Vendetta Stone (16 page)

to
play Judge and Jury and you don’t want him judged too harshly? You’re a fool and so is Stone if he thinks he can get away with using his wife’s death as an excuse to take the law into his own hands. Murder is murder any way you cut it.”

That settled Sally. What did
average Nashvillians think about Jackson Stone’s plans and the police’s reactions? She speed-dialed her weekend videographer. “Grab your camera. We’re going to Centennial Park.”

What a good idea
, she thought as she climbed into the passenger seat of the newsvan. Even if it didn’t pan out to be a great story, just hanging out at the park would be great.

Sergeant Mike Whitfield didn’t like working weekends, but with everybody—from the mayor’s office to the chief to the media to the public—watching how the police handled the Stone case, pressure intensified to solve the case. Detectives handled most of the workload, but relied on Whitfield’s street-smart instincts to determine what forensics couldn’t. He’d played a major role in finding the East Nashville rapist last year.

“There’s g
otta be a clue here, somewhere.” Another report flew across the desk littered with a stack of papers detailing physical evidence, none pointing to the killer’s identity. Fingerprints in the house belonged to the Stones and their closest family and friends. The city-wide manhunt for Angela began in East Nashville and slowly fanned out over a twenty-mile radius. It took more than a week for the search party to reach Warner Park, but once they did, police dogs discovered her body less than a half-mile from the golf course. A couple of volunteers swore they combed over that area less than twenty-four hours before the call went out that a search dog sniffed out her shallow grave. No trace of her car.

The autopsy
revealed the cause of death as asphyxiation, and the ribs broken by something swung—a metal rod or a tire iron—indicated a left-handed killer. Neck and facial bruises showed Angela was unconscious before she died, which meant the murderer didn’t rush. Sexual abuse, but no semen. No flesh underneath her fingernails, no bloody shoeprints, no tell-tale traces, no muddy tire tracks at the scene to help identify the killer.

“Nothing, dammit,” he said in frustration
as his phone rang. “East Precinct. Sergeant Whitfield.”

“Good afternoon, Sergeant. Chief King here.”

“Yes sir,” Whitfield said, straightening in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me you’ve found something to
crack the Stone case.”

“Sorry
sir. There’s nothing useful. But that suggests we’re dealing with somebody who knows how to cover his tracks.”

“
Not surprising. What else?”

“Detective Williams
rechecked the FBI database for comparisons to other cold case files and ongoing investigations around the South, with no hits. There’s a missing connection. I’m going back to the crime scene tomorrow.”

“Send somebody else,” the chief ordered, “and be in my office at ten a.m.”

After l
eaving the Stones’ house, I sped to the paper about one-thirty. I sent a budget line for my story to the weekend editor, wrote a ten-inch website version about Stone’s visit to church, and got it posted. I then copied that story, opened a new Word document, and began writing for print. I re-read my notes and listened to the recorder once to make sure I accurately typed a quote. Then I called Reverend Armstrong, apologized for not sticking around after church, and told him the gist of my story.

“
I think I’ve said enough,” the reverend said when I asked him about the quote, “but I look forward to reading the article.”

Quickly,
I filed a twenty-inch story on the day’s events, left the paper, drove twenty minutes on I-65 North to pick up Jill in Hendersonville, and turned right around to drive back downtown to Greer Stadium, just ten minutes from the paper. Ordinarily, I’d be ticked, but not on Jill’s birthday. She’d been a good sport about my working on a regular day off.

I sat my large beer in the cup holder, stood with Jill
, and removed my ball cap as the young woman belted out the national anthem at the Nashville Sounds’ Class Triple-A game against the Salt Lake Bees. The paper could find me if news broke or an editor raised questions about the story, and I’d tucked a printout of my story in my pocket.

The Sounds scored two runs in the bottom of the first inning on Eddie Smith’s two-out, two-run double, but
the right-fielder threw him out at third base trying to stretch it into a triple. The Bees threatened in the top of the third when my phone began vibrating. I couldn’t hear because of the loudspeakers and cheers of the fans at the first out. I tapped Jill on the knee. “Be right back. Want anything?” She shook her head.

I left the box seats and flew
up the concrete steps two at a time until I reached the concourse. I found a sheltered site and flipped on the phone. The missed call came from the paper, and I dialed the weekend editor.

“
David, you rang?”

“Yeah. We got a little tight for space
, and I wanted to go over a couple of changes. We’ll run your story full on the website.”

“Hang on a second,” I said and pulled out my
printout, reading along as he went over the proposed changes in the copy about halfway down.

“Finally, in that paragraph where the preacher is talking about the sixth commandment, I paraphrased the last part to say that his Sunday message was for all Christians, not just Stone. It picks up with the quote, ‘Terrible things happen
to good Christians every day.’ ”             

“That’s fine
, Dave. ’Preciate the call. Anything else?” There wasn’t. “Tell Lex to frame that headline. Inspirational,” I added, then got in line to buy a couple of small plastic souvenir helmets filled with ice cream. Vanilla for me, chocolate for Jill. They’d reached the top of the fourth inning when I got back to my seat. The Sounds were leading 4-2, but eventually lost 5-4 on a three-run shot in the bottom of the ninth by Boomer Malone.

Delmore Wolfe spent the afternoon in a daze after reading the morning newspaper at the diner. Pushing the cold, tasteless cheeseburger away from him, he rose to pay the bill and took the paper with him back to the motel. He showered and tried watching the game, but his mind kept going back to that blaring headline
Police to Stone: Thou shalt not kil
l.

Wolfe
tried to write in his journal, but couldn’t concentrate. Growing impatient, he tore the front page off the paper, got out his pen, and blacked out the words
Police to
and
not
. That left the headline reading
Stone: Thou shalt kill
.

He
flashed an evil smile—
I think I will
—as he slashed a big X through the picture of Stone, marking the crossing diagonal lines over and over until he obliterated Stone’s features.

The cackling laugh finally ceased when Wolfe’s appetite roared.
Pushing six o’clock, he headed downtown for food and some good, country, butt-kicking music.

Wolfe
stopped in at a couple of the Printer’s Alley lounges and strip clubs before heading down to lower Broadway for a quick stop in Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. The world-famous bar built its reputation in the 1950s and ’60s when some Grand Ole Opry members would slip in for a cold one between sets on Friday and Saturday nights at the Ryman Auditorium. He downed a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons, then wandered into Robert’s Western World, once a clothing store converted into a bar that served one of the best burgers in town. Its claim to fame: Helping launch the career of BR549, a band which took its name from an old
Hee-Haw
running gag. That was the telephone number of country comedian Junior Samples’ used car dealership.

Wolfe
pulled up a stool at the counter and ordered a longneck and a rare cheeseburger. Bobby Ray’s Bumpkins were just taking the stage for their first of eight sets that would run until about two in the morning. The new house band completed its soundcheck as Wolfe’s food arrived. Before stepping to the mike, Bobby Ray leaned behind an amp and picked up a big tin can which he sat on a stool. Taped to the can, a picture cut out of the newspaper. A sassy Angela Stone on stage at the 2009 CMA Country Music Festival, looking Pure Palomino.

“Don’t know if y
’all saw the paper the last couple of days, but you probably know that Nashville’s Jackson Stone is starting a website to raise money to find the guy who killed his wife Angela,” Bobby Ray told the dozen or so tourists seated around the bar/boot store. “Our drummer’s wife met Mizzus Stone at the outreach center earlier this year, so we talked it over and thought we’d contribute tonight’s tips to this good cause. Hope y’all pony up on the way out.”

Wolfe
sat there for a minute as the music started, then threw a ten on the counter and left. He’d lost his appetite. He didn’t put any money in the tip jar.

After checking with the precinct to see if he could return to his house, Jackson got home about four, unpacked the car, and took the first steps to putting his shattered life back together. Going into the bedroom proved the hardest part. The police had confiscated the sheets and mattress pad for testing, and he saw other signs of disturbance. He vacuumed, made the bed, and put his clothes away, then heated some of the leftovers that Sheila had packed for him.

At five-thirty,
he drove across town to Belle Rive Baptist—the church where he grew up, where he found Jesus, got married, developed lifelong friendships—to attend evening services. He didn’t expect a repeat of the morning service from the preacher and didn’t get another lecture. But the fallout from that sermon continued, pro and con. Everyone spoke to Jackson about his plans, some harshly.

Af
ter services, the Keanes and Blakemores cornered Jackson before he could get away.

“H
ow are you?” Mary Keane said. “I mean, really.”

“I sure didn’t expect Brother Bob to go off on me like that this morning. I’m just going
to try to focus on work and help find Angela’s killer.”

“That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Joan Blakemore said. She opened her
purse and handed him five one hundred dollar bills. “This is in memory of Angela.”

Surprised by the amount,
Jackson accepted it humbly.

“
Joan, Wally, it’s too generous, but thank you very much.”

“Nonsense. We loved Angela and
—”

“Don’t take
it, Jack,” Mary Keane interrupted. “That’s blood money. You should take to heart what Brother Bob said—Thou shalt not kill. Forget this foolish talk.”

Joan turned on her sister, saying
she could spend her inheritance how she saw fit. Jackson didn’t like being the cause of a squabble, but Wally Blakemore said the sisters wouldn’t be happy if they weren’t arguing over something.

Their words, the preacher’s words, all the opinions of strangers that he saw on Channel 11’s ten o’clock newscast kept echoing in his brain
that night as he lay in bed. Finally, about midnight, he turned to the power of prayer as a sleep aid.

“Lord,
please help me get through the night. I need sleep, God. I need to be able to go to work tomorrow. Oh God, please give me guidance and direction. I’m trying to do the right thing. Please give me a sign. Amen.”

Jackson
finally slept, dreaming of a wild date with Angela at the long-gone Opryland theme park. They were riding the Screaming Delta Demon roller coaster.

MONDAY, AUGUST 16

1

The bedside alarm began screaming
at seven sharp. Jackson jumped up fresh and alert, showered and dressed, turned on the coffee pot and put a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, then went to get the newspaper.

He noticed that both the
ad-filled Sunday and the lightweight Monday papers were in the Fletchers’ driveway where their cars were parked.

There were no lights on inside the house
, but Jackson thought nothing of it. Sarah worked second shift, and Herb remained jobless.

Jackson
considered taking the papers to the house and knocking on the door, but he didn’t want to be late for work.

Jackson
poured coffee and sat at the breakfast table to check the headlines, anxious to read the story about him.

“Oh
, Lord.” He hadn’t foreseen this.

Yes, t
he veteran advertising executive was both surprised and satisfied with the jaw-dropping coverage he’d generated. It was the “top-trending story” on both TV and the web, and newspaper sales soared.

F
ormer readers who canceled subscriptions because they didn’t like the paper’s political leanings scrambled to find a copy of Monday’s paper. People who discontinued subscriptions because their companies dropped them from the payroll clambered to find a copy of Monday’s paper. Online readers caused a near meltdown with hit-after-hit and post-after-post on my article.