by Joel B Reed
“You have sharp ears,” I said. “All I could hear was a murmur. Could you tell what they were saying?”
“Yes. He told her what to say, but she didn’t like it.”
“So the pastor told his wife to lie,” I said. “Any suggestions?”
Kruger shrugged. “Well, it is an FBI investigation and she lied to a federal agent. Some places that would get her arrested.”
“That doesn’t sound like your style,” I told him.
“Spinks would,” he said. “Think we ought to send him to see her?”
“You have a wicked mind,” I told him. “But no, we’ll take him at the water hole at dusk.” Kruger looked at me in question. “He can’t stay inside forever,” I continued, nodding to the outhouse behind the parsonage. “I’ll ask Dee to have someone bring him in when he comes out to use the john.
Kruger looked at me gravely. “Could stir up a hornet’s nest. Think he knows something?”
“I think he knows a lot,” I said. “I think he is trying to avoid lying.”
“So he gets his wife to do it for him,” Kruger murmured.
“As the Good Book says, he will have hell to pay for that,” I grinned.
Just at that moment we heard a loud crash and the sound of broken glass coming from the parsonage. “Sounds like it’s already started,” I said.
“Hell hath no fury like a wife thwarted,” he laughed.
A highway patrol car and the Crime scene van was parked by the road in front of the blacksmith shop when Kruger and I returned. Ben Weaver, the lead technician told me they were just about to head home from a case in Hope when Casey called to divert them here. “He told us to take shots of everything we could but hold off going into the shop until he got here,” Weaver said. “He wants to see that for himself first. Anything else you want done?”
“Well, there’s the space between buildings, but I want his take on that, too. I guess you could start with the outhouse there,” I told him. “I don’t think Casey would mind your going over it. There’s not a lot there, but you might find some hair. Be sure to take some shots of the scratches in the ground there before you go inside.”
“The outhouse?” he asked, looking to see if I was pulling his leg. “I’d rather dig up four graves than do one outhouse.”
“Well, there are two, actually,” I told him. “One here and the other over by the community center.
“Two?” Weaver screamed. “Well, joyful rapture!”
“It’s a shitty world,” I told him. “Think of it this way. It saves you a lot of digging.” It was all Kruger could do to keep from laughing.
3. A Loose Canon on Deck
A deputy arrived not long after the crime scene van, and the highway patrol took off. Dee asked the deputy to keep watch on the community center privy and the space between the blacksmith shop and the other building until the technicians were done. Before going to the parsonage, Kruger and I had taped off a large area around the community center privy, so it would take them a while. The deputy nodded and found a bench in the park that allowed him to keep both in sight. I didn’t like the fact he took a thermos and hunting catalogue with him. I would not have tolerated that at the CID, but I said nothing. After all, he was the sheriff’s deputy, not mine, and we needed as much cooperation as he was willing to give.
There was not much more we could do in Oak Grove until the crime lab team was done. We arranged a meeting with Spinks and Kruger at the cafe in Nashville to go over the case and left. Spinks said he would be right behind us, but walked into the store. I didn’t like it, but there was nothing I could do. I hoped all he was going after was a cold drink or a pack of gum.
I filled Dee in as we drove and he agreed with my assessment of Kruger. He also told me the scuttlebutt that Spinks had been transferred to Little Rock after he created a major mess in Boston. “Lonnie told me Spinks has enough political pull to keep from being sent to Butte, Montana,” Dee said. “But he damn near got fired.”
“I hope he doesn’t take Kruger down with him,” I said. “Kruger is pretty sharp.”
Dee nodded. “I’ve run across him before. He does good work.”
The lunch hour was over by the time we got to Nashville, but there were a couple of local businessmen lingering over their coffee. We took a table at the back of the dining room and, when the waitress came out of the kitchen, told her there two more joining us. She nodded and brought us water and coffee. Then she went back into the kitchen. I could see her through the pass-through. She lit a cigarette and stood smoking it under the stove hood, chatting with the cook.
We talked about the case for a while, but I was aware of time passing. The businessmen paid their tab and left, and I looked at my watch. We had been there for thirty minutes already and there was no sign of Spinks. “We did say to meet at the café and not at the sheriff ’s office, didn’t we?” I asked Dee. He nodded. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was. Despite our agreement, Spinks was going his own way.
“Well, there’s not much we can do about it right now,” I said. “I’ll call Lonnie later. We might as well go ahead and order.”
We were finished eating and working out a game plan for the next couple of days when the door to the café opened and Spinks came in with his partner. Kruger looked embarrassed, but not Spinks. Spinks walked with a swagger, and when I saw the snide smile on his face, I knew we were in for some bad news.
“We thought you were right behind us,” Dee said. “Did you have car trouble?”
“No,” said Spinks. “We were rounding up a prime suspect. Two of them. We’ve been over at the jail booking them.”
“Oh, really?” Dee said in a dangerous tone. “Care to share who you brought in?”
Spinks laughed. “Sure. Albert Jones and Luther Adams.” Kruger looked like he wanted to dig himself a hole and pull it in over his head. “Adams confessed.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Dee swore. He looked like he wanted to tear off Spinks’ leg and beat him to death with it.
“Sorry to steal your thunder,” Spinks said. “We didn’t have much choice once Adams told us he did it.”
“Why did you arrest Pastor Jones?” I asked.
Spinks shrugged. “Take your pick. He lied to Kruger, and when we arrested Adams, he tried to interfere. So I busted his ass. Obstruction of justice.”
“Just for the record,” I said, “the pastor did not lie to Kruger. His wife did. And as for Luther’s alleged confession, what he was confessing to was apparently a hunting accident that happened years ago. He confessed to us yesterday, but we haven’t had a chance to check it out.” I looked at Kruger. “I’m surprised you didn’t straighten him out about the pastor.”
Kruger shook his head. “I did.”
Spinks broke in. “You’re just sore you didn’t make the bust,” he sneered. “Jones told his wife to tell you and Kruger he wasn’t there. Kruger heard him.”
“Correct me if I am wrong,” I said to Kruger. “The pastor told his wife to tell me he was not available. Period. He did not lie to Kruger. She did, but he did not.”
Steve DiRado could stand no more. “You dumb shit!” he snarled at Spinks. For a moment I thought he was about to throw himself across the table at Spinks. So did Spinks, who shoved his chair back so fast his chair turned over, dumping him on the wooden floor.
“Hey!” yelled the waitress, coming into the room just in time to see Dee on his feet glaring down at Spinks. “No rough stuff or I’ll call the police!”
“We are the police,” I told her. Dee showed his badge. “Special Agent Spinks just tripped over his own feet getting up.”
“We were just having an intense discussion,” Kruger added, showing his identity folder. “The chair caught on the floor. He’s all right.”
“Oh,” the waitress said. “Goodness. That’s the second time that happened this week. I told Arly to fix it but his back went out.” She tried to help Kruger get Spinks to his feet, but Spinks shook them off. He got u
p and stood there glaring back at Dee but not coming any closer.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not hurt,” the waitress told Spinks. “Are you gentlemen ready to order now?”
Spinks ignored her and stalked out of the café. Kruger turned to us and shrugged, holding his hands in supplication. “Don’t worry about it,” Dee told him. “I’m pissed at him, not you. Go cover your ass.” I nodded and Kruger left the building.
I picked up the check, leaving more than a generous tip. The waitress was still a bit unsettled as I paid the bill, and I assured her things were fine. She nodded, mollified, but I knew the incident would be all over town before sunset. Life is tranquil in small towns, and the story of the fight between a state cop and an FBI agent would send ripples across conversations for weeks. No doubt it would grow as it passed from one fertile imagination to another.
Dee was waiting for me on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Stuff like that goes on with Spinks all the time and I’ve just about had it.”
“Don’t let him get your goat, Dee. The case isn’t worth getting yourself in a jam.”
“A worse jam,” he reminded me. “This whole thing is turning into a real goat grope.”
“Well, there is an upside,” I replied. “It gives us some leverage with the pastor. We can lean on him and Spinks will get the blame.”
“It can also get him off the case,” Dee growled, still torqued.
“Yeah, but why don’t you let me make the call to Lonnie? He may say ‘no’ and it’s better if he says it to me.” While Dee is a man who believes in plucking his own geese, there was a lot of sense in what I said. The name of the game these days is politics. Maybe it always was.
“All right,” he said. “We may as well talk to Jones first. Hear his side of it.”
We walked across the square and down the street to the dismal brick building that houses the county jail. Arkansas is one of the poorest areas of the nation in many of its rural areas, and Nashville was not a seat of prosperity. Nor is it in a progressive part of the state or one too concerned with the well being of prisoners. Such issues were considered a luxury, and the jail reflected that attitude.
The jail house was essentially a collection of iron cages inside a brick shell covered with a tar roof. Set at the center of a block without trees and surrounded by newly paved parking lots and a high chain link fence, the jail was a dismal place. With no shade or air conditioning, except for window units in the jailer’s office, it acted like a solar collector in the summer and shed heat quickly in the winter.
The object was clearly punishment, whether the prisoners were guilty or not, and the interior was even more dismal than outside. The office suite was freshly painted in generic white with some attempts to soften the setting, but the cell block was decorated in the same dismal pea green as schools were throughout the South in the fifties. Only the floor was different, made of smooth, unpainted concrete, broken only by dark brown stains I thought must be blood. Combined with the blaze orange jump suits the inmates wore, the ambiance was anything but soothing. When in doubt, punish.
We stopped by the office the sheriff gave us to use. It had a desk and two chairs, and the glass partitions made it seem less cramped than it was. I asked the jailer to bring Jones there for an interview. For a moment, I thought the man was going to refuse, making us use the dismal interrogation room I’d seen near the cell block. Yet, a look at Dee’s face convinced him it might be wiser to bend the rules.
When the pastor came in, he was shackled and cuffed, but I was glad to see he had not faced the indignity of being deloused and forced to wear an orange jumper. He was in a white dress shirt and faded black chinos, but his belt and shoe laces had been taken along with his tie. Even so, he carried himself with the same dignity I imagine he carried to the pulpit. Nor did he seem frightened. The only emotion I could see was a deep anger that burned in his eyes.
I decided to work the venom. “Good afternoon, Pastor,” I said, offering him the best seat. “I regret the misunderstanding that precipitated this inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience!” he spat back at me, holding up his cuffs. “You call these things inconvenient?”
“Let him loose,” I told the jailer, who was watching from the hall.
The man started to refuse, but Dee looked at him with a raised eyebrow and held out a hand. The jailer gave him the keys and Dee unlocked Jones. Then he tossed the manacles and shackles to the jailer, who stepped down the hall to his desk near the front door.
“Please,” Dee said to the pastor. “Have a chair. Can I get you water or something else to drink?”
“You can get me out of here,” the pastor snapped, but he sat down. “Failing that, you can get me an attorney and one for Luther, too.”
“We can do that,” I answered. “On the other hand, this whole thing is not about you. All we’re after from you is some information. We’re not out to create problems for you or for Luther. If you insist on having an attorney present, it will delay getting you released…and Luther, too.”
At the mention of Luther, the skin around his eyes tightened. “Don’t you understand what this will do to Luther!” he said. “Keep me if you have to, but not him. He doesn’t belong here. He’s weak. Those animals back there will tear him apart.”
“Yeah,” said Dee. “It can get bad in here. I’ll see what I can do about keeping him isolated from the others. But, if I’m going to stick my neck out, you’re going to have to help us out, too. Up front.”
The pastor thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure what they’re holding me for. They think Luther is the killer.”
“We all know he’s not,” I interjected. “Not if what you told us is true.” The pastor nodded. “We also know Spinks is holding you on a thin bust. So help us out. I’ll work things out with the Bureau.”
The pastor thought for a long while. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Phillips. I really do need an attorney present before I answer any questions. I would like to help you, but I don’t trust the system. However, I will cooperate as fully as my attorney allows me.”
I nodded. In his shoes, I would have done the same. Not only was he within his legal rights, but he was right in his assessment of the criminal justice system. One of the reasons for my retirement was losing confidence in the system I served. I had witnessed too many miscarriages of justice.
“All right,” I said. “Would you be willing to talk to us about Luther’s accident? Or to one of us, if not to both.”
He thought for another long moment, then nodded. “Yes, I’d be willing to talk to you. You’re no longer a police officer.”
Dee smiled. “I’ll see what the charge is.” He headed up the hall to talk to the jailer, and I decided not to correct the pastor’s misconception. While I’m not attached to any specific police department, I am still a sworn peace officer in the state of Arkansas. Not that it would matter that much in court, particularly in capital cases.
“Do you mind if I take notes?” I asked, and Jones shook his head.
I took a pen and a steno pad out of my rucksack and flipped to an empty page. I jotted down the date and time and the name of whom I was interviewing, and when I looked up, the pastor was smiling. “You’re very organized,” he said.
“Actually I’m not,” I told him. “If I don’t do this, I’m lost. My memory is not what it was.”
“Whose is?” he murmured and, without prompting, began to speak. “There were six of us, all born and raised around here. There was Wilbur, Luther Adams, Luther Jones, Luther Goodman, and myself. We were the choir boys,” he said, smiling at my frown. “Yes, with three Luthers in the choir it was very confusing, and there were times we took advantage of that. Among ourselves, Slide was what we called Luther Jones, because he first played trombone, and Luther Goodman was Goodie. Luther Adams was the only one we called by his given name.”
He paused a moment to let me catch up. I read back what I had a
nd he nodded. “Wilbur was about twenty years older than the rest of us, but it didn’t seem to make much difference back then. He was like a kid himself, and he was who organized the choir. We did just about everything together, but what really made us close was music. We sang in the church choir together, but we also worked up our own music on our own. They call it blues now, and Wilbur used a lot of it to get himself started in New Orleans.”
“You didn’t perform as a group?” I asked.
“There wasn’t much for us,” the pastor told us. “We made the circuit of black churches here in southern Arkansas, but that was all gospel music. We pushed it as far as we could, messing with rhythm and syntax, but we couldn’t sing our own music in church. The only place we could was in roadhouses and nightclubs, and we knew better than to ask the preacher about that.” His smile was very sad. “You see, my dad was the preacher then: Albert Jones, Senior. He was a rather hard-shelled Baptist. No drinking or dancing was allowed, of course, but nothing that smacked of works of the devil, either. Since it took place where it did, he considered jazz and blues and ragtime the works of the devil.”
“You still did it, though?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Since then I have come to understand that all music is sacred…at least real music. It’s God’s clearest way of speaking to us, but back then I was just being rebellious. I knew my dad was wrong to judge our music the way he did, but that didn’t keep me from feeling guilty. Nor did it do much to bring my dad and me closer.”
He paused for a long moment, then looked at me, assessing what he saw. “I see why you were so good as a policeman,” he said. “I haven’t talked about that in years.”
I shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I just listen. People seem to talk to me.”
“That’s why,” he said. “You listen and few do. The police I’ve known are either fools or trying to make themselves look good by finding a quick solution.”
I smiled. “One thing my father taught me was that a person doesn’t learn much when they’re talking.”