by Scott Pratt
He cursed himself and the decisions he’d made. The drugs. The damned drugs. All Tipton had really given a shit about over the past two years was getting high. He looked forward each and every day to crushing the oxycodone pills, mixing them with water, and injecting them into his veins. The high was so raw, so euphoric, that it was almost indescribable. Everything around him seemed to intensify when he was high, and for the past couple of years, he’d been high almost all the time.
But now he was starting to pay the price. He’d managed to alienate most of his family, and they’d been nothing but good to him. He’d been high when he cut up and nearly killed a man a couple of years earlier. Darren Street had gotten him out of that one. He’d been high when he made the decision to branch out on his own, which had eventually led to a visit from the DEA agent named Gary DuBose. And now, here he was, running up a trail in the woods, about to kill a man he didn’t know. Clancy had told Tipton the same thing Darren Street had told him—the man he was going to kill was the same man who had raped and murdered two young boys in the area over the past year. Tipton had no way of knowing whether that was true.
What he did know was that if he backed out, if he failed to deliver, then Ben Clancy and the DEA would send him off to federal prison for as long as they possibly could. Clancy might even kill him, or have him killed. The man was a zealot. Tipton had dealt with hard men in the past, men who were capable of cruel, even psychotic, acts. They had a certain air about them, almost a scent of danger. Clancy was a lawman, but Tipton believed without reservation that he was as merciless as any assassin.
It was now one thirty in the afternoon. The sun was high behind light, scattered clouds. A gentle breeze was blowing through the tiny leaves that had recently blossomed. Tipton was fifty yards off the trail, about thirty feet off the ground in his tree stand, just beneath the thin canopy of a blooming sugar maple. He had a clear view of the trail beneath him as it gradually descended to the point where he had stepped off into the woods. He hadn’t seen a person, an animal, nothing. The lot where he’d parked his car was empty. Aside from the fluttering breeze, it was silent.
And then he saw a man walking up the trail toward him.
Tipton lifted the high-powered binoculars that were dangling from his neck and, using the focus wheel and the diopter, brought the image into focus. Clancy had provided Tipton with a dozen photos of Jordan taken from different angles in different light and Tipton had studied them carefully. It was him. He was wearing a long-sleeved, blue pullover shirt and was carrying a large backpack. There was a walking stick or thin pole in his right hand. Tipton watched him for a full minute as he came closer, then lowered the binoculars and reached for his rifle. He’d positioned his stand so he could rest the rifle against the trunk of the tree while he was taking aim. Tipton placed the crosshairs on Jordan’s chest and took a deep breath. He let the breath out slowly and gently squeezed the trigger.
The rifle shot cracked, echoing off the surrounding mountains. Tipton watched through the scope as the bullet tore through Jordan’s chest, lifting him slightly off his feet and knocking him straight over onto his backpack.
Tipton lowered the rifle to the ground using a piece of rope and quickly skittered down the trunk of the tree to the ground. He’d made the kill—he was certain Jordan couldn’t have survived—but he still had to ditch the rifle and get out of there without being seen. A rifle shot in the mountains wasn’t all that unusual, but you never knew when someone might be curious.
Tipton reached the ground and began to move in a half-circular path toward his car. Along the way, he found a spot to dump the rifle, just as Clancy had instructed. It was in a creek bed about a hundred yards from the body, a place that would certainly be searched by the FBI when they came. Tipton made it to his truck without seeing a soul, tossed the rest of the gear in the back, and was on his way less than twenty minutes after he’d fired the shot.
This part of the job was finished, but as he reached into his glove compartment and retrieved a flask of bourbon to calm his nerves, Tipton knew there would be much, much more to come. Tonight, he had to break in to Darren Street’s garage and plant another piece of evidence. He pulled his truck onto the road and headed for his home on the mountain. There, in the medicine cabinet, he would find his oxycodone, and in the drug, he would at least find some temporary relief.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ben Clancy was pacing along the wall at the back of the room. He could feel sweat running down his back, and he believed the performance he was delivering to be as good as any he’d ever delivered in front of a jury.
The office belonged to United States Attorney Stephen Blackburn, the man in charge of representing the federal government in forty-one Tennessee counties. It was just down the hall from Clancy’s own office, but it was larger and more luxurious, almost regal. An American flag and a Tennessee flag flanked the desk and the seal of the Department of Justice, United States Attorney, hung on the wall. A Latin phrase on the seal, “Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur,” assured all who knew the translation that Blackburn was a man “who prosecutes on behalf of Lady Justice.”
In the office along with Clancy were Blackburn, and FBI agents Daniel Reid and Paul Freeman. Six hours had passed since Jalen Jordan’s body had been discovered by a hiker around three o’clock, and dozens of FBI agents had been scouring the mountainside ever since.
“How did this happen?” Clancy yelled. “How? We had him. We were all over him. We let him get out of our sight for an hour and he gets popped by . . . by who? A deer hunter who was poaching and mistook him for a deer? Another serial killer who just happened to show up and whack the serial killer we were tracking? An enemy of his who somehow found out he was going into the woods and also happens to be good with a sniper rifle? How is any of this possible?”
The agents simply looked away. They apparently had no answers. Clancy stopped pacing and glared at them.
“It had to be one of you or someone in your agency,” he said. “We’ve got a vigilante in our midst.”
Dan Reid, the special agent in charge of the Knoxville FBI office, sprang to his feet.
“Now you wait just a damned minute!” Reid yelled. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you accuse me or any of my people of murder. I don’t give a damn who you are. You want to make those kinds of accusations? Let’s just talk about you, then. You’re the one who made the decision to let Jordan go into the woods. You. You knew every move he was making because you wanted to be in the loop. Maybe you had something to do with this death.”
Stephen Blackburn, gray-haired and in his midfifties, had been appointed to his office for a second four-year term by the president of the United States. Blackburn had originally gained his own lofty position because of his father’s vast wealth and the political connections both he and his father had nurtured throughout their lives, but he was, nonetheless, a capable attorney and a shrewd assessor of problems. He was also a decent mediator.
“Hang on,” Blackburn said, raising his hands. “Take it easy. Let’s all just take a deep breath and calm down for a minute. Ben, I know you’re upset, but Dan’s right. It’s way over the line to accuse him or anyone in his office of having anything to do with this. Same with you, Dan. And I can tell just from the looks on everyone’s faces that we’re all terribly upset about this. But let’s take a minute and think it through. Go back to the beginning. How did we get onto Jalen Jordan in the first place? Who, outside of the people in this room and the FBI, knew about what we were doing? Who knew about what was inside the van? Who knew we were having the boys’ underwear tested? Who could have possibly had a reason to kill him and could have known where he was? Did anyone talk to the parents of the boys who were murdered?”
“I did,” Freeman said. “I told them about the underwear. I showed them photos.”
“Did you mention anything about a suspect?” Blackburn said.
“I to
ld them we may have a suspect, but I didn’t mention any names.”
“Who else?”
“The Knoxville PD officers who arrested him—Olivia Denton and Terrance Casey,” Reid said. “They know about it. So would their superiors and anyone they might have told between then and now. They arrested him more than a week ago. It could have spread through the entire department by now. Some of our forensics people know. So do some administrative people and, of course, the folks at the lab, plus anyone those people may have told. It becomes a matter of exponential progression. Dozens of people, maybe a hundred, could know by now.”
Reid turned back to Clancy. “You said you were going to talk to politicians if they wouldn’t give us a priority bump at the lab. Did you do that?”
“He came to me,” Blackburn said. “I took care of it myself.”
“If a good deal of the Knoxville PD knows, then it’s just a matter of time before there’s a leak and the media gets wind of it,” Clancy said. “Once they find out we suspected Jordan of killing the two boys that were found at The Sinks, they’ll start baying like hounds. The conspiracy theories will fly, there’ll be accusations of vigilantism. And what if they find out we were on Jordan twenty-four-seven and let him walk away into the woods?”
“Like I said, that was your call,” Reid said. He’d sat back down, but his face was still pink.
Clancy pointed a pudgy finger at Reid.
“Do you think you’re going to use that against me somehow? Take me down with it? I’ve been in politics at some level or another my entire adult life. There’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Except maybe a red bandana,” Reid said.
The air seemed to go out of the room for a full thirty seconds. Nobody said a word.
“I’d advise you to tread lightly,” Clancy said.
“If I may,” Paul Freeman said, “I think I have something to add. Something that might be productive.”
“By all means,” Blackburn said.
“Speaking of red bandanas, and I don’t say this to upset you, Ben, Darren Street showed up at our office yesterday afternoon, and looking back on it now, it seems more than a little strange.”
“What did he want?” Clancy said.
“Basically, he wanted protection for his son. He told me Jordan had come to see him on Tuesday and wound up threatening his boy. He’s bound by the attorney-client privilege, so he can’t repeat what Jordan said to him, but in a roundabout way, he pretty much told me Jordan confessed to killing the two boys and then threatened his son. I told him we couldn’t help him.”
“So you’re saying Darren Street is a suspect?” Clancy said.
“I’m just saying the timing is odd. I don’t see how he could have known Jordan would be on the trail, though.”
“Maybe he bugged Jordan’s place,” Clancy said. “We did.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched.”
“It might be, but right now, it seems like a good place to start,” Clancy said. “I say we turn our attention toward Darren Street, look as far up his skirt as possible, and see what we find. And while we’re at it, let’s talk to the Knoxville police, starting with the two officers who arrested Jordan.”
Clancy looked around the room. Everyone was silent. He looked at his boss.
“Steve?” he said. “What do you think?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Blackburn said. “Let’s get to it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On Friday, I walked into the chambers of the Honorable Zachary P. Holloway. I had six cases pending on Holloway’s docket and needed to move them back until after Jalen Jordan was arrested. Holloway was a large, light-skinned black man with a pleasant disposition outside of the courtroom. Inside, he acted very much like an irritable grizzly bear.
He was sitting behind his mammoth desk, munching on a salad that was in a Styrofoam container. His black robe was hanging on a coat rack in the corner. A television on a stand behind me was broadcasting the noon news.
“Forgive me for not standing and shaking your hand,” the judge said as I walked in. “I’ve had a bit of a cold and don’t want to pass it on to you.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
“Have a seat, Mr. Street. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Your Honor, I have an unusual request. I really hate to impose, but I have to ask you . . .”
Something a newscaster was saying caught my attention and I turned and looked at the television.
“Ask me what?” the judge said.
“I’m sorry, just a second.”
“The victim has been identified as twenty-four-year-old Jalen Jordan of Knoxville,” the newsman on the television said.
I stood and said, “I’ll be damned.”
“What? What are you talking about, Mr. Street?” the judge said.
My attention had shifted completely to the TV. “The body was found by a hiker near the Appalachian trail yesterday afternoon,” the newsman said as Jordan’s slimy face flashed across the screen. “Our sources indicate he was shot with a high-powered rifle from some distance away. Stay tuned for updates as more information is made available.”
I felt a smile cross my face. I couldn’t help it. I heard myself say, “Ding dong, the bastard’s dead.”
“I beg your pardon?” Judge Holloway said.
“Did you hear the same thing I just heard?” I said. “Did you just hear that a twenty-four-year-old man was found dead near the Appalachian Trail and his name was Jalen Jordan?”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t listening that closely. But why would the death of anyone bring a smile to your face? And did you just say, ‘Ding dong, the bastard’s dead’?”
“I’m sorry, judge,” I said. “He threatened to kill my . . . ah, never mind. You don’t want to hear it, but believe me, I have a reason to smile. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make some phone calls.”
Judge Holloway was staring at me, open-mouthed with a fork full of salad in his right hand, when I turned and walked out the door. I practically floated out of the courthouse and dialed my mom’s number as soon as I was on the sidewalk outside. She’d been staying with us at the hotel and had been willing to do whatever it took to ensure Sean was safe.
“Have you heard?” I said when she picked up the phone.
“Heard what?”
“Jordan’s dead, somebody shot him.”
There was a brief silence. “Are you sure, Darren?”
“I just saw his face on the news. He’s dead, Mom. The dirty, rotten, filthy son of a bitch is dead, and I couldn’t be happier. I feel like I could fly.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We go back to our lives. But first we celebrate. Check out of the hotel and meet me at Calhoun’s. Lunch and alcohol is on me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A week later, life was seemingly back to normal. It was also rather unpleasant, because Katie was continuing to act like Katie.
I watched my wife get out of the luxury sports car I was paying for and walk quickly into a small restaurant called Baldacci’s about fifty miles north of Knoxville off I-75. It was dark, around eight thirty. Katie was wearing a sexy little black dress and a pair of fuck-me pumps, neither of which I’d ever seen before, and carrying a clutch purse covered in rhinestones. The private investigator I’d hired two months earlier had told me Katie was having an affair with a man named Leonard Bright, who was fifteen years her senior. He owned, among other things, the Mercedes-Benz dealership in Lexington, Kentucky, which was a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the north. He also lived in Lexington and was a lifelong bachelor. The investigator didn’t know how they’d met. I figured they’d met at the gym where Katie worked out and did her personal training, but I didn’t really care.
Katie thought I’d gone to Nashville to a continuing legal education seminar because I’d li
ed to her two weeks earlier in order to give her this opportunity. I wasn’t sure at the time whether she’d go to Lexington or whether he’d come to Knoxville, but now I realized they were splitting the difference. I borrowed a car from the lawyer who would soon be handling my divorce and followed Katie from our neighborhood. She dropped Sean off at her parents’ multi-million-dollar mansion on the Tennessee River and drove straight to the restaurant. I wasn’t certain she was meeting the guy from Kentucky, but from the way she was dressed, I doubted she was meeting a girlfriend. I’d never heard of Baldacci’s, but I assumed it was an Italian place, and if Katie was eating there, it was undoubtedly expensive. There were only about a dozen cars in the parking lot, and after Katie walked into the restaurant, I did a quick recon. There was a Mercedes-Benz with a dealer tag from Kentucky.
I parked near the Benz and got out of my minivan. I was wearing clothing appropriate for a nice restaurant: a navy-blue suit, a white button-down shirt, and shiny black shoes. I walked in the front door, quickly scanned the place, spotted Katie, stepped straight to the maître d’, and said, “I’m meeting my wife and a friend. She’s right over there.” I walked to the table, less than thirty feet away, and was on them before they realized what was happening. I pulled a chair back and slid into it.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said to Katie as soon as I sat down at the table. “Sorry I’m late. Introduce me to your friend.”
She looked like she’d been caught in the path of an oncoming train in the middle of a trestle. Her mouth formed a perfect circle. Her expression made me think of a frightened blowfish. I turned to her dinner partner.
“I’m Darren,” I said. “My wife seems to be temporarily unable to communicate. I understand your name is Leonard Bright. Should I call you Leonard? Len? Lenny Baby? Or maybe I should just call you the dickhead geezer who thinks he can roll into town and bang my wife anytime he wants to.”