Vendetta Stone (1) Read online

  “Damn. C’mon, dudes.” Wolfe lit a smoke and turned off the television in disgust. He opened an old suitcase and grabbed his newest journal. Pulling the faded chair from under the rickety desk, he switched on the lamp and sat down. He needed to get busy writing.

  Wolfe turned the TV back on as the six o’clock report began. He was so focused on his writing, a minute passed before the news broke his concentration and got in on the middle of a sentence: “One-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of his wife’s killer.” Clarkston continued, “But Stone also made it clear what he would do with that information if given the chance.” The camera cut to Stone behind the lectern, staring into the camera that slow-zoomed to a close-up shot. “If you call the police, there will be an arrest and a trial. Call me, and I’ll be the jury.”

  It struck a raw nerve with Wolfe, who slapped his beer bottle off the table and screamed at the screen. “You’re next!” Mumbling under his breath, he added, “I don’t care what it costs.” And he meant it.

  He turned back to his journal as Chief King’s image came on screen. Clarkston spoke again. Wolfe ignored them both and resumed his choppy writing, which he would continue for the next couple of hours before taking a dinner break. “She begged . . . .”

  With the six o’clock telecast finished, Dan Clarkston enjoyed an hour dinner break before preparing for the ten p.m. broadcast. He invited other crew members to join him at his favorite barbecue shack/pool hall, Cue Tips. His cameraman declined, wanting to re-edit footage from the two afternoon press conferences. “But take this ten,” Pittard said. “I want the large, smoked turkey sandwich with slaw and sweet potato fries. And bring extra sauce and napkins.”

  Clarkston listened to the auto race in Bristol, Tennessee, as he made the ten-minute drive to kitschy Hillsboro Village, a small retail area catty-cornered from the back side of the Vanderbilt campus. Cue Tips shared its Belcourt Avenue location in a refurbished house with Darlene’s Hideaway Lounge. Clarkston had frequented Darlene’s in his younger, wilder days when the station hired him straight out of college. Now his photo hung on the recently repainted wall along with other, real Nashville celebrities.

  “Hi Dan. The usual tonight?” asked Kitty, his favorite Cue Tips waitress. He glanced over Saturday’s menu scratched out on a faded chalkboard behind her and shook his head.

  “Think I’ll go with barbecue on cornbread tonight instead of the bun. And hold off on the fries. I’ve added a couple of pounds. Just slaw on the side.”

  “It looks good on ya, Danny boy,” Kitty said, winking at the excellent tipper.

  “My wife doesn’t think so. And neither does my producer. Oh yeah, I also need a to-go order. But keep it warm till I’m ready to leave.”

  He sat and watched the short-track race on the big screen as Kitty shouted orders to her father, the cook. She returned with his cup of sweet tea and a few minutes later, brought his barbecue plate. She sat on the hard bench across from him.

  “I saw your pieces about Jackson Stone, Danny. That policeman made me mad.”

  “You mean Chief King. He came off a little strong, except when talking about his grandfather. He’s just doing what he thinks is right. So is Stone, I guess. I haven’t quite figured him out yet.”

  Two tables behind Clarkston, Wolfe’s ears perked at the mention of Jackson Stone, and he tried to act nonchalant while sipping his beer. He’d remembered the gaudy Cue Tips sign from that day he picked up the Fletcher woman, and decided to eat here, arriving about ten minutes before Clarkston. He recognized the television reporter, but couldn’t quite put a name to the profile he could see from his angle. When he heard the waitress say “Danny,” he matched it to Clarkston.

  Wolfe drained the rest of his LandShark and left. He smiled and watched and waited.

  19

  I zipped to the paper and wrote a twelve-inch mainbar from the police chief’s press conference. Then I read over Shelley’s story on the funeral and reward announcement with photo slideshows from both the visitation and two news conferences attached. It was all posted by four p.m. The weekend editorial staff gathered in a conference room to consider story play on Page 1A and inside the front section.

  My story at TenneSceneToday.com ignited reader reactions and I finally got an opportunity to check a few. By four-thirty, there were seventeen posts. By five, it zoomed to forty-eight, and by the six o’clock TV news, the hits spiraled to one hundred sixty-three.

  At 4:08 p.m., JUSTICE 4 ALL wrote: “The cops will railroad you, Jack, so you might as well catch the next train out of town and start over somewhere else. That topcop King must think he’s the king of Nashville, the way he talked. That scum you’re looking for is the real criminal and they spend all their time talking about you instead of trying to catch him. Good luck Jack.”

  At 4:42 p.m., GRETTA LIFE wrote: “Copycat vigilante justice? Yeah right. Like everybody’s gonna go shoot everyone who ever wronged them. The chief is a dope. Maybe he’s on dope.”

  At 5 p.m., HAPPY HOUR wrote: “The death penalty should be enough justice for Jackson Stone. Otherwise there can be no justice. There

  is a right way and a wrong way to do things and Jackson’s way is just plain wrong.”

  At 5:29 p.m., T.RIGGER wrote: “The death penalty is a burden on our taxpayers that we can do without. Go for it Jack. Save us some money.”

  At 5:46 p.m., PROVIDENCE wrote: “What if you track down your wife’s killer and a year later find out you gunned down the wrong guy? Could you live with that on your conscience, Jack? Didn’t think so.”

  At 6:15 p.m., GALLATIN GAL’S PAL wrote: “I don’t know who killed Stone’s wife, but for $100K I’m sure going to find out. When’s his website going up?”

  After the TV news, media outlet message boards all across the city started buzzing with more of the same pros and cons, taking both sides, dissecting the police, and questioning Stone’s motives. The blogging never ceased or ceased to amaze.

  I began rewriting for Sunday morning’s final edition and finished about eight o’clock, then took on the inch-thick stack of background material I’d printed out about Jackson. First, I ran a search and scored hits on articles about his 2007 advertising awards, campaigns for noteworthy causes to which he contributed personal time and effort, a 2004 sports story on a ten-point trophy buck bagged near his Lascassas farmhouse, and a mention of his home being featured on the 2005 East Nashville Christmas Caroling Tour, where for ten dollars, visitors walked through the close-knit community and oohed and ahhed over twinkling holiday decorations and were treated to cookies, cocoa, and a visit from Santa.

  The last article mentioned Stone’s involvement with the annual Iroquois Memorial Steeplechase at Percy Warner Park. The steeplechase, now a major fund-raiser that benefits the Monroe Carell Jr. Children’s Hospital at Vanderbilt, is one of Nashville’s largest amateur sporting events, drawing crowds of twenty thousand or more to the lush, green hillside of the spacious park. Held the second Saturday of May, it’s as much social as sporting event. The Stones’ involvement with the Iroquois consisted of volunteering to help plan entertainment for the official parties. Angela’s connections inside the music industry landed some big-name performers, while Jackson handled publicity.

  I noted the Steeplechase course’s proximity to the section of the park where Angela’s body was found. I scanned printouts from the Nexus search. It contained information on Jackson’s USMC career, the honorable discharge after being injured, their 1996 wedding announcement, public information about how much the Stones paid for their house in 1998, how much their taxes were, and how much the house was worth today.

  Yawning, I took off the reading glasses and rubbed my tired eyes. Hoping for a call-back from the Vanderbilt psychologist, I’d just about given up and began tidying the desk before heading home, when the phone rang.

  “TenneScene Today. This is Gerry Hilliard in the newsroom. How can I help you?”

  “Good evening, Mister Hi
lliard. Erica Karnoff here, I hope it’s not too late. We went to a movie and I just saw your message.”

  I switched the phone to my left hand, grabbed a notepad and a pen, and scribbled “Doctor Karnoff,” underlining her name twice.

  “Not at all, thanks for calling. I’m covering the Angela Stone murder case and it’s taken a fascinating twist the last few days with the desire for vengeance comments from her husband. I recalled your insights last spring during the East Nashville rapist case and thought you might shed some light on Stone’s current state of mind.”

  “I’m honored that you thought of me,” she said. “Yes, I’d love to sit down with Mister Stone and chat. It sounds like he has some real anger issues, but I know very little about his background . . . just what I’ve read and seen on television. We’re off the record, right?”

  “Yes, but I would like to quote you at some point,” I said, scribbling “OTR” but continuing to take notes of our conversation. “It sure has Nashville buzzing and it seems like as many people hope he carries out his plan as there are people against the idea of taking the law into his own hands.”

  That wasn’t a question, but the good doctor answered it as one since most media-types loved to throw out observations to “experts” and gauge their reactions.

  “Yes, it could be very divisive, for example, on the gun-control issue. Anyone who has ever been a crime victim might vicariously attach themselves to Stone’s quest for revenge. And it would also be a hot-button issue for those who are either for or against the death penalty. Yes, indeed, it has become larger than Stone.”

  “So would you call Mister Stone’s declaration for vengeance irrational or justified?”

  “Both, and a little egocentric, perhaps stemming from the obvious anger and probable depression issues with which he is dealing. From the outside looking in, revenge has no place in modern society and such behavior cannot be condoned. But from the inside looking out, these feelings for revenge—or at the very least, helping find the man who murdered his wife—may be all Mister Stone’s got right now.”

  Karnoff cleared her throat and continued.

  I tried to scribble all this down and absorb what she said, trying to respond in an intelligent manner. Tired, I stifled another yawn. I hoped my questions didn’t sound too foolish.

  “And this applies to Stone how? I see the anger, of course; we all have the last couple of days. And the emotional roller coaster of depression has been apparent.”

  “Stone’s stated desire for vengeance goes well beyond the clear anger he has shown, and this may well be something new. For example, when Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross hypothesized—”

  Karnoff’s husband said something that I missed, and the doctor cut me off before I fired off more questions.

  “Yes, I can. Excuse me,” she said, pulling the telephone away from her mouth, then she spoke back to me. “Forgive me, Mister Hilliard, but I must run. Perhaps we can talk again next week. I am fascinated by Mister Stone and look forward to your articles.”

  I said a cordial goodbye and stared at the phone. I tried going down the path upon which the doctor led me, but the bridge washed out and mental roadblocks made it too late for deep thinking.

  I perused the biographical sketches of the Stones, and then glanced at the first edition front section of the Sunday morning paper that had been laid on my desk while I talked to the psychiatrist. Distracted, I paid scant attention to the perfect headline for my story, and then flipped to the jump on page 10-A. My eyes focused on the four-column picture of Reverend Robert Armstrong at the visitation, talking to Jackson and his brother. The mahogany casket was behind them. The preacher’s right arm was wrapped around Jackson’s back while talking to Patrick. Jackson was staring up at the imposing preacher as if seeking understanding and guidance in the worst of times. I hated admitting it, but the raw emotions that photo would convey to readers were far stronger than any thousand words I could write. I glanced at the nebulous cutline information:

  Belle Rive Baptist pastor Robert Armstrong, center, comforts Jackson Stone, right, and Patrick Stone at Saturday’s visitation at Belle Valley Cemetery. CASEY LEIBER/TENNESCENE TODAY

  Studying the photo made up my mind. I realized where the saga’s next twist would take place. I logged off my computer, grabbed my notes and first edition sports section, and headed to my car.

  “Looks like I’m going to church in the morning.”

  20

  Most of the visitors at Patrick’s house after the funeral were fellow church-goers, and they’d all shared kind words and promises to pray for Jackson, especially the aging organist who’d accompanied Angela during her choir solo the previous Christmas. But it became more difficult for him to hold his tongue as everyone opined on how he should proceed in his quest, or that he should end this nonsense now, or that he wasn’t acting as a faithful follower of Jesus Christ should, and on and on and on throughout the evening.

  “I’m just trying to do the right thing,” he said. “It’s something I have to do.”

  The flow of familiar faces continued to stream by until about eight-thirty and by nine dwindled to just a dozen or so stragglers. Jackson sagged into the couch where Chief King sat just twelve hours ago, though it seemed more like twelve days. He closed his eyes and prayed.

  “God, I could use some sleep right now. Keep me strong, Lord.” His eyes popped open, and he started upright as a large hand clasped his shoulder. He looked up into the smiling face of his pastor, Reverend Armstrong.

  “Hope I didn’t startle you, Jack.”

  “Not at all, Brother Bob. I prayed for guidance, and here you are. There are no coincidences.”

  “I’ve been working on my sermon for tomorrow morning. I hope you’ll be in church. I’ve changed from the topic I’d originally planned to speak on, and I think you’ll find it very enlightening.”

  21

  Wolfe grew impatient and looked at his luminous watch. It was ten thirty p.m.

  “Dammit, where is he?”

  He had followed Clarkston back to Channel 11 after he emerged from Cue Tips at seven thirty, parking in the drugstore lot so he could eye the television station’s front door and lobby. Three long, hurry up-and-wait hours had passed. He was anxious to get back to his journal, but more eager to see where Clarkston lived—just in case. He watched and waited some more.

  After Pittard had downed his sandwich, he and Clarkston spent an hour reviewing footage from the morning visitation and both afternoon press conferences, then spent a half-hour with weekend director Joan McCall discussing the gist of Clarkston’s ten o’clock report. Joan wanted Clarkston to do a stand-up introduction plus cutaways to walk viewers through a chronological summation of the day, but Clarkston balked.

  “This is my story and since Ellie’s off this weekend, I’m calling the shots,” Clarkston said, flexing his muscles as the station’s top investigative reporter. “It’s going to be a lot sexier if we lead with Chief King putting this kook in his place. And who knows—it might even help Stone win some support or sympathy.”

  Joan didn’t like it, but didn’t protest much. The A-team rarely worked Saturday shifts, and she didn’t want him acting all prissy on her newscast. After a few questions, she nodded approval.

  “Sounds good, Dan. We’ll run through a thirty-second intro to the day’s news, then you’ve got the next three-and-a-half minutes. Maybe four, if it’s good enough. Get cracking guys. I want to see something by nine fifteen.”

  Clarkston grinned. At nine ten, Pittard finished his final re-cuts the way he and Clarkston discussed. Joan arrived, and Clarkston handed the director his script. She scratched one phrase. “Would that work better?”

  “Perfect, Joan. Give us five minutes and we’ll be ready.”

  After feeding copy into the teleprompter, Clarkston took his position on the set and awaited his cue from weekend anchor Luis Reyes. “Our Dan Clarkston has spent the day following the extraordinary twists and turns this case has taken.”


  “Thanks, Luis. Yesterday, Jackson Stone threw down the gauntlet to Metro police, challenging them to find his wife’s killer before he did. Today, no less than Chief King delivered a response no one expected.” Clarkston swiveled to camera two. “Just hours before Angela Stone was buried, Nashville’s top cop informed Stone in no uncertain terms that he could face charges if he continued his quest for vengeance. Then about an hour after Stone announced a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward and a website in his wife’s name, Chief King explained to the media what penalties Stone could face if he takes the law into his own hands.”

  “Cut to video one,” Joan said in the control room. King’s commanding presence filled the screen. “The law is the law. If you break it, you are in trouble.”

  Clarkston watched the rapid-fire report he and Pittard put together on the studio’s large monitor. Clips included Stone’s confrontation with his lawyer, the Chief’s recollections of his grandfather’s murder, and interviews from the visitation. One particular scene caught Clarkston’s attention, one he failed to notice on Pittard’s smaller editing unit. During a wide pan of the visitation line outside the funeral home, he noticed Stone’s neighbor Herb Fletcher talking to a young mustached man behind him. He’d seen that face before, but where?

  At ten forty, Clarkston exited the station, tapped the keyless entry system numbers on the driver side’s door, got in his Audi and sped off. Wolfe, tired and half-asleep, almost missed him.

  Cursing, he peeled out. There wasn’t much traffic at that time of night, so Wolfe hung back. When Clarkston made a right turn on Belle Meade Boulevard and drove through the highest end of Nashville’s high-end communities, so did Wolfe. When Clarkston went through the four-way stop at the upper-crust country club, so did Wolfe. When Clarkston turned left onto Harding Road, so did Wolfe some ten seconds later. But the light turned yellow some five seconds after Clarkston’s turn, so Wolfe stomped the pedal and ran the red light as a car on his right honked.