Joe Dillard - 01 - An Innocent Client

by Scott Pratt

  ”What’d you do to get yourself killed, Rev?” Landers said to the photo as he turned into the parking lot at the Purple Pig. ”Dip the old wick in a vat of bad wax?”

  April 12

  10:20 a.m.

  Caroline Dillard, wearing a sharp, dark blue Calvin Klein knockoff suit, took a deep breath, straightened her back, and strode up to the reception area. Behind the bulletproof window sat a dour, pudgy, middle-aged man with a dark widow’s peak crew cut and a jaw full of tobacco. He was seated, wearing a black pullover shirt with a stitched badge on the chest.

  Beneath the badge, also stitched, were the words

  ”Washington County Corrections.” As Caroline approached, he spit brown tobacco juice into a paper cup.

  Caroline picked up the sign-in sheet and smiled.

  ”I need to see inmate number 7740,” she said. No one at the Washington County Detention Center seemed to have a name. Everything was tracked by number.

  The officer leered. ”Got an ID, pretty lady?”

  ”My name is Caroline Dillard,” she said. It was only Caroline’s third visit to the detention center, and she hadn’t encountered this particular officer on either of the other two occasions. She reached into her purse, pulled out a driver’s license, and slid it into the metal tray at the bottom of the window.

  ”You a lawyer?” he said.

  ”I’m a paralegal for Joe Dillard.”

  ”You his wife?”

  ”I am.”

  ”You’re too pretty to be married to him.”

  Caroline sighed. ”If you’ll check the approved list, you’ll find my name.”

  The officer opened a spiral notebook next to him and took his time searching the pages.

  ”I can smell you through the window,” he said.

  ”You smell good.”

  ”I’ll be sure to tell your boss you like the way I smell.” Caroline looked at the name stitched opposite his badge. ”Officer Cagle? The sheriff comes to our house every year for a Christmas party. He and I have gotten to be pretty good friends.” It was a lie.

  The sheriff had never set foot in Caroline’s home, but her words seemed to have the desired effect.

  Officer Cagle looked down and slid the ID back through the window.

  ”You know the way to the attorneys’ room, ma’am?”

  Caroline nodded and smiled.

  ”I’ll buzz you through.”

  Caroline quickly made her way through the maze of gates and steel doors. She was a little anxious about the visit, because she never knew what kind of mood the inmate she was about to see would be in. The woman had been in jail for nine months, by far the longest stretch she’d ever done. She’d lifted her own mother’s checkbook, forged a check, and used the money to buy cocaine. Caroline’s husband, Joe, had represented her. He’d talked the prosecutor into reducing the charge from a felony to a misdemeanor, but because of the woman’s long history of problems with the law, in exchange for the reduction the prosecutor had insisted that she forgo probation and agree to serve her sentence in the county jail.

  Five minutes after Caroline sat down in the attorneys’ room, a female guard opened the door and stepped back to let the inmate inside. There were no handcuffs, waist chains, or shackles. The inmate wasn’t dangerous. There was no risk of escape, because she was getting out in a few hours. She smiled slightly and nodded when she saw Caroline.

  Caroline rose from her seat and opened her arms.

  ”How are you?” she said.

  ”I’m fine,” the woman said, guardedly returning the hug.

  ”You look great.”

  ”You look pretty goddamned pretty yourself.”

  They both sat down and Caroline smiled at her sister-in-law, Sarah Dillard.

  Caroline was always struck by the features her husband and his older sister shared. Both of them had thick dark hair, green eyes, pristine white teeth, and lean, sturdy bodies. Sarah’s only visible flaw was a tiny pink scar that cut like a lightning bolt through her left eyebrow, the result of a punch from a drug dealer the last time she was on the street. She had high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a cleft chin. Joe had told Caroline that he and Sarah were often mistaken for twins when they were kids. The comparisons stopped when Joe began to grow to six-footthree and over two hundred pounds. Caroline also marveled at the resilience of Sarah’s appearance. She had a fresh beauty that made it hard to believe she’d been abusing herself with drugs and alcohol for years.

  ”I was wondering if you’d made a decision on what we talked about last week,” Caroline said.

  Sarah looked down at the table. ”I’m not too hot on it if you want to know the truth.”

  ”Why not?”

  ”I’m too old to live with my brother, Caroline. I’m too old to be living with you. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I think I’d be better off making my own way.”

  Caroline looked hard into the green eyes for a long moment. Finally she spoke.

  ”So you’re going to make your own way. Like you have for the past twenty years?”

  ”Oh, now, that hurt. Please tell me you didn’t come all the way down here just to fuck with me.”

  ”I came all the way down here to try to talk some sense into that thick head of yours. If you don’t come stay with us, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?”

  ”I have friends.”

  ”What kind of friends? Dealers and users? You need to stay away from those people.”

  ”Yeah?” The green eyes flashed, but Caroline held her gaze. ”What I don’t need is a lecture from my brother’s wife. Why are you doing this, anyway?

  Why isn’t Joe here?”

  Caroline leaned forward on her elbows. ”I’m doing this because I care about you. We both care about you. We just want to try to help. And Joe isn’t here because he can’t stand to see you in this place again.

  It tears him up.”

  ”Seeing me in here tears him up? He ought to try living in here for a while. It’d give him some compassion for his clients.”

  ”He has plenty of compassion for his clients, especially you. He’s done everything he could possibly do for you, including sending you money every month.”

  ”I’ll be sure to send him a thank-you note when I get out.”

  ”God dammit, Sarah, why do you have to be so cynical? Why can’t you believe that somebody could care enough about you to want to help? That’s all it is.

  There aren’t any strings attached.”

  ”No strings? What if I feel like getting high tomorrow night?”

  ”I said there weren’t any strings. But there will be rules. If any of us sees one sign of drugs or booze, you’re out the door.”

  Sarah smiled. ”And there it is. We’ll love you, Sarah, unless you do what you’ve always done. If you do that, we won’t love you anymore.”

  ”We’ll still love you. We just won’t help you destroy yourself.”

  ”No thanks.” Sarah rose from the chair and moved to the wall to push the button that summoned the guard.

  ”So that’s it? No thanks?”

  ”That’s it.”

  ”Fine.” Caroline got up from her chair and moved to the opposite door. Both women stood in uncomfortable silence, facing away from each other, until the guard appeared.

  ”The offer stays open,” Caroline said as Sarah walked out of the room. ”All you have to do is show up.”

  April 12

  11:15 a.m.

  Agent Landers knew there’d be some added pressure to make an arrest because the dead guy was a preacher.

  Not that there wouldn’t have been pressure to find out who killed him if he’d been a plumber or a bartender.

  But preachers still had a special place in the hearts and minds of most upper east Tennesseans. Killing a man of God was an insult to the Almighty Himself.

  The Purple Pig was a small, popular burger and beer joint about a mile from East Tennessee State University. It was like one of those En
glish pubs—

  same people, sitting in the same places, telling the same old jokes, drinking the same kind of beer.

  Landers ate lunch there two or three times a month. Every now and then he’d stop in and have a beer after work. He went to high school with the owners, and he knew several of the regulars and the waitresses. Especially the waitresses. Landers had phone numbers for all of them, even the ones who were married. ”Skilled with the ladies” was how he referred to himself.

  He parked his Ford in the lot, picked up the photo of Tester, and jogged up to the door. He could smell the grease as soon as he got out of the car. The Pig wasn’t open for breakfast, but there were cars in the lot. He knew the employees were prepping for the lunch rush, so he knocked on the locked front door.

  Patti Gillespie opened it. Patti was a cute little brunette, barely over five feet tall. She and her brother, Sonny, owned the place. Landers had banged Patti once in the girls’ bathroom during a basketball game back in high school. He’d wanted to know what a small girl felt like.

  ”I need to talk to you,” Landers said, and she led him inside. He plunked down on the first bar stool he came to. The place was dark and smelled of stale cigarette smoke and animal fat. A mirror ran the length of a long wall opposite the bar. Landers checked himself out as Patti walked around the bar and back towards him. He liked what he saw.

  ”What’s the difference between a sperm cell and a TBI agent?” she said. Patti loved to bust his chops.

  ”Go ahead, slay me,” Landers said. ”What’s the difference between a sperm cell and a TBI agent?”

  ”A sperm cell has a one in a million chance of becoming a human being. Can I get you something to drink?”

  ”A Pepsi, and I have a photograph I want you to look at. Do you mind?”

  ”Are you doing real police work?”

  ”I am.”

  ”Hey, Lottie,” Patti called towards the kitchen.

  ”Special Agent Phillip Landers here is doing real police work in my little old bar. He wants me to help him. What should I do?”

  ”Deny everything,” a voice called back. ”Ask for a lawyer.”

  ”She doesn’t like you,” Patti said. ”She says you have a small penis.”

  ”You know better than that,” Landers said with a wink.

  ”I was drunk, dickhead. I don’t remember your penis.”

  Landers slid the photo of Tester onto the bar. ”Any chance this guy was in here yesterday evening?”

  Patti nodded. ”Came in about six, sat right over there in that booth.” She pointed behind Landers. ”I waited on him. Ordered a cheeseburger and fries.

  Drank two Blue Ribbons. Nobody drinks Blue Ribbon anymore. I remember thinking he wouldn’t have looked too bad if he lost some weight and shaved those goofy sideburns.”

  ”I don’t think he’ll be shaving anytime soon.

  He’s dead.”

  Patti gasped. ”You shitting me?”

  ”Dead as dirt. Got himself killed last night. Any chance he hooked up with somebody in here? Did you see him leave?”

  ”Sonny was working the register when he left. He didn’t leave with anybody, but he asked Sonny about the Mouse’s Tail.”

  ”Really? Tell me more.”

  ”He was a little creepy, you know? A little too cocky for his own good with that big belly and that cheap suit. When he paid his bill he asked Sonny where he could find some adult entertainment, a place where they showed it all. Sonny told me about it after he left. He thought it was funny. He said the only way that dude would get any was to pay for it.”

  ”Mouse’s Tail, huh? Thanks, Patti. After all these years, I’m finally gonna put you on my Christmas card list.”

  ”Whoa, now, wait just one minute,” Patti said. ”I need details. Tell me something juicy.”

  ”Sorry, can’t do it right now. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it on the news.”

  ”Just like a man. Always wanting something for nothing.”

  Landers turned to leave without offering to pay.

  ”Thanks for the Pepsi,” he said, ”and thanks for the information. I’ll come back and tell you about it later.”

  ”I’m holding you to that,” she said. Landers looked in the mirror as he started out the door and saw Patti blow him a kiss. ”That man has a fine ass, Lottie,”

  he heard her say.

  ”Screw him,” Lottie said. ”He’s a fag.”

  Lottie was pretty good, but once Landers did her a few times, he dumped her. He had to. There were a lot of other women out there who wanted to be with him. He figured he owed it to them to stay unattached.

  April 12

  11:45 a.m.

  A horny preacher. A man after Landers’s own heart.

  Landers called Jimmy Brown, told him about the lead and that he was going out to the Mouse’s Tail.

  Brown said they’d found one witness, the night clerk at the motel, who said she thought she saw a woman go up towards Tester’s room around midnight. The forensics van had showed up. Maybe they’d find something.

  Brown said Tester was an evangelist, a traveling preacher from Newport, which was located in Cocke County about sixty miles to the southwest of Johnson City. Newport was infamous in the law enforcement community for three things: chop shops, marijuana production, and especially cock fighting. Landers had also heard some of the preachers down there were snake handlers, religious extremists who proved their faith by waving copperheads and rattlesnakes around while they delivered their sermons. He wondered whether the dead rev liked to play with slimy serpents.

  He pulled into the parking lot at the Mouse’s Tail just before noon and circled the building. There was only one vehicle in the back, a black BMW convertible. A redheaded woman was just getting out. She was wearing black leather pants and a tight cheetah-print top and was having a hard time walking through the gravel in her three-inch spiked heels. The outfit was definitely on the outrageous side, but her body was good enough to pull it off.

  Landers pulled up beside the BMW, got out, introduced himself, and showed the woman his identification. She shook his hand and said her name was Erlene Barlowe. She owned the place. Said her husband passed away a while back and she took over after he died. She had a pretty face and was wearing a push-up bra that pushed up plenty. But she had to be at least fifty, so Landers figured the bright red hair was bottle-fed.

  ”What can I do for you, honey?” she said after a little small talk.

  ”What time do you open?” Landers was disappointed that the place was closed, since he wanted to talk to some of the employees. Actually, he was hoping to get to see some of her employees in action.

  He’d heard the Mouse’s Tail was a pretty steamy place, but he’d never been in there. When Landers wanted to go to a strip club, he went to the beach or Atlanta. As much as he liked to look at tits and ass, he knew the TBI would probably fire him if they heard he was hanging out at the local titty bar. Those kinds of places were notorious for drugs.

  ”Five,” the woman said. ”We’re open five to two, six days a week. Closed on Sundays.” Her voice was kind of Southern belle-ish, not exactly what he expected to hear from a woman who looked like her, with a syrupy Tennessee drawl. Landers thought it was nice that the titty bar observed the Sabbath.

  ”So you were open last night?”

  ”Wednesday’s usually a pretty good night for us.

  It’s hump day, you know.”

  She had a little smile on her face when she said

  ”hump day.” Landers wondered how much humping went on in there on hump day.

  ”Was it crowded last night?”

  ”Wasn’t anything special, sugar. Do you mind if I ask why you’re asking?”

  As she talked, Landers noticed her mouth. Nice teeth, and candy apple red lipstick. Looked like a color you’d paint a ‘56 Chevy. Landers briefly envisioned those red lips wrapped around his pole.

  ”Just doing my job, Ms. Barlowe,” he said. ”Obviously, I wouldn
’t be here unless I was working some kind of an investigation.”

  ”I understand completely,” she said, ”but I’m sure you can understand that I’m concerned when a police officer, even one as handsome as yourself, shows up at my place of business asking questions. Maybe I could help you a little more if you’d let me in on what you’re investigating.”

  Landers stepped back over to his car, reached in, and picked the photograph of Tester up off the front seat.

  ”Were you here last night?” he said.

  ”I’m here every night, sweetie.”

  ”Recognize this guy?” Landers handed the photo to her. She looked at it for a few seconds, then shook her head and handed it back.

  ”I don’t believe I do.”

  ”I think he was here last night.”

  ”Really? What would make you think that?”

  ”Just some information I picked up. He was killed last night.”

  She gasped and covered her mouth. ”Oh, my goodness. That’s terrible!”

  Landers held the photo up in front of her face again. ”You’re absolutely certain you didn’t see him in your club last night?”

  ”Well, now, I don’t believe I could say for certain.

  Lots and lots of men come and go. I don’t notice all of them.”

  ”I’m going to need to interview the employees who were working last night and as many of your customers as I can.”

  ”Well, I swan,” she said. ”You’ll scare my girls to death. And the customers? Honey, they’d run from you like scared rabbits. Most of them don’t even want their wives to know they’ve been here, let alone the police. If you were to come in here and start asking them about a murder, why, I just don’t know what would happen to my business.”

  ”I didn’t say anything about a murder.”

  The phony smile she was wearing stayed frozen on her face, but her eyes tightened the slightest bit.

  At that moment, Landers knew she realized she’d fallen face-first in a pile of shit. It didn’t surprise Landers. Any woman who dressed like that had to be a dumbass.

  ”I thought you said the man was killed,” she said.

  ”I did, but I didn’t say he was murdered. I didn’t say anything about how he was killed. He might have been run over by a train or gotten killed in a car wreck. He could have jumped off a building or blown his brains out. What makes you think he was murdered?”