by Wayne Zurl
I sighed. “You’ve got to have an open case or two.”
“I’ll check. If’n we do, I’ll stick your man Ar-lo’s pitcher in an array and check with the vic.”
“That might help us, and maybe you’ll close out a case.”
“Might could. I’ll let ya know.”
Windy hung up.
“John, let’s go pick up Arlo the asshole.”
Arlo Bowman sat in an armless chair in the squad room, and like so many of the miscreants we question, he amused himself by picking away at his cuticles. Their way to act unconcerned.
He was in his late-forties and of medium height and weight—rawboned, and his sinewy forearms and thick fingers told me that Arlo had worked hard most of his life. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, but no one would ever accuse Arlo of being handsome. He wore his light brown hair short in the classic Julius Caesar style. He hadn’t shaved in a while, or he favored the modern look of a perpetual three-day growth.
I slapped my hand on the desktop less than a foot from Arlo’s shoulder.
“Hey! Leave your hangnails alone, and pay attention. I asked you a question.”
“And I already tol’ the other guy,” He used his chin to point at John Gallagher. “I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout who killed Toby. How many ways ya want me ta say it?”
“Put yourself in our shoes, Arlo. You’re a self-professed homophobe. Your son was gay. You admitted that his death was no loss, especially for you. Your only alibi is that you were drinking in some dive in North Knoxville, but no one remembers you being there when Toby was killed.”
Arlo made a face, trying to convey the message that he was getting impatient with our questioning.
“We checked with the TBI. You legally bought a .38 caliber Colt that’s still on paper in your name. Your son was killed with a .38, but miraculously you tell us you can’t find your gun—yet you never reported it lost or stolen. Why should we believe you?”
“‘Cause I’m tellin’ ya the gat-dag truth.”
John stuck in his two cents. “Yeah, says you.”
“Yeah, says me.”
“John, what exactly does the firearms examiner say about the bullets they took from Toby’s body?”
“Based on the grooves and twist, they came from a two-inch Detective Special. Know what kind of gun Arlo bought?”
“Let me guess, a two-inch Dick Special.”
“Absolutely. And there’s no doubt in the firearms examiner’s mind.”
Arlo’s expression changed. He looked a little more concerned. “Wasn’t my gun that killed the boy.”
“Give us the gun, and we’ll eliminate you as a suspect. No gun and we’ll charge you with murder, and you can tell your fantasy in court.”
John took a pair of handcuffs from his waistband and dangled them in front of Arlo.
“You cain’t do that. I ain’t guilty o’ nuthin’.”
“Who cares?” I said. “We need an arrest. Circumstantial evidence says you look good for the murder. We don’t have to be right, just reasonable. Everything you’ve said so far has been a lie. Convince a jury you’re not guilty. But just between you and me, nobody with a public defender ever wins. You got lots of cash for a real lawyer?”
“You know I ain’t.”
“Then save us all the aggravation of writing this up and going to court. Help yourself by cooperating, and we’ll go easy on you. Explain why you argued with Toby. Maybe he started pushing you. You got uncontrollably angry, and he pushed once too often. You shot him in the heat of emotion. The DA can work with that. Why spend the rest of your life in jail if you don’t have to?”
That got him thinking. “What kinda time are you talkin’ about?”
“Maybe a max of fifteen years. If you keep lying, you’ll be seventy years old before they would even consider you for parole. Or you can die in jail with all those six-and-a-half-foot tall weightlifters who turn into homosexuals in the showers. That sound appealing to you?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I ain’t lyin’, and I ain’t goin’ ta jail for no fifteen years ‘cause I didn’t kill my son.”
“Bullshit. No one says you were in that bar for more than ten minutes the day your kid died. Give us a name who’ll back up your story. Show us your gun.”
Arlo shook his head in frustration and continued the attack on his left thumb. “Man, you guys are sandbaggin’ me here.”
I shook my head and smiled. “If I wanted to sandbag you, moron, I’d let you walk out the back door and shoot you in the parking lot. Everyone would believe me when I claimed you tried to escape.”
“Do whot?”
“Don’t make me slap you, Arlo. I don’t like you, but I’m not sandbagging you. You’re as guilty as hell. You’ve got no alibi.”
He hung his head a little lower than before. “I do.”
“What? And don’t say you were in that gin mill all night again.”
His voice was very low. “I was with someone.”
“Sure you were. You just can’t remember her name.”
He sighed deeply and looked up at me, then at John. “I jest couldn’t tell ya.”
“Couldn’t, but now you can?”
“Looks like I got ta.”
His lip quivered, and a tear ran down his right cheek. Always a good sign.
I sat forward and softened my tone. “Alright, I’m listening.”
Tough guy Arlo was beginning to waiver. “Ya gotta gimme a minute. You got me all tore up.”
Time for the Dutch uncle act. “Sure, take a breath. You want something to drink?”
He looked at me in disbelief. “If ya got a Mountain Dew, I’d appreciate it.”
“Hang on, Arlo,” John said. “I’ll get one.”
After John left the room, Arlo asked, “Ya really gonna arrest me, I don’t give ya a name?”
I nodded. “You bet.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy, man. I ain’t never said nuthin’ like this ta nobody b’fore.”
“I’ve heard my shares of stories. Yours won’t be unique.”
He sniffed. “This is hard fer me ta say.”
“What are you going to tell me? You bought yourself a prostitute and don’t want to admit to a misdemeanor patronizing charge?”
“Not exactly.”
John returned and set a cold can of Mountain Dew on the desk next to Arlo’s forearm.
He looked at John. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Arlo popped the top and tilted the can up to his lips for a long moment, damn near draining half the twelve ounces of soda.
He set the can back on the desk, covered his mouth and stifled a burp.
Before speaking, Arlo rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. “Ya know how I been runnin’ my mouth ‘bout how I hated what Toby was—I mean him likin’ men ‘stead o’ women?”
“We heard you say that.”
“Well, I was bein’ hypocritically.”
“Were you now?”
Arlo hung his head. I looked at John, just knowing what we’d hear next.
“Uh-huh,” Arlo said.
“Can you explain that for us?”
“Hard fer me ta say it.”
“I know, but it’s a start in getting this murder charge off your back.”
Arlo sniffed and wiped his nose with a wrinkled handkerchief he took from the back pocket of his jeans. “I’s with a man.”
“You mean you have a relationship with a man.”
He just stared at me.
“You had sex with a man?”
“Couldn’t say so, ‘cause…Well, ya know. And he’s married.”
I nodded. “We understand.”
John said nothing; his face remained impassive.
“You gonna tell people ‘bout this?” Arlo asked.
“Probably not, as long as the other man corroborates your story and we can establish that it’s credible.”
“What if he won’t?”
I shrugged. “Then you
’re screwed.”
“Huh?”
“We can’t just take your word.”
“Damn, that was hard fer me ta admit.”
“I understand that.”
“And it’s true.”
“What’s the man’s name?”
He hesitated. “Georgie Pooter.”
“How do you know Georgie?”
“Went ta school t’gether. Known him fer years. Do some work fer him now and ag’in.”
“How do we find him?”
“Owns a used car lot up ta Fountain City.”
I nodded. “And where’s your gun?”
“Gave it ta Georgie ta keep in his office. He gits lot o’ cash sometimes.”
“You think George will deny all this?”
Another sniff and he wiped more tears with the back of his hand. “If I kin talk some with him, he might back me up.”
“We talk to him first. You can come with us. If he denies being with you, I’ll let you speak with him.”
“Aw shit.”
“That’s the best we’ve got. I’ll tell him what he says will stay confidential. We’re not looking to hurt him or you. We just need the truth.
“Okay.”
John and I drove north of downtown Knoxville to Fountain City and let Arlo tag along in the back seat, unrestrained by handcuffs. It didn’t take us long to find Pooter’s Motors on Broadway or Maynardville Pike or whatever the hell the road is called north of the city.
George Pooter was a well-dressed, good-looking middle-aged man who sat behind a scarred-up oak desk in the small sales office building amidst forty or fifty late model motor vehicles.
He wasted more than twenty minutes of our time bobbing and weaving around an incident he reluctantly admitted to after we swore on our deceased parents’ graves that no one would ever hear the details of his ongoing relationship with Arlo Bowman. I assured him that he and his old school chum were guilty of nothing. I wanted to add: But bad taste on his part. Arlo was a certified skell. But I didn’t.
George Pooter surrendered Arlo’s Colt Detective Special. On our way back to Prospect we’d drop it off at the TBI lab and have Bill Werner compare a round fired from that gun with the bullets recovered from Toby Bowman’s body.
We dropped off Arlo where John had found him and began the remainder of our journey.
A block down the road, John asked, “Would you have locked him up if this Pooter guy hadn’t backed up his story?”
“Didn’t really have anything but suspicion. But Arlo didn’t know that. If I arrested Arlo, Moira Menzies would have laughed me out of court. My relationship with her is shaky enough.”
“Just checking, Boss.”
“Arlo seems to be in the clear, but we’ll check everything to be sure. After that, we’re back to square one with Toby’s murder. Any suggestions?”
John shrugged. “You win some, you lose some, and some go unsolved.”
“You’re a barrel of laughs.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I could set my watch by Stan Rose. Every day, Tuesday through Saturday, he arrives at work at 3:30, just a little early for his four-to-twelve tour. By 3:35, Monday to Friday, he’s usually sitting in one of my guest chairs listening to what I’ve got to say about the daily happenings in and around beautiful downtown Prospect.
I had just finished the monthly vehicle reports—late as usual—and wanted to give John Gallagher a copy and deliver the original to Earl Biggins, the city mechanic. That was at 3:45, and I still hadn’t spoken to Stanley.
When I walked into the reception area, I found Stan and John bent over, leaning on Bettye’s desk speaking in hushed tones. I cleared my throat just to let them know I was alive and well and caught them conspiring about something. That surprised them. Not that I was alive and well, but that I caught them concocting a plan. Each of them looked guilty as hell—like three kids caught shoplifting candy.
Bettye spoke first. “Sammy?”
“I am he. You guys look like you’re up to no good.”
Stan added a comment. “Uh?”
“Why do you say that, Boss?” John asked. “We’re just, uh, talkin’.”
I mocked him. “Who are you, uh, kidding, John? The expressions on your faces are priceless. You make the Watergate burglars look innocent.”
“We do not!” Bettye said. “We’re just havin’ a conversation.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“Uh.”
“That’s what Stan said. It must be quite forgettable.”
Before anyone could respond, I used a time honored ploy—act passive aggressive—something Gallagher calls child psychiatry. “Jeez. I never thought you three would end up being a pack of liars. But who cares. I’ll be at the garage.”
John might never have fallen for that one, and I doubted Stan would. But Bettye loves me and hates it when I act mad.
“Sammy, wait.”
I was almost half way to the back door. I walked back up front. “Yes?”
“Are you mad?”
I tilted my head and tried to look petulant. “Just dreadfully disappointed.”
Stan rolled his eyes. Gallagher deadpanned it.
Bettye asked, “You’re kidding, right?”
“I feel betrayed. But if you don’t want to include me in your conversation, it’s okay.”
“Will you please stop?”
She looked at Stan and then John.
“Don’t fall for it, Sarge,” John said.
Stanley shrugged. “Tell him. If you don’t, he’s only going to try and make you feel bad.”
She looked back at me. “We were talking about you.”
“Planning a mutiny? I feel like Captain Bligh.”
She slapped her desktop. “You are impossible. You’re spoilin’ a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy. We were talkin’ about your anniversary. In four days, you’ll be here five years.”
I smiled. “Aha.”
She frowned. “Yes, aha.”
“Well then, you guys are my pals. And you, madam, are my sweetie.”
“We wanted to take you to lunch, Boss,” John said.
“The off-duty guys said they wanted to come, too,” Stan added.
“Wow, an anniversary party. You guys are okay. The 21st is the date I started, and my contract runs through the 31st. I wonder if Ronnie will ask me to stay or give me the sack?”
The next morning, I met Carl Harmon and the task force members at the Justice Center a half hour before the press conference, scheduled to begin at 10:30. The day before, I spent almost an hour on the phone with Heidi Piper discussing a strategy for answering sticky questions posed by our archenemies, the media.
At 10:25, we all filed into the Sheriff’s auditorium through the back door to find a full house. The four local TV networks were represented as were a couple of talk radio stations. The Knoxville News-Sentinel, the Maryville Times, two wire services and a few others I didn’t recognize—smaller news agencies or just nosey gatecrashers.
Carl did most of the talking and fielded most of the questions, but Heidi and I answered a few specific to our roles in the successful clearances of the Riverside Strangler cases.
Carl took his time bringing the conference to an end, acting more like an attorney giving his closing statement than a street cop basking in his most recent victory over the forces of evil. I took that time to whisper in Ralph Oliveri’s ear.
“Where’s Schmecke, the bullshit artist?”
Bonnie Rowatt, standing to Ralph’s left, looked at me. “Sssh.”
I leaned forward and looked to my left to see what her problem was. She frowned at me, acting like we were three junior high school kids, and I made noise during an assembly.
“Ralph,” I said. “Smack her.”
“You kiddin’? She’ll hit me back.”
“Will you two be quiet?” she said. “Someone will hear you.”
Trying to whisper again,
I said, “If you would shut up, he could have answered, and that would be that. You’re the one reciting the Gettysburg Address.”
She made a face and ignored me. No one else seemed to care that I wasn’t listening to Carl.
“Ralph!” I whispered. “Where’s Schemecke?”
“Carl gave him the boot yesterday. Told him his services were no longer needed and to send a bill to the sheriff.”
“I’ll be damned. Good for Carl.”
“Yep.”
“Too bad, though. I wanted to kiss him goodbye.”
Ralph snickered.
Standing behind me, the second assistant junior deputy chief deputy sheriff in charge of pens and paper clips, or something like that, cleared his throat. I assumed that he was taking Bonnie’s side and wanted me to shut up. I smiled at him.
When the festivities ended, the reporters and cameramen filed out through the double front doors while we all turned, intending to disappear the same way we entered.
A half dozen of those assistant and deputy chief deputies had assembled in the back row to get their faces on camera. The sheriff, however, was conspicuously absent.
One face I hadn’t anticipated seeing was Lieutenant Billy Joe Elam, retired Judge Minas Tipton’s personal assistant. I assumed he was there to get the scoop and report back to his boss. I walked over to say hello.
“Billy Joe, how’s it going?”
He stuck out a big hand for me to shake. Everything about Lieutenant Elam is big. He’s a beefy six-two with a shaved head and neatly trimmed dark mustache. He looks like the southern version of Jesse Ventura. I’ve never seen Billy Joe not wearing a neatly pressed suit. That day it was a dark gray. He blended in nicely with the Feds.
“Chief, you doin’ all right t’day?”
I motioned for him to join me away from the crowd of cops and agents.
“I should have known the judge would have taken an interest in getting the scoop on this.”
“Yes, sir, he surely was. Asked me ta invite you over for lunch sometime soon. He knows you must have had lots to do with clearin’ these cases.”
“He flatters me. And I’d love to see the old boy again. Just how old is he now, anyway?”