by Wayne Zurl
“Be my guess, but we ain’t seen him since.”
“What kinda drugs are you talking about? Grass or real dope?”
“Shoot, not grass. She wants crack mostly and good ol’ smack fer those special occasions. This ain’t no foolin’ around.”
“What a jerk. I’m surprised this hasn’t leaked out.”
“I’m not. We done got told, ‘Fergit everythin’. The press gets hold o’ this and there’s only one place it come from, and if no one ‘fesses up, everyone o’ us gets the sack. Cain’t think o’ one guy in CID who would want ta go back inta uniform or worse fer somethin’ like this.”
“Fear is a good motivator.”
“You better believe that.”
“And Blount County just lets this happen?”
“Yes and no. I heard a while back somebody brought Leary up on charges.”
“What happened?”
“That I don’t know, but he got promoted and he’s still around. You figger it out.”
The next morning, I called my buddy at the Blount County DA’s office.
“Cletus, old friend, I’d like to buy you a cup of something at the Vienna Coffee House.”
“Why do I not like the sound of that?”
“Hey, I’m good company.”
“If only that were true. What might ya be needin’?”
“Just to pick your brain for a few minutes.”
“Better not take out too much. I don’t have lots ta spread around.”
At 10:30, we found a table in an out of the way spot in a place almost half-full of young mommies and mature socialites. I had picked up a mug of black coffee at the counter, and Clete ordered a light and sweet.
“You worked with Ryan Leary for a few years,” I said. “Ever hear of him being charged with conduct unbecoming?”
Clete gave me a dose of the evil eye. “Who told you that?”
“A little bird whispered in my ear.”
“I’ll bet.” He took a sip of coffee. “Yeah, I remember that.” He went back to the coffee.
I raised my eyebrows and spread my hands to my sides. “I’m not asking just to satisfy my morbid curiosity.”
He nodded. “When Leary made lieutenant, he was assigned as chief investigator at my office.”
“The job you were slated to get.”
“The job I got when he left. The job I would have gotten back then if he hadn’t stayed in the office.”
“And sometime during his tenure as your boss, something happened.”
“Exactly. He’d been keepin’ company with a female of dubious reputation and tender years.”
“A junior hooker?”
“A fifteen year old runaway hooker druggie.”
“I thought he’d have more class.”
“Yeah? Think again.”
“What happened?”
“Remember the old chief deputy, Marty Hudnall?”
“I know the name.”
“Well, he found out about Leary’s antics and handled the investigation himself. IDed the bimbo, substantiated everything and charged Leary with conduct unbecoming.”
He stopped for another sip of his sickly sweet coffee.
“And?”
“And Leary got a simple written rep which has since disappeared from his personnel file. And the DA stepped in and made nice for everyone. And Marty is now retired, and Leary has his job.”
“Because of the DA?”
Clete nodded. “Ain’t politics grand?”
“This conduct unbecoming thing didn’t quite get scandal status. Before that, did Leary talk about catting around? Was he one of those swordsmen who kisses and tells everyone?”
“Look, I’ve known him for years—long before he got to be the chief investigator. He was quite proud of his ways with the ladies. I mean what kind of a guy goes on sex vacations?”
That shocked me. “Huh?”
“Don’t look so surprised. He used to tell anyone he worked with about going ta Thailand ta sample the exotic wares, if ya know what I mean. Went more than once. Other stuff, too.”
“And he told these stories to anyone he partnered up with?”
“Uh-huh.”
I went back to shaking my head. “Did it sound like he went alone or took his wife?”
“Took his wife?”
“Yeah. Maybe they’re swappers or swingers or generally into kinky stuff as a couple. It happens.”
“Lord have mercy.” Clete picked up where I left off shaking his head. “He never said he went with his wife. I just assumed he did these things on his own. You know, tell her he’s going hunting in Alabama and ends up in Bangkok, screwing whatever he can find.”
“Well, there is that possibility.”
Chapter Thirteen
At 9:30 the next morning, Bettye made a new pot of coffee, John opened a box of Entenmann’s doughnut holes, and I dragged two armchairs into my office from the lobby to supplement the pair of guest chairs already there. Stan Rose walked in five minutes later, swinging an LA Dodgers cap on his index finger.
We sat for a moment before I dropped my theory on them.
“I’ve got a far-out idea on our Riverside Strangler.”
Stan raised his eyebrows. Bettye stopped writing on the yellow pad lying on her lap and looked at me over the half lenses of her granny glasses. John licked honey glaze off his thumb after popping a doughnut hole into his mouth.
“Something happened between last night and this morning that gave you this idea?” Bettye asked.
“Yes and no. After my conversation with Clete Dunn, I got a nagging thought. At 3:49 this morning, I woke up with a working theory.”
“Divine intervention?” Stanley asked.
“More like a subliminal infusion,” I said. “I think it’s brilliant, so there’s no way I’ll share credit with a deity. I’ll tell you this. You guys are not going to like it. And I can’t even come close to proving it, but all our circumstantial factors fit like a latex glove.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Boss,” John said as he reached for another doughnut hole.
He smiled, and I scowled at his dietary habits.
“Let me start snapping together the puzzle pieces, and you may agree that Ryan Leary is the killer.”
John stopped chewing and coughed—not exactly choking on his doughnut, but definitely caught off guard.
“You don’t do anything half way, do you?” Stan said. It sounded more like a statement than a question.
I shrugged.
“Sammy, darlin’, you know I’d never second guess you, but—”
“I know. I know. I’m not going to call a press conference or even share this possibility with anyone but you guys. Let me explain why I came to this conclusion then give me your thoughts.”
No one said anything for a long moment.
John broke the ice. “Shoot, Boss. We’re all ears.”
“Okay. All the murders are sexually oriented, and according to my new friend, the shrink, sexually motivated—literally. She says this guy can’t control himself. He needs this snuff sex to feel a temporary satisfaction. He’s a sex junkie. He’s totally abhorrent in that department. And she thinks he’s smarter than the average miscreant we encounter. For us, it’s like trying to catch a professional hit man who ain’t no slouch.”
“This is like something out of a Frederick Forsythe novel,” Stan said.
“Not far from it,” I said.
“I’m not a Leary fan, Boss, but why him?” John asked. “Those porn videos that were supposedly in his duffle bag aren’t exactly smoking guns.”
“You’re correct, but as we’re accumulating circumstantial evidence, they do go on the plus pile. Now, let me expand on Leary’s sexual preferences. I’ve heard that he’s made no secret of the fact that he’s spared no time or expense on recreational kinky sex.”
Bettye shook her head. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
“As with many guys, and cops in particular, who fancy themselves a s
tud, Leary made casual office conversation…No, I’m guessing he bragged about taking sex junkets to Thailand—highlighted by young and lovely Siamese girls. With an emphasis on young.”
“Talk about sleazy,” Bettye said.
“Hard to believe Leary would tell other people about that,” Stan said. “And it wasn’t just a onetime thing?”
“Supposedly not. It goes back to his days as a DA’s investigator.”
“Maybe he thinks he’s something out of Hollywood,” John said. “Everybody knows that Thighland is the sex capitol of the world.”
“These trips are certainly not what the average Blount County resident takes,” Bettye offered.
I raised my eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
She gave me a dirty look.
“So, Boss, we’ve got an embarrassing collection of porn—supposedly,” John said. “But we’ve only got a junkie burglar’s word on that. And now rumors that Leary likes degenerate vacations. That’s it?”
“No, John, give me a break. There was an unaccounted-for black suburban seen at Frenchman’s Holler the night Rosanna Wakefield got killed. Leary drives one of those.”
“Can’t be the only one,” Stan said.
“As a matter of fact, no.” I picked up the list of stretch SUVs driven by police personnel. “Sticking with the assumption that a cop may be the killer, here’s a list of PD Suburbans. So Leary’s not alone with that. We’ve only got to narrow down the vehicle in question to his—if it was.”
“Is there more?” Bettye asked.
“Those were just a few of the heavies, and I’ve got a bit more from one of my confidential sources, but before I get to that, let’s stay with the basic premise that the killer is an experienced investigator of major crimes—one who knows what to look for and how to sanitize a crime scene.”
John showed me the malevolent grin he uses when he wants to look like an evil leprechaun. “We could say that about you, Boss.”
“See why I hate you, John?”
Bettye and Stan snickered.
“Normally, John, I’d chase you into the parking lot with a fire ax if you said something like that. But this is serious business, so I’ll wait until later to kill you. I need your input first.”
“I’m just trying to be part of your rainstorming process, Boss.”
“And we all just appreciate the shit out if it, John.”
“Leary being basically bulletproof always bothered me,” Stanley said. “Word is, he’s gotten away with more than the average guy who stretches the rules.”
“He is the DA’s pet,” Bettye said.
“We’re also thinking about a pair of killers, Boss. You think the DA might be Leary’s accomplice?”
I shook my head. “That’s pretty far out. Two dominant personalities. You’d think there would be some serious conflicts. And do we know anything about Calvin Pitts’ sexual preferences?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Hard to believe Pitts would make the same water cooler conversation as Leary,” Stan said.
“Yeah,” I said. “If there are two, I’m inclined to think Leary would have a helper and not a full partner.”
“Sounds about right,” Stan said. “Can you get more input from your friend, the shrink?”
“She says yes. But at this time, I don’t want to spread my theory around too far.”
“Talk hypotheoretically to her, Boss,” John suggested.
I rolled my eyes but let that go. Bettye and Stan smiled, but didn’t encourage him by laughing.
“I could, but let’s go back to that other biggie I said I learned. And this is a documented fact.”
I elaborated on the saga told to me by Windy Hatmaker and how Cletus Dunn confirmed it.
“Lord have mercy,” Bettye said. “Little girls in Thailand, ‘nasty pornography’ in his duffle bag and now a young prostitute with a drug habit. How does he keep his job?”
“Good question. Another thing that bothers me is how he’s repeatedly refused any FBI assistance—even though the Strangler task force is virtually dead in the water.”
John smiled. “He did hire the ‘legendary detective’ to help out.”
“I’m not sure Schmecke is a hindrance, but I’ve got serious doubts about his being much help.”
“You think Leary refused Federal help because he doesn’t want outside investigators to find more about the killer?” Stan asked.
“If my theory is correct—yeah. I’m not a big fan of our G-men, but they do have resources and funding far beyond mortal cops.”
“Sammy,” Bettye said, “you’ve messed with a few pretty high-powered public officials before, but this would be something else.”
By the time we finished our brainstorming session, John had eaten more than half the doughnut holes, and everyone left with a few jobs.
John would pursue the possibility that Toby Bowman’s death might not be attributable to the Riverside Strangler and look at Arlo as our prime suspect.
Bettye would continue to work with Lonnie Ray Wilson and attempt to backtrack any of the victims to Leary.
Stan would have the unenviable job of surreptitiously probing the Blount County deputies for additional information or just rumors about Leary’s peccadilloes.
I would revisit Sharon Rubenstein and run a few hypothetical questions past her and broach a new topic—one that might net me information a witness might not know he possessed.
Chapter Fourteen
Dr. Rubenstein told me she finished her appointments at five p.m. and asked for another fifteen minutes to tidy up her office before taking on my job. Gallant gentleman that I am, and considering my consultations were ‘on the arm’ as a favor to me and our mutual friend, Mo Rappaport, I offered to buy Sharon dinner.
She liked the idea of the Cholan Garden, a Southeast Asian restaurant in Maryville. She knew they served excellent food and the high-backed booths offered us privacy to discuss Ryan Leary’s future.
Without mentioning the chief deputy by name, I ran my theory past her and outlined all the embarrassing details of Leary’s kinky propensities while waiting for our Tom Yum soup.
The doctor wore a silky blue print dress belted at the waist. It fit so well, she could have been an advertisement on how good girls over fifty could look if they wanted to.
“Is this Ryan Leary we’re talking about?” she asked.
“What makes you ask that?”
“You’re more transparent than you think.”
I shrugged. “Oh, well. I really shouldn’t say.”
“I think you just did.”
“Who, me?”
She made a face. “So, he has a history of violence against suspects beyond the allegations we’ve just heard about?”
“Are we operating under the same doctor’s confidentiality business a regular client can expect?”
“I’m the soul of discretion, dahling. Whatever you say is perfectly confidential. My lips are sealed.” She did the locking her lips thing children do when they want you to think they can keep a secret.
“Good. Okay. One reliable source said, ‘When we saw Ryan Leary show up with his boys, we expected some kind of trouble.’ So, yeah, he has an established reputation as not only a knuckle-man, but one who also relies on intimidation and humiliation to get cooperation from a suspect.”
“Such as?”
“Making uncooperative subjects stand in a squad room naked from the waist down while being questioned or tuned up.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “That’s neither unique nor innovative, but under most circumstances effective—almost Gestapo-like.”
“Maybe Leary wears a black leather trench coat during the colder months. I’ll check.”
She smiled. “You do that, sweetheart. Look, I think your theory is pretty good, but after all these years of watching Law & Order, even I know you couldn’t get an indictment on what you’ve got.”
“Yeah. I don’t need Jack McCoy to remind me of that.”
I didn’t answer, while a waitress dropped off our soup—two bowls chockfull of an orangey broth with mushrooms and chicken.
The waitress checked the level of our tea pot before saying in heavily accented English, “Your dinner will be out in ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”
“Thanks,” I said, and she shuffled off toward the kitchen.
Sharon had ordered mu-shu chicken, and I couldn’t resist the marinated Vietnamese shrimp with spicy vegetables.
“Physical evidence? Ha, we haven’t got a clue,” I said, continuing our conversation of moments ago. “And unless Leary is hiding something from the rest of the task force, there is none. Nothing. Bupkis.”
She smiled again. “Not many Tennessee cops speak Yiddish. It’s refreshing.”
“Yeah, that’s me, the Yiddish speaking detective, the guy with no evidence and so far, no witnesses to speak of—except one guy who claims he can’t remember much.” I shrugged and took a spoonful of soup without slurping. “But he’s all I’ve got, an interesting guy from an even more interesting spot.”
I dove back into the Tom Yum Gai, but Sharon wouldn’t leave me in peace.
“Oh, come on. You can’t set your hooks like that and not explain more. Who and what is so interesting?”
I explained about the Rosanna Wakefield meeting place at Frenchman’s Holler.
She looked genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know we had a proper bordello in Blount County.”
“Then I guess you don’t have many local politicians or police administrators as clients who divulge their innermost and sexy secrets.”
“Police administrators?” Sharon raised her eyebrows to the top floor.
I grinned like a bad little boy. “Present company excepted, of course.”
“Of course. But what about our person of interest? Is he a regular?”
“According to the proprietress, no.” I shrugged. “Her employees are older than those who attract Mr. Leary.”
“And she’s reliable?”
“I think so.”
She gave me a look full of unspoken questions. “Hmmm.”
“Farley Gayton is a guy who would like to keep his shady but well-paying job and go through life not getting involved. I think he’d be diligent looking for something that threatened his boss and her operation but wouldn’t pay close attention to the finer points I’d consider good po-leece observation.”