Delaware saw them squinting. “Sorry, my penmanship stinks. Would you like a summary?”
Lamar said, “That would be great, Doctor.”
“As the date got closer, Jack’s anxiety rose. That was understandable and expected. We redoubled our efforts to work on deep muscle relaxation, pinpointed the stimuli that really set off his anxiety—basically we gave it the full-court press. I thought we were doing fine but about a week ago, Jack called me in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, agitated. I told him to come over but he said he’d wait until morning. I asked if he was sure, he said he was and promised to show up at nine AM. He arrived at eleven, looking haggard. I assumed it was pre-flight jitters but he said there were other things on his mind. I encouraged him to talk about anything that bothered him. He made a joke about it—something along the lines of ‘That’s allowed? Good old-fashioned head-shrinking instead of cognitive hoochy-coo mojo mind-bending?’”
He sat down on the bed, touched the guitar case. “That had been an issue right from the beginning. Jack did not want psychotherapy. Said he’d had plenty of that during his various rehab stints and that the sound of his own voice bitching made him want to puke.”
“Afraid of something?” said Baker.
“Aren’t we all?” Delaware slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly, placed it on the bed. Changed his mind, got up and hung it in the closet.
He sat back down. “There’s always that possibility. What people in my business call baloney afraid of the slicer. But I take people at their word until proven otherwise and I went along with Jack not wanting to get into topics other than flying. We had a deadline approaching and I knew if Jack didn’t get on that plane, I’d never see him again. But now, he’d changed his mind and wanted to talk. I’m not saying what he told me about is profoundly relevant to your case, but I thought you should know.”
“Appreciate it,” said Baker, holding out an expectant palm.
“What Jack wanted to talk about was family,” said Delaware. “That surprised even me because Jack had always been an extremely focused and goal-oriented patient. I’m sure the stress of the upcoming flight released a barrage of unpleasant memories. He started with a brutal upbringing. Abusive father, negligent mother, both of them doctors—respectable on the outside but severe alcoholics who turned his childhood into a nightmare. He was the only child, bore the brunt of it. His memories were so traumatic that he’d seriously considered sterilization when he was in his twenties, but never followed through because he was too damn lazy and stoned and didn’t want anyone ‘cutting down there before I had enough fun.’ But I’m not sure that was it. I think a part of him did yearn for that parent–child connection. Because when he talked about not having his own family, he got extremely morose. Then he brought up something he’d done that made him smile: fathering a child with an actress who was gay and sought him out because she admired his music.”
“Melinda Raven,” said Lamar.
“So you know.”
“That’s all we know. Her name.”
“The story she put out for the media was sperm donation,” said Delaware. “The truth was, Jack and she made love. Several times until she conceived. She had a boy. Jack was not involved in his life.”
“Why not?”
“He claimed it was fear,” said Delaware. “That he’d mess the boy up. I know Jack’s image was that of a rock ’n’ roll bad boy, afraid of nothing. And he had taken some outrageous risks during the early days, but those had been fueled by drugs. At the core, he was a highly fearful man. Ruled by fear. When he brought up Owen, he looked proud. But then when he got into Owen not being a part of his life, he broke down. Then he started on a long jag about all the other children he might’ve sired. All those groupies, one-night stands, decades of random promiscuity. He made a joke about it. ‘I’m a bachelor, meaning no kids. To speak of.’ Then he broke down again. Wondering what might have been. Visualizing himself old and alone at the end of his life.”
“With his money,” said Lamar, “if he sired kids, you’d think at least some of the women would’ve filed paternity suits.”
“I told him exactly that. He said a few had tried but they’d all turned out to be liars. What concerned him were the honest women too kind to exploit him. Or women who simply didn’t know. His phrasing was ‘I rained sperm on the world, it had to sprout somewhere.’”
“Why wouldn’t women know?”
Delaware ran his fingers through his curls. “At the height of Jack’s career, he spent a lot of time in a haze that included group sex, orgies, just about anything you can imagine.”
“He partied hearty and now he’s worrying about unknown kids?” said Baker.
“He was an old man,” said the psychologist. “Getting closer to mortality can turn you inward.”
Same phrase Sheralyn had used about Tristan.
Father and son…
Delaware said, “What I’m saying is that the issue of family—not having a family—was on Jack’s mind as the trip approached. And something else he told me—something I really didn’t appreciate at the time—makes me wonder if the trip was really about family.”
Lamar hid his enthusiasm. “The story was he was coming out here for the Songbird benefit.”
“Yes, it was, but you know guys like me.” Small smile. “Always looking for hidden meaning.”
“What’s the thing he told you?”
“The day after he poured out his heart, he came in looking great. Standing straighter, walking taller, clear-eyed. I said he seemed like a man with a mission. He laughed and said I was right on. He was ready to fly, ready for anything God or Odin or Allah or whoever was in charge was going to toss his way. ‘Gonna sing my guts out, Doc. Gonna reclaim my biology.’ That’s the part I overlooked when I first talked to you. ‘Biology.’ I thought he was relating it to ‘guts.’ Joking around, that was Jack’s style. He made light of things that frightened him until they got to a level where they overwhelmed him.”
“Reclaiming his biology,” said Baker. “A paternity thing?”
“The day before, all he could talk about was paternity. I should’ve made the connection.”
“And you’re thinking that’s relevant because…”
“I’m no homicide expert,” said Delaware. “But I’ve seen a few crime scenes. The paper said Jack was stabbed and a knife can be an intimate weapon. You need to get up close and personal when you use one. If you tell me Jack was robbed, I’ll change my mind. If he wasn’t, I’ll continue to wonder if he was cut by someone he knew. Given his remark about biology, how resolute he looked before we left, I’ll also wonder if he chose Nashville for his maiden voyage—chose that particular benefit, when there are so many others—because he wanted to be here for a personal reason. And ended up dying because of it.”
Neither detective spoke.
Delaware said, “If I’ve wasted your time, sorry. I wouldn’t have felt right if I didn’t tell you.”
Baker said, “We appreciate it, Doctor.” Leaning over and taking the fax. “Do you know a woman named Cathy Poulson?”
“Sorry, no.”
“No curiosity about why I asked?”
“I’ve learned to modulate my curiosity. But sure, who is she?”
“Old girlfriend of Jack’s. Hung out with him in LA, maybe thirty years ago.”
“Thirty years ago, I was a kid in Missouri.”
“The thing is,” said Lamar, “she also hooked up with him nineteen and a half years ago.”
Delaware studied them. “That’s a precise time frame. You know because it was punctuated by a specific event.”
Baker looked at Lamar. Lamar nodded.
“Blessed event,” said Baker.
“Another kid,” said the psychologist. “One of the women Jack wondered about. She lives here?”
“Yes, sir. But for now, we’re asking you to respect confidentiality. Even though dead people don’t get any.”
“Of course. Boy or girl?�
��
“Boy.” They showed him Tristan’s picture.
He said, “Oh, man, he looks just like a young Jack.”
“He writes songs,” said Lamar. “Or thinks he does.”
Delaware said, “Meaning a reunion could have involved an audition?”
“Maybe not a happy one.” Baker removed a folded photocopy of the song from his pad.
Delaware read the lyrics. “I see what you mean. You found this on Jack’s person?”
“In his room. How would Jack react to something like this?”
Delaware thought. “Hard to say. I guess it would depend on his state of mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I told you, Jack could be moody.”
“You’re not the only person to tell us that,” Baker answered.
“He might even have had a borderline mood disorder. He could shift from amiable to downright vicious pretty quickly. I only saw his angry side a couple of times in therapy, and it wasn’t severe. Flashes of irritation, mostly at the beginning when he was ambivalent when I probed too deeply. As I told you the first time, he was mostly amiable.”
“When he decided he really needed you to get on that plane with him, he behaved himself.”
“Could be,” said Delaware.
“So he never got violent with you?”
“No, nothing like that. My hope was that if Jack stuck around long enough to see concrete results—once he was able to imagine himself nearing an airport without getting sick to his stomach—he’d level out emotionally. And that’s exactly what happened. Except for that night he called me, what I mostly saw was the charming side.”
“But that other side didn’t disappear,” said Lamar. “He just held himself in check.”
“It’s possible.”
“So someone catches him in the wrong mood, shows him crappy music, he could’ve turned nasty.”
Delaware nodded.
Baker said, “Do that with a kid—a kid you never acknowledged and just met—and things could turn downright ugly.”
Delaware looked at Tristan’s photo. “He’s your primary suspect?”
“He’s looking good for it but we’ve got no evidence.” Lamar smiled. “Just psychology.”
Baker said, “First we have to find him, so we’d better be doing our job. Thanks for doing yours, Doc. You can head home, now. We need you, we’ll phone you.”
Delaware handed the photo back. “Hope it’s not him.”
“Why?”
“It’s tough when they’re young.”
12
Back in the car, Lamar said, “Smart guy.”
Baker said, “That’s what the LA Loo said.”
“What’d you think about his theory?”
“I’m getting that warm, fuzzy feeling, like when everything starts fitting together. Let’s find the kid.”
“That’s the plan.”
They cruised up and down Sixteenth, then tried the neighboring streets, searching for the green Beetle, or a big hulking hippie-type with long hair and beard. Or maybe Tristan Poulson had switched back to the clean-cut version.
A couple of prospects turned out to be garden-variety homeless dudes. One of them panhandled and Lamar handed him a buck.
“Father Teresa,” said Baker.
“Got to give to get back. Where, now?”
“Drive.”
A canvass of the city core turned up nothing.
Baker said, “These are rich people, they lie with more style.”
“Meaning he could be in Kentucky, no matter what the maid said.”
“Or in that guest house, the Bug stashed in the garage. Did you notice they’ve got five of ’em? Garages.”
“Didn’t,” said Lamar. “One thing for sure, his mama lied. That big speech about how far away he was in Brown, how much she missed him. That was just one big misdirect…same thing as taking his pictures off the mantel before we showed up.”
“The mantel,” said Baker, “could’ve been something else. Maybe there never were any pictures of him up there.”
“Why not?”
“There were only two with the husband, and both were him and her and she’s in front. The rest were all her by herself. Lots of those.”
“Freakishly self-centered,” said Lamar. “Just like Sheralyn said.”
“Think about it, Stretch. Her kid drops out of school, changes his appearance, gets depressed. Now he’s in big-time trouble as a murder suspect. What does she do? Packs out for Horsey Land.”
“Unless she took him with her.”
“Either way, we’ve got no grounds for warrants and are wading through a swamp of lies.”
“Okeechobee Okefenokee Everglade of lies, El Bee. What do you think the real reason was for her meeting with Jack?”
“Maybe warning him away from the kid?”
“Like, ‘Don’t be a bad influence,’” said Lamar. “Or it was just what she said. Jack got in touch with his inner parent, wanted to see his kid and the kid’s mommy, too. Some sort of family reunion but she wasn’t going for it. Either way, if Jack didn’t cooperate, she’d have reason to be upset.”
“True, but Greta Barline didn’t see any animosity.”
“And Cathy wants us to think she’s clean because she drove off. Even if that’s true, what stopped her from circling around, following Jack as he strolled in the dark?”
“Cutting his throat?” said Baker. “You think a nice, well-bred rich lady would stoop to that?” Smiling bitterly.
“More likely it was the kid, El Bee. Big enough to get the job done.”
“We were figuring someone shorter than Jack.”
Lamar didn’t answer.
Baker rubbed his head. “Swamp of lies.”
“Don’t let your feelings get all hurt. Occupational hazard, you heard the man, even shrinks have ’em.”
Baker looked at his watch. Close to one AM and they were nowhere, nothing, no-how. He phoned headquarters, and made sure the alert on Tristan and his car was still in place. Clicking off, he said, “What’s the chance Belle Meade’s going to help us with surveillance on the house?”
“Heck,” said Lamar, “what’s the chance, we do it ourselves, they’re not going to ticket us for trespassing?”
Waking up Lieutenant Jones at one forty-two AM wasn’t a snap decision. Neither was calling her direct without going through Fondebernardi. They took a two-man vote.
“I say do it,” said Lamar. “Why have two people pissed off at us?”
Baker said, “Unanimous,” and made the call. A brief one.
“She was cool, Stretch, didn’t even sound like she’d been sleeping. She’s gonna call the Belle Meade chief. Maybe he’s a night owl, too.”
Moments later, Jones phoned back. “The chief, Bobby Joe Fortune, promised to send a uniform by the Poulson house at regular intervals. First thing in the morning, he’ll also notify his department’s single criminal investigator, guy named Wes Sims, once worked as a Nashville detective. I know Wes, a good, smart man.”
Lamar and Baker were to avoid surveillance, themselves.
“Oh, man,” said Lamar.
“Bobby Joe made a good point,” said Shirley Jones. “Quiet street like that, you’re going to stick out.”
“An officer passing at regular intervals won’t?” said Baker.
The lieutenant said, “It’s something they do anyway.”
“Meaning they’re not doing anything extra for us.”
“Baker,” said Jones, “we live on earth, not Mars. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re so hot on this rich boy?”
He complied. When he finished, the lieutenant said, “I’m with you, good work. I’ll make sure the uniforms really chase our streets for him. Now let’s all get some sleep, be fresh as daisies for another day of public service.”
13
Sleep was brief. At four AM, a call from headquarters informed Baker that Tristan Poulson had been spotted by a local squad car and taken to he
adquarters for questioning.
“Nashville PD?”
“We got lucky, sir.”
Tristan had been walking along the river, unarmed, no resistance. The VW was parked behind a warehouse, no real intent to conceal. Baker roused Lamar and the two of them drove to work, waited in an interview room for their suspect to arrive.
Tristan was led in, uncuffed, by a female officer. No reason to restrain him, he hadn’t been arrested, and had shown no signs of violence.
Lamar thought, Lucky break his mama being out of town. No lawyer called in and, with the kid nineteen, no legal obligation to call her. The Belle Meade connection will probably end up complicating matters, but let’s just see what shakes out.
Tristan was neither clean-cut or shaggy hippie. His fair hair was long, but washed and combed, his beard trimmed to a neat goatee. He wore a black Nike T-shirt, baggy blue jeans, white running shoes. There was a small gold knob in one ear. His nails were clean. Nice-looking kid, glowing tan, all that beef looked to be solid muscle. More buff than any pictures Lamar had seen of Jack Jeffries, but the resemblance to Jack was striking.
The boy refused to make eye contact. Despite the hard body and the good grooming, the detectives could see the depression Sheralyn Carlson had talked about. Stoop in the walk, shuffle in his gait, staring at the floor, arms swinging limply as if their being attached to his body didn’t matter.
He sat down and slumped, studying the floor tiles. Clean tiles; they smelled of Lysol; one thing you could say about the Murder Squad, the maintenance crew was first-rate.
Lamar said, “Hi, Tristan. I’m Detective Van Gundy and this is Detective Southerby.”
Tristan slid down lower.
Baker said, “We know it’s rough, son.”
Something plinked onto the tiles. A tear. Then another. The kid made no effort to stop, or even wipe his face. They let him cry for a while. Tristan never made a move or a sound, just sat there like a leaky robot.
Lamar tried again. “Real tough times, Tristan.”
The boy sat up a bit. Breathed in deeply and let out the air and made abrupt eye contact with Lamar. “Is your father alive, sir?”
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