Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series)

by Joel B Reed

  “We were just talking,” I answered gently. “Robert has been telling me a little about the town here.”

  “He ain’t been here long enough to know anything worth telling,” he answered.

  “I don’t think I got your name,” I replied.

  “I didn’t give it,” he told me.

  “Is there some reason why?” I asked, raising an eyebrow and letting him hear just a hint of official tone. It was a warning, and one I could see he understood. But rather than answer, he took Robert by the arm and turned on his heel to go back to the store. Just then Dee came around the corner of the store and saw us.

  I mimicked holding up a badge and Dee held up his identification folder. Robert and the tall man stopped and looked back at me. “You can talk to me or him,” I said. “I’m easier.”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong!” the tall man said. The lapse into rural speak told he was frightened, more than one would expect. I wondered why.

  “No, you haven’t done anything wrong,” I agreed. “Not yet. On the other hand, a police investigator has asked you to identify yourself and you have refused. It was a reasonable question.”

  The man looked back and forth at us, then shrugged. “McNutt,” he said in a flat voice. “Robert McNutt. Senior,” he added.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. McNutt. Do you own the store here?” He nodded, but said nothing. “Look, I’m not out to bother you, sir. We’re here about the shooting two weeks ago and we need information. Have you owned the store awhile?”

  “Twelve years,” he answered, relaxing a bit. Then he shook his head. “No, it’s been fourteen now.”

  I nodded. “That happens to me all the time. My kids call it galloping senility. Tell me, are you related to any of the people around here?”

  He shook his head. For some reason he was unwilling to volunteer where he was from and again I wondered why. Some people are just like that, but I thought there was more to it. “That means you’re still an outsider, doesn’t it. I don’t guess you’d hear much.”

  He shrugged, thawing just a little. “Well, sometimes. People talk in the store. I hadn’t heard any talk about the shooting.”

  “That’s strange, isn’t it? I mean, something like that. You’d think they’d be rattling off a mile a minute. They must know something. Or think they do.” I was careful to say that so he wouldn’t take it as an accusation.

  He almost smiled. “Well, I did hear a couple of them start talking about it the other day, but they shut up when I came out of the back room.” Like his son, Robert senior lost his accent when he spoke in full sentences. “They were talking about Luther… something he said.”

  “I think we met him yesterday,” I told him. “He was over at the church with the pastor. I got the impression he’s not quite right somehow.”

  “I think you’re right, but I don’t know why.” That was odd. From the easy way the pastor spoke the day before, the reason for Luther’s condition was common knowledge here. Our grocer must be really out of the loop. Or, for some reason, he was reluctant to speak. Then it occurred to me he didn’t want anyone knowing any information came from him. He had to live here, and it could be bad for business. I decided to let it go. Others would talk, gladly.

  “Well, like I say, we’re not here to trouble you, Mr. McNutt. That’s all I really wanted. We may want to talk to you and Robert’s mother later.” I looked at Robert. “You’ve got a fine son. He seems to be interested in what we’re doing and he’s been helpful. He’s welcome to watch, so long as he doesn’t get underfoot.”

  Robert senior thought about that a moment before answering and I could see where the youngster got the habit. He looked at his son and I had the sense some understanding passed between them, though there were no nonverbals I could see. Then senior nodded, his head moving no more than an eighth inch. Allowing Robert to follow us around would let him keep tabs on us. To me it also told me he didn’t have anything to hide, at least, not in regard to the shooting. There was something there, to be sure, something he was holding back. While it might be germane to the case, or might not, there was no use pressing him. We all have ghosts roaming the desolate regions of our souls. Nor do most of us really like police, not even cops themselves. Maybe it was that. I made a mental note to run his name through the computer.

  Robert’s dad walked back to the store. When he did, I noticed something about the way he walked, the way he placed his feet. While it seemed effortless, it was far from casual. It reminded me of a tiger I once watched in the wild: sure, powerful, and relentless. It wouldn’t do to mess with Robert the elder. So why was he so afraid?

  “Crime Scene is on the way,” Dee told me once McNutt was gone. “So is a deputy from the sheriff’s department. We might as well seal off this place now.” He held up a roll of yellow plastic tape and a stapler. He handed Robert the roll of tape, keeping the tail end in his hand. “Walk this over to the corner, would you?”

  Robert took the roll of yellow tape while Dee stapled one end to the corner of the store. “Your dad a boxer?” Dee asked. Robert didn’t answer but dropped his eyes. “Well, he moves like one,” Dee continued.

  Then I remembered something. I couldn’t recall the details, but there was a news story years ago about a young contender from Arkansas people thought might be the next Muhammad Ali. He was strong and fast and remained undefeated. Then, out of the blue, he quit just as his career was taking off. I couldn’t remember his name, but it wasn’t McNutt.

  I became aware of Dee and Robert staring at me. Dee had apparently asked me something, but I had no idea what it was. “Senior moment,” I said. “Be sure and do the outhouse, too.”

  I looked to Robert, who was staring at the outhouse and frowning. I could almost see the wheels spinning in his mind, trying to puzzle it out and not wanting to ask. I nearly laughed. Then I remembered what I wanted to know when his dad broke in. “What about it, Robert? Did you see anyone hanging around back here a day or two before the celebration.”

  He shook his head, still staring at the privy. “How about here? Did you see anyone here at the outhouse?”

  This time he nodded. “Yeah, one man.”

  “Did you recognize him?” Robert’s short answers were beginning to get to me and from the look Dee gave him, I could see he was losing patience, too. Yet, it would not help to push Robert faster than he wanted to go. He wasn’t holding back or trying to balk. Growing up with his dad, he had learned to ponder before speaking.

  “Did you recognize him?” Dee repeated the question.

  Robert nodded. “Yeah, it was him. The guy that got shot.”

  “Smiley Jones?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it was him. He waved at me.”

  “When was this?” Dee asked. He was done sealing the blacksmith shop.

  “That day,” Robert told us. “The day he got shot.”

  “Really,” I asked. “How was he dressed?”

  Robert shrugged. “Like everyone else. You know, Sunday go tomeeting clothes.”

  “He was wearing a suit and a tie?” Dee asked and Robert nodded.

  “Do you remember if he had his suit jacket on? Or was he in shirt

  sleeves?”

  Robert thought a moment. “Shirt sleeves. He didn’t have a jacket.”

  “Do you remember what color his coat and tie were?” I asked. The only reason I asked was habit. I didn’t think it was significant, but the more details we had, the better.

  Robert nodded, animated for the first time. “Yeah. I thought it was a cool tie. Sort of all different colors. Looked like a snake.”

  “A snake?” I asked. “You mean with its mouth open?” I held up my hand and cupped it like a cobra about to strike.

  Robert shook his head. “No, like a regular snake, lying on a log. Sort of brown and shiny. Almost black.” I tried to imagine what he meant, but couldn’t. Maybe it was one of those fabrics that reflected light differently from different angle. I was about to ask what
color pants and shoes he had on when Dee spoke up.

  “What about his shirt?” Dee interjected. “What color was that?”

  Robert pointed to me. “About like his, only no checks.” I was wearing a tan and brown plaid.

  “You mean tan colored?” Dee asked and Robert nodded.

  I looked at Dee. This was a strange development. “Are you thinking what I am?” I asked. He nodded. “Why didn’t the shooter take care of him back here?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why not take the easy shot? Why wait until he was out there and risk missing the shot? Or being seen?”

  “There you are,” a familiar voice said from the direction of the store. I looked abound and saw Spinks and his partner coming toward us. “What you got?” he asked when they got to us.

  “We’re not sure yet,” I answered.

  Spinks pointed to the tape on the blacksmith shop. “What about this?” he demanded. He pulled the yellow tape loose and grabbed the handle of the door.

  I threw my weight against the door, jerking it out of his hand. Blood rushed to his face and he opened his mouth to say something. “Nobody goes in until Crime Scene gets done!” I cut in. “That may be the shooter’s nest.”

  He glared at me. “You’re supposed to keep us in the loop,” he snarled.

  “We just found it, not ten minutes ago,” I told him. “That’s why we’re standing here. Waiting for Crime Scene.”

  “Who’s that?” Spinks demanded, jabbing a finger at Robert. The youngster looked at Spinks with hooded eyes, his face a rigid mask.

  “A local kid who was curious about what we are doing,” I told him. I was about to tell him about the empty casing, but he cut me off.

  “Well, get out of here,” Spinks told Robert.

  “No, wait a minute, Robert,” I told him. I turned to Dee. “Get Lonnie on the horn. Tell him his cub scouts are screwing up our investigation. Ask him to get them the hell out of here.” A smile tickled the corner of Robert’s mouth.

  Dee grinned and headed for his cruiser. “With pleasure.”

  “Wait a minute!” Spinks called after him and Dee stopped. “Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot here,” he added.

  “No,” I answered. “We didn’t. You did. I’m not going to take any more of your bullshit. You either play ball or I’m gone, and if this case goes south I’ll swear in court you are the one who screwed it up.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Spinks’ partner asked. “Sit around with our thumbs up our butts?”

  I looked at Dee. Kruger had a point. The FBI had been called in and they were a part of the investigation whether we liked it or not. “All right,” I said. “We’ll split it up. You stay with Dee and Spinks will go with me. Once Crime Scene gets here, we’ll head back into Nashville and pool what we have.” As much as I disliked Spinks, I preferred to have him where I could keep an eye on him. Then, too, he wouldn’t try to lean on me the way he might on Dee. Apart from his asshole partner, I didn’t think Kruger would be a problem.

  “Why don’t I stay here with DiRado?” Spinks said. “He can fill me in while we wait. Kruger can go with you.”

  I looked at Dee. His face was an unreadable mask, but I knew he would just as soon go through a proctological examination. Even so, it was a reasonable request. “All right,” I told him. “But DiRado is in charge until Crime Scene gets here. No one goes into the smith shop

  or the privy.”

  “The shitter?” Spinks asked. “You found evidence in there?”

  “Only a possibility,” I told him. “Fresh shit. Stick your head in and take a look if you want to check it out. Just don’t touch. You can smell all you want.” Behind him I could see DiRado and Kruger grin.

  “I’ll leave that to the humps,” Spinks said. Seeing the look on his face was priceless.

  Kruger and I walked around to the front of the building. I told him how we had come to discover the nest and pointed out the opening in the front of the shop. He took out a small set of binoculars and looked at it closely. “Looks like fresh cuts,” he said. “Maybe some flash burns, too. Any idea what he was using?”

  I showed him the spent shell I bought from Robert and pointed out where it came from. I also showed him the misfire and told him our theory about that. I told him what we had seen in the smithy and about the scratches in the ground by the privy behind it. As we talked, I found the questions he asked were professional and on target. I decided he was sharp enough to have pegged Spinks’ arrogance and bluster as a cover for incompetence. I wondered why Lonnie had paired him with Spinks, then concluded it was to make up for Spinks’ mistakes.

  I glanced at my watch. The morning was getting away from us but there was time to look over the outhouse by the community center before my interview with the reverend. I took Kruger across to the porch and showed him the bloodstains there and on the ground. Then, from the porch, I pointed out the privy behind the shrubbery.

  “Why are we checking this out?” Kruger asked as we walked through the center and out the back door.

  “Mostly to be thorough,” I said. “As you will see, there are some prime spots for a sniper down here. Some of them offer a better shot than the shop, and we don’t know it was the shop for sure. I’d say we’re ninety-seven percent sure, but we could be wrong.”

  Kruger nodded. Being thorough is something the FBI understands and drills into all its agents. With most of them, it takes, but many of us remember their lab scandal from the nineties. “Look at that!” Kruger said, pointing to the traditional half moon cut into the outhouse door.

  “Traditional country art,” I told him.

  “No, not that. On the outside of the moon.” He pointed. The light was much better than the evening before, and I could see a faint smudge at the lower edge of the moon cut. “Looks like it might be gunpowder residue.”

  “Could be,” I said, taking out a set of reading glasses. Trifocals are a fact of life for me these days, even though I have perfect vision beyond arms length. “Your eyes are a lot sharper than mine.”

  Kruger didn’t say anything, but he seemed to appreciate even that faint praise. Working with Spinks must be hell on earth, I thought. I took out a pen knife and carefully opened the door with the blade, holding it wide enough we could both look in.

  Unlike the privy behind the blacksmith shop, this one had seen plenty of use. There was a powdering of lime on the floor by the half empty sack and two fresh rolls of toilet paper hung on nails on one wall. There was also a can of insecticide, probably for spiders. Privies attract flies, and flies attract black widows. Throughout the deep South, their stings are still the cause of too many deaths every year.

  “Crime Scene is going to love us for this,” I said, closing the door and taking out a roll of yellow tape.

  “At least they’re privy to what we have,” Kruger said with only a hint of a smile.

  “Better watch that,” I grinned. “Play on words is a serious character defect.”

  “I know, but it’s an art form, too. A pun is its own reword.”

  I looked at Kruger. “You know, Lonnie is the only other special agent I’ve come across with much of a sense of humor.”

  “And they banished him to Arkansas,” Kruger said without thinking. Then he realized how that might sound. “No offense,” he said. “That was not intended to put down your state. I love it here. Truly.”

  We walked a few steps in silence. Then Kruger said, “Look, I really mean it. I do love it down here.”

  I dropped into the patios of deep delta Arkansas. “Nah awfense takin’, Mistuh Kroogah. Long ago we learnt to make allowances for the mental shortcomins’ of owah Yankee visitors. Gene pool depletion, don’t ya know. All the good uns move South.”

  Kruger laughed. Nor was he being unduly worried by my response. A single remark taken the wrong way can wipe out years of good work and can have a drastic effect on an agent’s career. I suspect that’s why they’re so serious.

  I told him about my
appointment with the pastor and we crossed the park to the church. The door was locked and no one answered my knock, so we sat on the steps to wait. They were still damp, and after a moment I could feel moisture soaking through my pants. I looked at my watch and saw I was five minutes early.

  I tried the door again a few minutes later, but there was still no response. I sat down again and Kruger and I continued talking. At a quarter past the hour, I decided I had misunderstood where the pastor wanted to meet and suggested we try the parsonage.

  The parsonage sat about a hundred feet behind the church. As we walked there, I said to Kruger, “Remind me to ask you how a nice boy like you ended up in the FBI.” He was still smiling when I knocked on the door.

  A large, unsmiling woman answered my knock. I handed her one of my cards and introduced Kruger who showed her his identification card. I told her I had an appointment with the pastor at eleven. She told us to wait and disappeared into the house, closing the door behind her.

  I looked at Kruger. He seemed to be listening intently, so I said nothing. We waited for two full minutes before the woman returned. “He is not available right now,” she said. “Something came up.” Her face was impassive, but there was no question we were being dismissed.

  “I can wait,” I told her. “Or we can come back a little later if that’s convenient.”

  “He is not available at all today,” she replied. Her face was still a mask, but I could tell she was lying and not liking it a bit.

  “This is a murder investigation,” I told her. “I need to talk to him very soon. I can get a warrant, if necessary.”

  She started to close the door, but Kruger blocked it open with his arm. “This is an FBI investigation, Ma’am. Is the pastor here?”

  “No!” she said, throwing her weight behind the door and slamming it. We heard the dead bolt slide home.

  We looked at each other, then turned and walked away. “What do you think,” I asked Kruger.

  “She’s lying,” he said. “I could hear her talking to someone in back. It was a man with a strong voice.”