Vendetta Stone (1) Page 5

  Police had removed the blood-stained sheets from the sleigh bed, but he spotted rust-colored streaks here and there, including one ugly smear running down the wall. A lot of violence occurred here. Jackson struggled between hoping Angela didn’t suffer and hoping she’d put up a fight. But investigators identified all the blood found in the bedroom as belonging to her. Jackson entered the large walk-in closet, flipped on lights, and grabbed the string to pull down the folding stairs that allowed him access to the attic storage area.

  A burst of mid-August heat descended as he stepped up the first rickety rung. Two more, then he found the cord that turned on the attic light. It wasn’t the brightest bulb, but it would be enough to find what he sought. He scurried across the plywood flooring, took a left at the air conditioning ducts, and fell to his knees, pushing aside the pink insulation. He found the small metallic case.

  Good, the locks are still sealed. The NCSI team didn’t find it. Jackson didn’t know who would be after him, but sensed he must move fast. Time to get gone.

  10

  Thanks to the Internet, public reaction to Jackson Stone’s news conference poured in, swift and passionate. The first post to the article at TenneSceneToday.com logged at 5:58 p.m., thrilling Sullivan to see responses before the television newscasts started.

  GRIEVINGSPOUSE wrote: “I just wish I had the courage and fortitude to undertake the mission Mr. Stone set for himself. My husband Ralph died in a drive-by shooting two years ago and they still haven’t found who did it. Maybe Mr. Stone can track down my Ralph’s killer after he finds his wife’s murderer.”

  At 5:59: p.m., NOWAYNOHOW wrote: “My advice would be to let the police handle it. Revenge won’t bring back his wife.”

  At 6:01 p.m., I.M.ONYERSIDE wrote: “Jackson if you need help lemme know.”

  At 6:02 p.m., OLDSPARKY wrote: “The electric chair’s too good for ’em. I’m with I.M.ONYERSIDE on this one. Let’s form a posse.”

  At 6:04 p.m., MYSYMPATHY wrote: “Jack, I’m watching you on television as I write this. PLEASE don’t go down this road. I know you’re hurting but this isn’t how GOD would want you to respond. Take time to heal. Let GOD punish the wicked. It will happen . . . maybe not on your timetable, but it will. I’ll say a prayer for your wife. Peace be with you, brother. Amen.”

  I wouldn’t read any of those posts until much later, and at the moment, bloggers were the furthest thing from my mind. I stood in the parking lot next to the East Nashville precinct, pen and notepad in hand, but not taking notes. I chatted with Jackson’s still-in-shock brother, trying to glean the facts without pressing too much. Patrick shuffled anxiously, and it made me suspicious of his motives. I wouldn’t learn until much later that the car Jackson drove actually belonged to Patrick, and he bordered on desperate to make sure his car sat where Jackson said it would be parked.

  “And you didn’t know Jackson’s plans? How’s he handled it all week?”

  “It’s been real tough on all of us, Mister Hilliard, but Jack kind of shut down through all this,” he said, looking down at his watch and shuffling his feet. “He’s been grieving his own way, I guess. But how could you expect that reaction?”

  “Pretty cold,” I said, nodding. “Is he the type person who could make good on this?”

  “I don’t think so, but maybe,” Patrick said. “He’d already joined the Marines by the time I started middle school. He’s never talked much about that experience. Maybe it changed him.”

  Reaching in my coat pocket, I took out my mini-recorder.

  “I appreciate your talking with me, and there are some other people I need to see. But I’d like to get a quote from you, and I want to talk to your brother if possible.”

  “I don’t know where he went or where he’s going.”

  “Here’s my card. How can I reach you and where is Jackson staying?”

  Patrick recited his and Jackson’s cell numbers, but added, “I don’t know if he’ll answer.”

  I jotted them down, then pressed the “record” button.

  “This is Patrick Stone. Describe your brother’s mental state. Frustration, anger, or both of the above? Will he really go after his wife’s killer? And will his family support him?”

  He bristled at my questions.

  “Of course, we’ll support him. I may not agree with him, but if something happened to my wife, I’d feel the same way. Would I go through with it? I don’t know. It’s the toughest thing our family’s ever been through, even worse than losing our parents in the 1998 tornado touchdown. Angela and Jackson were made for each other. She was the best thing that ever happened to him, and now he’s lost her. You better believe I’d be mad enough to kill if I lost my wife the way Angela died.”

  Patrick paused and looked skyward, swallowing hard. He wanted to make me understand Jackson’s motivation.

  “Terrible things happen in life, and we somehow find our way through the bad times. I hope Jackson can and we’ll all be there to help him.” Patrick paused again, and he smiled.

  “But he sure picked a heckuva way to deal with it.”

  11

  The six o’clock newscast took its first commercial break, and that’s when Jackson’s cell phone rang. He closed the front door of his house and headed to the car with his prized possession tucked under his left arm. Recognizing the number, he cursed under his breath.

  “Hello, Stan.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t threaten to torture a man to death,” Allenby, Jackson’s attorney, said.

  Pausing on the brick walkway, Jackson spoke with venom in his voice.

  “I didn’t. I promised to torture a man to death. And I meant it.”

  “I get you’re upset, but you don’t even know who you’re looking for and just issued a blanket threat to all of Nashville to start a personal vendetta. Let the police do their job. They’ll find him.”

  “There won’t be any pieces left to find when I’m finished. I’ve got things to do. I’ll see you tomorrow at the funeral,” Jackson said, clicking off.

  He had hoped to make a fast getaway, but Allenby’s call delayed him just long enough.

  Next door to the Stones’ house, Sarah Fletcher still sat at her kitchen table as husband Herb cleared dishes. He had played house-husband for six months after being laid off at the glass plant. Unused to this role-reversal, Sarah picked up more hours at Saint Thomas Hospital, but wasn’t comfortable as the main breadwinner.

  Herb’s ego had been battered, and he fought moderate depression. A couple of leads had come up empty, and he took it out on her. She held up her end of the shouting matches and as a result, the marital rift widened. Herb thought things had improved the last few weeks before Sarah grew quiet again after her best friend’s death.

  “Really weird, seeing Jack on the news,” Herb said as he removed Sarah’s plate. “Do you think he meant what he said?”

  Sarah didn’t answer, a vacant stare on her face as if miles away.

  Herb strode across the kitchen and began loading the dishwasher. He glanced out the window above the sink as Jackson emerged from the front door, carrying something. Jackson ducked under the police tape and headed for his car.

  “Sarah, look out here. It’s Jack.”

  The blank stare shifted to a look of shock followed by tears. Herb opened the sliding glass doors and went out.

  “Jack, hey!”

  Jackson paused and turned at the greeting.

  Herb sprinted across the driveway, concern on his face. “Wow, I’m glad I saw you. Look, I just wanted to say how sorry I was. We saw your press conference. Can we do anything?”

  Jackson shook his head, jumped in the car, backed out of the driveway, and sped down the street, tires squealing.

  Herb watched the car pull away and turn left at the stop sign. Going back inside, Herb shifted his concern from Jackson to his own wife.

  Despite the arguing, Herb didn’t know what he’d do if that happened to Sarah. His wife clutched a wood-framed picture of
herself and Angela, taken last summer while boating on Old Hickory Lake. Tears streamed down her face. Herb sat beside Sarah and took her hand. She looked into his face and buried her head into his shoulder, sobbing louder.

  “I know. I miss her, too.”

  12

  Over at Eddie Paul’s Pub, a slow business night gave Louie ample time to watch the newscast as Jackson had suggested. On the screen were those anchor people. What were their names again? He didn’t watch much news. The picture cut to Stone, and Louie turned up the sound.

  “I want revenge. Whoever did this to my wife—”

  “Hate to see a man fall to pieces like that,” said Jimmy Sheppard, one of the regulars, said after the segment ended, scratching at his beard and shaking his head.

  “I’d do the same thing,” Sam Borden said from the corner. “He’s not crazy, Jimmy, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “He didn’t sound crazy, but he didn’t sound sane either,” Sheppard said.

  Louie poured himself a beer.

  “It sounds like he needs a friend. I sure hope he comes back.”

  Back at the paper, Carrie Sullivan fidgeted as she checked for my updated story. Nothing yet. My cell phone rang busy, so she fired a text message: Where RU GH? Need ASAP.

  A check of my web story brought a smile to her face. She found five pages of comments comprised of twenty-eight replies from strangers communicating with each other, very similar to the debate taking place between Jackson’s pub friends.

  At 6:22 p.m., NEKKIDTROOTH wrote: “Jackson Stone oughtta be wearing one of those Tar-Jay tee-shirts with a bull’s-eye on his chest. Whoever did this to his wife will now come after him.”

  At 6:26 p.m., JONNIEREB wrote: “If Stone needs back-up, me’n my boys will be glad to lend a hand. They won’t find anything left of that b@$t@rd to bury.”

  At 6:33 p.m., WYNOT wrote: “Violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence begets violence. When will we ever learn?”

  At 6:37 p.m., FEM4EVER wrote: “This was a hate crime! These sick-o MEN are out there persecuting our SISTERS! Learn how to protect yourself. Click here.”

  At 6:52 p.m., UJERK wrote: “In response to FEM4EVER, why assume a MAN perpetrated this crime? In response to JONNIE REDNECK, you are freakin’ scary. Go crawl back in your Neanderthal hole. Let’s lock you two in a room together.”

  Carrie Sullivan looked at her calendar. No full moon. The loonies are out late, she thought, as she deleted the abusive posts.

  Meanwhile, I sat in Commander Reynolds’ office with my photographer, making small talk while waiting for Dan Clarkston’s videographer and Public Affairs Officer Darrin Jensen, the Metro police media liaison, to arrive.

  A squeal of brakes. A minute later, Jensen rapped on Reynolds’ door, followed by Channel 11 cameraman Greg Pittard. “Look who I found, Dan. Hey, Gerry, glad you’re here. We can save time this way. I know you’re both up against deadlines.”

  After a brief meeting, we all stood and shook hands.

  “Okay, I think we’re set,” Jensen said. “I’ll talk to Chief King in a few hours and set up something for tomorrow afternoon. He’s addressing a ladies’ group out in Hermitage tonight, and I’m guessing didn’t see the news. You can go find the Chief if you want, but Commander Reynolds can give you what you need for now.”

  “I can live with that. We need to get back to the station,” Clarkston said.

  While Clarkston and Pittard got ready for the stand-up interview, I went looking for other quotes and immediately ran into two policemen, one of whom I knew.

  “Sergeant Whitfield. Good to see you again,” I said.

  Mike Whitfield struck me as one of the sharpest cops I’d met in years, and his superiors agreed. He had everything you look for in a policeman—intelligence, courage, confidence, compassion, and strength. He’d been on the force five years and moved quickly up the ranks.

  I turned to the other officer. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Officer Barry Mendez looked like the old CHIPS television star Erik Estrada, but bigger and with a crew cut.

  “I’m kind of pressed on time, but I’d like to talk to a couple of street cops about Jackson Stone. Y’all heard about his stunt this afternoon?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Whitfield said. “A terrible thing, what happened to his wife.”

  “And your reaction?” I said, turning on my mini-cassette.

  “As a husband or a cop?”

  “However you want to answer.”

  “Okay. As a husband, sure, I’d want revenge. Losing your wife . . . I don’t know if I could handle that. As a policeman, I’d say let justice run its course. We’ll find this guy. We don’t give up. Step back and let us do our jobs.”

  “That’s Sergeant Mike Whitfield,” I said into the microphone, then turned. “And this is Officer Barry Mendez. M-E-N-D-E-Z?” A nod. “What would you say to Stone?”

  Mendez leaned into the microphone, a stern look on his face. His first interview as a cop, the former college football defensive lineman at Ohio State handled a reporter like an opposing blocker. Head-on and domineering.

  “I’d also tell him to back off. Like Sergeant Whitfield, my heart goes out to him. I’m not married, but my girlfriend’s purse got snatched last summer at Green Hills Mall. I wanted to tear the guy’s head off when they caught him, but I didn’t. You can’t let emotions take control of you. This is different. I get that. But Stone needs to understand he can’t take the law into his own hands.”

  “Thanks, guys.” I turned off the recorder and went out where Clarkston was interviewing Precinct Commander Mark Reynolds.

  “And lastly, Commander Reynolds,” Clarkston asked dramatically, “what progress has been made in solving this most heinous crime?”

  “I can’t divulge details, but I can reassure the public that we are leaving no stone unturned in our efforts to solve this case,” Reynolds said. Clarkston didn’t pick up on the unintended pun, but I did. “We’ve talked to neighbors and canvassed the area. I’d encourage anyone with information, no matter how insignificant they think it is, to please come forward.”

  Clarkston wrapped up the interview, and I walked over. “My turn.”

  “God, I hate this part of the job,” Reynolds said.

  I slapped his shoulder. “Sure you do.”

  “No, really. You’re not so bad. You know how things work. You’re out here all the time. I understand when you ask tough questions that I don’t like answering. But these guys,” he said, sweeping his arm, “they only come around when it’s a big news story. And then they sensationalize it and justify it by saying they’re just doing their jobs.”

  I sympathized. “I know you can’t tell me everything, but I trust that what you do tell me isn’t a load of bull. Okay, on the record, Mark,” I said, turning on the mike, “what’s your take on Stone’s declared vendetta?”

  “The Stones suffered an enormous tragedy. I don’t blame him for being outraged and irrational right now, but if he does uncover information that is crucial to our investigation, he should bring it to us and not try to take the law into his own hands. He could get hurt or cause some other innocent person to get hurt. He needs to let us do our jobs. His wife’s funeral is tomorrow, and he should focus on that, not thoughts of vengeance.”

  “Would you call Stone’s declaration irrational or justifiable?”

  “I’m no psychiatrist and won’t address those aspects either way. I’ll leave that to others. My job is to enforce the law and protect the public. On that note, I’d like Mister Stone to understand that any time we spend watching him to prevent him from breaking the law is time subtracted from finding his wife’s killer.”

  I hit the “off” button, put
the recorder in my pocket, and extended a hand. Reynolds made an off-the-record request.

  “If you find Stone, tell him to call me. Give him my number.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “You know it doesn’t work that way. I’ll tell him you want to talk, but I can’t give your number. Besides, you guys are in the phonebook.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask. You could save me a lot of time.”

  13

  Time is a precious commodity in the newspaper business, where every second counts. These are words we live by, and deadlines are treated dead-serious.

  You know what a deadline is? You think you do, but it may be the one single word applied to the newspaper industry which is most misunderstood by the general public. The dog-eared New College Dictionary sitting atop my desk offers two definitions, the first of which appears written for editors and the second for reporters. I’ll give the second one first: A specific time or date by which something must be accomplished, i.e. the cut-off time for copy to be accepted for publication. That’s clear enough. The first definition, at least it’s how I sometimes think my editors think, says a deadline is a point either inside or outside a prison that if crossed, a prisoner risks being shot.

  I’ve lived more than thirty years under the thumb of deadlines. I’ve missed my share of deadlines, I’m sorry to say, and the next-morning explanations of why I missed my deadline are the closest I’ll ever come to facing a firing squad. Editors want to know why I missed the deadline, what I would have done different to avoid missing that particular deadline, what steps I can take in the future to prevent missing a deadline. Sheesh.