Vendetta Stone (23 page)

Officer Bobby Powell entered the Murfreesboro Gun and Golf Club unsure of what to expect. Jackson Stone might be trying to buy a gun from someone, the call from Nashville said. Nope. Jackson just needed some practice. Once a member of both clubs and now an instant celebrity, he renewed old friendships and made a roomful of new acquaintances. Jackson borrowed a Taurus Raging Bull .44 Magnum from his old buddy Larry McDaniel, a retired Army colonel and one of the club founders, and popped off a hundred rounds on the target range. Rusty at first, he regained the form that earned him sharpshooter status in the Marines. After hitting twenty-seven bull’s-eyes in a row to close out the session, he smiled as he removed his tapered hearing protectors and shooting glasses. Larry put them up.

“Nice shooting
. How about signing some targets? We’ll auction them at our fall fundraiser,” Larry said.

Officer
Powell entered the private club as Jackson signed autographs, shook hands, and told the crowd about plans for the future—if one awaited, he reminded himself.

“How’s the hunt goin
g, Stony?” A voice from the back.

“Jack, please. And I haven’t gotten started yet. I’m still trying to get my websi
te off the ground. I hope you all check it out in a couple of weeks.”

“I ain
’t gonna do it,” said farmer Ned Buchanan, another club old-timer who received a lifetime membership as part of the deal to sell the land where the clubhouse, eighteen-hole golf course, and indoor shooting range were located.

All heads swiveled from
Jackson to Ned and back as if following a tennis match.

“How long we known each oth
er?” Ned said, snapping at his suspenders.

“I
t’s been at least ten years, Ned. You were one of the first members I met.”

“And now I wonder if I ever knew you at all. What you’re doin’ ain’t Christian, Jack.”

“I appreciate your—”

“Don’t pay an
y attention to that old fool,” retired Murfreesboro judge Richard Henson snapped. “On the bench for thirty-two years, I saw plenty of scumbags that deserved the death penalty. I would’ve been happy to send them on their way, but it wasn’t an option then. I’m glad they reinstated it.”

Voices raised
, then hushed, as Officer Powell grabbed their attention.

“That’s enough, gentlemen. Mister Stone
, I’d like a word with you outside.”

The m
embers quieted and watched Jackson follow the policeman outside. The warm air enveloped him and he broke out in a sweat, which made Officer Powell suspicious.

“Can I ask your reason for coming here
, sir?”

“W
hat’s this about?” Jackson said.

“We got a report of
an illegal gun purchase going down. Now I walk in and see you inciting a riot. Where’s the gun?”

The
suspicious officer’s eyes narrowed, and Jackson found himself in another stare-down with a cop. He allowed himself to grow angrier, but maintained control.

“I
no longer own a registered handgun, nor am I trying to buy one. Ask Judge Henson, he’ll tell you. I thought I’d visit some friends, if it’s any of your business,” Jackson said, adding, “I used to be a member here.”

“It
is
my business, and I don’t want trouble. You better leave,” Powell said, “unless maybe you’d rather go downtown and answer some questions.”

Maybe he didn’t
. Jackson left without a fuss. He drove back to Nashville trying to figure out this puzzle. Too late to call his attorney now, so he’d call first thing in the morning.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 18

1

I woke up, had two cups of coffee, along with cinnamon rolls and a slice of cantaloupe, then left for the office because they wanted an in-depth look at Stone for the Sunday op-ed section. They planned a pro-con debate with the paper’s religion editor, and they proposed to label the package “Stone-Cold Killer?” I thought it was a cliché, but what the editor wanted, the editor got. I faced a noon-Thursday deadline, hence the sooner-than-usual start. As it turned out, that piece never got published because of the call that came in at eight thirty on the police scanner sitting atop my cluttered
desk.

“All area units please respond to a possible double-homicide in East Nashville at one-six-nine Evans Street. That’s one-six-nine Evans Street,” the scanner crackled.

One sixty-nine Evans. Why did that address sound familiar?

Then it hit me. I
emailed city editor Carrie Sullivan and photo editor Brad Moore the address of where I was headed—the house next to Jackson Stone’s.

The protesters had returned—both groups—and about twenty minutes after Jackson arose, he became aware of them. He turned on the coffee, showered and dressed. He almost put on a tie before the realization hit: No job, no more ties. He poured his first K-Cup—choosing Hazelnut over Mudslide—and went to fetch the paper.

The
harried scene outside surprised him. Jackson didn’t know it marked the protesters’ second day on the sidewalk.

“There he is,” shouted a bearded young man holding a sign which read “Put Your Faith
In The Lord’s Vengeance, Not Jackson Stone’s.”

Jackson
walked between protesters and picked up the paper, shaking his head. As he neared the front walk, a tinny female voice shouted.

“Violence sucks and so do you, Stone.”

“That’s enough,” Stone said angrily, staring down his hecklers. Each set of eyes he met dropped. Jackson cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

“Don’t you people have anything better to do? Do you know what time it is? Get out of here before you wake my neigh—
”

Jackson
froze, his first hint of something very wrong. Struck by the four days’ worth of newspapers on the driveway next door, he stood oblivious to the protesters’ resumed shouting. He crossed the strip of grass between the two driveways and picked up the Sunday paper, looking around.

“That
’s odd,” he mumbled to himself. Their cars were in the driveway. They weren’t out of town, otherwise they’d have asked him to get their mail. He checked the mailbox. It was jammed tight with envelopes, magazines, and fliers. Jackson didn’t like that and trotted to the front door, brushing by the protesters who followed him into the next yard. He tried the lock. Nothing.

He sprin
ted around to the back door. Also locked. A hand to his brow blocked out the sun as he pressed his nose to the bay window and peered into the open kitchen. An open mustard jar sat on the counter beside the opened loaf of bread. He saw a twist-tie on the floor, and a drawer stood open. No signs of movement or life from inside. He pounded the door, then looked inside from another angle and noticed the open door to the basement.

“Herb? Sarah? Anybody home?”

No reply. He banged the door again, smacking harder. After several seconds of silence, Jackson backed up and then crashed his shoulder to the door—once, twice. The third time the door jamb gave and Jackson burst in. The overpowering stench gagged Jackson as it brought back Gulf War memories. He stumbled outside and around the corner of the house.

“Somebody call the police,”
Jackson shouted at the protesters. Several did. Jackson pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and covered his nose and mouth. He used his forearm to push the basement door open wider and looked down the steps.
Ohmigod!
At the bottom of the stairs lay Herb, a knife protruding from his back. Jackson thought he couldn’t be any more shocked. Dead-wrong. He wondered if Sarah hid down there and descended four steps to look around and saw nothing.

“Sarah?”

Jackson eased down a couple more steps, halted, and looked. Again, nothing. Stepping around Herb’s body, careful not to touch anything, he turned the corner and stumbled backward.

Sarah’s limp body hung from a noose.

What in the name of God happened here?

Jackson
didn’t touch either body or disturb the scene. Moving around Herb’s body to climb the stairs, Jackson noticed the claw marks for the first time. Peering closer at the bloody scratches on the left cheek, something else caught Jackson’s eye, something familiar. What’s that cloth in his mouth?

As the first reporter to arrive at the crime scene, I spotted police and people everywhere. The protesters no longer protested. The Christian group formed a sitting circle on the thick grass, praying aloud while the atheists huddled on the other side of the driveway. Two tattooed goth girls hugged and a blond, bearded young man—who went searching for Jackson and got a whiff of the odor emanating up the steps—crawled on his hands and knees, still gagging.

I learned
Jackson found two bodies inside the house. The officer wouldn’t divulge any other information, so I went looking for Jackson. My cell phone buzzed, the first of many calls from city editor Carrie Sullivan. After getting her up to date, at nine oh five, I dictated what I could. Carrie filed our first online story, tagged as
BREAKING NEWS
and sent out at nine fifteen as an email alert to TenneSceneToday.com and Twitter subscribers:

2 more deaths possibly linked

to Angela Stone murder
case

By
GERRY HILLIARD

TenneScene Today

Police this morning were investigating the deaths of two people believed to be the next-door neighbors of controversial Nashvillian Jackson Stone, who last week made headlines by proclaiming his desire for vengeance after the Aug. 3 disappearance and murder of his wife, Angela, 35.

Police
won’t confirm the identities of the male and female victims, whose bodies were discovered in the house at 8 a.m., by Stone. Public records identify the owners of the property at 169 Evans Street as Herbert J. and Sarah M. Fletcher.

It’s the latest twist in a bizarre ser
ies of tragedies connected to Stone. It is unknown if these latest deaths are in any way connected to the murder of Angela Stone, who went missing for a week before searchers found her body in the Warner Parks area.

Stone held an extraordinary press conference last Friday to announce a vendetta which has drawn both praise and critic
ism. His wife’s funeral was Saturday.

Return to
TenneSceneToday.com for updates on this breaking story.

At the paper, Carrie took charge as reporters arrived. Shelley and Tony Smith were ordered to the scene to help me, while editors reached photographer Casey Leiber at home and told her to head to the crime scene and get something ASAP. At nine thirty, I called in.

“It’s them, Carrie
. It’s still not official confirmation, but another cop I know said they found Sarah and Herb Fletcher dead in the basement. He didn’t say how they died. The police spokesman isn’t here yet, but we can run with it.”

“Thanks
. Help’s on the way. Call back when you’ve got something else. Can we identify the cop?”

“We’d better not. I don’t want to burn a source. Hold off if you want until I can get officia
l confirmation. I’ll try to get to the paper by noon or one, two at the latest.”

Carrie hung up and filed the first of several updates throughout the day. She rewrote the second sentence, changing “police have not confirmed the identities of the male and female victims, whose bodies were discovered in the house at 8
a.m., by Stone” to “police confirmed the identities but have not released the names of the male and female victims, whose bodies were discovered in the basement at 8 a.m., by Stone.” Stronger, but she would not identify them until the police did.

My story, p
osted for about twenty minutes, already included five attached comments.

At 9:18 a.m.,
JUDY BLUE EYES
wrote: “OMG. Can’t believe this. Everybody around Stone is dying. Are they going to question him?”

At 9:22 a.m.,
EL GORDO
wrote: “East Nashville has always been a dangerous place to live, but this is incredible. Lotsa unanswered questions, but I’d start by asking Jackson Stone’s whereabouts.”

At 9:25 a.m.,
CHILLPILL PHIL
wrote: “Don’t overreact and jump to conclusions, people. We don’t have all the facts yet. We don’t even know for sure if it’s the Fletchers.”

The city’s radio stations began
reporting the Fletchers’ deaths on the nine-thirty news breaks, citing
TenneScene Today
as their information source. George Dunkirk dropped his planned segment on the weakening economy to discuss the Fletchers’ deaths, speculating not on
whether
they were connected to Angela’s death, but
how
. Listeners joined in, and it made for lively—and perhaps libelous—conversation.

Other media arrived
and Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston was delivering a live report on sister station All-News 111, when police spokesman Darrin Jensen arrived. Darrin assessed the situation and ordered the media to assemble down the street. We all grumbled but followed him a block away, assembling in a half-circle.

Jensen said he would release information as it became available and that he would try to get Chief King to make a statement at the appr
opriate time. Until then, he cautioned, stay out of the way and let the officers do their jobs. Any requests for interviews were to go through him. Jensen got the victims’ identities confirmed, and I called the paper as he tried to keep the press in rein. It didn’t work.