A Bleak Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “If you think he saw something, but just breezed past it, maybe he could be coaxed into a better recall.”

  I felt a crooked smile cross my face. “I remember a few enemy agents ‘coaxed’ into providing information with the help of a field phone and pair of alligator clips during my army days. I can’t exactly ask someone to do that.”

  She had finished her soup and placed the spoon between the cup and saucer. “We can probably come up with more humane ways to coax information out of someone. I’m assuming that if your man did see something and just passed on by, as you say, I might be able to help his recall while under hypnosis.”

  “I was hoping you’d say something like that.” I racked up my spoon and pushed the soup cup to the side. “You’d swing a pocket watch and say, ‘Look deeply into my eyes. You’re getting drowsy, very drowsy?’”

  Sharon smiled, the way shrinks smile when a client says something dreadfully inane. “Were you trying to imitate Sigmund Freud’s Vienna accent? You sounded more like Bella Lugosi.”

  I frowned and tried to look offended. “You get my point.”

  “I do. But I’m not quite that theatrical. Look on the positive side. If he can’t remember something germane to your case, maybe I can get him to stop smoking.”

  Getting Farley Gayton enthused about being hypnotized was no walk in the park. I arrived at Frenchman’s Holler at ten the next morning and didn’t leave until 11:30. Finally, Chastity Puryear helped, and we set up an appointment for 5:15 the next day.

  That left me with a half day to kill before I went home. I was facing a brick wall at my end of the investigation and didn’t fancy spending time with mundane chores. I was just about to call Ralph Oliveri to see if I could expect any information from him when Bettye walked into my office.

  “Someone from Greg Bivins’ Gun Shop called. The Glock you ordered for Terri Donnellson is in.”

  “How’s she doing with her tests?”

  “The medical results are back. Everything okay there. The psychologist hasn’t submitted his report, but from what I understand, if there was a problem we’d get a quick call.”

  “Good. I’ll call the sheriff and schedule a polygraph exam.”

  “Are you going to give her an agility test?”

  “I suppose we have to. Stanley would seem like the man to do that. Give the middle school a ring and ask to use their athletic field for an hour or so.”

  Okey dokey. When do you want her to start?”

  “Soon as possible. But we don’t want the payroll clerks to get their knickers in a spin. So, I guess we should time it to coincide with one of the pay periods.”

  “I’ll find out what day suits them.”

  “Good, and since an Academy class is a couple months away, I guess we should get her checked out with her new shootin’ iron before she hits the road. Ronnie will love me to death for covering his liability issues.”

  “You going to do that?” Bettye asked.

  “Why me? How about sending her to the county range and let their firearms guys do it?”

  “We just got a notice. They closed the range for two weeks to mine out the lead from the target line.”

  “Rats. That’s damn inconvenient. You’re a good shot. Teach her what a practical police course is like. She’s been qualified with the army. Should be a piece of cake.”

  “I don’t doubt Terri’s abilities, but aren’t you the guy who always mentions our liability?”

  “You’re not going to let me off the hook, are you?”

  “You are the only one here that’s attended the FBI Advanced Firearms School. And like you always say, ‘Give me enough time and ammunition and I can teach a chimpanzee how to shoot.’”

  “True enough, doll-face. Me and Bogie will mosey over and see those gunsels on Chapman Highway and pick up Terri’s new roscoe. Tell her to call me before five, and we’ll plan something for early morning, day after tomorrow. Got that, sister?”

  Bettye nodded.

  “Swell.”

  “Who shall I tell her to expect, Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe?”

  Farley Gayton was a big, good-looking kid in his mid-twenties. His short brown hair, stylishly combed to a point in the center of his head, suggested a teenage mentality, but Farley was no dope. Those in the know about college sports said he could have made a name for himself as a defensive end had he not lost his UT football scholarship because of a DUI conviction during game season. At six-two and weighing a little over two and a quarter, Farley had a pair of shoulders that could support a small overpass on Interstate 40. Chastity Puryear preferred that I call him her security consultant rather than bouncer or hired muscle.

  The big kid sat in a comfortable chair in front of Sharon Rubenstein’s desk. I stood a few feet to his right and Sharon no more than two feet in front of him.

  I never doubted that Farley would be fearless when chasing an offensive receiver or rousting an unruly drunk, but the look on his face suggested that Dr. Rubenstein had him on the verge of soiling his undies.

  “Relax, Farley,” she said. “Let your shoulders drop. That’s good. Now, relax your neck. Loosen up. This won’t hurt.” Her voice could have soothed a savage beast. “Look at the pendant, and let your mind go blank. Just watch the pendant spin. And spin, And spin.”

  She was twisting the chain of a snowflake-shaped crystal charm about the size of a quarter between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Watch the colors. See the sparkles. Look deeply into the crystal. Relax. Let yourself float. Time to relax and go to sleep. Let go now. Let yourself sleep.”

  I almost nodded off listening to her. Farley’s eyes closed, and his head listed to the left about twenty degrees. The whole process took less than a minute.

  “He’s a good subject,” she said, looking at me.

  “You must be a blast at cocktail parties.”

  She smiled and refocused on Farley.

  “Farley, I’m going to ask you to think back to the night we spoke about, the night when you saw the big black or blue SUV. Can we do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you see any people in the parking lot?”

  “Uh-uh, no people.”

  “Why did you notice the SUV?”

  He sighed slightly before speaking. His breathing appeared shallow. “I count cars. Match them to people.”

  “Did the SUV belong to one of the customers?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Did you see the front or rear of the SUV?”

  “Front. It was backed into a spot.”

  “Did you see a license plate?”

  “No, didn’t walk around back.”

  Tennessee vehicles only display a rear plate.

  Sharon turned to me with disappointment all over her face.

  “May I?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. Speak softly.”

  “Farley,” I said, “let’s look at the SUV carefully. First, look at the whole vehicle. Get a big picture in your mind. What color is it?”

  Farley sighed. His head rolled no more than an inch to the right, then back to the left. “Black.”

  “Was the SUV clean or dirty?”

  No hesitation. “Shiny clean.”

  “Good. Now narrow your focus to the front grill. What do you remember?”

  A few seconds passed. “Big chrome. Showy. GMC letters in the middle.”

  “Very good. Now raise your attention and look at the windshield. Were there any stickers or anything hanging from the mirror? Focus only on the windshield.”

  “No. Nothin’.”

  I felt a stab of disappointment.

  “Did you look at the side of the vehicle?”

  He nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you look inside?”

  “Mmm. Tan inside. Light brown?”

  “Did you see anything else? A briefcase? A water bottle? Anything?”

  A few more protracted seconds passed. “A radio.”

  “Just
a radio?”

  “A police radio. With a microphone.”

  “Very good. What else?”

  Farley took a breath, and furrows appeared on his forehead. It looked like he was thinking.

  “Mmm. Half a cigar in an open ashtray.”

  “Okay, good. What else in the car? In the back seats, maybe?”

  His eyebrows moved up and down. “No. Don’t remember.”

  “That’s okay. Let’s take a step back and look at the side of the vehicle. Driver’s side or passenger’s side?”

  “Driver’s.”

  “Start at the front and move back very slowly. Go very slowly and look at everything. Every detail. Go very slowly.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you see any dents or scratches?”

  “No damage.” He paused. “But one’s missing.”

  “What’s missing?”

  “A letter.”

  “A letter?”

  His head moved a little, almost a nod. “YUKO. It said YUKO, not YUKON. And then XL.”

  “Good. Very good. What else do you remember?”

  His face gyrated again as if he was struggling to remember something.

  “Nothin’. Just YUKO XL.”

  I looked at Sharon and smiled.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” she whispered.

  “I’m a police chief. I’m good at everything.”

  “Oy.”

  “I think Farley is my star witness. Is he finished?”

  “I’d say so. I’ll bring him back.”

  She touched Farley’s hand gently. “Farley, I’m going to count to three and snap my fingers. When you hear the snap, you’ll wake up and feel rested. You’ll feel very good, as if you had eight hours sleep. Okay now—one, two, three.” Snap.

  Farley’s eyes opened, he blinked, and his head moved around slowly. His eyes rolled a little, and then he focused on Sharon. Then he looked at me.

  “Hey,” he said, “How’d I do?”

  “You’re on my all-star team, kid.”

  At ten to nine the next morning, I took the back steps to the PD two at a time feeling full of piss and vinegar and prepared to turn my investigation into high gear again. Bettye had been at work for an hour, and John Gallagher also arrived a little early. They sat at their desks when I popped into the reception area.

  “Mornin’, Sammy,” Bettye said.

  “Hey, Boss, howz it goin’,” John asked.

  “Hello, Blondie. Aren’t you gorgeous today? And John Boy, it’s goin’ a hundred miles an hour. I think we’re in like Flynn with this Strangler thing. Who’s going to court today?”

  Bettye wheeled her chair around a-hundred-and-eighty degrees and grabbed a clipboard from the wall behind her desk.

  “Court?”

  “Yeah. I need someone reliable at the Justice Center who’s got a legitimate purpose for being there.”

  “Junior’s got a couple of traffic cases and has to report in at 9:30. Then, Harley is a witness at a civil trial on a car versus pedestrian injury case at 1:30.”

  “Junior should be on his way there now.”

  “He should.”

  “Super. Hit him with a 10-13 forthwith on the radio. I need a phone call before he walks into the building.”

  Bettye hung the clipboard back on its hook and made the radio call to Junior Huskey in unit 501.

  “What’s up, Boss?” John asked.

  “Later. Let me get Junior squared away and see if he can give me what I need, and I’ll tell you all about it. This should be good. I hope.”

  Sixty seconds hadn’t passed when the main number on Bettye’s phone console rang. She answered, spoke a few words and handed the phone to me. “Your boy answered the call.”

  “Hey, kid,” I said. “I love a guy who knows the meaning of forthwith.”

  “Whatcha need, boss-man?”

  “A little surreptitious undercover work. Got a camera with you?”

  Junior sighed. “Man, you are in the dark ages, ain’t ya? These smart phones all got cameras, boss—yours too.”

  “Huh. I knew that, smartass. Do me a big favor. Before you go into court, park in the back lot where the county guys leave their cars. Then look for the black SUV Chief Deputy Leary drives. He’s got a reserved spot next to the back door. Look for the sign and have your camera ready and take a photo from the left rear quarter showing the plate number and the entire driver’s side. Then take a shot of the chrome letters just forward of the front door. A letter should be missing. Instead of saying YUKON XL, it should be YUKO—no N—XL. Then a third shot showing the grill and GMC logo. You follow?”

  “Sure. I’m guessin’ you don’t want nobody seein’ me do this.”

  “That’s essential.”

  “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

  “Yes, but not now. If you’re captured, they can’t torture the details of the mission out of you. By the way, do you have a cyanide capsule handy?”

  “Oh, Lord have mercy. Okay, gotcha. Soon as I git inta the buildin’, I’ll call and then send ya the pitchers.”

  “You can do that, huh? I don’t have to wait? Cool. You’ve got the technology, kid.”

  “Yessir, shore do.”

  “Now, cross your fingers, and hope Leary’s SUV is missing that letter.”

  “Boss, I ain’t got no idea what yer talkin’ about, but I’ll git ’er done.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Junior called and shortly thereafter, he emailed three pictures to my computer.

  “Ha!” I shouted.

  Bettye was walking by and stuck her head into my office. “What are you screamin’ about, Sam Jenkins?”

  “Look at this. Get in here. Call John in. He’s gotta see this, too. We’ve got him!”

  Bettye and John stood behind me as I clicked through the photos.

  “See this one? The chrome bars across the grill with GMC in the middle. That means it’s a premier edition Yukon. Now look at this—a letter is missing from the word Yukon. And last, here’s the rear tying in the license plate and the left side where the thing says YUKO XL. This is good stuff.”

  I looked at their blank stares and figured I should calm down and should have prefaced my show-and-tell with a complete account of Farley Gayton’s recollection under hypnosis.

  “Don’t you think we need more than that to arrest Leary, Boss?”

  I let my shoulder drop a couple inches for dramatic effect. “Of course, but this is the first piece of physical evidence we’ve got. This puts Leary’s SUV at Frenchman’s Holler the night Rosanna Wakefield met ‘Andy’ there. Let him explain that one away.”

  “You think a guy like Leary will ‘fess up when you confront him with this?” Bettye asked.

  “He’ll tell you to go f…pound salt, Boss,” John added.

  “No, Betts, maybe not. And yes, John, he’d probably say what you were thinking. But when I get more information from his computer and link him to ‘Andy’, we’ll have him by the…we’ll have him in a bad position.”

  Bettye smiled at my enthusiasm. “Didn’t Lonnie Ray have a big problem tying into Andy’s emails?”

  “He did, but after he hacks into Leary’s computer at the sheriff’s office, I’ll bet he finds all kinds of useful stuff.”

  Bettye shook her head and frowned. “Oh, Lord have mercy, Sam. Even I know that’s not legal.”

  “Maybe we’ll see you at the Supreme Court, huh, Boss?”

  “Have faith, guys. And think unconventionally. I’m just gettin’ started.”

  Lonnie Ray Wilson spread out his equipment on my desk and sat behind something that looked like a laptop on steroids.

  “That’s one hell of a machine you’ve got there, son.”

  “When you want me to get into exotic computer work, I’d rather use my stuff,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I understand. I just hope you know I don’t evacuate my desk and office for just anyone.”

  He exaggerated his Ebonics act. “Dat ‘c
ause you don’t know diddly squat ‘bout computers, boss.”

  “Diddly squat is an exaggeration. I’d prefer to say I’m a step above clueless. But, the fact remains, I treat you good and pay seventy-five bucks an hour.”

  Lonnie gave a silent snort. “Cheap when you consider I could get thrown in jail for what you want me to do.”

  “Another exaggeration. I’ll tell anyone who catches you that you’re authorized.”

  “Who by?”

  “By whom.” I corrected his usage. “By yours truly.”

  “Great. We can get adjoining cells. You figger they’ll let us play cards through the bars?”

  “Pfui. You get me the info I need, and I’ll make you a star.”

  “Sure as hell ain’t gonna make me any friends at the sheriff’s office.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, neither will I. But we might get to put away a serial killer. We going to talk about this, or are you going to start hacking?”

  “Yas, suh, I be ready ta start hackin’. Now close da dough, and don’t let it hit yo ass on da way out.”

  “Do I get a discount for taking this abuse?”

  “Not hardly. Now leave me be.”

  Having been dispossessed from my own office, I wandered around looking for something to do. I made a couple phone calls, thought about a report the mayor wanted, for which I had no enthusiasm, and ended up dropping into the side chair next to Bettye’s desk.

  “Are you eating in or going out today?” I asked.

  She smiled and for some reason looked pleased with herself.

  “It’s only quarter to twelve. I assume being bored makes you extra hungry?”

  I shrugged. “I could eat something. But back to my question. What are you doing for lunch?”

  “I brought a container of yogurt.”

  I shook my head. “All that bacteria is no good for you. You should eat real food.”

  “If I ate like you, I’d look like the Goodyear blimp.”

  “Impossible. Where’s Gallagher?”

  “In the squad room trying to pin a murder on Arlo Bowman and eat lunch at the same time.”