the hunt, not the adrenaline, that I was enjoying. He was right about one thing; it had been easy to talk me into investigating because just like my mother, I could not tolerate injus
tice. If Boyd was going to be my undercover asset, then I was going to take the more direct approach. Right after I gave him his pager.

  In my experience, effective disguises are often simple. Dressing in a different coat, wearing a hoodie, or even donning a ball cap can be very effective if it varies from the norm. My favorite was wearing an oversized sweatshirt to hide my physique combined with a ball cap since my hairstyle was unique; my bushy hair which I wore on the long side required almost no maintenance, but it did make me easy to spot in a crowd, even from a distance. The sweatshirt and ball cap combination was the disguise I used when I decided to break into Boyd’s room.

  Finding the Travelers’ Inn was easy, and it was a relief to see that I could enter the building from a back entrance unseen from the front desk. I quickly made my way to room 202 and pulled out my lock pick set left over from my days in the Navy. On a whim, which seemed foolish at the time, I had packed it along with the Glock this morning. It had been years since I picked a lock, which was evident as I struggled to depress all the internal tumblers to gain access. In the end, I was successful, although I was disappointed with myself for taking longer than I liked. It took only a few minutes to place the pager on the bed with a note on how to use it. I also thought up a rudimentary code using popular numerical references, such as 911 for emergency and 411 for information, and wrote it on the note before leaving the hotel.

  Nearly 15 minutes later, I found Boyd. Found his car to be more exact. It was parked near the back entrance of Falco’s. Soon after, Boyd exited the back door of the bar, opened his trunk and carried in a couple of boxes.

  Well, I’ll be. Graham has made contact.

  It seemed fitting that Falco’s would be involved somehow. I wondered how he had approached Mason. How he had weaseled his way in so quickly. Maybe he had a knack for the undercover work. Of course, not being a Yankee probably helped with Mason. Either way, the legend was working.

  CHAPTER 23

  Boyd Avery Dallas was enjoying himself. When he told the others that investigating would be fun, he had not been kidding. All his life, he wanted to be a cop. When he played cops and robbers as a kid, he always had to be the cop. And the good guys had to win. He would not play otherwise. All his friends knew that about him—his love of police work, and his love of guns. When he graduated high school, his class had voted him“Most Likely to Shoot Someone…In the Line of Duty.”They made him a plaque. His mother was aghast by the award. He loved it.

  He joined the Marine Corps directly out of high school in 1978. He made it clear that his MOS had to be Military Police. He would accept nothing else, except maybe Marine Corps Scout Sniper. He kicked butt on his ASVAB, the timed test all enlisted military personnel take before entering the service and then excelled at everything he did in boot camp to ensure he would get his first choice of MOS.

  After getting his wish, he started his specialized training, the Military Police Basic Officers Course, in Fort Leonardwood, Missouri. Ten weeks of training in Military Police procedures in Fort “Lost in the Woods.” Traveling on Uncle Sam’s dime always seemed appealing to him, so upon graduation from MP school, he asked to be stationed anywhere outside the US, preferably in Southeast Asia. He got South Korea. He loved it. Next, the Marines stationed him in the Philippines. He loved it there as well.

  The Philippines is where he first met Lieutenant McCain. It was 1982. Lt. McCain was an of aide to Admiral Buie, a real big wig in Southeast Asia. Boyd was a Sergeant by 1982. His love and mastery of firearms assured him a frequent role as protection detail for VIPs. Admiral Buie was one of those VIPs. The Admiral was said to be a military attaché, but everyone knew that was just a fancy way of saying he was involved in intelligence gathering.

  Lieutenant McCain was the Admiral’s mysterious shadow. Officially, he was a Lieutenant Junior Grade, one grade above an Ensign. Word around the water cooler was that there was no record of him serving anywhere as an Ensign. It was like he simply showed up one day in the Navy as a Lt. JG, which, of course, was not possible. The whole thing freaked out Boyd’s boss, a Gunnery Sergeant, who could not dig up any information on Ensign McCain through official channels. Boyd was not worried. The Lieutenant was part of the Office of Naval Intelligence; he was obviously a Navy spy. It was not until after L.T. and Boyd left the service that Boyd found out that L.T. had served nearly his first two years of service undercover as an Enlisted Navy Master-at-Arms.

  Normally, a Marine Sergeant and a Navy Lieutenant would not have become close friends while in the service; they operated in different worlds. However, their worlds became infinitely intertwined on a beautiful Sunday evening in March 1982 when the helicopter they were traveling in crashed in the Cambodian jungle.

  Two Marines died in the crash. Two more Marines died in a gun battle with Vietnamese troops that converged on the crash. Admiral Buie, Lieutenant McCain, Second Lieutenant John Gehrke — the pilot, and Boyd were the only ones that managed to survive the crash and the eleven-day hike across the Cambodian countryside before finding safety in neighboring Thailand.

  The lives of all four survivors remained forever changed. Admiral Buie, who never should have been in the helicopter in the first place, was asked to retire shortly after recovering from his injuries. Lieutenant Gehrke and Boyd were both declared physically unfit for active duty as a result of their injuries. The last Boyd had heard of Gehrke, he was flying a traffic chopper on the west coast somewhere. Boyd was left with a permanent limp, courtesy of fused ankle bones in the left leg.

  Lieutenant McCain was the only one that fell into the same pile of shit yet managed to come up smelling like roses. At the behest of Admiral Buie, he was awarded the Navy and Marine Corps Medal, the highest non-combat medal in the Navy as a result of his heroism.

  L.T. did not escape completely unscathed, though. He left the jungle with two bullet holes in his left thigh, one entry wound, one exit wound. The result of a clean in-and-out injury that missed every major artery. Boyd always surmised it was the holes in the Lieutenant’s thigh that clinched the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for him. Lucky bastard, thought Boyd, even when he gets shot it somehow works out for him. Once healed, the physical scars were hardly noticeable. Just some strange looking tissue that would not grow hair. Not that anyone would ever notice; L.T. liked to wear long shorts to cover them.

  Boyd was unsure of the depth of the emotional scars inflicted on L.T. He didn’t know L.T. before the crash, so he had no reference; however, during the physical therapy they often did together, Boyd noticed that although L.T. was quite affable and social, he purposefully avoided any conversations that focused on himself. He surmised it was a kind of defense mechanism. Boyd had asked Virgil about it a few times, but Virgil had been vague, just saying “It’s complicated.” Boyd was convinced there was some dark history in L.T.’s past, but he also knew better than to push.

  Then again, maybe those eleven days were what changed him. Other than the two Marines that died during the initial gun battle, Lieutenant McCain was the only member of the party that ended up killing any Vietnamese soldiers. He killed two soldiers with his bare hands; he drowned the one that shot him in a river. That could change a man, even one that seemed as strong as L.T.

  What Boyd did know was that he admired the hell out of his friend. It was undeniable; none of them would have left Cambodia alive if not for him. For someone with no combat training, he had proven himself unbelievably resourceful. And tough. He had to be the toughest man Boyd had ever met. When L.T. moved to Huntsville after leaving the Navy and started teaching self-defense techniques to the local police department, Boyd thought maybe he was going to stay. Maybe become a cop himself. Instead, he took some classes at the University of Alabama in Huntsville and left for med school the next year. Boyd missed his friend when he left, but he was happy for him. He knew L.T. would make a great doctor.

  The two stayed in touch while he was in medical school, even getting together during the summers. Once L.T. moved to Memphis to begin hi
s residency, his busy schedule took over. Until a couple of days ago, Boyd had not talked to him in over two years. So, when Virgil asked him to travel to Tennessee to help him talk some sense into L.T., he jumped at the chance. His help did not go the way Virgil or Ellie planned, but that was because talking sense into L.T. did not mean talking him out of getting involved. Boyd liked Virgil; they both lived in the same town and even hung out together at times. However, his allegiance was to L.T., and L.T. needed help solving his problem, not running away from it, which was why he was enjoying himself immensely delivering illegal alcohol to Mason Thompson.

  Getting Mason to buy what Boyd had to offer had been easier than expected. He immediately opined that Mason was not new to buying bootleg liquor. He carried in the last box and sat it down in the store room. Mason was holding the door for him, which he locked after Boyd exited the room.

  “Mason, I want to let you know I appreciate your business. Like I was saying before, I’ve been supplying booze down in Alabama, mostly to dry counties, but one of them recently voted to go wet, so now I got a surplus problem.”

  “What can I say, always happy to help a friend in need, especially one offering those prices. I’m not going to open them up and find colored water inside am I?”

  “If you do, it will be a surprise to me. It looked pretty darn authentic when I stole those bottles.”

  Mason said, “You able to steal that much alcohol?”

  “Na, normally I just buy it in bulk from a state with lower liquor taxes then transport it across state lines. You know, Smoky and the Bandit, only without the Trans AM with the puking chicken on the front. But I have been known to opportunistically liquidate on occasion, especially in the face of competition.”