Vendetta Stone (1) Page 16

  “Oprah’s people called too. And so did producers from Maury, Leno, Letterman, along with Today, The View, and 60 Minutes and all the rest. I’ll tell you the same: I’m not yet ready to do a national show. Tell Ellen I would love to be on her show in the future, but things are moving too fast right now. Today’s my first day back at work.”

  “Fine. I’ll check back with you in—”

  Jackson hung up as new email arrived.

  Sent by: Marty Martin. On: 08/16/10 at 10:38 AM

  To: Jackson Stone

  Welcome Back Kotter! Can you join me in five?

  Jackson replied:

  Be right there.

  He put on his jacket and walked down the hall. Marty gave him a hug.

  “Good to see you. You doin’ okay?”

  Jackson shrugged. “It’s been pretty crazy.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to discuss. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but you’ve got to know this isn’t the kind of PR we need in a tough business climate. I put out fires all weekend, but our clients hate the negative publicity you’ve generated and how it might affect their products.”

  Jackson raised an eyebrow—and his voice.

  “Are you firing me, Marty? Because on my desk is a stack of messages from producers for Oprah, Doctor Phil, Katie, Ellen, Jay Leno, 60 Minutes, the Today show, all fighting to book me on their shows. I put them all on hold for now. But hey.” He shrugged.

  They talked several more minutes without any clear-cut understanding and agreed to meet again after lunch.

  Two hours later, an impasse still existed, and the meeting ended on a sour note. Marty remained convinced that clients would start bailing if Jackson stayed on the front page much longer. Marty didn’t want to fire his best friend, but felt he might be forced into it and cussed Jackson for putting him in that position.

  “All I’m saying is just cool it for a while. Let all this die down. Otherwise . . . the firm might have to distance itself,” Marty blurted, embarrassed.

  Red-faced Jackson stood his ground, determined to find Angela’s killer before the cops.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m not quitting. My job or my search.”

  They decided to talk again the following morning, and Jackson left for home. He’d hoped returning to work might restore some sense of normalcy, but no.

  Driving with the air conditioning on high calmed him.

  The more Jackson thought about it, the more leaving the firm appealed. He’d go hunting.

  6

  Sheila Stone woke up early with the kids, fixed them breakfast and waited until nine to call Doctor Karnoff’s office. Sheila explained that the appointment wasn’t for her, but her brother-in-law, who made a big splash in the newspaper and on television over the weekend.

  “You mean Jackson Stone?” The polite receptionist had overheard Doctor Karnoff talking about him, and knew she would love to sit down with him and peer into his mind.

  The receptionist informed her that the doctor wasn’t accepting new patients.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Sheila said. “Perhaps you or the doctor could recommend—”

  “Tell you what. Let me pass this information along, Mrs. Stone. That’s the best I can do,” the receptionist said.

  At ten fifty, Erica Karnoff called, cordial, but obviously excited at this opportunity.

  “I would be happy to talk with Jackson. I understand your concerns, and normally, we would not be having this conversation, but I recognize this is an extremely unusual case. All I know is what I’ve seen and read in the media.”

  They chatted several minutes, then Karnoff said she must get to class and wondered if Mrs. Stone could bring Jackson in Tuesday about two thirty.

  “Thank you ever so much, Doctor,” Sheila said, relieved. “He’ll be there.”

  Getting Jackson to the appointment would take some ingenuity. A woman’s touch.

  Sheila called him about three.

  “Hi, Jack, I wonder … can you give me a ride to Vandy tomorrow afternoon? Say about two? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”

  “I’d love to, but—”

  “Great, I really ’preciate it. Patrick put my car in the shop, and he’ll be in Lebanon. If not for you, I’d have to rent a car because I’m not about to call a cab or take a bus or—”

  “Fine,” Jackson said, cutting her off. “I’ll be there unless something comes up. See you then unless you want to go to lunch first.”

  “I can’t. The appointment should take about an hour, and you’ll have to wait unless I can get Janie to pick me up.”

  Jackson assured her he could do this for her after all she’d done for him. Sheila got a little teary-eyed for lying to Jack. But he needed to talk to somebody, and she hoped Doctor Karnoff could help.

  About that same time, Sheila wasn’t the only person close to Jackson Stone discussing him with a third party. Reverend Armstrong returned to his office after having visited three Nashville hospitals and two nursing homes. The church secretary had left several messages at his desk.

  The last came from Mark St. John at The Witness, the Baptist bi-monthly publication circulated nationally and in fifty-four countries.

  Curious, he dialed the main number, and got transferred to St. John, a senior writer and editor.

  “We’ve read about you, and your ministry to Jackson Stone,” St. John said. “We’d like to interview you on the subject of owning and carrying a gun versus the stance you’ve taken in church. You delivered a powerful message Sunday, and the gun control issue is a divisive subject among church members, pitting those who want guns for personal protection and the Biblical message you presented.”

  Erica Karnoff looked forward to the session with Jackson Stone. She finished up her final class at five and stopped by her office before heading home. She sat down and punched in the cell phone number of her New York agent, Katherine Robinson, who often worked late. The call went to voicemail so Erica left a message that she expected to be returned as soon as the agent heard it.

  “Katherine? It’s Erica. Listen, I’ve thought it over and I believe I can do that next book you wanted after all. How much were we talking about? Give me a call. Ciao.”

  Erica was working her way through her inbox when the telephone rang. She recognized the number and smiled.

  “You’ve just made my day,” Katherine said. “Tell me all about your next bestseller.”

  Erica laughed, but struck a serious tone.

  “There’s a fascinating story developing in Nashville. I must get clearance, but have you heard of Jackson Stone?”

  7

  Monday went fast for all except Delmore Wolfe, who slept till noon. On his last trip past Stone’s house in East Nashville, he’d spotted a coffeehouse he wanted to check out. His head pounded like a bongo drum, and he needed a caffeine fix, as well as some other stimulants, to get through the day. Wolfe made the short drive over, ordered a dark roast coffee and rare roast beef sandwich.

  While waiting for his order, Wolfe surveyed the mostly empty seating area. A middle-aged woman picked at her salad as her husband read the newspaper. When Wolfe saw the “Gospel truth” headline over the guy’s shoulder, he clenched his teeth to keep control.

  His order came, As the couple got up to leave, Wolfe leaned toward the man with the folded newspaper.

  “Can I look at that, if you’re done?”

  It was more statement than question. The paper stayed.

  Wolfe didn’t like what he read, not one bit. All his past crimes generated much media coverage, but none like this. All because of those whiny, pitiful cries for retribution—“I don’t waaant justice, I waaant revenge.”

  “Stuff happens, dude,” Wolfe said to no one but himself as he took the newspaper with him and drove back to his room. He decided to hole up for the day and catch up on his journal, writing down all these feelings and more. He might get out after he saw the news.

  Wolfe unlocked two suitcase
s filled with his collection of rambling journals, detailing his transformation from a kid with a mean streak into the rage-filled monster whose diaries

  would mark a trail of unsolved homicides across the South. They would later enthrall FBI profilers who had failed to connect the dots to the murders he claimed.

  He never knew his parents, drug-abusers who met in high school in Tupelo, Mississippi, the birthplace of Elvis Presley, the “king of rock ‘n’ roll.” When Wolfe’s journals came to public light, some pundits referred to him as the “king of rot in hell.” The nickname stuck.

  Relatives took in Wolfe, raising him on a farm in northeastern Arkansas, near Memphis. His earliest victims were field mice and other barn pests. Wolfe not only liked killing things, he excelled at it. But when he started torturing the cats and “accidentally” killed the family dog, Delmore’s life changed forever. In one of his earliest journal entries. Wolfe wrote:

  “Ole Harry’s gonna pay for that someday. The mark of the beast is upon me and this Wolfe will bite back.”

  Apparently, Uncle Harry gave him a horrific beating to show him how it felt, leaving nasty scars on his back and butt and uglier scars on his soul. Aunt Vera ignored it, not saying a word and didn’t take him to the hospital to treat a fractured arm and likely head injury. Wolfe needed three months to recover physically, but never recovered mentally.

  On the one-year anniversary of his horrific beating, a farming “accident” claimed the lives of Aunt Vera and Uncle Harry. At age thirteen, he went to live with his maternal grandmother. Wolfe wrote little about that four-year span, but unearthed clues indicate a period even more torturous than his childhood. He lived off the inheritance after his grandmother’s “accident” and drifted through the South unnoticed because he didn’t need a job. When he worked, it consisted of menial labor, skills picked up from his uncle on the farm. He wanted cash, which employers also preferred. He acquired several drivers licenses, none in his true name, paid no taxes, and had no criminal record.

  The monster became the invisible man.

  8

  It was pushing four o’clock, and I hoped to accomplish something before calling it a day. Like Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston, I considered the next twist in this bizarre story. Nobody returned calls, and Jackson must’ve gone into hiding. His secretary said he’d just left for lunch the first time I called. Not yet back the second time I called. Finally, after the fifth time I called, the exasperated but courteous secretary said Mister Stone wasn’t expected back until Tuesday morning. About to tell my editor of no new news, a ding alerted me to new email. Instead, I messaged that I’d file a short story, or at least a local note, involving Stone. Police spokesman Darrin Jensen sent a terse press release to several of us at the paper, plus Clarkston and other media outlets. It raised several questions—but not the right ones:

  The Metro Nashville Police Department today indefinitely suspended with pay Sergeant Mike Whitfield of the East Precinct, pending an internal investigation.

  “Our highest standards must be met, or the public will lose confidence in our ability to protect and serve,” Chief Wilson King said. “Sergeant Whitfield has an outstanding reputation in the community and has been instrumental in solving a number of major crimes to make Nashville a safer place to live, and that is why I am disappointed to make this announcement. But I expect Sergeant Whitfield to be back on the streets soon and that he

  will be able to put this behind him.”

  The email cited Whitfield’s years of service, awards, and accomplishments and said his current duties on the Stone investigation would be shared by several other officers. I immediately called Jensen for an explanation.

  “Everybody’s being kinda hush-hush, and you can’t use this,” Jensen said. “Mike has a bit of a drinking problem that got out of hand at home and his wife called his supervisor. He goes into treatment tomorrow.”

  Hanging up, I muttered, “That seems out of character for the Mike Whitfield I know.”

  At Channel 11, Clarkston’s day mirrored mine, accomplishing little. After a series of meetings with editors, directors, station management, and telephone calls to New York, Clarkston got word that both he and videographer Greg Pittard would work with Ed and Tara, provided that any footage shot appeared on Channel 11 at least twenty-four hours in advance. In exchange, the station would receive on-air credit for its aid in the story. Clarkston spoke with Tara Bradley, who thanked him for agreeing to help and said she looked forward to working with him. Now to convince Stone to do his first national interview on Ed and Tara. Clarkston felt that would be no problem. He called Jackson’s office, and an irate secretary lit into him. Clarkston’s first call came after my five.

  “I don’t know where Mister Stone is or when he’ll be back,” she said. “It won’t be today. Please don’t call again.”

  Clarkston ran with the story. If Jackson saw the six o’clock newscast, he would learn of the offer that way. A two-minute rehearsal primed Clarkston. “Channel 11 has learned that the syndicated Ed and Tara show hopes to land the first national interview with Jackson Stone for an upcoming segment,” Clarkston said, then swiveled to camera two. “There’s no word yet on when the segment would air on this station.”

  After wrapping up the rehearsal with a recap of the story to date, Clarkston went back to his desk before they went live and looked at his email for any late news tips. In his inbox, the same note about Sergeant Whitfield arrived. Like me, Clarkston called the police spokesman and learned off the record about Whitfield’s alleged drinking problem. At the end of the live telecast Clarkston turned back to camera one.

  “And in an unrelated development, an officer working on the Stone investigation has been indefinitely suspended for a violation of the department’s personal conduct policy.”

  The subject of that late-breaking report, Sergeant Mike Whitfield, drove back to the East Precinct after his downtown meeting with Chief King, cleared his desk, and packed up personal items in his locker. Like wildfire, word filtered through the station grapevine that Whitfield drew a two-week suspension for getting drunk and getting physical with his wife. Officer Mendez came by, and Whitfield confirmed the time off to deal with “a personal issue.” They shook hands and Whitfield left for his Antioch home. He wanted to explain to his wife before it made the news, but Interstate 24 was backed up almost to downtown, because of an accident. He tried to call, but his battery was running low.

  Marti Whitfield heard the garage door open and ran to greet her husband, tears running down her face. She flew into his arms.

  “What is going on? I just saw on the news that you’d been suspended.”

  “Shhhh,” he said, smiling at her concern as he wiped away a tear. “Let me explain, then I’m taking you to dinner.”

  9

  Jackson parked outside Eddie Paul’s Pub and entered the ancient watering hole, hoping to re-establish some of his old routines. He waved to several drinking buddies. Louie, the bartender, nodded as Jackson approached the bar.

  “Good to seeya. I didn’t know if you’d be back since you and Angela spent so much time here.”

  Jackson wondered, too, if he’d ever return until after the unnerving series of meetings with Marty at the office. Had his “mission” jeopardized his career? With much to think about, Jackson needed a drink. He wasn’t ready to lay all this on Patrick yet. Maybe he’d pick Louie’s brain. He smiled at the bartender, knowing he’d listen to his troubles.

  “Think I’m going crazy. This is like a second home to me. It might become my permanent home,” Jackson said as Louie handed him a beer. Jackson rolled the sweaty bottle in his hands and contemplated his future. “I might crawl in this bottle and never come out.”

  Jackson didn’t hear the concern in Louie’s voice when he said, “C’mon, Jack, don’t talk like that.” He moved to “Angela’s booth” and tuned out his surroundings, the world.

  He and Angela had spent so many hours here over the years that it did indeed give him
a sense of security. Following that 1995 fund-raiser for one of Al Gore’s projects, they worked on his unsuccessful 2000 presidential campaign, hammering out many details over drinks at the pub. The laughs at Eddie Paul’s poured like the beer, booze, and wine. Jackson had brought friends, family, and clients to the neighborhood eatery; they’d cheered at the annual Super

  Bowl party and other major sporting events; they gathered for wakes for friends who passed, for wedding receptions, for young couples just starting out, and for holidays and birthdays.

  Louie brought a second beer. Friends kept coming over for a few minutes to express sorrow, then moved to another table after Jackson choked up or retold a story about Angela for the second or third time. He sat alone, sipping his third beer when a promo for the six o’clock news caught his attention. His picture was being shown on the big-screen television, but Jackson couldn’t hear the report over the 1970’s rock music playing on the sound system.

  “Hey, Louie, turn that up.”

  The barkeep complied. “Coming up on the six o’clock report,” co-anchor Cameron Knight said, “which starts right now.”

  After reports on a possible Metro tax increase and an apartment fire in the Hermitage area that displaced three families and injured a fireman, the news anchor introduced Clarkston’s next piece. Jackson watched without comment. He didn’t remember getting a message or talking to anyone from that show. His interest perked up when the segment ended with Clarkston’s late-breaking add-on about the suspension of one of the cops working his wife’s case.

  “That’s going to slow down the investigation. Bad for them, good for me,” Jackson told Louie, who turned the music back up.