by Wayne Zurl
Stan nodded.
Hacker grinned. “Be a pleasure.”
“Once it’s open, how about you two spry young agents run upstairs and sweep the second floor? Stanley and I will handle downstairs. I don’t see any basement windows, but if we come up with nothing in the house, we’ll check the garage. Shane, you and the outside guys keep an eye on that.”
He nodded.
“And, everybody keep thinking about his Sig 9mm.”
More nods.
“Okay, guys, let’s go inside.”
One well placed shot with the heavy metal, three-foot long battering ram to the doorknob and the entire frame broke, the door swung inward and we entered, scattering left and right, taking available cover behind furniture. I shouted out a greeting.
“Calvin Pitts. Police and FBI. We have an arrest warrant. Walk to the front door with your hands in the air.”
We waited a few seconds. Nothing.
“Last chance, Calvin. If we come through the house, do not be holding a weapon.”
Four sets of eyes clicked back and forth around the rooms, at each other and after fifteen seconds, everyone knew we needed to search.
I told the agents, “Go ahead. We’ll wait for you to hit the landing before we take off.”
Up they went, pistols pointed to the front, slowly and cautiously. When they disappeared, Stan and I began moving to the left through the living room, which offered no cover or concealment if we were to move efficiently. The home was extremely quiet. A quartz mantle clock ticked off the seconds. Each click reverberated in my head. Faint footsteps on the second floor tapped the hardwood, then became muffled on the carpeting or area rugs. As we passed into the kitchen, the refrigerator’s compressor kicked in and added a noise. It startled me, and I turned in that direction, but didn’t shoot the Kenmore appliance. Stan pointed at a pantry door. I trained my gun on the opening as he jerked open the door. Nothing but canned goods and other supplies. More nothing in the lavatory and laundry room. We checked a closet in the dining room. Coats. We passed through another open doorway into the master bedroom and checked two closets, a bathroom and under the bed. There was only one room left.
If he wasn’t in there or upstairs, we’d converge on the garage, the door to which opened from the laundry room.
We intended to do the same door routine as before. I would cover, and Stan would open. Only the door was locked from inside.
Stan shook his head. Locked tight.
From the stairwell, we heard Mike Butler call out, “We’re clear up here.”
Footsteps on the stairs followed. We waited until Mike and Nick joined us.
“Everything down here is clean,” I said. “This room is locked. Stand clear of the door in case he wants to do a Butch Cassidy with us.”
Everyone moved a few feet from the wooden door.
“Calvin! Open the door and stand back. This is over. Let’s finish our business the easy way.”
We waited ten seconds.
“He’s had his chance,” I whispered. “No sense telling him what we’re going to do next.”
“Solid wood door,” Stan said. “But just a doorknob lock. No dead bolt. One kick should open it.”
The two agents nodded.
“Too bad we don’t have Emergency Services guys with helmets and shields to go in first.” I said.
“Yeah,” Stan said. “We jes’ country folk. Ain’t got us no SWAT cops.”
“Okay, you’re the biggest, you kick. Mike, go low and to the right. I’ll follow. Nick, low left. Stan, cover the room from the doorway. Got it?”
“If he’s in there,” Mike said, “he’s gonna be hiding behind something. Figure he’ll shoot as soon as the door breaks?”
“I guess,” I said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any grenades. They make life so easy.”
Mike chuckled
“If we take fire, everyone snap off a half dozen shots in the general direction. Only Rambo wouldn’t take cover after that.”
Stan nodded. Mike shrugged. Nick winked.
It was time to go.
“Kick a field goal, Stanley.”
He reared back and snapped a well-placed kick into the doorknob. The doorstop splintered, and the light interior door swung violently to the left. Mike Butler dove into the room. I followed him, but stayed high, looking for some place to take cover. Nick Colquitt scurried to the left, while Stanley braced his Glock on the doorjamb, prepared to shoot.
Calvin Pitts, a small man, not much more than five-five and proportionally lightweight, with short light brown hair and a thin almost gaunt face was sitting behind a large dark wood desk. His head rested against the back of a horribly expensive-looking leather covered chair, his eyes tilted slightly upward, with not much of a describable expression on his face. A single 9mm hole in the right side of his temple showed the dark red blood that had oozed from the entry wound. The maroon stream had trickled past his ear, down over his jaw and neck and stained his off-white dress shirt before seeping behind the collar.
Mike and I walked closer. Pitts’ right arm dangled over the arm of the chair. A Sig P228 lay on the floor next to him. There was no note lying on the desk.
Mike was closest and checked for a carotid pulse. His actions were superfluous.
“Nothing,” he said.
“The evidence technicians should be here by now,” I said. “Stan, give them a shout. I’ll call for the medical examiner.”
When I exited the house, I gave the outside troops a wave indicating all the good guys were safe. Then, I called Lieutenant McPhee, the duty officer, and requested a morgue wagon and ME. When I hit the front steps, I met Crime Scene Investigators Neal Brickman and his partner Cobb Rankin moving toward the brick walk.
“Hey, guys. Take a walk inside. Stan Rose and two Feds are keeping the body company. It’s all yours. ME is notified.”
“Gotcha covered, boss,” Neal said.
My phone rang. Carl Harmon asked, “Sam, It’s been twenty minutes. What the hell is going on?”
“Situation resolved. Subject is DOA.”
“He’s dead? You killed him?”
“No, Carl. He killed himself. Before we got here.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“He probably got here ten minutes before us. Maybe he heard us pull in. I didn’t hear a shot. Who knows?”
“And now we have to take Leary’s word that Pitts was the Strangler. Son of a bitch.” Carl couldn’t have sounded more frustrated.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Carl. Think of it this way. Leary will be an old man when he gets out. If he’s still able to get it up at age sixty-eight and needs to kill someone to satisfy himself, a young cop or agent full of piss and vinegar will know he’s a good suspect. But for now, I’ve still got an open homicide that might have been a copycat killing.”
“I know. I know. If we can help you somehow—”
“Thanks. We’ve got a good suspect. John Gallagher has hammered him, but he wouldn’t go for it. We’ll try again.”
“Okay. I wish you luck. And my offer stands. If you need anything, let me know.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It took me almost an hour before I left Maryville. Eventually, Carl Harmon showed up with Marty Saunders, the senior agent at the task force, Ralph, Bonnie and a couple other nosey Feds. Carl spoke to the county duty officer and requested another team of crime scene investigators to make the job of searching Calvin Pitts’ home a little more efficient. In true FBI form, he approved the charge-back reimbursement for the overtime needed to bring in a pair of off duty evidence technicians. Just before I left, Heidi Piper showed up to look over evidence recovered in the search.
The last thing I learned before hitting the road was that Carl Harmon would call me with a time and date for a press conference extravaganza. I could hardly wait.
I dropped into the chair next to Bettye’s desk with all the grace of a fifty-pound sack of onions kicked off the tailgate of a farm truck.
> “No offence, darlin’, but you look like hell.”
I grunted.
“I’m glad you called,” she said. “The mayor’s been lookin’ for you.”
“Who cares?”
“Where’s John and Stanley?”
“Stan says he’ll be here at four. He’s playing the tough guy. John took the day off to sleep. They stayed awake all night. John’s getting a little long in the tooth for such shenanigans.”
“Did he seem alright?”
“Yeah, he still likes this stuff. Once we surrounded the house, his adrenaline kicked in and kept him awake. When it wears off, he’ll crash. But he looked okay when he left Maryville.”
“You doin’ okay?”
“I wish I had a second defendant to confirm Leary’s big story, but other than that, sure. Just another day in Paradise.”
She shook her head. “Have you had anything to eat since breakfast?”
“No, and I’m a couple hours overdue for lunch. How about you?”
“I brought a container of yogurt, and Terri had a soda with peanut butter and cheese crackers from the machine.”
“Ah, to be young again. I used to love peanut butter and cheese crackers.”
Terri had been sitting at John’s desk, listening to our conversation. She smiled.
“Before my stomach growls and I get embarrassed, would you ladies like some proper lunch? I’m buying.”
Terri shrugged. “I guess.”
“Lord have mercy,” Bettye said. “You are determined to make me fat.”
“Not on your life. Pick something healthy.”
“What did you have in mind?” Bettye asked.
“Anything your heart desires. You call, and I’ll pick up or ask them to deliver.”
“You had Chinese yesterday.”
“If we lived in China, we’d eat Chinese food every day.”
“So you’d like that?”
“I’m always up for Chinese. Ms. Donnellson, do you like Chinese food?”
“Love it.”
“Done. You have a menu. Make your choices. I’ll have—” I pondered over that tough decision. “Something light. How about chicken in garlic sauce?”
Bettye shook her head. “Sammy, order whatever you’d like, but if you get that, please don’t breathe near me.”
Terri snickered.
I snorted. “You’re as bad as my wife. Okay, make it Hunan sauce.”
“Just as bad,” Bettye said. “I’ll ask Mr. Lum to deliver.”
“While we’re waiting,” I said, “I’ll go upstairs and report to the lord of the manor.” I peeled thirty dollars from the bills I carried in my pocket. “Here, give the delivery boy an appropriate tip.”
I didn’t tease Trudy Connor by calling Ronnie Shields names. She announced me with her usual ceremony, and I entered the mayor’s inner sanctum.
“What time’d you start work t’day, Sam?” he asked.
“I got to the Justice Center around 8:30. After that, things got exciting.”
“I heard things on the news.”
“Yeah. The TV crews pulled in before I left. Those guys at the sheriff’s office never keep anything under wraps.”
“I s’pose not.”
“Now it’s over for the Riverside Strangler business, but we’ve still got the Toby Bowman murder open. Leary said it wasn’t him and Pitts.”
“You reckon a copycat?”
“I reckon it was the kid’s homophobe father, but he won’t go for squat at the moment. We’ll go at him again.”
“Uh-huh. It was a relief when that TV woman said Calvin took his own life. Fer a minute there, I thought it was you who killed him.”
I guess I was tired and hungry enough for me to take offense to that remark. “Since Calvin Pitts left his office carrying a handgun, it was always possible that one of the men chasing him could have used deadly force, but Mr. Pitts saved us the aggravation.”
“Shame. He was friends with a few people on the city council.”
My attitude wasn’t improving, and my ability to hide it lacked conviction. “What does that mean?”
“Jest what I said. This doesn’t look good. The district attorney and the sheriff’s chief deputy involved with prostitutes and such. What’s gonna happen to Joe Don Hartung now?”
I sighed. “He’s going to be embarrassed when someone asks how two killers could have worked in the same building with him and he didn’t know it. That’s an unfair question, but that’s the sort of thing the media asks a public servant.”
“I wish you, uh, we hadn’t gotten involved.”
I wanted to reach over the desk and throttle him. “Ronnie, I’m beginning to sense something here. Look, Leary and Pitts weren’t just banging hookers on company time. They killed eight people we know about and others outside our jurisdiction. If my father did that, I’d have locked him up. Regardless of their political positions, these guys were scumbags. None of the other cops or agents involved or I have anything to be sorry about.”
“Now don’t go getting’ excited, Sam. I’m jest sayin’ I know a few council members are gonna be disappointed with the outcome.”
I took a long breath, not wanting to bite the mayor’s head off. “You think they’d rather the murders go unsolved than tarnish the names of two local politicos? Maybe those council members should examine their priorities.” I stood. “You’ll have to excuse me. I haven’t eaten anything all day, and I expect my lunch is downstairs waiting for me. After that, I’d like to pursue the Arlo Bowman lead. Shall I check with the city council to see if he’s on anyone’s Christmas card list before I sweat a confession out of him?”
“That wasn’t necessary, Sam.” The mayor looked down at a pad on his desk and began writing something. “Thanks for stopping in.”
I was being officially dismissed and/or ignored.
When I walked into the office at 8:45 the next morning, Bettye and John were already at their desks. I wished them a good morning and went into my office to hang my jacket on the back of the door. With all that ceremony out of the way, I was ready to begin work.
“Hey, John,” I said, “did you talk to any of the Knox County dicks about Arlo?”
“I called their office and did a records check.”
“I mean talk to someone personally to see if they have anything off paper about the guy.”
“I don’t know anyone up there. The secretary in CID ran him through Central Records and checked their card file.”
“I’ll call someone. Stick around in case I need some extra info from you.”
“Sure, Boss.”
I called Windy Hatmaker’s line, but learned he was out working a case. I tried his cell phone, but it went to voice mail. I hate technology.
Lacking anything better to do, I called Carl Harmon about the press conference he’d have to arrange.
“Sam, I’ll make this easy on you,” Carl said. “You were an important part of the investigation, so we’ll need you there—at your convenience. But I know Heidi will want to discuss what can be released to the press before we start getting questions thrown at us.”
“Of course. I can make time around my schedule, and I’ll be there when you call in the vultures. I assume you’ll do it at the Blount County Justice Center?”
“Yes, if not in the Task Force room, then in the sheriff’s auditorium.”
“Maybe Joe D will have pressing business out of town that day. A few pointed questions about his role might ruffle his feathers.”
“No doubt. I’ll give him plenty of time to arrange a plausible absence.”
“Okay, let me know when you need me.”
Ten minutes after I hung up on Carl Harmon, Detective Wendell ‘Windy’ Hatmaker called.
“I bet you think you’re jest the cat’s ass after clearin’ all those homo-cides.”
“I’m too modest to let it go to my head. But just in case, who do you think should play me if they make a movie?”
“Shoot. Some old
washed-up actor.”
“You’re so kind.”
“That’s me. Now, what kin I do fer ya?”
“I’ve still got an open case on that young male pross from your area. Leary emphatically said he and Pitts were not involved with him. We’re looking at the kid’s old man, a mutt named Arlo Bowman. Know him?”
“Don’t ring no bells. I’ll check his driver’s license pitcher ta see if the face is familiar. He been arrested fer somethin’?”
“Not that we know. Aside from a couple of traffic tickets, no police involvement on paper.”
“Why do you like him for killin’ his kid?”
“The boy was openly gay. Arlo says he hated that and all homosexuals in general.”
“Ain’t much. Where’s this Ar-lo hang out? Maybe one of the uniforms knows him.”
“My guy, John Gallagher, has gone to some sleazy gin mill in your area checking on the guy. Hang on a minute, and I’ll get the name.” I covered the mouthpiece of the telephone and yelled, “Hey, John, come here. I need you.”
A few seconds later, John sat in my guest chair and slumped backwards.
“What’s the name of the place where Arlo says he hangs out?”
“A real dump on North Broadway. Weird name, too. The Bull & Banjo. A low class sports bar.”
“Windy, you there? You hear what John said?”
“Tell me again.”
“The Bull & Banjo. A blue collar sports bar on North Broadway.”
He laughed. “Blue collar sports bar?”
“I was being kind.”
“Plenty o’ blue collar types go there, and maybe the owners call it a sports bar—well, kinda depends on yer definition o’ sports. We know it as a blue collar gay bar.”
That answer was and wasn’t a shock.
“If Arlo goes there and says he hates homosexuals, what’s he looking for?”
“You tell me.”
“Have you got any open gay bashing cases out of that place? Maybe tuning up gay men is Arlo’s idea of sport.”
“We always get a few likkered up good ol’ boys who do some gay bashing, but we usually close ’em out pretty quick. Them ol’ boys ain’t exactly criminal masterminds. The victims usually pick ’em out of a book and then a lineup.”