A New Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  With a total lack of corroborating physical evidence, I stood on dangerous ground if people started going on record with their confessions before I wanted to take them. Confusing? You bet. This is why I get the big bucks.

  Under those circumstances, I did something I normally would never do. I interrupted the kid’s free flow of information.

  “Randy, I think we need to see your mom before we do anything else. Let’s secure your car, put the top up and lock it. I’ll have an officer bring it back to town for you. We’ll take my car to your place.”

  As we drove down the mountain, Randy asked only one question: Did I intend to arrest him? I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to talk much. I needed time to think about everything he said and juggle that with what I had learned elsewhere. I didn’t doubt the young, nude girl in the old photos was Juanita Mashburn nee Lovejoy. Cecil, the miserable bastard, had been taking pictures of his daughter, and if I guessed correctly, he did a lot more. But I needed to find out for sure.

  My train of thought broke when I found a Prospect PD cruiser sitting near the Parkway exit road to Highway 321. I gave Randy’s keys to Officer Len Alcock, told him to get another man and bring the roadster back to the PD parking lot.

  As Randy and I started the trip to his mother’s house in the northern, hilly section of Prospect, my cell phone rang.

  Katherine spoke to me. I stopped the car and stepped outside to make the call private.

  “Sam, Nonie just called. She said the TBI people arrested George for killing that man. They claim there’s evidence of animosity between the two for a long time, and that weekend George just snapped after the big argument.”

  “Oh, shit. Where is he now?”

  “They told her they were taking him to the Blount County Justice Center to process the arrest and put him in a cell overnight.”

  “Their theory sounds pretty thin to me,” I said. “But if an arrest is all they want and they aren’t too concerned about a conviction, it would do. Sure,” I started thinking out loud, “make an arrest, close the case, and let the chips fall where they may in court. If George is acquitted after trial, they still have a closed case, and they’ll blame the jury for letting a killer go free. Pearl Lovejoy gets her quick results, and the politicos can expect a nice contribution for their efforts on her behalf. I’d hate to believe the D.A. would entertain that arrest, but I’ll never underestimate the power of the politician.”

  “That’s nice for Pearl Lovejoy, but who pays for George’s lawyer?” Kate asked.

  “Did Nonie get a lawyer yet? Doesn’t matter—call her back. Tell her to call Joe Costello in Maryville. Everyone says he’s the best criminal attorney around. Look in the phone book for his number so she doesn’t have to. If she’s already called someone else, have Costello contact them and wave them off. Got all that?”

  “Yeah, boss,” she said. “You think George will be okay here? He is innocent, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you what I learned today and what I think when I get home. I’ll try to get all this squared away pretty soon. Gotta go now. Bye, kiddo.”

  So, I thought, that’s why no one saw the TBI agents conducting an investigation. They concentrated on George Morgan as the killer and worked hard to find something to fit their theory. Typical tunnel vision. They only focused on interviewing members of the car club who could tell them about past arguments between George and Cecil. But could those arguments have been hot enough to make George want to kill the man?

  The TBI never explored any of Cecil’s other misdeeds or looked at his other enemies. Talk about narrow-minded. Or did I disregard a possible suspect because he’s a friend?

  Once again, I thought Joe Dolinski had given me sound advice. I really didn’t need this.

  * * * *

  We parked in front of Juanita and Randy Mashburn’s brick-faced home. The house sat on a street that rose high above the main road. From the southeast facing deck at the rear of the house, they had a beautiful view of the Smokies. I wondered why Juanita and Randy weren’t destined to just sit on the deck in the evenings, sip their sweet tea and be free of the mental tyranny fostered on them by Cecil Lovejoy’s perversions and threats.

  Surveyors platted out the subdivision before the trend toward postage-stamp lots became popular. Each of the attractive houses on the quiet, winding street sat on roughly a half-acre of ground. Not too much to maintain, but enough to keep the lives of the residents relatively private.

  We entered through the unlocked front door.

  “Mom. Mom, come here please,” Randy called.

  Juanita met us at the edge of the living room wearing a navy blue tank top, khaki shorts and sandals. Her eyes looked like she’d been crying since we last spoke—probably a lot. She began crying again and threw her arms around Randy. After administering a bear hug on the kid, she smiled and looked at my face. Silently she mouthed the words, ‘Thank you.’

  “Randy,” I said, “give me a few minutes to speak with your mother?”

  The boy looked at me and nodded.

  “Why don’t you get yourself something cold to drink?” I suggested. “We won’t be long.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Chief,” Juanita said. “What am I thinkin’? Can I get y’all somethin’ ta drink? You’re lookin’ very warm, too.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m okay for now.” I looked over my shoulder. “See you in a few, Randy. We’ll give you a shout.” I turned my attention back to Juanita as Randy left the room.

  “Thank you, Chief,” she said. “Thank you so much. Does he seem ta be okay?”

  “Yes, I think Randy will be fine. He seemed a little confused and told me he blamed himself for what happened to your father.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stared at me for a long moment. “He said what?”

  “He told me he was responsible for what happened to your father. He asked if I would arrest him.”

  “You don’t think Randy killed Daddy, do ya?”

  She began crying again. I looked over at a modern grandfather clock standing against the wall. Five to four—I didn’t have time to hang around and get too deeply into Randy’s guilt with Juanita. I wanted to visit George Morgan’s lawyer before the close of the business day and work on getting Georgie sprung.

  “I have to think about that,” I said. “And you do, too. I want you to speak with him. Tell him you’re glad he’s home. He loves you, and from what he told me, he thinks you’re doing a good job of being a mother.”

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with a tissue.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to leave now because someone is sitting in jail for something he didn’t do. I have an obligation to help him. But I want to speak with you again—soon. Is that okay with you?”

  She hesitated. “Speak about Randy?”

  “Yes and about things in general.”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Good. How about tomorrow? Late morning perhaps?”

  “Momma wanted me to go with her to the funeral home. They just released Daddy’s body, and she has ta make the arrangements. Would the next day be alright?”

  “I suppose it will have to be. How’s 9:30 Thursday morning?”

  “Yes, sir, that’ll be fine. And thank you again for bringing Randy home.”

  “You’re welcome. Your son’s a nice boy. Tell him I said so.”

  As I left the Mashburn home, I thought the shorts Juanita wore didn’t only show off a pair of good legs. Finding Randy and my visit with his mother began putting everything into perspective for me.

  I began my drive west. I wanted to get to Joe Costello’s office quickly, but my gas gauge told me to stop at the city pumps. After a day of looking for Randy Mashburn, I was running on fumes—in more ways than one.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I pulled into the municipal lot and stopped my car behind a PD cruiser parked at the gas pump. Stan Rose crouched under the car’s hood checking the oil while the automatic pump filled the gas tank.

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sp; I walked up next to him and said, “Hey, mister, you solve the murder yet?”

  He took his hand off the dip stick and stood up, hitting his head on the hood of the car.

  “Jesus, you scared me,” he said. “White people ain’t supposed to sneak up like that.”

  “Sorry, I had an uncle who was a Mohawk. He taught me to walk like an Indian.”

  He used two hands to slam the hood, rubbed his head and then looked at me. “I’m sorry, too. I haven’t been able to find one thing to call a clue. But I’m still trying.”

  “I’m pressed for time right now. I’ve got to get into Maryville before five o’clock, but I want you to do something for me. I’m out of gas. Give me a minute, and we’ll talk.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be waiting over there.” He pointed to a row of empty parking spaces less than a hundred feet away.

  I pumped a tankful, didn’t bother checking the oil and drove the short distance to pull up next to Stan’s car.

  His window rolled down, and he flipped me a casual salute. I returned it, acting equally casual. A detective wouldn’t salute the president; a uniformed cop’s protocol still seemed a little foreign to me. I hadn’t been a patrol sergeant since gasoline cost half-a-buck.

  Looking at Stanley, I realized just how big he was. Anyone making a full-sized Ford look small is formidable.

  “Okay, boss,” he said, “what’s shaking?”

  “I found Randy Mashburn and took him home. I wanted to have a long talk with him and his mother, but I learned the TBI arrested a guy named George Morgan for the Lovejoy murder. Morgan is no more guilty than you are. I’ve got to catch his lawyer and tell him about the pictures I have.”

  “You know he’s not guilty because?”

  “I think I just figured out who killed Cecil. Now I’ve got to see if we can prove it.”

  “One of the four women in the pictures is the killer?”

  “No.”

  “Gonna let me in on your secret?”

  He scratched his short hair and seemed hot and tired. His khaki uniform shirt looked pale next to his dark skin.

  “Soon enough,” I said. “But right now I’ve got to see a lawyer about a scam.”

  “Boss, I hear you talking, but I’m not sure I understand what you said.”

  “Tell Bettye the boy is back at home. Have her contact the rest of the guys, and cancel the search. Tell her I’ll call her as soon as I can.”

  Stan nodded. I gave him the gunman’s salute and put the Ford into gear.

  Since the beginning of that investigation, people like Pearl Lovejoy, Judge Tipton and even that fat bastard, Buck Webbster, were all doing a bang-up job of bending or breaking the rules for their own advantage. I thought it might be time to do a little playing out of bounds myself. I caught all of them, but there was no reason to think they’d catch me.

  * * * *

  As I drove west, I took out my new cell phone and fumbled around trying to get my home number to ring. I didn’t run off the road and get killed, so I considered myself lucky. By pure accident, I got a connection and after three rings, Kate picked up.

  “Hey, Kats,” I said, “did Nonie hire Joe Costello to represent George?”

  “She did,” Katherine said. “I’ve been on the phone with her several times today. She’s upset, and George is still in jail. What’s going on?”

  “I’m guessing they’ve scheduled him for arraignment tomorrow morning. With any luck, I can put a stop to that after I see Costello. I’m…no, forget it. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay, love. And hey, Sammy—thanks for calling. I love you.”

  “You too, sweetie. Know what? You did a great job today. You should be a cop’s wife—thanks. I’ll see you later.”

  I never played a game quite like the one I wanted to try on Joe Costello. In New York, I never had to. I never shrank from bending rules, but I never knowingly broke several laws just to make a point either. As I drove on, I thought I heard Bob Dylan’s nasal voice singing, “It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls, for the times, they are a-changin’.

  Costello’s law offices occupied a large, converted Victorian house on a side street near the old courthouse in Maryville. I parked in the lot adjacent to his building, put on my sport jacket with my badge holder hanging from the top pocket and took the envelope of FBI photos inside.

  His receptionist dropped her phone receiver on the cradle, looked up at me with a great smile and asked if she could ‘he’p’ me. After having a rotten day, I felt frazzled and really struggled to act human.

  “Hi, I’d like to see Mr. Costello. I have information for him that I think is beneficial to an innocent person.” I tried a big smile and hoped my cryptic message hooked her curiosity. How could she resist? I’d die if she said, ‘Sorry, you need an appointment.’

  But she didn’t. She picked up the phone and buzzed an intercom. I turned away to give her some privacy, but looked at her from the corner of my eye. She was a lovely girl: late twenties, long dark hair, pretty face, a dark blue jacket over a light blue T-shirt. I thought Joe had great hiring standards. Maybe she could even type.

  The girl placed the phone down, looked up at me and smiled again. I wondered how she liked me so far.

  “Sir, if ya could wait about two minutes, Mr. Costello will be right with ya.”

  For lack of anything wittier to say, I settled for, “Thanks” and turned to look out the window between the Venetian blinds.

  Expensive-looking green drapes flanked the window frames. Above the glass, similar material hung classically swagged on a cornice.

  In about 120 seconds, I heard a door open and turned in the direction of the sound.

  “Hi, I’m Joe Costello,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  We walked into his office. Instead of hiding behind his desk, Costello took a seat in one of his client chairs and turned to face me. I stood for a few seconds, surprised to be doing what I intended and then moved the second chair to sit facing him.

  He was short, trim and couldn’t have looked more Irish if he carried a plate of corned beef and cabbage in his hand. His navy blue suit looked expensive and business-like.

  “Mr. Costello, I’m Sam Jenkins from the Prospect Police.”

  His smile showed several thousand dollars of dental work. He had a good tan and dark, curly hair.

  I reached into my pocket for the wad of bills I carried, peeled off a five and handed it to him. His face showed the appropriate curiosity.

  “I want to retain you to perhaps, in the future, represent me in a criminal matter which I’d like to discuss.”

  He nodded and continued looking at me with interest.

  “Today, I may commit an act of official misconduct or whatever you call it in Tennessee. I’m more familiar with the laws in New York. In the next few hours or days, I may intentionally commit additional acts of misfeasance or malfeasance. I may need legal counsel.”

  Costello said nothing. He seemed content listening to my unusual request.

  “An agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation gave me these photos.”

  I handed him the eight photos of the nude females that my villain, the despicable Cecil, had taken.

  He accepted the envelope, but didn’t open it.

  I continued my story. “I believe them to be exculpatory evidence in favor of the man TBI investigators arrested for the murder of Cecil Lovejoy.”

  That got a raise of his eyebrows. He opened the envelope and looked at the photos.

  “These photos,” I said, “and many others were extracted from Lovejoy’s computer hard drive. The four women and their husbands purchased land from Cecil Lovejoy and contracted with him to build them homes they couldn’t, according to the banks, afford. Lovejoy coerced the women to pose for explicit photos, and in some cases have sex with him, in compensation for his co-signing their mortgages.”

  “Interesting. You’re sure of all this?”

  I nodded.

/>   “Photos of this nature would be at least embarrassing to those families if they became public knowledge,” I said. “I’ve identified the women and will produce those names if necessary. I’m sure you can see a reasonable doubt of that defendant’s guilt may be inferred because these women or their families also have a motive to silence Cecil Lovejoy.”

  “You got these from the FBI in Knoxville?”

  “Yes, a couple of days ago. I’ve not given any pictures to the TBI and don’t contemplate doing so. I believe the defendant’s attorney would like to see them. I also have good reason to believe that attorney may never learn of the existence of these photos through the usual channels of discovery. I’d prefer not to explain why.”

  He tilted his head, and a smirk formed on his face. He looked at the five-dollar bill he held between his thumb and forefinger.

  “So, please have your secretary—what’s her name by the way?—write me a receipt for my retainer, and if I need you, I’ll call. But as a favor, would you see that a Mr. George Morgan’s attorney sees the pictures?”

  Costello grinned. He knew a cool ploy when he saw one. Establishing an attorney-client relationship with Costello would keep his mouth shut about the source of the FBI photos. I never said I knew he represented George Morgan, and apparently, he didn’t see a conflict of interest.

  “Her name is Stephanie,” he said. “Five bucks isn’t my usual retainer, but under the circumstances… Hang on a minute, and I’ll have her type up a receipt.”

  He disappeared into the reception area. A few minutes later, he returned.

  “Thank you,” he said, pointing at my badge, “Chief Jenkins, uh…for your business. I’ll take care of these photos and see that they’re properly utilized.”

  “Good, I thought you would,” I said. “And thanks for your time.”

  He handed me a receipt for my five dollars. We shook hands, and I left.

  In the reception area, Stephanie and I exchanged smiles again. If I had a son, I’d tell him about Stephanie.

  In the parking lot, I started my car for the drive home. If I wanted any more mental anguish, I’d think about the stupid thing I just did to get my friend off the hook and take a shot at the Lovejoy camp. I hoped to hell I had all the right ideas, and George was really innocent.