Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) (36 page)

There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. “What is it, Ben?” I asked.

“I don’t want to be talking out of school,” Weaver replied. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else but you, but you’re still Dee’s best friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes, as far as I know. I’m your friend, too, Ben.”

“Well, between us friends, Dee hasn’t been himself for the last year or so. I don’t think he’s drinking, but it’s like the fire went out inside him.”

“It’s called burn-out,” I answered. “That’s why I quit, Ben. I used to love the job, but I was having to drive myself to do it.”

Weaver sighed. “I remember, but you quit before anyone much noticed. I don’t think there’s anyone who hasn’t noticed with Dee.”

“How has he been the last couple of days?” I asked.

Weaver thought for a moment. “He’s been almost like his old self, now I think about it,” he replied. “Even with the accident. He’s...focused. Now he’s set to retire, he’s doing fine.”

“Keep that in mind when your time comes,” I told him. “Dee is the one who told me how I was getting.”

“Dear God!” Weaver murmured. “None of us had the balls to tell him! We did him a great disservice.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much,” I laughed. “Dee might have regretted it afterward, but he might have killed the messenger.”

“There is that,” Weaver replied. “What are you going to do now?”

I thought about it a moment. “I think I may head down toward Magnolia and check the county records there. I may nose around a bit in Texarkana first. I need to check out that convenience store clerk.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Weaver replied. “Who’s going to back you up?”

I thought about that for a moment. “I’ll work with Dill if he is still around. I think Tanner might let me have Mason for a bit longer, too.”

“All right, then,” Weaver said. “Just don’t try to go in alone. This guy is pretty nasty.”

“And I’m not as young as I once was?” I asked. There was silence from the other end. “You’re right, Ben. I’ll get some help.”

“I believe it was my former boss who told me that was a cardinal rule for any investigation,” he answered dryly. “I think his exact words were that a cop who goes in alone has a fool for a partner. I’ll get on those birth records STAT.”

When I hung up, I tried to get in touch with Dill again, but the desk clerk at the motel told me he had checked out. “He did leave you a message,” she said, handing me a sealed envelope. When I opened it, there was a brief note telling me he had to leave to meet another commitment and asking me to call his central office if I needed to get in touch with him. He added that he hoped to meet again when we had more time to swap yarns. The note was signed with a scrawl I had a hard time deciphering except for the initials.

I had better luck with James Mason. Sheriff Tanner agreed to let him stay on as my partner for a few more days, but I could tell he was reluctant. I knew he wanted the case closed, and I couldn’t blame him. When I told him what I thought about Edward Posey killing Daniel and switching identities, he was a bit skeptical. “Let’s see what turn up,” he said. “You take James Mason next three days. After that, you on your own. I can’t spare him. This case done took too much time. Damn vandals raising hell all over and folk getting hot about it.”

I thanked John Tanner and gave Mason a call. He was due to go on shift at three that afternoon, but agreed to come in right away when I outlined what I had in mind. I asked him to wear a sport coat and tie since we were going out of the county, and I asked him to pack an overnight bag. Civil servants tend to be more helpful when investigators dress the part, and we needed every advantage we could get. All we had to work with was a first name, a photo of Edward Posey, and only a general idea of where to look.

When we got to Magnolia, the first thing we did was to let the local police know we were around. The chief wasn’t someone I knew, but my name was familiar to him, and he was very cooperative. He posted a five by seven print of Posey’s picture on the duty board and passed a copy around to officers on shift. No one recognized the picture, but one of the officers thought it looked familiar. She was not sure just when she had seen the fellow, but it had been some time before. She took one of my cards and promised to call right away if she happened to remember.

Our visit to the sheriff’s office was less productive. I knew the sheriff from a long time back, and it was not a pleasant memory. We had been called in to investigate the way his department handled prisoners when I was new to the CID, and the man was dirty. We could never find any proof of wrongdoing, and no one dared testify. The man had been in office thirty years or more and knew where all the bodies were buried. He ran his county like a feudal fief and even the district judge was afraid of him.

“Never saw the man,” the sheriff said, tossing the photo of Posey back at us without even looking at it. “Of course, so many of them is so interbred I cain’t tell them apart, anway. He ain’t one of ours.”

“How can you know if you don’t even look?” James Mason asked in a quiet, deadly voice. The sheriff didn’t even glance in his direction.

“It wouldn’t hurt for us to talk to some of your officers,” I replied. “One of them might have seen him passing through.”

“Particularly since he was traveling with a white woman,” James Mason added innocently. A deep flush blossomed at the sheriff’s neck and spread to his face but he refused to rise to the bait.

“I’ll ask them myself,” the sheriff said. From his tone, I knew I better not hold my breath until it happened. “I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” I told him. “I appreciate it. Just so you’re aware of it, we’ll be asking around, too.”

The man didn’t respond, even with a nod. He looked down at his desk and started going through a stack of mail, not even looking up when Mason and I left the office. “I’m sorry about that,” Mason apologized when we got down the hall. “I hope I didn’t make things worse.”

“I thought it was just fine,” I told him. “The asshole never acknowledged you at all, even when I introduced you.”

“I bet he wears a sheet,” Mason replied. “I’ll find out.”

“Be careful in his county,” I warned him. “He’s pretty much king here.”

“We’ll see about that,” James Mason said, and I was glad I wasn’t in the sheriff’s shoes. He grinned. “I suspect the IRS just might audit his accounts. I bet the bastard has a trove buried in some bank.” He grinned. “And while he’s distracted with that...” He left the thought hanging.

“I hope I don’t ever seriously piss you off,” I told him.

The next two days were nothing but frustration. Word had gone out from the sheriff’s department and people would barely talk to us. Most of them just shook their heads and turned away, but one man was honest enough to tell us the truth. “I don’t want no trouble with old Earl,” he said, clearly frightened. “I got to live around here. I’d like to help you, but I don’t know nothing.”

Then our luck changed on the morning of the third day. We were back in Magnolia checking in at the police department when one of the custodians came up to us and asked, “You the gentlemens looking for Dan Tatum?” he asked.

I fished out a picture of Posey and showed it to him. He nodded. “That’s him. I never seed him all dress up before, but that’s him.”

Ten minutes later, we not only had a name, but a family history and a visit to the county records confirmed this. Daniel Lee Tatum was registered as born on March 15, 1948, at home to one Dora Lee Tatum. What was odd is that the birth was registered by his grandfather Posey, the same one who first registered Edward, but the name of the father of Dora Lee’s child was listed as unknown.

The custodian gave us directions to where the family lived, and Mason and I headed there after our visit to the courthouse. Since the family place was in Hempstead county, I thought we might find more cooperation and we did. When I stopped for directions at a rural station, the owner turned out to be one of Daniel’s cousins, and he was quite helpful.

“He ain’t in trouble, is he?” the cousin asked us. I told him Daniel was not and that we just needed some information from him. “He one of the best,” his cousin assured us. “Ain’t nothing he won’t do for you.” He went on to give us two examples of Daniel’s shining character in great detail. “And sing?” he added before we could break away. “That man voice like a angel.”

That got my attention and I could see this was true with Mason, too. “Did he sing in the choir?” I asked.

“Did him sing in the choir? That child am the choir, ever since him a titty baby.” He shook his head sadly. “Then that accident took he voice.”

It turned out that the accident almost took Daniel’s life when he was just out of his teens. A piece of equipment at the furniture factory where he worked had kicked back a board, striking him in the throat and almost shattering his larynx. Daniel survived but was left with a terrible scar on his throat and only a harsh rasp for a voice.

When I asked if he had seen Daniel recently, the cousin told me it had been a couple of months. “It strange,” he said. “He come by all the time, once, twice a week. Then he tell me he going t’work up round Hope. I ain’t seen him since.”

Neither had any of the other relatives we talked to that afternoon. One of them did mention Daniel told her something about finding family “up north” where he was headed, but she didn’t have specifics. No one thought anything of it since they all knew there were cousins around Nashville. Yet, none of them could remember meeting any of those cousins, and everyone I talked to was quite surprised to learn they were kin to Smiley Jones. All of them had heard of him and knew his music, but none were aware they were family.

I found a pay phone and called the CID crime lab in Little Rock, hoping to catch Weaver and mention the scar. Who I got was Casey himself who had just finished the autopsy on the body found in the truck. When I asked him about a possible scar on the victim’s throat, he told me the larynx looked like it had been almost crushed years before. I gave him Daniel’s name and told him where to look for possible dental records.

James Mason nodded when I was done. He had been listening to my end of the conversation. “So Posey is still alive,” he said. “We better let Willie know.” He used the same phone to call the Agency, but I noticed he slipped a small black device over the mouthpiece. It looked like a cradle for the handset, but was thin and narrow. “Scrambler,” he told me, seeing my look. “Makes any line secure.”

When he was done talking, Mason handed the phone to me. “Sam wants to talk to you,” he said.

“Hello, Jazz,” McKee greeted me. “Sounds like you and James are kicking ass and taking names down there.” I laughed and he went on. “Listen, I want to ask you a big favor. Edward Posey is really bad news, and I think he’s gone to ground. I don’t think there’s much more you can do. The favor I’d like to ask is for you to back off now and let us take care of him.”

What McKee was asking made good sense, and I was surprised to find myself digging in my heels. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Let me think about it.”

“Do you understand where I’m coming from?” McKee asked. “This guy is one of the best, and I don’t want him coming after you. I promise we’ll get him. It may take a while, but we’ll find him and we’ll bring him in.”

“Dead or alive?” I asked, wanting to call the words back as soon as I uttered them. There was dead silence from the other end. “Sorry,” I hurried on. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Sounds like it’s getting personal,” McKee observed.

I was surprised to find just how right he was. “Yeah,” I replied. “I guess it is. I think it happened when he took a shot at Robert.”

McKee was wise enough to wait. “You’re right,” I said. “You have the resources and I don’t. I’ll square it with DiRado. The Bureau shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I gathered as much,” McKee answered dryly. “I read their press release yesterday. The good news is they can’t jump back in now without stepping on their dicks.”

“Assuming they’re long enough,” I quipped and McKee laughed. “Let me talk to Dee, and I’ll head back to Ft. Smith tomorrow.”

I handed the handset back to Mason. He talked with McKee for a moment before hanging up. He shook his head. “Damn. Just when it was getting fun. I guess we head for Nashville now.”

I dug out my tape recorder and asked Mason to drive, dictating my report to the CID on our way home. It didn’t take that long and when I was done, Mason asked who would transcribe it for me. I told him my laptop was loaded with a good voice recognition program that would prepare a word processing document for me to edit. He asked what software I used, and when I answered, he told me about several improvements McKee’s brother had made tweaking that specific program. This led us to other things, and I was surprised how quickly we arrived in Nashville.