I saw no exigent circumstances requiring us to investigate over the weekend. It seemed unlikely our killer would take flight. Actually, I liked Pearl Lovejoy for punching her old man’s ticket, but I kept an open mind. She wasn’t going anywhere, and I could always put the arm on her if I ever wrapped up enough evidence proving she did snuff Cecil. I should also mention recent overtime payments already shot that budget line for two years into the future.
So, on Monday morning, my newest temporary detective lined up her appointments and hit the road at nine o’clock. Joey Gillespie and I manned the fort.
Before lunchtime, Bettye returned. Each of the women she interviewed lived nearby and proved easy to locate.
Bettye learned that Cecil approached all three women the same way he propositioned the four ladies we had already spoken with. My imagined scenario seemed close to reality. Only those three ladies told Cecil to go scratch, took their husbands and found houses elsewhere. That ended their stories. Or at least, so we thought.
I cut Joey loose, told him to take his police car, go out and write a few traffic tickets, look for trouble and provide the public service that makes the public nervous. I’d do that if I were a young cop full of piss and vinegar.
Bettye, again in civilian clothes, resumed work at the desk. Her badge and holstered revolver hung on the belt of her slacks. She looked like Hollywood’s concept of the modern policewoman. Mine, too.
Back in my office, I spread out all the Lovejoy murder information on my blotter—reports, interview notes, photos and a few scribblings I had taken here and there. I knew absolutely nothing more than I did the day before. Actually, I’d become more confused. I found more suspects to consider. No one volunteered to jump into my handcuffs. And I didn’t know where to go next.
I wondered if the two senior investigators from TBI were having as much luck. I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew. Solving a murder is difficult enough, but when the victim’s family fights you every step of the way, it can be a real pain in the ass.
I sat there, almost at the end of my thought, when an old adage came true—there is no rest for the weary. There’s also little time for contemplation.
Bettye stood in the doorway of my office, her hand on her left hip, that hip cocked seductively to the side. She knocked on the doorjamb to get my attention. “Sam, there’s a county Sergeant Elam on the phone. He’s got a message for you from Judge Tipton.”
“Who’s Judge Tipton?”
She peered over the frames of her little granny glasses. She looks sexy when she does that.
“A retired county judge and Pearl Lovejoy’s father,” she said. “I thought you knew.”
“That’s interesting, isn’t it? Will these people never leave me alone?”
She smiled and tilted her head.
“A retired judge gets a county sergeant to work for him?” I asked.
“This one does,” she said, “Welcome to our world.”
“Even more interesting. Some horsepower, huh?”
Bettye nodded.
“Should I talk with him or tell him to make an appointment?” I tried to sound obnoxious.
“Sam!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll talk—switch the call over.”
I let my phone ring twice.
“This is Chief Jenkins. May I help you?”
“Chief, this is Sergeant Billy Elam, Judge Minas Tipton’s assistant. The Judge would like to meet you, sir. He invites you for lunch today at one o’clock.”
“The Judge and I have never met, Sarge. To what do I owe the honor of an invitation to lunch?”
“I guess you’d better let the Judge explain that, Chief.”
“All right then. Tell Judge Tipton I gratefully accept his invitation. One o’clock it is. Where do I meet him?”
“He’s servin’ lunch at his home. Do you know where that is?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m the new kid in town. You’ll have to tell me.”
He did and dictated what sounded like easy-to-follow directions. That gave me just two hours to learn all I could about Judge Minas Tipton.
I walked out to Bettye’s desk. “Hey, I’ve just gotten an invitation to lunch at Judge Tipton’s home. Pretty classy, huh?”
“Well, well, well. You surely are makin’ your mark here and in such a short time. I’m very impressed by you, boss.”
It looked like Bettye started learning how to be a smartass from me. She was a good student. I thought I might have to re-examine that leading by example thing.
I said, “I guess after Buck and Brother Claude fell flat on their butts, Pearl’s daddy figures he’ll take a run at me.”
Bettye smiled, and her hazel eyes sparkled. It seemed like she was enjoying our investigation and all the local intrigue.
“So, Mrs. Lambert, like any good fly, I’ve got to find out as much as I can about this spider before I step into his web, don’t I?”
“Not somethin’ I ever heard ol’ Buck say.”
“Buck was one of the good ol’ boys. I’m just a Yankee carpetbagger looking to cause trouble. It pays to know who you’re meetin’ up with before you get there. I think I heard that in one of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti Westerns.”
“I hear ya, boss,” she said.
“I’ve only got a couple of hours before I leave for this lunch date. Give me a hand finding out about Tipton. Asking Ronnie would be stirring my own pot too much. It’s always better to mess with the other guy’s soup.”
“I still know a few people at the County Court from when I worked with the magistrate here. I’ll give them a call and see if the Judge or his assistant has been asking any questions over there.”
“Good. I’ll call a couple people I know who can give me an opinion on him. When we finish round one, we can compare notes.”
I wanted to learn as much about my potential enemy—or adversary, at least—and do what I like to do best—wing it. In the past, I’d met politicians on all levels, from a vice president down to the legion of local hacks. I conducted sit-downs with organized crime bosses, and I interviewed some really abhorrent individuals. The underlying principle of these discussions is all the same to me—you smile, look confident and act like the person you’re speaking to is in the palm of your hand. And you never let them see you sweat. Piece of cake, right? I hoped so.
I quickly learned that former Judge Minas Tipton made his appearance on earth in March of 1918, making him eighty-eight-years-old.
Having retired from the bench sixteen years earlier, he’d been elected numerous times to the Blount County Sessions Court, his reputation being that of a conservative jurist. The cops loved him and called him Hangin’ Judge T.
From my own lawyer, I learned that Tipton was no Roy Bean. Conservative, yes. An idiot in robes, no.
After she finished on the phone, Bettye walked into my office.
“No one at the court knows anythin’ to help us,” she said. “If he’s lookin’ into you or what you’re doin’, he didn’t do it there or at the Sheriff’s office.”
“Okay. Tell me what you know about him.”
“Lord have mercy. The man’s been around forever. Every time he ran for reelection, he won. There was never a doubt about that.”
“It seems to me that if you ran a ham sandwich on the Republican ticket in this county, it would win something.”
“That may be true, Sam, but I remember him running unopposed a few times. No one else even wanted to try. Remember I said he was a powerful man?”
“Lots of powerful people out there,” I said. “What makes him special?”
“Friends. You know Congressman Jimmy Dillworth?”
“Sure.”
“Jimmy used to clerk for Tipton. I hear they stay in close contact. That’s a connection to Washington. Pick a politician, and Tipton is friendly with him. His power comes from long ago, but as you can see, it doesn’t go away with retirement.”
“I’m getting the picture. And my tim
e is almost up. While I’d like to go there with some real dirt on the old boy, I guess that’s not going to happen.”
“I think you know all there is, boss. What do you think is going to happen?”
“He’ll ask me to back off—for good this time. If I say no, he’ll probably threaten me. But what’s he going to do, send me back to Vietnam? I’ve got a contract with Prospect. To fire me they’d have to show cause in civil court. Bad publicity isn’t a politician’s best friend. They probably think I’d open my mouth to the papers or TV.”
“You’re somethin’ else,” she said and went back to shaking her head.
“But I’m cute as hell.”
“Remind me of that after this is all over.”
One thing mentioned by everyone who offered an opinion—Judge Tipton was powerful, with a capital P—in the county, in the state and even higher. I’d have to mind my manners. I wouldn’t be meeting with a local yokel. If I planned on trying a snow job somewhere in the conversation, I had to make it a proper blizzard.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I left the office at 12:30, giving myself half an hour to drive to the Judge’s home.
In my car, I looked in the rearview mirror, centered the Windsor knot on the collar of my light blue button-down shirt, dusted the shoulders of my gray sport jacket, then put the Ford in gear and started for Maryville.
Driving through some of the nicer neighborhoods, I made a left on Sandy Springs Road, a main drag in that part of town, and wound my way over several scenic country roads until I found the Judge’s place. Tucked away at the end of a long driveway, his home sat on a large parcel of wooded land, covered by old deciduous trees.
The large brick-faced house looked well cared for. While in the style of the post-Civil War era, it seemed to have been constructed just after World War Two. I saw a late 1940s look all over it.
I parked my car, taking advantage of the shade from one of the judge’s tall oaks, and walked up to the front door. Taking hold of a massive colonial-style doorknocker, I announced my presence with enough noise to wake the neighbors. A middle-aged woman answered the door wearing a plain, but good-looking shirtwaist dress. She didn’t introduce herself, so I assumed she was on staff.
“Please come in, sir,” she said. “If you wait here in the parlor someone will be right with you.” Her voice sounded soft and pleasant.
I hadn’t heard anyone call a living room a parlor since my grandmother. She left the room, and I remained standing to look around.
The furniture looked old—genuine antiques, not just used furniture. It looked expensive, in good taste and, like the rest of the house, well cared for. I liked the decorator’s sensibilities. It felt like a comfortable place, one I could easily live in.
Around the room, on tables, on shelves in bookcases and hanging in several places on the walls, I found framed photographs I assumed to be the Judge. These were all typically political ‘photo op’ pictures. Most of the people in the older photos were unknown to me, although I did recognize Ronald Reagan with Tipton at the 1982 World’s Fair in Knoxville. More recently, he appeared with state representatives, the last Republican governor of Tennessee and a former U.S. senator known to any fan of a famous NBC cop show, while a few county officials crowded around the Judge at his retirement party.
After finishing with the photos, I looked closely at the furniture and accessories. Any one of the appraisers on The Antiques Roadshow might suffer heart palpitations from a proximity to that high quality, early Southern woodwork. The place impressed me. I thought I might actually like Minas Tipton. We shared exquisite taste—perhaps modesty, too.
I heard someone walk up behind me. He cleared his throat, waited for me to turn around and then spoke. “Chief Jenkins. I’m Sergeant Billy Joe Elam. We spoke on the phone.”
Billy Elam looked around forty, about six-two, and although I saw a bit of an excess gut, he looked big, solid and strong enough to give anyone who decided to go round and round with him a run for their money. He wore a dark brown suit, yellow dress shirt, but no tie. He shaved his head and wore a neat, dark mustache. We shook hands. Billy was a bone-crusher.
“The Judge is on his way down,” he said. “Won’t be but a minute.”
I thought Billy Elam seemed to suffer from terminal seriousness. I didn’t get a hint of a smile from the big guy. I tried a dose of wit and charm to bring the sergeant around.
“How long have you been a cop, Sarge?”
“Sixteen years now,” he said.
“A long time. Good, you’ll like this. What do you get when you wrap a chain around six lawyers and drop them in the ocean?”
“Do what?” he said.
“A good start.”
He didn’t laugh.
“Just a joke,” I said. Still no smile. “I thought it was cute.”
From behind me I heard, “Ha, ha, ha, ha. Very good. Very good indeed.”
I turned around and faced a dapper-looking old gent who stood there, leaning his right hand on an old-fashioned wooden cane. He looked genuinely amused. A big smile brightened his face, but his laugh sounded theatrical, a bit too pronounced and unnatural. He couldn’t use that laugh often in a courtroom. It must have been a political thing.
The eighty-eight-year-old man could have passed for anywhere between seventy and a well-preserved ninety. He had a full head of neatly trimmed, white hair, wore a well-cut, navy blue blazer, light blue broadcloth shirt, pearl gray slacks and believe it or not, a paisley silk ascot at his neck.
Very classy.
Only a little shorter than me, the judge looked in good shape for a guy half his age. Maybe if we got to know each other, we could swap clothes. I’d look damn cool with an ascot.
“Chief Samuel Jenkins, I presume?” he asked with a big smile, but it sounded more like a statement.
I returned the smile and answered, “Guilty, Your Honor. But no one ever called me Samuel except my mother, and that was only after I annoyed her.”
“I’ll remember that and call you Sam. I’m Minas Tipton.”
Not Judge Tipton—something else I liked about him. He switched the cane to his left hand and extended his right. I stepped closer and shook his hand. He had a firm grip, but not a vice like Billy Elam.
I hoped I’d have this guy’s demeanor and looks when I approached ninety. Although not exactly handsome, the Judge had an intelligent face that showed lots of character.
“I heard you kiddin’ Billy Joe there. I’m afraid the good sergeant hasn’t got my spontaneous sense of humor. No offense, Billy, but I’m guessin’ you do, Sam.”
“That’s me, Judge. I enjoy a good joke on occasion.”
“I hear that you do. Yes, sir, I hear that you do,” he said. “I also hear that Ronnie Shields finally picked himself a first-class chief for his police force. Somethin’ new in Prospect, I might add. Before I invited you here, I asked Billy Joe to do a little background check on you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. There are still a few people from my past who may think kindly of me.”
Oh, modest me.
“That they do, Sam. That they do. They say you were a fine cop—nineteen commendations, for goodness sake. And a good supervisor, too. Word is that you were expected to go farther up the ladder in your department, but you didn’t. Why’s that, Sam?” he asked with an inquisitive, fatherly expression.
“Well, Judge, I found a niche for myself. I liked the work I did, liked running my own section, and I liked the latitude most of the people in the administration afforded me with my assignments.
“They let me choose my own people, too—those who I saw as the best cops for the job we had to do. And I could accomplish something meaningful—most of the time. I became happy and contented. Moving laterally or upward never looked as attractive as it needed to.”
“Very good, very good, indeed. Few people, Sam, can say such a thing of their lives. And now you’re runnin’ your own show in Prospect. You like it?”
> “So far, yes. But the day is still young. I like the people there. The job seems to have lots of potential.”
“Well good, good, real fine. As you may know, I sat as a judge for a little over thirty years. You’re not one of all those New York policemen who’s also a lawyer, are you, Sam?”
I felt confident Billy Joe learned I was not. “No, sir. As far as I know my parents were married when I was born—I’m not qualified to be a lawyer.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha. Damn good answer, Sam. Damn good answer, truly is. Most good lawyers are proper rascals, aren’t they? You have the temperament for the job though. Ever think of going to law school and opening a practice?”
That laugh again. He sounded amused and sincere, but his laugh still came across as affected. It had to be an acquired trait. Maybe I should try to learn something from the old guy. After a few lessons, I might know how to act at a political fundraiser. Of course, I might also stop world hunger this weekend—but probably neither.
“I had thoughts in that direction long ago, but didn’t have the spare time or the patience to go back to school then. But the idea of being a prosecutor appealed to me. Studying for promotional tests and having fun at work took up most of my time in those days.”
“I understand you did well on the two promotional tests you took. Highest score on the sergeant’s test and in the top ten for lieutenant. No tellin’ how far you could have gone after that.”
I found myself talking freely in front of this old man. He stroked my ego, and apparently, I liked it.
“If I had scored well on the captain’s test I never took, I could have gotten promoted again. But after that, I lacked something necessary to get an appointment above those civil service ranks.”
“What was that, Sam?”
“A rabbi.”
“A rabbi? You needed to be Jewish? I’ll be damned.”
“No, religion wasn’t a factor.” I did my best not to snicker. “A ‘rabbi’ is what a New York cop calls a political hook, a benefactor with enough horsepower to drop a few gentle hints that they have a pet cop they want promoted to deputy inspector or higher. If the rabbi is owed a favor and they want to use it on you, you get promoted. Occasionally merit is involved, but not most the time.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. A rabbi, ha. Same system all over the world. We just use different names.”
“Yes, sir, the more I see, the more I know things are the same all over.”