Killer Nashville Noir

by Clay Stafford

  Pullen completed his case by parading a bevy of character witnesses who testified to the high moral character of Willard Walker. There were some who testified to changes in him on occasion. One said, “He was this soft-spoken guy, a real gentleman, but then if he was challenged by somebody, got into an argument or something, his voice would change and he’d get, well, sort of ballsy, if it’s okay to use that word here in court.”

  The last was Willard’s mother, who told the jury that when he was a small boy he often played with imaginary playmates, one of whom was named Skippy. The DA pounced on her use of the term “imaginary”, which caused the frail older woman to break down into tears. She pulled herself together and talked of her son as being a sort of “milquetoast”, somewhat of a sissy who was often the victim of taunts and even physical attacks by classmates. “My husband—he’s gone now, rest his soul—was afraid that Willard would grow up to be a homosexual because he was so meek and mild, but there were a few times when he fought back and gave his classmates tit-for-tat.”

  Throughout, Willard sat stoically, occasionally whispering something to his attorney. When he left the courtroom each day in the company of the bailiffs, he walked with purpose and with his head high, and some of the female spectators whispered how handsome he was, his jaw firm and square, his eyes steely, hardly the image that had been portrayed by his mother and others who knew him personally.

  On what was scheduled to be the final day of the trial, K. Posey Pullen stunned the courtroom by announcing that he was calling a final witness, the defendant Willard Walker. After being reminded by Judge Latham that he was not compelled to testify—and after she’d received Walker’s assurance that he understood and had received proper counsel from his attorney and was testifying freely—he took the stand. The crowd was aware of the change in him. The man who’d exuded such confidence throughout the trial took the stand as a weak, insecure person, head bowed, his answers delivered haltingly, eyes darting about the room as though in search of somewhere to escape. Pullen guided him through a series of questions that spanned his entire life, his childhood, his teen years, and his experiences with his other self, Warren “Skippy” Walker.

  He timidly testified for over four hours. His final statement to the judge and jury was, “I suppose I should be thankful that I had Skip to fight my battles for me, to stand up when I was afraid, who took the blows when my father hit me. But I’m not thankful for him. I hate him! He’s gotten me into the problems I now face. I never would have married Deborah. It was Skip who wanted her. It was Skip who proposed. But even though it wasn’t me who married Deborah, I came to love her, loved her more than anything else in the world, and he took her away from me. No, I hate Skip Walker and I wish it was he who had died.”

  The jury took three days to come to a verdict. When its members had decided Walker’s fate, he stood next to his attorney as the foreman read the result: “We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty!”

  Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom and outside when word of the verdict passed to the hundreds of spectators and members of the media awaiting the result. The courthouse steps were chockablock with people, men and women, old and young, children on the shoulders of their fathers, reporters jockeying to get closer to the doors through which Walker would eventually appear. Cameramen and still photographers pushed and shoved for favored positions. The crowd left only a small empty pocket outside the doors, just large enough for Walker and his attorney to stand and deliver a post-trial statement.

  The doors opened and Walker and Pullen appeared, blinking against the sudden barrage of powerful lights from the camera crews. A flurry of questions came at once, each reporter trying to be heard over the din. Pullen stood with his chest puffed, a broad smile on his face. Walker was still the meek person who’d testified on his behalf. He looked like a frightened animal that had suddenly been confronted by a ferocious enemy.

  “How does it feel to be a free man?” a reporter with a particularly loud voice boomed.

  “I—I am happy to be free,” Walker said in such a low voice that only those a few feet away from him could hear.

  “How does Skip feel about it,” another reporter asked, laughing as he did.

  Walker didn’t respond. He stood mutely, his eyes blinking rapidly, his head jerking in the direction of each shouted question.

  Suddenly someone else stood next to Walker.

  “Who the hell is that?” a reporter standing only four feet away asked a colleague.

  “Where did he come from?” asked another.

  This new person, a man dressed in a suit and tie that matched Walker’s, smiled.

  “He’s the spitting image of Walker,” someone said. “He could be his twin.”

  Then, the newcomer pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and rammed it into Willard Walker’s chest.

  “Jesus!”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Grab that guy!”

  But ‘that guy’ was no longer there. There was no way that he could have escaped through the crowd that stood shoulder-to-shoulder surrounding Walker and Pullen. He was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

  Willard slumped to his knees, his hands pressed against his bloody chest. The crowd pushed back a little to allow him to fall face-forward onto the hard courthouse steps.

  “Did anybody hear him say anything?” a reporter yelled.

  “I did,” a young woman who’d been close to where Walker and his attorney had stood said. “He said—he said, ‘Hate me? You bastard!’ And then he took out the knife and…” She broke down in tears.

  The Willard Walker case, his acquittal based upon his claim of having a second personality who’d murdered his wife, and his own mysterious death caused by someone who looked just like him and who had disappeared into thin air, was front-page news around the world. Eventually, other more pressing news replaced accounts of the Willard Walker case, although it did spawn dozens of other unsuccessful defenses in which accused murderers pointed to a second personality as having committed their crimes.

  But while the murder of Deborah Walker and the mysterious demise of her husband no longer captured wide attention, in Savannah it took its place alongside the Moon River Brewing Company, Little Gracie and the old Pulaski Hotel, the Jumper on Drayton Street, the Colonial Park Cemetery, and the more than fifty other ghost stories that fueled the city’s thriving ghost tours’ industry.

  • • •

  “So, let me ask you,” the husband said to the guide as he and his family prepared to depart the trolley after the three-hour tour, “have you ever seen this Skippy Walker character?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” the guide replied.

  “Think you ever will?”

  The guide smiled. “You never can tell about ghosts, sir. They might be closer than you think.”

  RICH TALK

  by C. Hope Clark

  Harlowe Franklin blew out a tired, scotch-laced breath. It was May, yet he’d had Stevens light a fire before the personal concierge turned in around 10 P.M. He craved a sense of cozy, but would settle for any feeling other than the frustration that had taken up residence in his bones.

  The defense attorney sighed and sank deeper into the tufted leather chair, still missing the wallowed out one his wife donated to Goodwill months ago. The surrounding comforts usually settled him after his difficult days. His library of first editions, his great-grandfather’s framed flintlock displayed against the dark, polished walnut paneling. A drink in one of his grandmother’s crystal glasses, and his worn pair of $500 leather slippers with which he’d rewarded himself one long-ago weekend in London. Out of habit he glanced down for Winston at his feet, but around midnight the Boykin Spaniel had ditched him and joined Mrs. Franklin upstairs in bed.

  Harlowe hadn’t slept with her in over a year. His wife, not the dog.

  He preferred the dog.

  The mantle clock gonged a muted, gentle tone. Four times. Sleep wouldn’t happen now. Not
this close to morning. He sucked the remnants of his scotch and picked up the phone, keying the internal line to Stevens’ room.

  “Sir?” the assistant answered, enunciating his word as if he weren’t entitled to rest. He lived to serve.

  Harlowe stood, stretching out the kinks in his neck. “Sorry to wake you, Stevens, but I need you to cancel the day’s appointments. I’m going out on the boat. Please call the marina and let them know. They’ll be open for the early fishermen, I’d think.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Harlowe headed to his separate bedroom to change. Better to endure this bout of insomnia in an environment he preferred, atop the gentle swells off the balmy coast of Charleston.

  Harlowe climbed the stairs and reached his bedroom. Stevens soon knocked softly and entered, having thrown on crisply ironed slacks under his satin robe, his straight graying hair groomed to include his signature immaculate part. He handed Harlowe a glass of orange juice and asked, “Anything else I can prepare for you?”

  The employer smiled and accepted the juice. “No thanks, Stevens. I’ll check in later in the day.”

  By 5:30, with the sun pinking the navy sky, Harlowe walked the ramp to Legal Dock, his 34-foot Chris Craft. While he’d handled the boat many times alone, his mood was as damp as the humid Lowcountry air, and he wished to sit back and think. Drift off for a nap, if need be. Come home with some personal decisions made.

  Miranda jumped on the boat ahead of him, her deck shoes silent, a windbreaker atop a plain white T-shirt. She wore jeans with a hole in one thigh, another on a knee. The twenty-year-old was known around the club for her boat prowess and sweet looks, though she never seemed to capitalize on the latter. She was ever willing to accompany someone who needed a second hand, and even in early May, her devotion had already tanned her young skin. Harlowe had awakened her, too, requesting she help on the boat. The vessel wasn’t completely unwieldy for one person, but Miranda would free him to sort his thoughts.

  The young woman busied herself prepping and checking.

  “Need help, Miranda?” He felt it mannerly to offer despite her nautical touch being so second nature to her.

  “No, sir,” she said, the engine turning over. “Just enjoy your coffee.”

  He’d had the marina fill his thermos when he’d arrived. “Girl, you sure love a boat,” he said, dropping onto the backseat, one arm draping over the upholstery. “I love your passion, but you need to think bigger than this for your future.”

  “Maybe I’ll run a marina,” she said looking up, her even white teeth accenting her smile.

  “I bet you could,” he said, taking a sip from his cup. This was a good decision coming out here.

  “Thanks for waking me,” Miranda added, easing them out of the slip. “You look tired, though. Everything okay?”

  “Life’s throwing me a few curves, making me unable to sleep. Was hoping the salt air would clear my head and make some choices simpler.”

  She drifted on past the sleeping, moored boats, the sky changing to pale orange, and a lighter blue peering through cumulus clouds on the horizon. Another fifty yards to go. She turned toward him. “Then let me handle the boat. I can manage without you.”

  He winked. “I know you can, honey. I get more enjoyment watching you do it, frankly.”

  She picked up speed, the breeze strong enough to tousle their hair and steal words. “Anyone else saying that would sound lascivious,” she shouted, then laughed and gunned the engine, and they put the awakening Holy City behind them.

  For the first half hour, they said nothing, Miranda thriving at the helm, Harlowe pondering. His life was about to change, for the good or bad he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t the type to be reactive. He hadn’t profited from waiting for the prosecution to make the first move. He hadn’t filled his coffers by waiting for the market to settle. He was proactive…deliberate, methodical, and aggressive in his business, and had sense enough to know to use those skills in his personal life as well.

  His eyes drooped, spray teasing his face. He set his coffee in a holder and draped both arms over the seat backs, crossed his ankles, and forced himself to sift through the thoughts he’d kept harbored way too long.

  Lavella O’Hara Franklin was sleeping with Tucker McKinley. His wife and his partner. A cliché if ever there was one. Divorcing Harlowe would cost her access to his quasi-fortune; he’d see to that. How the hell did she expect to see Tucker and not ruin things? He didn’t see money as an issue; Tucker had enough of his own. But even if she left Harlowe, the shift would blow back on the firm. Regardless of who left whom, or who sided with whom, a mess awaited.

  He’d been busy. Too busy creating a retirement that Lovie didn’t appreciate. Purposely he’d overlooked hers and Tucker’s crisscrossing happenstance schedule for almost a year now, refusing to act on the signs, hoping against hope that the spark would die between the two. Then he and Lovie could pretend it never happened. Whether they loved each other didn’t matter. At this stage of their lives it was about convenience, economics, and plain damn common sense. Otherwise, what would Charleston’s social circles think?

  He and Lovie were too old to split and live alone. The house sprawled far and wide enough to where living separately represented a solid option, with minimal inconvenience. He would even look the other way if she dallied with the occasional joker, then tossed him aside.

  But Tucker. One day this affair would erupt in their faces and they’d all go down with the ship. She’d picked a union able to do the most damage to the whole lot of them. Therefore, Harlowe needed to act.

  Miranda slowed the boat and let it idle. “Need a moment below,” she said and disappeared into the cabin.

  Water softly slapped the sides of the vessel, rocking front, back, side-to-side, the bobbing soothing Harlowe better than his best Macallan 25 Sherry Scotch. He lifted his phone and called Stevens.

  “Any problems, my man?”

  “None at all, sir. Your appointments are rescheduled. Your secretary was slightly miffed, but otherwise all is well. Are you having a good morning?” the assistant asked.

  The sun had just cleared the horizon, its warmth soothing coupled with the breezes. “Remarkable,” Harlowe replied, closing his eyes again. “My wife still in bed?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well,” he started, slowly sitting upright. “In case I’m not back in time, don’t forget her five o’clock cocktail.”

  “Sir?”

  “Her five o’clock cocktail, Stevens. God help us if she misses it.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Harlowe hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket. Salt air had proved quite medicinal. Amazing how his thoughts had gelled so early in this jaunt. He ought to take advantage of Legal Dock more often.

  “What the hell?” Miranda’s voice carried loudly from below.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Harlowe called.

  “Get off the boat,” she yelled, clamoring up the stairs, tripping once and going down on a knee. “Pull out the vests. I’ll grab the life raft. Now!”

  He paused long enough to know not to question. Fumbling under a seat, he found two vests, tossed one to Miranda, then jerked his arms through his, no time to buckle up. She waved at him to leap at the same instant she threw the inflating raft overboard. The water sucked him in, crashing over his head, and Harlowe’s heart fought to escape his chest. He resurfaced, and saw Miranda climb into the raft ahead of him. Her arm extended towards him, and he took it, then cast a leg up over the side. He grasped the rope in the life raft and hauled his bulky torso over. Gasping, he didn’t argue over Miranda commanding the oars first and rowing hard.

  He looked back at Legal Dock, sleek as it flashed the bright morning sun in its chrome. Seeing nothing wrong, he turned back to Miranda. “Talk to me, honey,” he said when they reached thirty yards away.

  “Under the sink in the cabin,” she huffed, still pulling against the water. “I went to get…”

  Th
e boat exploded. The shock wave and shrapnel ripped through the small two-man raft, thrusting both of them mangled into the water.

  • • •

  Lovie grumbled, one peek at her vertical blinds told her that dawn hadn’t yet arrived. “What is it, Stevens?”

  “Ma’am, sorry to disturb you.”

  Stevens stood at Lovie’s bedroom threshold. He had knocked and received a moaned acceptance for him to open the door. “You asked me to let you know when he goes out, ma’am. He’s preparing for the marina now.”

  Lovie studied her porcelain clock on her nightstand, purchased in Burgundy, France, en route to a girls’ vacation in Rome. The timepiece proved too ornate to be read clearly without her glasses, or après-five martinis the evening before. What was it, four? Five?

  “It’s 4:30,” Stevens automatically replied.

  “Good lord, why is he up this early?” She rubbed her face as she waved in Stevens’ direction, her eyes once again closed. “Never matter.” Then she paused before lying back down, sluggishly thinking about how her plans might be conveniently shifted in her husband’s absence. “Did he say how long he’d be gone?”

  “No, ma’am, but he had me cancel his entire day at the office. I was about to leave a message with his secretary.”

  Excellent news. She’d call Tucker, once he awoke at a decent hour. No point rousing him before daylight. Harlowe stressed him of late, and Tucker needed his sleep.

  Tucker had mentioned being wedged against the wall these days, with Harlowe pressuring him to be here, be there, take a new case, then shift to another. While the two men were partners, Harlowe outmaneuvered Tucker any day of the week. Harlowe could out-negotiate, out-invest, out-scheme, out-almost-anything except please her.