Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series)

by Joel B Reed

  I wrote myself another note and stuck that in my pocket, too. I would sort them later, but right now I needed to keep my mind open and let it roam. With written notes, I don’t have to worry about forgetting things, and they help me clear the mental slate. One of the biggest mistakes an investigator can make is going too hard in the obvious direction and neglecting subtle, less promising leads. Going with the obvious works most of the time, and it clears a lot of cases. Yet, I’ve learned the hard way it can come back to bite you in the ass.

  So I turned my mind to what I didn’t know and made more notes. One thing I didn’t know much about was Smiley’s family life or what he had done since he retired. The article had been vague in this area and either of those might lead to motive and a killer. Everything I ever read about the man told me Smiley was one of the most popular men in show business. He was well known as a gentle soul who never had an unkind word to say about anyone, and he was never demanding.

  I assumed the same was true in his personal life, but one never knows. When things seem too good to be true, they often are, and a reputation like that normally makes me suspicious. Everyone has a dark side and when I hear too much praise, I normally wonder what the real story is. With Smiley, I had a hard time doing that. I didn’t want to think ill of the man because I loved his music. That doesn’t make sense because I know better. Some of the worst felons produce some of the finest prison art, and I knew I had to be very careful to be objective when looking at Smiley.

  That also meant I might have a hard time getting accurate information. People invest a lot of hope in living saints, and coming across as a devil’s advocate would not sit well. I was sure the information I needed to complete the investigation lay in some dark chapter of Smiley’s history, but I would have to strike a careful balance to get it. Push too hard one way or another, and the sources dry up.

  I pulled into Nashville about two o’clock with a shirt pocket stuffed with notes. Unlike it’s counterpart in Tennessee, Nashville, Arkansas, is a sleepy little town of four thousand souls in the Ouchita Mountains in the southwestern part of the state. I’m not sure where Nashville gets its name, whether it’s from the city in Tennessee or maybe in honor of the same person. Or someone else with the same surname. There’s a Nash not far away, near Texarkana. Whatever the source, it’s an old place, settled early in the 1800s and it has its charm. These days, Nashville describes itself as a “community of choice,” which may sound odd for a town in the middle of the Bible Belt. Yet, I think what is being expressed is not a political stance, but the hope that people might choose to live there. I think those who like small, southern towns might find it pleasant. Certainly, the pace of life is much slower.

  I pulled over and called the number Dee had given me when I talked to him earlier. I was looking forward to seeing him again. Even though we didn’t see each other often, we always picked up wherever we left off last time, despite whatever might be going on around us.

  Or maybe we grew close because of the stuff going on around us, the nature of our jobs. Even as partners in the Highway Patrol, we saw things every day that no one should have to witness. The only respite we had was each other and the trust that grew between us over the years, and I was surprised how much I missed that close connection when I moved to CID. While we didn’t deal with as much awful stuff in CID, the things we did deal with were far worse. Like most police officers, I find it easier to deal with the immediate tragedy of a child killed in a car crash than with the ongoing tragedy of multi-generational incest.

  So I was glad when Dee landed in the CID, too. I was senior enough by then to make sure I was assigned as his trainer and we became partners again. Not that Dee needed much in the way of training from me, other than being shown where we kept the pencils and hid the key to the john. I’m told the two of us became living legends in the CID, but I don’t put much stock in that. We did close a lot of hard cases, and we put a lot of sick people away for a long time.

  All this came to an end when I was promoted to head of the Division. I made Dee my chief supervisor and trainer, and he was my intended replacement when I retired. Yet, my retirement happened sooner than we expected. The politics involved got to be more than I could stomach and I took an early out. A political hack was promoted ahead of Dee, and Dee asked to go back to investigator, taking a cut in grade. This meant a cut in pay, too, but it was the kind of work he loved. When he stepped aside, the division went downhill despite the good work we had done to build it up. I hated to see that, but I didn’t have cause to complain. After a while, it sent a lot of business my way.

  The number Dee had given me was his cell phone and he picked up on the second ring. He gave me directions to the sheriff ’s office, and when I got there I found him waiting at the curb. Nor did he look happy. No one else might have seen it, but I did. He was torqued.

  “Good to see you, Jazz!” He held out a hand that swallowed mine when I offered it. “Damn, I’m glad you’re here.” He looked me up and down carefully, noting my losing battle with gravity. Then he grinned. “I guess I shouldn’t mention how good the pie is in the restaurant here. Nellie would nail my ass.”

  I laughed. “She tells me I block out too much sunlight.”

  He pointed to my shirt pocket bulging with notes. “I see you’ve been hard at work already. Let’s grab a cup of coffee and talk about it.” He nodded to a coffee shop across the street. “We can have some privacy there.”

  The shuck and jive didn’t fool me for a minute. Meeting me at the curb was a bad sign. It told me something else was going on, most likely a turf fight over who got to run the show. That didn’t make much sense since it was normally the county sheriff, desperate for a solution, who called in the state CID. Nor was Dee ever much concerned over turf or who had jurisdiction. His primary concern was preserving the chain of evidence and nailing the assholes who did it, and it was not uncommon for him to let the locals take most of the credit for a bust. His reputation made him welcome where a lot of investigators from Little Rock were not.

  Sure enough, Dee confirmed that when we sat down and ordered. “I had to talk to you before the Fibbies did. They’ve taken over the sheriff’s office.”

  I was surprised to hear the Bureau was involved in a local homicide. Dee nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t know about it when I called you. They’re trying to make this into a federal case. You know, the usual civil rights bullshit.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on, Dee.” I didn’t bother to hide how I felt about this.

  “The governor pushed the panic button. That’s what’s going on. He leaned on the Attorney General and Barton called in the feds. It was too late to head it off by the time it got to me.” He shrugged. “Not that they consult me much these days.”

  Barton Smith was one of the hacks our current governor brought with him to Little Rock. He was as floppy as a flag when hot issues were on the wind, and his record as attorney general was less than brilliant. I detested the man.

  “What are they claiming? Conspiracy to violate Smiley’s rights?” I asked. This thing was beginning to sound more and more like a major disaster. I wondered if I should turn around and head back to Ft. Smith.

  “Now, don’t go backing out on me, Jazz. They saddled me with this thing and I need you to keep it from going south.” I had to smile. Dee knows me almost as well as Nellie and can read me like a book.

  “They can’t have it both ways, Dee,” I told him. “Their calling in the Bureau should take you off the hook.”

  “You would think so,” he answered. “The thing is, I’m less than a year from full pension and the bastards are after me.”

  “You’re the best man they have!” I protested. “They’d be crazy to let you go. Who’d get things done?”

  “No one’s arguing that Barton’s sane,” he answered dryly. “The word I have is that one of his nephews needs a job.”

  “You’re civil service,” I answered, but I knew that didn’t matter. The attorney
general was well connected and most judges in the state were afraid of him. Nor did Dee choose to play the political game. There was no one more competent on a crime scene or on the witness stand, but he was out of his depth when it came to day-to-day politics. He simply couldn’t see how politics mattered, and if things went bad on this thing, the hacks would hang him out to dry. It must have been pretty blatant because Dee doesn’t normally pick up on this sort of thing.

  “I need your help, Jazz,” he said. “Once I get by this one I’ll grab my pension and run, but I’m stuck with this one. They’re pulling the rug out from under me every step of the way.”

  “You could always check into treatment,” I said, and we both laughed. That’s a common dodge of drug dealers who find they’re on the brink of getting busted. They check into treatment in a facility in another state, and the law can’t touch them until they’re out. That buys time until their lawyers can buy judges.

  “That might be a hard sell.” Dee was known as the designated driver for the whole division. As far as I knew, he’d never taken a drink since coming into AA a dozen or more years before. Yet, very few were aware he had a problem with booze.

  I thought about it a minute. This thing could really mess me up as an outside consultant and Dee knew it. He wouldn’t have asked unless he was desperate. “How about I just shoot you in the leg?” I asked. “We could both say it was an accident. It might be less painful.”

  He laughed. “Don’t tempt me. But you might hit an artery and I’d hate them to slip you the needle. Nellie would never forgive me.”

  “Well, let’s hit it then,” I answered, flagging the waitress for the bill. “No use putting it off.”

  “Maybe I should take up drinking again,” he laughed as he followed me out. We both knew that was not an option. There is no problem in this world that drinking cannot make worse.

  There was a distinct chill to my reception at the sheriff’s office. The sheriff was all right with my being there and greeted me warmly. “Damned good to see you again, Jazz,” he said. “I’m glad you came. The whole family is. Hope you don’t mind the arm twisting.”

  The sheriff might have been glad to see me, but I could see the Fat Boys were not pleased at all. That alone damn near made it worth the trouble of driving down, but I was polite. Not looking at Dee or the sheriff, I spoke directly to them. “I didn’t know the Bureau was involved. When did this happen?”

  Ken Spinks, the senior agent, answered me. “Well, we are, Phillips. So don’t get in our way.” Spinks and I go a long way back, too. I haven’t figured out which rubs me wrong the worse—his arrogance or his stupidity. I do know he’s well connected in national politics and I suspect that’s how he got by entrance screening at the Bureau. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.

  “What’s your basis for jurisdiction?” I asked. “This is a local murder.”

  “Civil rights,” the other answered. He scowled. “Maybe conspiracy or a hate crime.”

  “A hate crime?” I asked. “Against Smiley Jones? What suggests that?”

  Spinks jumped in. “We’re the ones asking the questions here, Phillips. We’re the ones with jurisdiction. You’re here to answer our questions.”

  “I’m here as a consultant to the Arkansas CID and the sheriff,” I shot back. Then I smiled. “Of course, if the Bureau is picking up the tab...?”

  “The Bureau is not picking up your tab,” Spinks snarled.

  “Well, maybe I should call Lonnie and see if we can figure out how this is going to work. Maybe I need to bow out.” Lonnie Schmidt is the FBI supervisor in Little Rock. He and I go back a long way, too.

  I could see Spinks didn’t like this, either. He had been around long enough to know I have a solid reputation among the senior staff in the Bureau. He also knew that included Lonnie, who likes the results I get and doesn’t hesitate to say so. I didn’t know his partner very well, but Spinks was not about to risk getting his tits in that wringer. The two of them might freeze me out with little or no cooperation, but they were not about to go up against Lonnie.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Spinks said.

  “All right, then,” I told them. “But I expect full cooperation and full disclosure all the way. Any withholding on your part and I go right over your heads to Lonnie.” They nodded, but I knew Spinks would cut me dead in a New York minute if he could get away with it. I hoped fear would keep him in line. “Fair enough,” I said. “I’ll do the same. Dee and I will work together and keep you up to date.”

  I turned to the sheriff. “We’ll keep you in the loop, too, Sheriff. You know the drill. We’ll keep what we find among ourselves until the case breaks. Just the five of us.” He nodded. I knew there wouldn’t be a leak through the sheriff, even though he was Smiley’s cousin and would face a real grilling from the family. Then I decided it wouldn’t hurt to put the Fibbies on defense. When I asked the sheriff the next question, it was all he could do to keep from smiling. “Tell me, do you have any sense this was racially motivated?”

  Spinks’ partner broke in and tried to answer, but I held up a hand. “Sorry for the confusion,” I told him. “I was after the sheriff’s gut feeling.”

  “Well,” the sheriff drawled, taking his time and making the word a full three syllables. “I can’t say I do, Jazz. ’Course, I can’t rule race out, either. They is a lot of strange people out there nowadays. Seems they get stranger all the time.”

  Spinks rolled his eyes, but the sheriff ignored it. “It’s not a family matter, is it, John?” I asked gently. Dee knows how I work and anticipated the question. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watching the sheriff like a hawk.

  The sheriff shook his head. “No, sir, it ain’t,” he said simply. “If it was, we wouldn’t a had to call you, would we?” He smiled sweetly.

  I nodded, satisfied for the moment. I could see Dee was, too. Nor did he miss the message. Sheriff Tanner was telling us that if the death were a family matter, neither Dee nor I would have ever heard about it. Nor would it have gotten to court. The alleged killer would have undoubtedly been shot trying to escape the county jail. Arkansas justice may be rough at times, but it can be damned effective.

  I smiled back. We understood each other. “I’ll want to see the crime scene and I’ll need a desk to look over the file.”

  “Get real,” Spinks interjected. “Crime scene is a mess. Dozens of people have been through there since it happened. There’s nothing there.”

  “Yeah, and it’s rained since then, too,” his partner piped in. “Twice. Any trace evidence is probably long gone.”

  I didn’t bother to answer. It doesn’t matter how contaminated a crime scene may be. It always pays to look, even if all one gets is a sense of how things went down. There are some things neither time nor rain can wash away, and this was what I was after. Nor was it my job to train Bureau agents, even if they were open to it. Spinks and company were Lonnie’s problem, not mine.

  The sheriff nodded. “We’ll set up an office for you over at the jail. We’ll keep the file there so you can get to it anytime you need. Just ask the jailer.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” I told him. “We’re going to head out while there’s still good light.” Dee got to his feet, too, and we headed for the door. Then I stopped, turned back to Spinks. “Keep in touch, Ken,” I said, pointing a finger at his chest. Spinks face turned red, but he didn’t say a word.

  Dee chuckled all the way to the car. “I forget what an asshole you can be,” he said as we climbed into his cruiser. “You sounded just like Lonnie.”

  To give the devil his due, Spinks was right. The crime scene was a mess. The place where Smiley was shot was a small black settlement about a dozen miles out of Nashville. The houses were too spread out and too few to call a village, but there was a small complex of buildings more or less in the center of things and a paved state road wound its way north and south through the community, following the contours of the land. A hundred feet on either side of t
he road, the land fell off sharply, forming a long ridge that ran for miles.

  This part of Arkansas has a lot of old stand pines left in places. Thinking they would probably be cheated by white loggers, the black people who had settled around Oak Grove used their pines for themselves. During the investigation, I learned the tractor powered sawmill standing to the east end of the central complex provided most of the lumber for the buildings, and what little was not needed was sold to lumber yards as far away as Hope. That’s where the money came from to buy hardware and glass for the community center which also served as a school before they started bussing. Now the pines that paid for this were giving way to kudzu, the Asian ground cover imported to stop soil erosion after clear-cut logging. I guess it did just that, but what it also did was stop the natural replacement of the pines. Kudzu spreads like wildfire and in places it has wiped out entire groves.

  The community center, where the shooting happened, faced north. It was a big white building in need of fresh paint but otherwise in good repair.Large windows were evenly spaced along the east and west sides, but there were none in the front or back. The entrance was a wide double door hung in the middle of the broad gallery porch which ran all the way across the front. Unpainted benches sat along the wall of the porch. To discourage casual borrowing, they were nailed to the floor.

  The state road that ran through Oak Grove passed a wide parking area on the west side of the community center. Across the road from the center, a small general store with an old gas pump out front sat at right angles to the center, facing the parking lot. A crude sign on the solitary pump told us there was no gas this week.

  Just north of the general store, I could see an abandoned blacksmith shop and another building that was boarded up. These all faced what looked like a dusty town square that lay across the road and directly in front of the community center. Scattered around the square were crude wooden benches set in the shade of a small grove of oak trees. It was these trees, planted by one of the first settlers, which gave Oak Grove its name. Later in the investigation, I would learn it was called Oak Ridge, too.