The female FBI agent—Special Agent Angela Price—seemed to be running the show. “Dr. Brockton, first of all, let me express our appreciation for your time today. Second, I need to stress that everything discussed in this room today stays in this room. That probably goes without saying”—I gave a nod—“but I’m saying it anyway.” I nodded again, just to be sure I was on record as a good listener and cooperative fellow.
“It’s been awhile since I worked with an interagency task force,” I said. “Last time was probably fifteen years ago, with Agent Billings here—the Fat Sam kidnapping and murder case.” Billings smiled at the memory of the bumbling counterfeiter, who’d been bilked by a slicker counterfeiter and had turned ineptly vengeful.
Price frowned, shook her head slightly, and held up a finger. “This is not a task force, Dr. Brockton, simply an informal joint investigation. Depending on what we turn up, we could ratchet this up to a task force, but that would require a lot more predication—evidence of wrongdoing—and a lot more paperwork. For now, we’re just trying to get a handle on what’s going on up in Cooke County.”
Price recapped some relevant Cooke County history. Back in the early 1980s, a joint FBI–TBI task force—the full-fledged version—spent two years investigating corruption in Tennessee sheriff’s departments. They found a lot of it: more than one-quarter of the state’s sheriffs were indicted and sent to prison. It had been an embarrassing time for Tennessee’s sheriffs’ departments in general, and for Cooke County’s in particular: the sheriff at the time had been caught running both a brothel and a cocaine-trafficking ring (complete with its own private airstrip). He ended up getting a fifteen-year sentence in federal prison.
Price finished her history lecture. “That was twenty years ago—a long time between housecleanings. Not surprisingly, the dirt seems to be building up again.”
“I’m shocked, shocked,” I said with mock indignation.
She ignored the joke. “We’ve been monitoring some things up in Cooke County that seem to point to an increase in a whole host of illegal activities,” she said. “As you may know, the Marijuana Eradication Task Force and the Tennessee Highway Patrol work together on surveillance flights to detect pot cultivation. There seems to be a substantial increase in cultivation in Cooke County over the past two years, an increase that’s not been matched in any other counties in the state. We have additional information suggesting a rise in harder drug trafficking, gambling, and prostitution.”
“Sounds like one-stop shopping for all your vice needs,” I said. The familiar-looking TBI agent grinned slightly, and suddenly I realized why he looked familiar. I’d never met him before, but I’d seen him before: twenty-four hours earlier, at the cockfight in Cooke County. What had Waylon called him? Rooster, that was it. I recalled my conversation with Art about the perils of being unable to tell the good guys from the bad guys. My palms began to sweat and my mouth went dry as cotton.
Price was still talking; I willed myself to concentrate on her words, though I was still staring at Rankin. “When Agent Morgan said you’d called him to express concerns about the conduct of the sheriff’s department in the homicide case you’re working, it occurred to us that you might be able to shed some indirect light on whether there’s official protection or involvement in any of these various criminal enterprises.”
Rankin’s eyes were locked on me like laser beams. I opened my mouth to speak, but seemed unable to get any words out. My brain was reeling with possibilities. What if the official corruption wasn’t limited to the sheriff’s department? What if it extended into the TBI—indeed, even into this very task force? Clearly I was in way over my head. “I…I…” I licked my parched lips with a thick, pasty-feeling tongue.
Rankin cocked his head. “Doc, you look a little dry in the mouth there. Can I get you some water?” I nodded my head nervously. “Or maybe you’d prefer a little dab of this?” He slid something that looked like a hockey puck across the oak table toward me. I caught it, picked it up, and turned it over in my hand. It was a can of Copenhagen. My stomach began to churn. “Go on, buddy, give ’er a try,” Rankin intoned, in the thick, good-old-boy accent he’d used at the cockfight. “It’ll perk you right up. You look like you could use some perkin’ up.” As he finished quoting himself, he grinned broadly and winked at me.
Bewildered, I scanned the other faces in the room. The other agents seemed to be studying their notepads intently, but I thought I detected some twitching mouths and twinkling eyes. Suddenly Cole Billings choked back a snort, and it hit me: these guys—these straightlaced, straight-arrow, suit-and-tie agents—were teasing me. At first I felt a wave of indignation, but it was quickly replaced by a profound sense of relief. Rankin must have been working the cockfight undercover; hell, he’d probably even been wearing a wire, making it conceivable—likely, even—that all these agents had heard the audio of my retching into the barrel. As I pictured that, I couldn’t help but yield to the absurdity of it myself. Sliding the can of tobacco back to Rankin, I drawled, “Hell-far, Rooster, I done give up on dip, but if you’uns got any shine, I wouldn’t care to take me a swig or two.”
The League of Justice erupted in laughter. As soon as I could make myself heard, I added, “Okay, you’ve got me dead to rights—I broke the law. I’ll talk. Just promise you’ll go easy on me.” Several of the agents were wiping their eyes. I decided maybe it was time to switch gears. “Seriously, tell me how I can help you,” I said to Price. “Then maybe we can figure out if you all can help me, too.”
“With the recent rise in cultivation, Cooke County now leads the state in marijuana production,” she began, as briskly as if she were launching a PowerPoint talk. “In addition, there’s an alarming rise in methamphetamine labs in basements and trailers up there. We have it from a well-placed source that the sheriff’s office is shielding drug traffickers, possibly even extorting protection money from them. If that’s true, we can prosecute that as racketeering.” I nodded, remembering a case in which the Justice Department had once categorized the Chicago Police Department as “a criminal enterprise.” My ears pricked up when Price added, “We’ve also heard—not just from your phone call to Agent Morgan—that in the homicide case you’re working, the sheriff might be guilty of obstruction of justice, conspiracy, possibly even murder. What are your thoughts on that?”
“Well, let me back up a ways.” I briefed the group on my involvement in the case, starting with the recovery of the body from the cave. When I described being shanghaied by Jim O’Conner, I was interrupted by a flurry of questions about the man; I gathered that O’Conner had managed to fly beneath their radar up to now. His secret road and kudzu tunnel seemed to excite them most. Did I see other vehicles? Any tracks from heavy trucks? Signs of marijuana cultivation, processing, or distribution? Containers or odors that might suggest methamphetamine production?
I answered “no” to all of those questions. “This guy is interesting, and unusual,” I said, “and he admits he’s had some illegal business ventures in the past. But he was a war hero, and I don’t think he’s a killer.” The war hero status seemed to carry some weight. “The sheriff wants to charge him with the murder,” I conceded, “but then again, the sheriff has an old ax—a family feud sort of ax—to grind with O’Conner, so it’s possible that’s clouding his judgment.”
I finally circled back to Price’s question about the sheriff. “Sheriff Kitchings certainly seems to know more about this case than he’s letting on,” I said. “He hedged and stalled and even lied outright when I asked what he knew about missing females. When I finally confronted him about the victim’s identity and his family’s connection, he pointed a rifle at me. If wishes were bullets, I might not be here today.” Several questions about the armed confrontation ensued, which I answered as matter-of-factly as I could. “I don’t know whether he’s intentionally obstructing justice,” I went on, “or whether he’s just behind the curve and reacting badly to the discovery that his family might have som
e involvement. That’s why I’m here today. I’d like to know what the TBI and the FBI can do to find out whether he’s guilty of more than confusion and a hair-trigger temper.”
She glanced at the other federal agents. “Unfortunately, Dr. Brockton, I’m not sure the FBI can get involved in that case, although we certainly have an interest in it.”
“Why not,” I asked, “if he’s obstructing a murder investigation? Isn’t that a federal crime?”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily. You have to look at the original, underlying crime—in this case, homicide. That’s a state crime, so it would be a matter for the local prosecutor or the TBI.”
“I’ve got no problem with the TBI handling it. After all, it was Steve that I called in the first place.” I turned to Morgan. “Who’s the TBI got up in Cooke County these days besides Brian ‘Rooster’ Rankin here? Anybody I know?”
Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We’re kinda in between right now. We just pulled the guy who’d been up there for years. We weren’t sure he was quite as…vigilant as he ought to be. Haven’t assigned anybody new yet. We wanted to focus on the undercover angle for awhile first.”
That was disappointing news. “Well, you ought to have one hell of an animal cruelty case. Gambling, too. What additional evidence would you need to charge the sheriff with obstruction?”
He winced. “That could be difficult, Doc. Although we could gather evidence, any criminal charges would need to be filed by the Cooke County DA or—more likely—by a grand jury. Taking it to a grand jury covers his ass, if there’s any fallout either way. Unfortunately, a Cooke County grand jury—the folks who elected Tom Kitchings by a landslide, you may recall—probably wouldn’t indict him. If they did, and the case went to a jury trial, he’d have a pretty good chance of being acquitted. Kitchings is a very popular sheriff up there.”
I stared at him. “So you’re saying that even if he’s guilty—even if you know he’s guilty—the TBI might look the other way?”
Steve squirmed in his seat like a student who didn’t know the right answer. “Thing is, Doc, in cases like this, you get one shot. If you don’t win—if a grand jury votes not to indict, or if you lose the case at trial—that makes the sheriff much more powerful. He becomes virtually untouchable at that point, and he knows it. So then you’re really screwed.”
This was not going at all the way I’d hoped. “So what am I supposed to do, then? Just shrug my shoulders and figure that’s the way things work in Cooke County?” I looked from one face to another, but no one at the table would meet my gaze.
Finally Price spoke up. “No, Doctor, you’re supposed to do your job to the best of your ability, and trust us to do ours to the best of our abilities. Believe me, we don’t like to see public officials break the law any more than you do. But we have to work within congressional statutes and FBI protocols. Sometimes those feel like impediments. But they’re part of the American justice system, which beats the hell out of any other system I know of.”
It appeared I’d overstepped. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Not necessary, Doctor. We understand your frustration—we share it, in fact—and we do appreciate your help. Please keep your eyes and ears open; tell us about any illegal or suspicious activities you observe. As I say, our hands might be tied on the homicide case, but you never know—we might learn something that would give us some leverage with another witness, somebody who could corroborate federal offenses.” I nodded.
Price glanced at her watch. “Anything else?” I shook my head. “Well, we don’t need to take up any more of your time, Dr. Brockton; I’m sure you’re busy.” I was, but not too busy to notice that I was being dismissed. “Do let us know if something else crops up.”
“Sure,” I said. “Although I can’t imagine what more could crop up at this point.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said, and gave a quick nod to Steve Morgan.
“I’ll run you back downstairs,” said Steve, hastily rising from his seat at the Round Table.
On the way back down, we made awkward small talk: Ashley, his oldest, was starting ballet lessons; Justin, the middle child, played T-ball last summer and was a solid hitter but not much of a fielder; Christian, the toddler, fell off the porch and blackened both eyes, earning Steve and his wife suspicious stares from strangers for a couple of weeks, until the shiners faded. We shook hands in the lobby and I said good-bye to the security guard, who gave me a reluctant tip of the head. As I reached the main door, I consulted my watch, then turned back to check the time on the wall clock above the elevator. Both read five minutes to ten. And, as I’d suspected, Steve Morgan had not moved from the spot where I’d left him.
I fiddled with my watch briefly, waved good-bye to Steve, and walked out into the crisp fall air. I went as far as the next corner—out of the line of Steve’s sight—then crossed the street and ducked into the old Supreme Court parking lot, which was bordered by a hedgerow sparse enough for me to see through without being seen from the entrance of the federal building.
At one minute to ten, a man sauntered up to the granite cube, and Steve Morgan stepped out to greet him. Agent Price’s last words had been prophetic: I was surprised; shocked, even. The man who went inside the federal building with Steve was a Cooke County deputy sheriff: my old pal Leon Williams.
CHAPTER 21
“WHAT, NOW I’M SUPPOSED to be psychic? I don’t know what it means,” said Art, taking a sip of sweet tea between bites of his sandwich. He had answered my panic-stricken call from outside the federal building and agreed to meet me for lunch at Calhoun’s On the River, which boasted the best barbecue in town.
“Even if you don’t know, you can at least help me think through the possibilities,” I insisted.
“Okay, you tell me what you think the possibilities are,” he said,
“and I’ll give you my considered opinion.”
“Scenario A,” I began.
He interrupted. “We’ve moved from possibilities to scenarios already?”
I glowered. “Scenario A: Williams contacted the feds because he knows the sheriff is protecting the cockfights and the gambling and the drug trafficking, like Price said.” Art chewed his pulled pork thoughtfully. “B: Williams contacted them because he thinks the sheriff’s hiding something or protecting someone in the murder case.” Art ruminated some more. “C: The feds hauled Williams in because they think he’s involved in something illegal, and they’re leaning on him to cooperate.” Art stroked his chin slowly. I tried to wait him out, but couldn’t. “So which is it?”
“Could you run those scenarios past me one more time?” He took another bite.
“Come on, Art, this is worrying me.”
“Well, I’m not sure I buy A or B,” he said, his mouth still full. “The fact that Williams may have helped Waylon shanghai you that day makes me wonder who the deputy is really working for. C is possible, I suppose, though I’m not sure the feds would risk hauling a cooperating witness all the way to Knoxville—how’s he gonna explain being gone half a day? There’s also D and E to consider, too.”
“D and E? What are those?” I asked.
“D: Williams thinks you’re obstructing justice, and he’s there to squeal on you.”
“Me? How could I possibly be obstructing justice?”
“By protecting Jim O’Conner.”
“What? I’m not protecting Jim O’Conner. I’m just pointing out some things that suggest his innocence. Things they don’t want to see, maybe because they’ve got a grudge against him, or because he’s just a handy scapegoat. Protecting O’Conner? I can’t believe you’d say that.”
“Hey, don’t get your drawers in a wad,” Art said. “I’m not the one ratting you out.”
“You really think that’s what Williams is telling them?”
“No, not really. Just trying not to overlook any possibilities.”
“Great. Thanks a heap. And E? I
can’t wait to hear E.”
“E is ‘none of the above.’ Maybe Williams is working some angle of his own that we haven’t even thought of yet. Maybe he wants to be sheriff himself, figures he’d have a lot easier time getting elected with Kitchings behind bars. All I’m really saying is, we have absolutely no way to know what he’s telling them, or why. So you need to keep doing exactly what you’ve been doing: learn all you can, tell the truth, watch your back. And trust no one.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me.” He dropped his chin toward his chest, pulled out his shirt front, and spoke loudly, as if to make sure his words were picked up by a cheap microphone strapped to his sternum. “That’s right, Dr. Bill Brockton, especially me.”
CHAPTER 22
IT HAD TAKEN HOURS of thrashing, but I’d finally gotten to sleep, and deeply, too. I could tell because it felt like I was swimming up from the bottom of an ocean of molasses toward a distant sound that turned out to be my bedside telephone.
“Huh-llo,” I mumbled.
“Doc?” The voice on the other end of the line was thick and slurred. “ ’S me.”
“Me,” as best I could tell, was a drunken Tom Kitchings. “Sheriff? What time is it?”
“Dunno. Pretty late. Probly real late. Sorry ’bout that.”
“You got some emergency, Sheriff?” I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. The blue-green numbers read 3:17.
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