“Sam, I’ve got a woman on the line.” Bettye sighed before continuing. “You really need to talk with her.”

She transferred the call, and I answered my phone.

“Chief,” the woman said, “do you normally hire rapists to be po-leece-men in Prospect?

I’m glad no one was watching me. I felt my eyes pop open, and I’m sure my jaw dropped. I knew exactly who she was talking about.

“That’s a disturbing question, ma’am. Would you explain a little more?”

“I’ll explain a lot more. Will you do somethin’ about it?”

I had the option to tap dance and keep a disillusioned citizen on the line or take offense at someone thinking I might not be the best police chief Prospect ever had. Compromise is everything.

“Ma’am, I’ve believed in something important ever since I got sworn in as a police officer a long time ago,” I said. “I think a cop’s reputation is one of the most important things he or she has. If what you say is true, my reputation and that of Prospect PD are in jeopardy. You bet I’ll do something about it.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“You’ll listen ta me then?”

I thought I hooked her attention. “Of course I will.”

“My daughter was raped by a man y’all hired.”

I remembered back all those months to when I met Dallas and thought, why me?

I gave the caller a few options. “Would you like to do this over the phone or at the police station? Or would you like me to come to your home?”

There was another moment of silence.

Then, “On the phone is aw rot fer now.”

“Sure, that’s okay—for now. Will you tell me your name?”

“I guess ya need ta know that, don’t ya?”

“It would help. I’ll need to know your daughter’s name, too.”

“My name’s Asher—Jodelle Asher.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Asher. If you didn’t hear Sergeant Lambert or me say so before, I’m Sam Jenkins, the police chief in Prospect.”

“They’s a bunch o’ Jenkinses here in Blount County. You from a local family?”

“No, ma’am. I’m from New York.”

“Ya didn’t sound like you’s from Tennessee.”

“No, I guess I don’t, do I?” I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked anyway. “Mrs. Asher, which policeman are we talking about?”

“That Finchum boy, Dallas. He’s the one raped my daughter, Dorie.”

I remembered my reaction when Dallas first told me about an incident that both the UT campus police and Chattanooga detectives summarily dismissed as unfounded. I worried about it then. Now it felt like something was waiting to come back and bite me in the posterior.

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“More’n three year ago, but that don’t make it no less awful, does it?”

I silently blew out a little air. “No, ma’am. I can’t think how rape can ever be forgotten or looked at as anything but awful.”

Bettye Lambert walked into my office and sat in one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. She held a sheet of paper. Her little granny glasses rested low on her nose. She reached forward and handed me a Tennessee Department of Safety printout for Jodelle Asher, showing her personal information, address and driving record. Bettye had listened in on the conversation, then checked on our complainant

“Dorie was in school at UT, Chattanooga,” Jodelle Asher said. “So was Dallas, but I suppose you already know ‘bout him.” She waited a few seconds for a response, but I didn’t offer one. “They knew each other ever since high school.” She pronounced the last words hi-skoo. “They’s seniors in the college school when the rape happened. Dallas had asked her out a couple times, then one night he ups and attacks her. I believe my daughter, Mr. Jenkins. If she says she was raped, then she was raped.”

I had already heard Finchum’s account of what Mrs. Asher just said and the rest of what she was about to tell me, but I asked a few basic questions and allowed her to talk so I’d have two stories to compare.

“Did your daughter report the rape?”

“Yes, sir, she shore did to the college po-leece.”

Bettye took off her glasses and sat there swinging them back and forth listening to the one-sided conversation.

“Campus police usually don’t investigate serious crimes,” I said. “Did they refer it to the local police or the sheriff’s office down there?”

“They did. Hamilton County Sheriff. Little good that did.”

“What did the Hamilton County detectives tell your daughter?”

I looked up at Bettye, waiting for Mrs. Asher’s explanation. Occasionally she wears a hint of green eye shadow. It goes well with her blonde hair and hazel eyes—matches her uniform pants, too.

“A lotta noise is all. They called her a couple o’ days after it happened. Then he, this detective, told her how hard it was to prove rape and how tough a lawyer would make it fer her when she got ta court. That man made her feel like she’d be the one on trial, ‘stead o’ Dallas.”

The story began differing from what Dallas told me.

“Did your daughter report this immediately after it happened?”

“Yes, sir, she did. Same night.”

“And a couple of days later a detective tried to kiss this off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Dorie see a doctor?”

“Yes, sir. Same night. A woman from the college po-leece took her.”

“Were there any witnesses? Did anyone see her right after she was raped? A roommate maybe?”

“Yes, sir, Dorie had a roommate. Nice girl, name o’ Laura Jean Hensley.”

I wondered how much of this behind the scenes action Dallas Finchum knew.

I looked at Bettye again. She tilted her head as if to say, “This sounds like a fine can of worms you’ve picked up, Sammy.”

“Mrs. Asher, I plan to investigate this, but I’ll need to meet your daughter and speak with Laura Hensley as well. When do you think I can do that?”

“Dorie don’t much like talkin’ about the rape. Bad memories an’ all. Laura, she lives in Knoxville. Works there, too.”

“I believe all you’re telling me, Mrs. Asher, but I can’t arrest Dallas Finchum or fire him for what he did based on our telephone conversation. I need to see Dorie, get a statement from her, see Laura, record what she saw and then find out why the people in Chattanooga didn’t do more.”

“I unnerstand.”

“Before we hired Dallas, my investigator and I listened to his side of this date rape story. A detective named Gallagher spoke with your daughter, and she refused to make a statement. She said the incident was over, and she wanted to get on with her life. She more or less reaffirmed that she decided not to press charges.”

“I know Dorie was terrible upset over the whole affair. I can pitcher her sayin’ that. That mean nothin’ can be done now?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Good.”

“May I speak with Dorie now, or will you have her call me?”

“I’ll ask her. Don’t know if she’ll talk with ya though. She might not’ve changed her mind.”

I began to feel a serious frustration.

“I promise you, Mrs. Asher, if I can do something to help your daughter, I will. But it’s important for me to speak with her…and with Laura Hensley. They have to cooperate.”

“I’ll have ta call ya back.”

“Okay. Do you live in Prospect?” I asked, wondering if the driver’s license information was up to date.

“No.”

“Where do you live?”

A little more silence.

“Mrs. Asher?”

“We live in Maryville.” Like most local people, she pronounced it Murr-vull. “East end o’ Murr-vull, not fer from Walland.”

“Tell Dorie I’ll meet her anywhere she wants. Here at Prospect PD, at a public place, anywhere—doesn’t matter.”

“I hear ya.”

“Can I call you back to find out what she says?”

“I’ll call you.”

“When? Tomorrow?”

“I ‘spect so.”

“Alright then. Good luck with Dorie. And, Mrs. Asher, I promise I’ll help you.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll call ag’in.”

She hung up. I needed a drink.

For the last two years, I’ve spent nearly one third of my life with Sergeant Bettye Lambert, my administrative officer and occasional partner. We get along famously—most of the time.

At my age, you’d expect I’d know how to deal with women, but experience shows I’m not as smart as I think. If I inherited the ability to handle the opposite sex efficiently, I would have taken a different job—like a hairdresser. But apparently in that area I’m hopeless. So I remain a cop.

The main telephone rang on Bettye’s desk. If the caller wanted me, she would buzz my phone and forward the call. Nothing happened. Moments later, she stood in my office doorway, looking a little miffed.

I could always tell when things weren’t going her way. She cocked her left hip to the side and rested a hand there. I thought she looked attractive. With her right hand, she leaned on the doorjamb and scowled at me.

At least she isn’t holding a gun.

“It’s your friend—that cheap blonde,” she said.

“Who?”

Bettye shook her head, and her blonde ponytail swung back and forth. “You know who.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. Who are you talking about?”

“Well, you seemed to get along with her just fine. It was me she didn’t like.”

“Huh?” I remained in the dark.

“You damn well know who I’m talkin’ about, Sam Jenkins. That blonde we met on the Cecil Lovejoy case—that one from Chicago.”

“Ah-ha.” A light in my brain switched on.

“Yes, ah-ha. Now pick up your damn phone.”

Bettye gets away with saying things like that because we both know how important she is to my little police department. And hearing a note of jealousy in her voice boosts my ego.

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” I said. “Just why are you angry?”

“Lord have mercy, you’re pathetic.”

I tried a smile. “That may be true, but you’re still hopelessly in love with me.”

“Not after today, darlin’. I said answer the phone. That one’s waitin’ for ya.” She turned and walked away.

Sergeant Lambert made reference to a woman named Veronica Keeble. Two years ago, after a local man, one Cecil Lovejoy, was murdered in Prospect, Bettye and I interviewed Mrs. Keeble. Sort of a suspect at the time, Veronica was thirty-five-years-old, blonde and absolutely gorgeous. Did I mention she was an ex-hooker?

I answered my phone, curious to learn what ‘that one’ had to say.

“Hello, this is Chief Jenkins.”

“Well, hello there. It’s been a long time.” She sounded friendly.

“Yes, it sure has. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Were you the police chief when we first met, or have you been promoted from detective?”

I remembered the time I interviewed her. On a warm July day, we walked down the street where she lived, and I listened to the intimate details of her earlier life.

“Yeah, I was the chief back then. We only have thirteen cops here, so I get to play detective at times. I’d have to sweep the floors, too, if the mayor caught me not looking busy.”

She laughed briefly, something a little husky and a whole lot sexy. “I see. You must have a tough boss.”

I thought about Bettye. “Sometimes I wonder who the boss is around here. What can I do for you, Mrs. Keeble?”

“The last time we spoke, I thought we agreed on Sam and Roni.” Her voice sounded soft and inviting.

Another memory—before we parted company, she asked my first name, shook my hand and left me gazing into the most incredibly blue eyes on the planet.

“We did. Okay, Roni, how can I help you?” I wondered what I might be getting into.

“Did you ever find out who killed that awful man?”

“That’s a long story—sort of.”

She called me to learn the outcome of a two-year-old case?

“You’ll have to tell me some time.”

“Sure, but first tell me why you called. I want to know if I should be flattered because you remember me or act totally professional.”

“Wow, how do I answer that?”

“Try the direct approach. Remember, I’m a civil servant. You pay my salary. I, madam, am at your disposal.”

She used that soft and inviting sound again. “That opens up all kinds of possibilities.”

The woman really had a way with words. I thought I’d play along. I wasn’t busy.

“But,” she said, “I guess I should tell you why I called before I forget.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s your dime.”

“Well, I have a friend who just opened a business in Prospect. I think she may need police assistance.”

“Really? Why didn’t she call?”

“I told her you and I had already met. I know it’s been a while, but I still remember how nice you were. You listened to my story, and you weren’t judgmental like someone else might have been. I thought you were okay for a cop. I told her I’d call and see if you would help her.”

“Okay for a cop, but not so hot for a plumber or delivery man?”

“Oh, stop, you’re just looking for compliments.”

“Maybe. I could be suffering from self-esteem problems.” I allowed a few seconds for her to enjoy my self-deprecating humor. “If she’s in some kind of trouble and it’s a police matter, of course I’ll help. But I’m sure you understand I have to hear her story first.”

“I knew you’d do it.”

Roni Keeble didn’t say, ‘Yipee,’ but I could envision her smiling. I still have a good memory. Did I mention the girl was gorgeous?

“Will you have lunch with us? I’ll introduce you, and Sunny will explain everything.”

“Having lunch with a complainant and her friend isn’t the usual way a policeman starts an investigation.”

“Lunch would be nice though, wouldn’t it?”

This is how a cop gets into trouble.

“Yes, I’m sure it would be, but you two could come to my office.”

“Sunny is Asian. They like to conduct business over a meal.”

I remembered thinking about not being busy. And her story sounded intriguing. Or was I just in the mood for a little more flattery?

“Ask her if having tea would work. It’s culturally appropriate, and we can mingle with the gray-haired ladies at Tillie’s Tea House here in town.”

She laughed again. “Okay, tea is fine. Would this afternoon at two be convenient?”

“Sure. That gives me time to get a purple rinse and a perm. I want to fit in with the local girls.”

“Sam, I can’t wait to see you with purple curls.”