by Joel B Reed
“Yes, he fixes that kind of thing. Where he is really good, though, is with farm machinery. He could work for just about any implement dealer around here when he wanted. All you have to do is show him a piece of machinery, and he can tell you exactly what it came from, not only the kind of machine, but the maker and model.”
“So he was able to work regularly?” I asked.
“Well, yes and no both,” Albert Jones told us. “He’s able to do the work, and he’s a hard worker when he can work, but he has these spells from time to time. When he does, it’s about all he can do to get out of bed and cook for himself. Sometimes he’ll be like that for a week and sometimes longer. So you can’t always count on him.”
“These spells are related to the Luther Goodman shooting?” I asked.
“To that and some other things that have happened over the years. But, yes, the spells began with that. This time he’s been in one ever since Wilbur was killed two weeks ago.” He looked at Kruger. “That’s why I was so upset when the other agent arrested Luther. I was afraid
it would make him worse.”
Kruger nodded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t head that off.”
“You tried,” Wilbur Jones told him. “I know you had to support him, but you did try, and I appreciate it.”
“Thank, you,” Kruger replied. He as clearly uncomfortable with the way the conversation was moving. “You mentioned some other things that happened to make Luther the way he is. What other things were you talking about?”
“The usual things that happened in Arkansas forty years ago,” the pastor told him. “Racial incidents. There was a lot of trouble around here over all the things that were going on in Little Rock. Luther was the target of a couple of vicious attacks. He got beaten pretty badly.”
“You don’t think he’s having a flashback, do you?” I asked. “That might account for his being gone like this. Post traumatic stress.”
Pastor Jones thought this over a moment before answering. “I am not sure I can make an intelligent response to that. I suppose it is possible but I don’t know enough about such things to dare to guess. I did see a lot of it after Vietnam and also with some of the folks here. What I have read fits Luther pretty well. Yet, I’m not comfortable saying more than that. I’m not a doctor.”
There was the sound of someone arriving outside the shack and a moment later one of Tanner’s deputies stuck his head in the door. “I have the warrant for you, Dr. Phillips,” he said, handing me a folded legal document.
“What warrant?” Wilbur Jones asked. His voice was like ice.
“We didn’t know what we were going to find here, Pastor,” I told him, folding the warrant again and tucking it in my hip pocket. “Luther had a rifle here last night that might turn out to be the murder weapon. He had some ammunition, too. So I asked the sheriff for a warrant in case we needed one.”
Jones was angry. “You mean that rusty old rifle he had leaning up next to the door? That’s ridiculous. The whole thing’s rusted shut. Luther didn’t shoot Wilbur. We straightened that all out last night.”
“Then Luther must have fixed it,” I told him. “It was working fine when I showed it to Kruger this morning. There were some shells missing out of the box of ammunition Luther had, too.”
“Pastor, we are not looking for evidence against Luther,” Kruger asserted. “The only reason we searched this place was because we thought something might have happened to him. We didn’t call for the warrant until we were sure he was not around here somewhere.”
Albert Jones wasn’t mollified and I couldn’t blame him. I probably wouldn’t have been as calm as he was in his position. I made a decision to bend the rules. We needed his cooperation. “Did Luther ever tell you where he found the rifle and the knife?” I asked him. He shook his head. “He told me he found it in the old blacksmith shop,” I said. “That’s where we think the killer shot from to kill Wilbur Jones. It was that caliber rifle.”
Suddenly the logic of what I was saying got through Jones’ anger. I could see the next question forming. “So why didn’t you arrest Luther last night?”
“I don’t think he’s the shooter,” I replied. “I didn’t last night and I don’t today. DiRado and Kruger agree.” Kruger nodded. “He didn’t act guilty when I talked to him about the gun, so I let it rest. I thought he had been through more than enough yesterday. I wish now I had taken him in.”
Albert Jones nodded. Then the implication hit full force. His face lost all its color. “So you think ... you think the killer....” He choked.
Kruger nodded. “We’re not sure. Hopefully, Luther will come wandering in on his own, and we’ll be wrong. Yet, it’s possible the killer came after Luther. He may think Luther saw something and kidnapped him.”
Albert Jones looked around wildly. “There’s no blood!” he protested.
“That’s a good sign,” Kruger assured him. “There isn’t sign of a struggle, either, which is good, too. On the other hand, from what you told us, it looked like someone else locked up here.”
“I’m almost positive of that,” Jones whispered. All the fire had gone out of him now. He turned away, his shoulders quaking.
Kruger and I waited until he turned back to us. When he did, it looked like he had aged years in those few moments. “So what do we do now?” he asked.
I looked at Kruger. When it comes to kidnapping, the FBI has the experts and the experience. “First, we organize a wider search around here,” Kruger said. “We also put out an all points bulletin for Luther as missing and a possible kidnapping victim. Then we wait. While we do, Jazz and I will continue work on the homicide. That’s all we can do.”
“What can I do?” Albert Jones wanted to know. “I can’t just sit here. I need to do something.”
“You can help the search by calling around to see if anyone you know has seen him,” Kruger said. “You can also write down a list of places he might have gone on his own, and check those out. Is there anyone he might have gone to visit. Any friends or relatives?”
“Not really,” Jones told us. “The only people left he was close to from the old days was me and Luther Jones. Most everyone knows him as Slide.”
“We’ll talk to Slide,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “We needed to see him about something else, anyway.”
“He might not be at home yet,” the pastor said. “You might want to call first. After the funeral, he told me he was going to spend a couple of weeks with a friend of his in Texarkana.”
“You don’t happen to have the name and number of the friend, do you?”
Jones shook his head. “The fellow’s name is Early. At least, that’s what he’s called. I can check with my wife. She might know.” He thought for a moment and added, “I bet the police down there would know. Early was a friend of Slide’s from his bootlegging days.”
I borrowed Kruger’s phone again and made the call while Kruger and the pastor went to talk to Emma Jones. I was in luck. One of the people I knew from way back when was still on the police force on the Texas side—Denny Slade—and he knew exactly who I was talking about. It turned out he knew Slide Jones, too. Early Andrews was one of those people police keep an eye on, and his connection with Slide was well known. So when Slide turned up and the police caught wind of it, they were interested. Even though both men were believed to have retired from bootlegging and drug running, the department on the Arkansas side of Texarkana kept them under casual surveillance.
When I told him Slide was at the top of our suspect list, Denny offered to pick him up. I explained why we didn’t want to do that just yet and asked if he knew of another, older man with Jones. I explained what was happening with Luther Adams, and Denny promised to call me back right away and let me know if Slide was still in Texarkana.
Kruger was happy with the news when he got back to his car. While she didn’t know his last name, Emma Jones did tell him that Luther knew the man through Slide in the old days. On one occasion, Luther had been one
of Slide’s drivers making the liquor run into Texas from Louisiana.
That cast a whole new light on the case, and Kruger and I decided to head out for Texarkana right away. The day was getting away from us. Even if Slide wasn’t there when we arrived, we wouldn’t waste much time going there first. The road from Texarkana to Hot Springs is interstate almost all the way, and we could make up a lot of lost time there if necessary.
Kruger was reluctant to let me drive the Bureau car, even though I knew the roads much better and could get us there more quickly. So he drove and we talked about the new developments on our way. At one point I asked him, “What if we have it turned around?” What if the real target was not Smiley but Slide?”
Kruger gave me an odd look. “You know, I wondered about that,” he said. “I wasn’t going to mention it until we ran out of better theories. It would give us a whole lot more to work with.”
“I think it makes more sense,” I replied. “Slide had lots of enemies. Smiley didn’t. They were both dressed about the same on the day of the murder and they looked enough alike to fool someone who knows them well until she saw them together.”
“Someone who knew them well,” Kruger corrected gently. “It may not be someone who was part of their lives now.”
“That’s a good point. I’m not saying we should change direction, but I do think we need to keep that possibility in the back of our minds just in case.”
Kruger nodded. “Of course, that raises some new questions. Who would be the shooter then? That’s the main problem. Who was it who was carrying the trombone case?”
I thought about it a moment. Then I saw something that could blow the political top off this case if it were true. I looked at Kruger. “I just had the most awful thought. Are we sure the victim was Smiley Jones?”
Kruger looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think it fits that well, but what if there was something Smiley Jones had against Slide. What if he was the shooter? Think about it a minute. The two of them look enough alike to fool a good witness. They’re dressed alike, and there’s blood all over the corpse. With the head shot, the features would be distorted. So maybe we should go back a few steps and ask how Smiley Jones was identified. Even if I’m wrong, it would close out that possibility.”
Kruger thought about that for a couple of minutes. Then he pulled over to the side of the road and opened the trunk. He pulled out a briefcase and opened it. Taking a document out, he returned to the driver seat and began to look over what I could see was a coroner’s report. “All it says here is that the victim was identified by his pastor, Albert Jones.” He looked at me and started the car. “What about fingerprints? Surely they printed the corpse.”
“Yes,” I told him. “I’m sure they did. That’s been standard procedure for quite a while now, but rural counties can get a bit lax. Even if they printed the corpse, they may not have done a comparison or run them through your data bank. That’s expensive and with positive identification by a trusted witness, it may not have been done.”
“Shit!” Kruger said. “We could do it now, but how do we even approach this without precipitating a political shit storm?” “We could pass it off as routine,” I suggested. “We do need a set so we can eliminate suspects if we turn up prints at Luther’s, so we can
ask for one if it’s not with the autopsy report. I’m sure Smiley must have paid him a visit at some point. I’m also sure Slide must be in the system, too.”
Kruger’s phone rang and he pulled over to answer it. The call was from Denny Slade telling me Slide’s car was still in Texarkana. He gave me a street address and promised to have someone keep an eye on it until we got there. I thanked him and told him we were about an hour away. I knew I could have us there in forty-five minutes, but Kruger was driving.
Kruger made it in forty minutes flat. When I told him what Slade said, Kruger dropped the car in gear and stepped on the gas. The Bureau puts special agents through a rigorous driving school and that day it showed. Nor was there any further conversation. Kruger was completely focused on the road, and I shut up and let the man concentrate on getting us there.
When we got to Texarkana, Kruger asked me where we were going and I navigated us through the back streets. I spotted the unmarked police car about a block away from the address Denny had given me and pointed it out to Kruger. We stopped, and I was surprised to see one of the officers was Denny himself. The other was a fellow I’d known on Highway Patrol. The last time I had seen either of them, they were still in uniform.
I introduced Kruger. Denny told me the house across the street from the car belonged to a lady Slide was known to visit from time to time when her man was out of town. That was good to know. It gave us some leverage.
I thanked Denny, and Kruger parked close in front of Slide’s car. As we got out, I saw Denny’s partner pull in close behind, blocking the vehicle in. Denny grinned and gave me a thumbs up. I thought things must be pretty slow on the Arkansas side for them to take the time, but backup is always welcome.
The woman who answered the door was still in her bathrobe. Kruger showed her his identification and introduced me. “What you want with me?” she demanded rudely.
“We hate to disturb you, Ma’am” Kruger told her. “We need to speak with Luther Jones. Slide.”
“No one that name lives here!” the woman snapped and tried to slam the door in our faces.
Kruger blocked it open with a shoulder. “That’s his car across the street and he is known to visit here,” he replied. “All we need to do is talk with him.”
The woman looked across the street and saw the unmarked cars. “Why you come here making a raid?” she whined. “We ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“Is he here, Ma’am?” Kruger insisted.
“Don’t see that’s any of your business,” she retorted. There was no way she was going to be helpful.
“Maybe we should talk to her husband,” I suggested to Kruger. “Maybe he knows where we can find Slide.”
Fear replaced the outrage in the woman’s face, but she held on. “I ain’t got no husband. I ain’t married.”
I shrugged. “All right, maybe we need to talk to your live-in boyfriend.”
“Why you want to do that? He don’t know no...what’s his name?”
She was good. I have to admit that. For a moment I wondered if we had the right house. Then I glanced back at the unmarked car and Denny nodded. I spoke to Kruger. “Maybe I should ask those officers over there. Maybe they can help straighten this out. Or we could ask the neighbors.”
The woman looked at me with pure venom in her eyes. I think she would have held out longer, but someone inside spoke to her softly. She moved aside and the door opened. A grizzled, thin black man stood there. He was dressed in jacket and a tie and freshly shaved. “I’m Luther Jones,” he told us. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
At that moment, I couldn’t tell who we were talking with. The man was a dead ringer for Smiley Jones, and I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t him. He exuded a quiet dignity I associate with old men at peace with the world. There wasn’t one thing about him that suggested a con or any fear of the police.
Kruger was just as taken aback. People who have reason to fear the police show fear or some sign of psychopathology. Sometimes it’s bravado and at times it’s simple tension, but it’s almost always something, and experienced police can sense it. This man gave us nothing but a profound sense of sadness.
The man in the door spoke up again. “Come, now, gentlemen. You barged in on my visit with these dear friends. What do you want from me?”
“We’re looking for Luther Adams,” I told him. “Have you seen him?”
There was something in his eyes for a moment when I asked that. “Luther? Goodness, has he done something wrong?”
“He’s missing,” I told him.
The man smiled and chuckled. “Oh, Luther, he probably just wandered off somewhere. He does that
from time to time.”
“We think something may have happened to him,” Kruger said. “So does Pastor Jones. The whole town turned out to search, but we couldn’t find him.”
“Goodness. That sounds serious. I hope he’s all right.” The man’s eyes didn’t match the emotion I heard in his voice, and I was sure then we were in the right place. This man might be a dead ringer for Smiley, but this was Slide. He was telling us the truth about that.
“May we come in and talk?” Kruger asked.
“This isn’t my house or I would invite you in,” Slide said. “You seem to have upset my host, so I think we better talk out here.”
“All right,” said Kruger. There was steel in his voice and he pulled out a set of handcuffs. “We can talk at the police station.”
I heard the doors of a car open behind us and knew Denny and his partner had seen the cuffs and were on their way to us. “There’s no need for restraints, officer,” Slide said as Kruger took his left arm and slipped a cuff on. “I’ll come quietly.” Kruger ignored him and spun Slide around, quickly cuffing the other hand. I could see he had some practice doing so. I could also see this wasn’t a new experience for Slide, either.
“Everything under control?” Denny asked from behind us.
“I think we’ve got it,” Kruger told him. “You mind us using your station for an interview?”
“Be my guest,” Denny said, stepping aside to let Kruger by with Slide. At that moment, the door behind us flew open, and the woman we had talked to threw herself on Kruger’s back, cursing and clawing at his face with her nails.
Denny grabbed her while his partner reached for his handcuffs. Even though she stood five foot four and weighed less than a hundred and twenty, it took all four of us to hold her down. By the time we were done, the robe was wide open for the world to see she was wearing nothing under it. In the background, I could hear Luther laughing.
“A visit to dear friends?” Kruger asked Slide as the Texarkana officers shoved the woman into their car. “Is her sister here, too?”
“Goodness, no,” Jones cackled. “Her sister is ugly as a bulldog. I believe you must have seen the friends I was visiting during the...ah...scuffle.”