by Tom Wallace
This brings us to the one question that puzzled me the most—why was Luke Felton murdered? But before I lay the specifics on you, let me tell you how I found out.
~ * ~
Chet Woodward’s bravado and his certainty that Dottie Barker would be his savior lasted about as long as all of us expected it to. Upon officially being arrested and charged with three homicides, Chet hired a local lawyer, a gentleman named Boyd Riley, who was a skilled ambulance chaser but far from skilled as a defense attorney. To say he was ill-prepared for the challenge was putting it mildly. In fact, he had never represented a client charged with a single murder, much less with three. Yet, this putz was all that stood between Chet and prison. Good luck with that.
Initially, when being questioned by Greg Harkins and Mark Robinson, Chet denied that he had confessed to the three homicides. He tried to make it sound like Greg pulled that admission out of his ass. That Greg needed a scapegoat and Chet got the part. Apparently, Greg conveniently forgot that Angel and I also heard his confession. When Greg pointed out this little detail, Chet’s reply was, “If that’s what they claim, then they’re liars.”
In a final burst of false bravado, Chet said he planned to have his attorney file a massive lawsuit against Angel, Greg, the FBI, and me for a series of offenses, including false arrest and police brutality. I’ll win an Academy Award before that lawsuit sees the light of day.
“How are you gonna make that stick, Chet? I never touched you. Tell Mark who did kick your ass,” Greg prompted. “Don’t want to? Then let me. It was Samantha Gabriel who pinned Chet to the mat in less than five seconds. A female kicked his ass, Mark.”
“Is that what happened, Chet?” Mark asked.
“Fuck both of you,” Chet snapped.
Chet’s will to fight the charges began to fizzle when he got word that Dottie was cutting him loose. Chet mistakenly believed his lover would persuade Russell to cough up the dough necessary to hire an experienced attorney to represent him. That didn’t happen. As expected, Russell forked over a small fortune to enlist the services of two high-profile New York defense attorneys to represent Dottie, but not a penny was paid to help Chet. If that wasn’t devastating enough for Chet, he later found out that Dottie was denying any involvement in the homicides and was laying all three murders on Chet and Dorsey McElwain. So much for true love.
When Chet got wind of Dottie’s betrayal, he instructed Boyd Riley to get in touch with Mark Robinson, the county attorney, and let him know the time had come to play let’s make a deal. But Chet had a major problem… after having already admitted to committing three murders, his stack of bargaining chips was virtually depleted.
“I’ll give you Dottie’s head on a platter,” Chet promised.
“Not enough, Chet,” Mark said. “With what we read in those e-mails and text messages between the two of you, her involvement is not in question. No, Dottie is going down, just like you are.”
“Those big-shot lawyers might get her off. You ever consider that?”
“The best they can do is drag things out for as long as possible, or until Russell gets wise, sees what is waiting at the finish line, and decides to put in the plug that stops the money flow. But it won’t matter what Russell does or doesn’t do. Dottie Barker will spend the rest of her natural life behind prison bars.”
“Come on, man, work with me here,” Chet pleaded to Mark. “What can I give you that will keep me away from a lethal injection? I don’t want any part of that damn needle.”
“You tell us the truth and I’ll take the death penalty off the table,” Mark said.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Chet said.
“There is one thing you haven’t shared with us, Chet,” Greg pointed out. “And I have no doubt you know what I’m talking about.”
“Luke Felton?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything, from beginning to end.”
“Well—”
~ * ~
In Chet’s version of how events unfolded, Luke was the unwitting architect of his own death. It began one night at the Legion when Luke heard snippets of a conversation between Dorsey and Rabbit. At one point, Dorsey said, “It was really creepy seeing her body without a head. Dude, it seriously freaked me out.” Rabbit scoffed at what Dorsey was saying, but to Luke, a former cop, it sounded liked Dorsey was being truthful. Remember, Sharon Anderson’s headless body had been found three years earlier, which, for Luke, only added credibility to what Dorsey was relaying to Rabbit.
The next day, Luke chased down Rabbit and asked him if he thought Dorsey was bullshitting or telling the truth. Rabbit said he didn’t believe a word of Dorsey’s story. But Rabbit must have believed it, because he went to Dorsey and let him know Luke was sniffing around asking questions. Dorsey informed Chet, who then informed Dottie. Her dictate was simple and concise: Luke Felton had to be eliminated.
First on their agenda was putting together a plan that would fulfill Dottie’s demand while not leading the cops back to their doorstep. What they needed was a fall guy to take the rap, and this was when Todd came into the picture. It was Chet’s idea to make Todd the patsy. And Todd’s previous drug use was the key to this plan.
Luke had occasionally sold weed to Dorsey in the past. Dorsey knew Luke wouldn’t hesitate to meet with him and Todd for the purpose of selling them some weed. Luke was aware of Todd’s drug use, so his being there wouldn’t be a big deal. Dorsey and Todd had never made a drug purchase together, but this new arrangement wasn’t likely to bother Luke. He agreed to meet them. Once the meeting time had been finalized, the next problem was how to set up Todd as the killer. Chet’s solution… load Todd up with drugs.
The next afternoon, Dorsey and Rabbit cruised around town for two hours before they laid eyes on Todd, who was entering Speedway. Dorsey pulled into the lot, told Rabbit to hook up with Todd, and then have Todd drive them to the Legion. And what’s what happened.
Chet plied Todd with enough beer and shots of bourbon to fill up his bladder in no time. When Todd went to the restroom, Chet put the drug into his drink. The impact of the drugs and booze was instantaneous… Todd began to wobble and stagger like a boxer who had just been tagged with a solid right cross. Anyone seeing him would conclude that he was drunk, and they wouldn’t give a second thought to seeing Dorsey helping him to the door. After putting Todd in his car, Dorsey drove to his house, carried Todd inside, waited a couple of hours, took out his cell phone, sent a text message to Luke. He asked if they could buy some top-notch weed at the usual rendezvous site, a barren scar of land the Peabody Coal Company left like an open wound after all the coal had been removed. Luke agreed to the meeting. Now all Dorsey had to do was sit tight until the Legion closed and Chet showed up.
By then, Todd was slowly beginning to come around so they hit him with another shot of the drug. He was asleep in the back seat of Dorsey’s car when Luke arrived at the site. Dorsey slid in on the passenger’s side, all smiles, all happy-go-lucky. Luke was buckled up behind the steering wheel, unaware that he was living the final moments of his life. Dorsey grabbed Luke by his shoulders and pinned him against his seat. This happened so fast Luke didn’t have time to put up a struggle. Chet opened the driver’s side door and began repeatedly stabbing Luke with his knife. It was later reported by the coroner that Luke received thirty-one wounds, including two directly to his heart.
Chet unbuckled Luke’s seat belt and laid the dead man’s body on the ground next to the car. He then took a rag, dipped it in Luke’s blood, and smeared the blood on Todd’s clothes. For his final act, Chet cut off one of Luke’s fingers, removed his ring, and put it on Todd’s finger. Before leaving, Chet tossed Todd’s driver’s license on the front seat floorboard in Luke’s car.
It was still dark when they drove past Todd’s house and parked on the street several hundred yards away. They waited there until shortly after sunrise. That’s when Todd’s father left for wor
k. Maybe a half-hour later, Todd’s mother came out of the house with his two younger siblings, they all got in the car and headed off to school. With the coast clear, they pulled the car into the driveway, up behind the house, got out, lugged Todd up the stairs to his room and then put him in his bed. Job completed; they drove away. Later that morning, after Luke’s body had been found, Perry Jackson and Jimmy Martin showed up in Todd’s room with his driver’s license in hand. They took him into custody, questioned him, and in less than two hours, Todd confessed to murdering Luke Felton.
Case closed. End of story.
“It was the perfect murder,” Chet commented, after completing his narrative.
“Until it wasn’t,” Greg replied.
Thirty
There was a chill in the air as I walked out of the Old Salty Dog and into a new year. The air was crisp, clean, not unlike how I imagined it to be on Adam’s first day on Earth. I wonder if he was fearful when daylight slowly gave way to the darkness of night. I’m sure he must have been. He had no way of knowing what darkness was, what terrors it held, or if the light would return again. He was but a child alone and frightened with no one to offer comfort. But there was one terror I know for certain that Adam never faced…the annoying sound of a buzzing cell phone. Until very recently in our evolution from Homo sapiens to Techno sapiens, Adam and I had that in common.
The call was from Mike Tucker. When I answered, Karen’s voice could be heard in the background, which meant the phone was on speaker. In unison they wished me Happy New Year…I returned the sentiment…and then Mike asked if the book was nearing completion. It had been a little more than six months since the events in Central City, a fair amount of time for most writers to finish a book. Or more than enough time, in Mike’s estimation.
Mike went silent when I informed him that I had decided against writing the book. Karen’s reaction was much different, I found. She had expressed genuine disappointment…maybe even a hint of anger…that I chose to pass on what had originally been her idea. She spent ten minutes berating me for my decision, saying there was a story to be told and I was the logical person to tell it. This part was true…no one knew more about the details of what had gone on at the time than I did.
Once she calmed down, the conversation returned to a more normal flow. Mike told me about an old teacher of ours who recently passed away, and Karen said she was retiring at the end of the school year but would continue to teach her class at the community college. The conversation went on for a few more minutes, then we exchanged invitations to visit and ended the call.
While it was nice hearing from Mike, and especially pleasing to get the feeling that their marriage seemed to have miraculously survived past indiscretions, the damn call brought back to life the guilt I felt for having slept with his wife. I have a hunch this particular shame will always stay with me. And I must admit it’s a punishment I deserve.
After everything was taken care of in Central City, I paid for Angel’s and my motel rooms, purchased a plane ticket for her flight back to California, took care of her rental car bill, and gave her three hundred bucks in cash for incidentals. Her trip to my hometown cost me a pretty penny, but I’m not complaining. It was money well spent.
Back on Siesta Key, I gathered and organized the notes and recordings I had made while researching the book, fully intending to immediately begin work on the project. However, before I wrote the first word, two famous Hollywood producers called to inquire if I would help them whip their respective scripts into shape. I had vowed to cease doing that crappy work, but the damn money was so good I couldn’t refuse. What can I say? I’m a prostitute willing to sell my soul for a giant payday.
It was while I was laboring over those scripts that I had a change of heart regarding the book. The change came in a most unexpected way, while I was watching a two-night TV documentary about the 1959 Clutter family murders, which was the basis for In Cold Blood, Truman Capote’s classic non-fiction novel that was to serve as the template for the book I planned to write.
During the four-hour documentary several surviving Clutter relatives were interviewed, along with close friends of the family and members of the Holcomb, Kansas community where the murders took place. Not a single person who spoke on camera had anything positive to say about the book or about Capote. In fact, they were unanimous in their regret that Capote sensationalized such a tragic event, and that he shed a negative light on their tight-knit community.
They also pointed out that Capote’s book was littered with inaccuracies about the Clutter family, and that his portrait of the four victims, especially Mrs. Clutter, was far from true. Conversely, they felt Capote was overly sympathetic toward the killers, Perry Smith and Richard Hickok (Smith in particular, whom Capote seemed to have a crush on), and that the fortune Capote made from his bestseller amounted to nothing more than blood money.
Watching the program I couldn’t help but wonder what the folks in Central City and Muhlenberg County would think when they read my book, were I to write it. What would be their opinion of me? Would they approve of the picture I painted of my hometown? Or would they despise it? Truman Capote wasn’t from Kansas, so he had no skin in the game. He couldn’t have cared less what those folks thought of him. But I’m from Central City. People know me. I have friends who still live there. If I wrote the book and it became a bestseller, would they view what I earned as blood money? Maybe yes, maybe no. But in the end, that was a chance I had no desire to take. So I canned the idea of writing the book.
Yes, I’ll grant you that my book would’ve had enough positive elements to maybe offset the negatives. Three people were dead, true, but the killers were in custody, the Anderson and Felton families finally had some answers, and most-important of all, Todd Brown was released from prison and the murder charge against him removed from his record. When I ponder those details, I think maybe I should have taken my chances and written the book. But that feeling passes seconds after it arrives.
It’s almost midnight now, I’m lying in bed, and a favorite saying of mine keeps running through my head. Somehow it seems appropriate to Todd Brown and the terrible ordeal he endured, although nothing can ever blot out the horror he experienced. I can only hope the experience doesn’t damage him for life in negative ways.
You’ll likely be surprised to hear that this saying did not come from William Blake. No, these profound words date back much further, to the Old Testament’s Amos, first of the writing prophets:
“But let judgment run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream.”
Not even my Divine Rebel could improve on that.
Meet Tom Wallace
Tom Wallace is the award-winning author of ten previous Jack Dantzler mysteries, including: 88, The Journal, Heroes For Ghosts, Murder by Suicide, The Poker Game, The Fire of Heaven, The List, Gnosis, The Devil’s Racket and What Matters Blood. He also wrote the thriller, Heirs of Cain.
His novel, Gnosis, won the prestigious Claymore Award at the Killer Nashville Writers Conference, and The Devil’s Racket captured the Mystery Writers top award. Murder by Suicide was an Amazon best-seller.
Tom, a former sportswriter, has written several successful sports-related books, including The Kentucky Basketball Encyclopedia (now out in its fourth edition), So You Think You’re a Kentucky Wildcats Basketball Fan?, Golden Glory: The History of Central City Basketball, Big Blue Dream and Heart of a Champion.
While sports editor for the Henderson Gleaner, Tom was twice honored by the Kentucky Press Association for writing the Best Sports Story in Kentucky.
Tom is a Vietnam vet who currently lives in Lexington, Ky.
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