The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (32 page)

“I’m fifty now, Jesse, and I’m not ready for a nursing home. I plan to run for the Senate if there’s ever an opening, which looks doubtful. Sorta gets in your blood, you know?”

“Again, I’m flattered, but I just don’t see it.”

“What about you, Keith?”

Keith almost choked on a bite of grilled shrimp. He swallowed and managed to say, “I guess I’m on the other end. I’m only twenty-seven.”

“Time to get started. I like the way you carry yourself, Keith, and you have your father’s personality, not to mention the last name, which could be a real asset.”

The conversation was not new. Jesse and Keith had discussed pursuing a seat in the state legislature, the traditional starting place for young, ambitious politicians in the state. Keith could not yet admit to anyone, not even his father, that he dreamed of living in the very mansion where he was now having lunch.

Jesse smiled and replied, “He’s thinking about it, Governor.”

Waller said, “Here’s an idea. A. F. Sumner just got reelected to his third term as attorney general. I don’t know why the governor gets only four years when everybody else can serve for life, but that’s the law. As you know, the legislature does not want a strong governor. Anyway, I’m close to A.F. and he owes me some favors. Think about coming to Jackson and working in the AG’s office
for a few years. I’ll be around and I can introduce you to a lot of people. It’ll be a great experience.”

Keith was flattered but he wasn’t ready to leave the Coast. “That’s quite generous, Governor, but I have this new wife and we’ve just settled into our apartment. The law firm is growing and we’re getting some good cases.”

“Send me some business. I’m about to be unemployed.”

“But thank you, Governor.”

“No rush. The offer stands. Perhaps in a year or two.”

“I’ll certainly consider it.”

Jesse had one last favor to request. It was rumored that the chief of the state police would hang on to his job through the change in administrations. Jesse wanted his continued cooperation for the next four years. The seven unsolved murders, all gang-related in Jesse’s opinion, still haunted him. Fats had never shown an interest and the cases were only grower colder. Extra muscle was needed from the state, and Jesse wanted a meeting with the chief to ask for help.

With only a month left in office, the governor would promise anything.

The break came in February of 1976, some seven years after the murder, when a bootlegger named Bayard Wolf doubled over in pain and decided it was time to see a doctor. His wife drove him to Tupelo for tests that did not go well. He was diagnosed with acute pancreatic cancer and given a short time to live.

Wolf lived in rural Tippah County, one of the driest in the state, and for years made a decent living selling illegal beer to thirsty customers, many of them teenagers. As a younger man he had raised hell with the State Line Mob and had once worked in a club owned by Ginger Redfield and her husband. His second wife convinced him to leave that unstable and dangerous world and try to go straight. Bootlegging beer was an easy and harmless crime, one without the threat of violence. The sheriff left him alone because he provided a much needed service and kept the kids off the roads to Tupelo and Memphis.

Unknown to his wife, and to the sheriff, Wolf maintained contacts with the Dixie Mafia and provided a service that few others could. In the business his nickname was “the Broker.” For a nice fee, he could liaison between a man with money and a grudge, and a professional hit man. From the obscurity of his quiet little farm near Walnut, Mississippi, he had arranged numerous contract killings. He was the man to go see when murder was the only option.

Faced with imminent death himself, Wolf found a sudden interest in God. His sins were numerous, far more impressive than most, and they became burdens too heavy to carry. He believed in heaven and hell and he was frightened over what he was facing.
During a late-night revival service, Wolf walked down the aisle to the altar where the evangelist met him. In tears, he confessed his sinful past, though he did not, at that emotional moment, give much in the way of details. The congregation rejoiced that a notorious bootlegger and sinner had found the Lord and they celebrated with him.

After his dramatic conversion, which was genuine, Wolf felt enormous relief, but he was still plagued by his past. He felt responsible for many horrible crimes which continued to haunt him. Weeks passed and he deteriorated physically. Mentally and emotionally he was not at peace. His preacher stopped by once a day for a devotional and prayer, and several times Wolf felt the spirit move him to confess everything. He could not, however, muster the courage, and the guilt grew heavier.

Two months after his diagnosis, he had lost forty pounds and could not get out of bed. The end was near and he was not ready for it. He called the sheriff and asked him to stop by when the preacher was there. With his wife sitting by his bed, and the sheriff taking notes, and the preacher laying hands on his blanket, Wolf started talking.

That afternoon, the sheriff drove to Jackson and met with the chief of the state police. The following morning, two officers and two technicians arrived at the Wolf home. A camera and a recorder were quickly set up at the foot of his bed.

In a strained, scratchy, and often fading voice, Wolf talked. He gave details of contract killings that stretched back two decades. He named the men who ordered the hits and the fees they paid. He named their go-betweens. He named their victims. The more he talked, the more he nodded off. Heavily sedated and in enormous pain, he drifted in and out and was occasionally confused. Some of the hits he recalled in detail, others had been too long ago.

The sheriff stood at the door, shaking his head in disbelief.

Mrs. Wolf was overwhelmed and could not stay in the room. She served coffee and offered cookies, but no one was hungry.

Bayard Wolf died three days later, at peace with himself. His preacher assured him that God forgives all sins when they are confessed before him. Wolf wasn’t sure God had ever heard such a monumental confession, but he accepted the promises on faith and was smiling when he took his last breath.

He left behind an enormous treasure of facts that would take years to unravel. Nineteen murders in twenty-one years in eight states. Jealous husbands, jealous wives, jealous girlfriends, feuding business partners, siblings at war, scam artists, duped investors, a corrupt politician, even a rogue cop.

And one nightclub owner determined to eliminate the competition.

According to Wolf, a man named Nevin Noll met him in a bar in Tupelo. Wolf was quite familiar with Biloxi and had even visited the clubs in years past. He had never met Malco, but he had certainly heard of him. Wolf knew that Noll was a longtime gun thug for Malco, though he didn’t ask where the money came from. That question was always off-limits. Noll gave him $20,000 in cash for a hit on Dusty Cromwell, another outlaw with an even shadier past. Wolf assumed there was another turf war underway in Biloxi and Malco was in the middle of it. Such activities were common down there and Wolf knew some of the players.

Wolf kept 10 percent of the cash, his customary fee, and brokered the killing. His favorite hit man was Johnny Clark, a former army sniper who’d been kicked out of the military for atrocities in Vietnam. His nickname, whispered only in certain circles, was “the Rifleman.” Wolf met him in the same bar in Tupelo and handed over the rest of the cash. Two months later, Dusty Cromwell was practically decapitated as he walked along a Biloxi beach with his girlfriend.

Of the other unsolved murders on the Coast, Wolf claimed no
knowledge. Some had all the markings of professional hits; others appeared to be the work of local thugs settling scores.

In May, Jesse Rudy drove to Jackson for a meeting at the headquarters of the state police. He was given the background on Bayard Wolf and shown a video clip of his narrative about the Cromwell murder. It was a stunning turn of events, one that Jesse had in no way contemplated, and it presented an enormous challenge for any prosecution.

First, Wolf, the star witness, was dead. Second, his taped testimony would never be admitted in court. No judge would allow it, regardless of how crucial it was, because the defense did not have the opportunity to cross-examine the witness. Even though Wolf had been sworn to tell the truth, there was no way a jury would ever see or hear him. To admit his testimony would be clear reversible error.

The third problem, as the police had already learned, was that there was no sign of anyone named Johnny Clark. Wolf believed he lived somewhere near Opelika, Alabama. The locals found three men by that name in the area, but none came close to being considered suspects. The Alabama state police located forty-three more Johnny Clarks living in the state, and eliminated all of them as possible suspects. And, according to Wolf, the Rifleman was responsible for two other hits in Alabama, so the police there had their hands full. The phone number Wolf gave them for Clark had been disconnected three years earlier. It was tracked to a mobile home park in the village of Lanett, Alabama, and to a trailer that was no longer there. It had been registered to a woman named Irene Harris, who evidently disappeared with her trailer. She had not been found but they were still searching.

The state police and Jesse agreed it was safe to assume that a professional killer with a checkered past would move around and hide behind a number of aliases.

According to U.S. military records, twenty-seven men named Johnny Clark served in Vietnam; not a single one was dishonorably discharged. Two were killed in action.

The state police tried to investigate every angle of Wolf’s story. They did not doubt the gist of it—the nineteen contract killings. With the names of the victims in hand, it was easy enough to track down the cold cases in eight states. However, it was impossible to verify every detail Wolf gave them.

Jesse did not remember the three-hour drive back to Biloxi. His mind whirled with scenarios, strategies, questions, and few answers. Contract murder was a capital offense in the state, and the beauty of bringing Lance Malco, Nevin Noll, and others to trial for the killing of Dusty Cromwell would excite any prosecutor. They deserved death row, but putting them there seemed impossible. There were no witnesses to the killing and the crime scene yielded nothing. The high-caliber bullet that entered through Dusty’s right cheek and blew off the back of his head was never found. Thus, there were no ballistics, no weapon, no proof of any kind to show a jury.

At the office, Jesse briefed Egan Clement on the meeting in Jackson. There was relief in finally knowing who murdered Cromwell, though Lance had been the suspect from the beginning. The confirmation, though, was a hollow win because there was no clear path to an indictment.

They filed the information away, added memos to files that were much too thin, and waited for the next phone call from the state police. It came a month later and was a waste of time. There was nothing to report. The other eighteen investigations were sputtering along, most with about as much success as the Cromwell case. Wolf’s snitching had police in eight states chasing their tails with little to show for it. They were searching for skilled hit men
who left cold trails. They were wading through the underworld, where they did not belong. They were trying to bring justice to victims who were also crooks. They were trying to follow cash money trails with no hope of success.

Another month passed, and another with no luck. But the digging caused gossip, and the gossip took on a life of its own. Rumors spread through the darkness and in countless bars and honky-tonks word was passed that Wolf had said too much before he passed.

For the past fifteen years, Nevin Noll had perfected the rules of engagement when a stranger came to a bar looking for him. Get the name, ask what the hell he wants, and tell him Mr. Noll is not in. He might be back tomorrow, or he might be out of town. Never meet with a man you know nothing about.

But the stranger was no stranger to the ways of crime bosses and was in a hurry anyway. On a napkin he wrote down the name “Bayard Wolf,” left it with the bartender, and said, “I’ll be back in one hour. Please impress upon Mr. Noll that this is an urgent matter.” He left without giving a name.

An hour later, Noll was on the beach, sitting at a picnic table and staring at the ocean. The stranger approached and stood five feet away. The two had never met, but they had met Wolf. The man with a grudge meets the man with a gun.