A Lonely Way To Die - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  We went back to camp, where F.T. tied a hangman's noose in the long length of rope while I worked on the sheets and pillowcases. I cut a long slit in each of the sheets, and cut mouth and eye holes in the pillowcases. We tried them on. They looked authentic enough if you didn't notice we were wearing fitted sheets. At least they were better than sheets with big red and blue flowers on them. We drove back into town and hid the shotgun, the two lengths of rope, and the sheets across the street from the First National Bar & Grill. Then we drove back to the sand and gravel plant, where we hid the truck.

  It was getting dark by the time we had walked back to the First National Bar & Grill. Buford Whaley's car was parked across the street from the bar. It was perfectly positioned for us. We retrieved our equipment from its hiding place and waited. We had a good long wait. Buford Whaley didn't come out until about ten o'clock. He was alone, and from the way he walked, he was slightly drunk.

  We put on our sheets and pillowcases. I stuck a couple of pieces of cardboard in my mouth to disguise my voice. I didn't know if it would help, but it seemed like a good idea. F.T. did the same. When Buford Whaley got to the car, I stepped out and jabbed him with the shotgun.

  "Don't make a sound. Get in the car and put both hands on the steering wheel," I said. I noticed the cardboard did change my voice. It made me sound like I had a mouthful of cardboard.

  Buford Whaley did as I told him. F.Tj got in the back seat. I was glad he had a four door. F.T. took the three-foot length of rope and slipped it over his head garrote style. Now if he tried anything, all F.T. had to do was to tighten it, and he would black out instantly. I got in on the passenger side of the front seat and pointed the-shotgun at him.

  "Don't make a sound. Just do as you're told. Now start the car and drive," I said.

  Only once during the ride to the sand and gravel plant did Buford Whaley's fear get the best of him.

  "Take my car, or my money, or whatever you want. Just let me go," he said.

  "Shut up," I said.

  He did as he was told.

  I told him to turn in at the access road. We drove to the edge of the open area and stopped. F.T. tightened up slightly on the garrote. It was just enough to make his eyes bulge.

  "Keep your right hand on the wheel. Turn off the motor and take out the keys with your left hand," I said.

  He reached over the steering column for the keys.

  "Now toss them out the window," I said.

  "Please, they're my only set," he said in a choked voice.

  "Don't worry. You won't be needing them," I said.

  He tossed them out the window.

  "Now you just sit still for a minute," I said. F.T. made sure he did.

  I got out, walked around to the driver's side, and opened the door, being sure to stand far enough away that he couldn't use it as a weapon.

  "Now you're going to crawl out of the car very slowly. The first part of you to touch the ground had better be your hands," I said.

  F.T. loosened the garrote, and Buford Whaley started to crawl out. When he was fully extended in a pushup position with his feet still inside the car, I said, "Now lower yourself to the ground, nice and easy."

  He lowered himself to the ground. I put the muzzle of the shotgun in his ear. Then I stepped up and put my foot on his neck. I heard all the joints crack.

  F.T. came around from the passenger side and slipped the hangman's noose over his head. Then he took the shorter length of rope and tied Buford Whaley's hands behind him.

  "Get to your feet," I said.

  This was easier said than done, since his feet were still inside the car and his hands were tied behind his back, but he managed.

  "Start walking," I said.

  F.T. and I stayed about ten feet behind him. F.T. had the rope leading to the noose, and I had the shotgun.

  The first sight of the clearing was enough to scare anybody. The moon was full, and the light reflecting off the white sand made the place look like something from another world. It was eerie as hell.

  We walked toward the tree until he was close enough to see the milk crate and the shovel. Then he stopped. I jabbed him hard in the kidneys with the muzzle of the shotgun, and his knees almost buckled.

  "Move," I said, and he did.

  We stopped about ten feet from the tree. F.T. untied his hands, got the shovel, and handed it to him.

  "Dig," I said. "And make it long enough and wide enough to be comfortable."

  He started to dig. The sand was soft, and the work went fast. Several times he started to plead for himself, but F.T. stopped that with a sharp tug on the noose around his neck. When the hole was about four feet deep, I told him to stop.

  "Get out and lay down," I said.

  He did as he was told and, F.T. retied his hands behind his back.

  "Move over to that milk crate, and stand on it," I said.

  He walked over to it, but he couldn't bring himself to stand on it. F.T. tossed the rope over the horizontal branch and pulled with all his might. Buford Whaley got on the crate. F .T. pulled the rope tight enough that he had to stand on tiptoe to make contact with the crate, and tied it to the truck with a slipknot that would come undone if too much pressure was applied to the rope. After all, we didn't want Buford Whaley to hang himself prematurely.

  I smelled the odor of ammonia and noticed the front of Buford Whaley's pants was getting darker. He was pissing in his pants. I didn't blame him one damn bit. If I had been in his pants at this moment, I would have been pissing in them, too.

  "Buford Whaley," I said.

  He didn't answer, so I tapped him in the crotch with the muzzle of the shotgun. Not too hard, but hard enough to remind him I meant business.

  "Answer me when I address you," I said.

  "Yes," he said.

  I tapped him in the crotch again with the muzzle of the shotgun. Only this time, I tapped him

  harder.

  "When you address me, you don't say ‘yes.' You say ‘yessir.' Understand me?" I said.

  "Yessir," he said.

  "That's better," I said. "You know who we are and why we're here, don't you?"

  "No, sir," he said.

  "We're here to bring you greetings from the Grand Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. You do know what the Ku Klux Klan is, don't you?" I said.

  "Yessir," he said.

  "Good. Let me introduce us. We're the Right Brothers. This is Brother Orville, and I'm Brother Wilbur. Have you heard of us? There are some folks who say we're quite famous."

  "No, sir," he said.

  "No. Then let me tell you why we're here.

  Brother Orville and I are men who are on a quest. You do know what a quest is, don't you?" I said.

  "Yessir," he said.

  "Good. It always helps when you're dealing with intelligent people. On our quest we're looking for one thing: a man who can fly. Right now you're standing on our launching pad. If we kick our launching pad out from under you, in a few minutes, we will know whether you're our man.

  Brother Orville and I have launched over a hundred souls in the Klan's space program, but so far, no one has been successful. Do you think you will be able to fly if we launch you?" I said.

  "No sir," he said.

  "Then we understand each other. We're going to ask you a few questions. If you give us the right answers, we're going to let you go. If you give us the wrong answers, you're going to fly. Do I make myself clear?" I said.

  "Yessir," he said.

  "One of the main goals of the Klan is the protection of Southern womanhood. Quite often we're called in by the local police to protect Southern women when the law can't. Sometimes, because of the Supreme Court and Yankee lawyers, the police can't do their job effectively. Then they call for us, the Right Brothers.

  "This is one of those times. Last week here in Cannibal Springs, a young girl was killed by mistake. The killer was trying to murder the woman who is running for mayor. We have reason to feel you were involved in this. What d
o you have to say on your behalf?" I said.

  "It wasn't me. I didn't kill her," he said.

  "We know you didn't mean to kill her. That was an accident. You meant to kill the woman running for mayor, but why did you want to kill her?" I said.

  "I wouldn't try to kill her. We're lovers," he said.

  This was a new twist.

  "Go on. Tell us about it. How long have you been lovers?" I said.

  "It started a few months ago at the Hairdresser's Ball. We got to dancing, and then we left together," he said.

  "Where did you go?" I asked.

  "We went to a cabin she rents," he said.

  So far it sounded like the truth.

  "Then what happened'?"

  "We slept together, and we've been getting together once or twice a week ever since," he said.

  "This is very interesting news, Buford Whaley.

  We will have to check this out. You may be innocent, but we need more information. Describe the woman's body to us. Tell us something special that only you could know," I said.

  "She has a scar on her stomach. It's a scar from an operation," he said.

  "That's not good enough. Tell us something more," I said.

  "When you're making love, and she gets ready to come, she bites her lower lip," he said.

  He was right. It looked like Buford Whaley was innocent. Now all we had left were Lou Young, Hulan, and Flo.

  "Buford Whaley, are you aware that marriage is a sacred institution? Your time would be better spent with your own wife."

  "Yessir, I know. It won't happen again," he said.

  "Good," I said.

  Then I walked over and kicked the milk crate out from under his feet.

  F.T.'s knot was the only thing that saved him. He hit the ground in a dead faint.

  We left him there.

  Chapter 26

  The sun came up a little after six. F.T., Truman, and I drove back to the goat shed to get cleaned up. We bathed and shaved, then dressed in fresh khakis.

  By eight o'clock we had finished breakfast at the Tank 'n' Tummy and were on our way to Nashville. F.T. and I dozed for most of the two hour ride. Truman woke me when we reached the Nolensville Road.

  The Nashville skyline looked the same, but the city itself looked different. There was a lot of highway construction going on. Interchanges, bypasses, overpasses, and underpasses were going up where residential areas had been four years earlier.

  We got lost a couple of times before we finally hit Broad Street, took a right, and drove past the Ernest Tubb Record Shop, Tootsie's Purple Orchid Lounge, and a million gift shops all selling Confederate flags, ceramic Tennessee Walking Horses, and photos of your favorite Grand Ole Opry stars. We parked in the Cain-Sloan garage. I checked a phone book. Cumberland Valley Shopping Centers, Inc., was located in the Third National Bank Building.

  We walked eight or ten blocks to the state capitol building. Nearby were a score of pawnshops and clothing stores catering mostly to down-and-out black musicians. We went into Leroy's Loans. It was a small pawnshop filled with guitars, amplifiers, cheap jewelry, blank pistols, and stilettos. Leroy was a middle-aged little man with a jeweler's glass pushed up on his forehead. It made him looked like he had a two-inch wart growing out of his head. I bought a constable's badge and a leatherette wallet to put it in.

  We walked to the Third National Bank Building. The lobby was sparsely furnished with a guard, a luncheonette, and a directory of tenants. I left F .T. and Truman in the luncheonette and checked the directory. Cumberland Valley Shopping Centers, Inc., was on the seventh floor. I took the elevator. The suite of offices had a frosted glass door with the name of the company stenciled in black letters. I opened it and went in.

  The reception area was small. It was carpeted in a blue-green carpet. There were several watercolors of shopping centers on the walls.

  The receptionist was a plump young blonde with a wedding band.

  "May I help you?" she asked.

  "Yes, I'd like to see the person who is handling the Cannibal Springs shopping center," I said.

  "And your name," she said.

  "Kirlin, Constable Kirlin," I said. I showed her the badge.

  "Please have a seat," she said.

  I sat down and picked up a magazine from the table in front of me. It was a Business Week. I flipped through it anyway. The receptionist made a few calls, and then told me that a Mr. Walters was handling the development, and his secretary would be right out.

  His secretary was an attractive, competent-looking woman in her thirties. She led me down a hall, and through her office.

  Mr. Walters had a large enough office to hold a desk, four or five chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa. He was sitting in a high-backed swivel chair behind the desk.

  He was the picture of a businessman, solid, substantial, cool, and conservative. I could see Jessie doing business with him. He stood up and offered his hand. We shook hands. Then he sat down again. I took the chair he indicated.

  "May I get you a cup of coffee?" said the secretary.

  "No, thanks," I said, and she left.

  "What can I do for you, Constable?" he said.

  The man was all business.

  "You're handling the negotiations for a shopping center in Cannibal Springs, I believe," I said.

  "That's correct," he said.

  "Last week a young girl was murdered in Cannibal Springs. The killer got her by mistake. He was trying for the woman who is running for mayor. The same woman you're dealing with for the shopping center," I said.

  "I see," he said.

  "Have you or anyone on your staff had any discussions concerning the shopping center with anyone other than the lady who is running for mayor?" I asked.

  "Yes, we have. We have had several lengthy discussions with a Mr. Lou Young, who, I believe, owns the local grocery store," he said.

  I froze in my seat.

  "Go on," I said.

  "We are affiliated with the Foodaholic supermarket chain. The main store in each of our centers is a Foodaholic supermarket. We've been very successful. The reason we've been successful is that these supermarkets are locally owned. What we do is offer a partnership to a local man. We build the market, finance it, stock it, and make him a ten-percent partner to run it for us. This way he has an interest in seeing us grow. The logical man to do this in Cannibal Springs is Mr. Lou Young. We've reached an agreement to buy out his present store and make him our partner in the new one as soon as the shopping center is finished. Does that clear up any questions you might have?" he said.

  "Yes, it does," I said.

  "Good. Thank you for coming. I hope you get your man," he said. He stood up and offered his hand again. The meeting was over.

  I said goodbye to the plump receptionist and took the elevator to the lobby.

  Truman and F.T. were waiting for me in the luncheonette.

  "How did it go?" said F.T.

  "Lou Young's not our man," I said.

  "Good," said F.T.

  "Who are we left with now?" asked Truman.

  "Hulan and Flo," I said.

  We had lunch and stopped at Tootsie's Purple Orchid Lounge for a few beers. Tootsie's is the most famous bar in Nashville. All the country-and-western people go there. Johnny Cash was even a bartender there in his down-and-out days.

  The jukebox was playing a George Jones-Tammy Wynette song. The place was nearly empty. We sat at the bar and ordered beer. The bartender brought our beer.

  I leaned over to the bartender and said, "Have you seen Waylon Jennings this week?"

  He looked at me like I was a tourist.

  "Who are you kidding? Waylon Jennings is a big star. He don't come in places like this," he said.

  We had one more round and left. I stopped at a phone booth and looked up the number for Mrs. Ophelia Peters. There was no Ophelia Peters in the phone book. Just to be sure, I called information and asked for the number. They had no listing for her, but the operator did laugh. />
  On the way home, it began to rain. At first it was just a few large drops splattering on the windshield like bird droppings. By the time we hit Shelbyville, the sky had gotten dark and the rain had turned into a steady downpour that looked like it might continue for the rest of the day.

  We kept the windows down even though it was blowing in. I didn't care. I was sitting in the middle.

  We got back to Cannibal Springs around four. The rain had reminded me of the light-colored car behind Jessie's the last time it had rained. I had Truman stop behind the First National Bar & Grill. I got out to check Flo's car. I looked through the glove compartment. There was nothing unusual there, but there was something unusual in the back seat. Flo had a pair of men's rubber boots in the back seat. They looked like a pair of Virgil's. I put my hand inside them and found the toe blocked. She had put newspaper in them to make them fit. I left them there, and we headed for the goat shed.

  We sat at the picnic table.

  "It looks like Flo is our man," I said.

  "How do you figure that?" said Truman.

  "The one thing that didn't fit was the footprints under Jessie's window. Now it all falls into place. Flo has a pair of Virgil's boots in the back seat. She has stuffed the toes with newspaper to make them fit," I said.

  I didn't tell Truman the rest. How everything added up. Flo had gotten jealous of Jessie and decided to kill her, but she killed Cindy by mistake. That's why she was so grief-stricken. She had killed her lover. There was no husband. There was no aunt. Flo and Cindy were married. They had gone off to Nashville about a month ago for their honeymoon.

  "Tonight we're going to have to split up. One of us is going to have to cover Jessie's house while the other two take the truck and watch Flo. We can't take any chances on a slip-up," I said.

  "I'll watch Jessie's house," said F.T. "I owe you some time after spending so much time with Dawn."