From: PAPER TRAIL, chapter one

Sergeant Stanley Rose scrambled from behind his patrol car and moved clockwise toward the school’s rear entrance. When he reached a white Toyota parked near the corner of the building, he rested an Ithaca pump shotgun over the hood, pointing it at the admin office window. POs Junior Huskey and Harley Flatt scurried in the opposite direction until they found cover behind a Ford Fusion and a Chevy pickup. Junior carried a scoped Winchester model 70 and Harley an AR-15. Their khaki uniform shirts contrasted with the darker vehicles; their green trousers blended with the grass. Bobby Crockett and I remained at the side of the school behind my unmarked Crown Victoria, no more than sixty feet from the building. We carefully watched a young man hold the muzzle end of an AK-47 at the head of John Woolford, the assistant principal of the Lamar E. Shields Elementary School in Prospect, Tennessee, a small city generally said to be on the “peaceful side of the Smokies.”

In addition to carrying an assault rifle, the grips of two high-capacity semiautomatics protruded from the gunman’s waistband. That much firepower turned a skinny kid into a formidable opponent.

I’m not a professional hostage negotiator, but I needed to establish contact and do something to keep the situation from swirling down the toilet. Using my cell phone, I called a landline in the school’s office.

Woolford picked up. “Yes?”

“John, Sam Jenkins, Prospect PD. Can I speak to the man with the guns?”

On the other end I heard, “The police chief wants to speak with you.”

The young man, who looked to be in his late teens or early twenties, was very thin and dressed all in black. After hearing the message, he pushed Woolford roughly into a chair and grabbed the phone. “What?” he said.

I identified myself and began a dialogue. “Tell me what you want. What can I do to work this out?”

His nostrils flared as he sucked air in through his nose; he took no time to reply. “I already done what I came here for. I got nothin’ more to say.”

As he dropped the phone onto the desk, I yelled, “Wait!”

Without further ado, he calmly squeezed the trigger of the assault rifle. The muzzle flashed and recoiled slightly, the cracking report was loud enough for us to hear outside the building as one 7.62 x 39 millimeter round travelled through John Woolford’s head. The young man showed no emotion, no more feeling for another living thing than if he had cut the head of a fish. For a moment afterwards, he looked out the window. His head turned thirty degrees to the right, then to the left, perhaps searching for the eyes of the last person with whom he spoke.

Who knows what a homicidal individual thinks? I’ve met plenty and can never figure them out.

The silent radio broke squelch, and Junior said, “I’ve got a shot.”

“Standby,” I said. “Let’s see what he does.”

The young gunman shrugged, turned the rifle, placing the muzzle between his lips, and put a bullet through the top of his head.

From GRACELAND ON WHEELS

Garland Humphries awoke with a bucket of composted cow manure in his mouth—or so he thought. When he raised his head, bolts of lightning flashed before his eyes, and a mule kicked him in the forehead.

Using the strength of three men to open his eyelids, Garland saw dried vomit on his white jumpsuit. Fearing what it would cost to clean the sequined leather garment, he began to shake his head and received another kick from that troublesome mule. The smell of his breath reminded him of the stench in a cesspool. He needed to wash the putrid taste from his mouth and gingerly attempted to sit up.

Swinging his legs off the wide mattress felt like he just cleared a high hurdle. But when he stood, an image of the Milky Way covered his field of vision and caused him to sit quickly. Garland sucked in a large volume of air, attempting to stop the spinning sensation, and after a few seconds, he again tried to stand. That time he made it. In a few moments, a flicker of confidence radiated from his head, through his body and down into his legs. He took a step, then another and felt the all too familiar sensation of his brain being too big for his skull.

He decided to look for a bottle of aspirin, but really wanted a glass of Jack Daniels to clear his head. When he reached the doorway of the bedroom in his big RV, he looked down the narrow hallway toward the little kitchen, the dining and sitting areas and finally the driver’s and passenger’s seats and the door. The hall between him and the wide-open spaces looked like a tunnel, with walls no farther apart than the width of his shoulders.

The kitchen was no more than fifteen feet away, but it seemed like a hundred yards, and he began to feel claustrophobic. The sides of the tunnel began to pulsate. Garland saw stars again. Bile collected in his mouth, and nausea overtook him. Garland Humphries needed a toilet or a bucket—fast.

He ricocheted off the walls and the first door he found opened into the combination toilet closet and shower. Garland dropped to his knees, hugged the commode and lost the contents of his stomach in two great heaves. Unable to move for what seemed like an eternity, he mustered the strength to push himself upright, turn and use the sink as a crutch. He scooped up hands full of water to rinse his mouth and splash on his cheeks. When he stood, Garland couldn’t focus on the pathetic drunk staring back at him from the small mirror and opened the medicine cabinet looking for a bottle of mouthwash. The childproof cap caused major problems, but finally he took a drink, rinsed and spat into the sink. That accomplished, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin, cursed the cap, opened it with his teeth and swallowed half a dozen.

Leaving the toilet and sink as they were, Garland moved toward the door of the RV and opened a portal to fresh air and the outside world. As most drunks would, he exaggerated a careful descent of the two steps and, without falling, found himself on solid ground. The noise of the slamming door erupted inside his head.

“Hello, Garland. Y’all don’t look so good.”

Humphries couldn’t see who had spoken, tried to look through the foggy darkness, but only saw a shadow approaching. It was the last thing he ever saw.

From FATE OF A FLOOZY

On a cloudy Thursday morning in late May, I stood in Helene Redpath’s bedroom looking down at her naked body lying next to a man more than twenty years her junior. They were dead, of course. Killed by two blasts from a horribly expensive double-barreled shotgun.

A pair of tall double-hung windows in the second floor bedroom over?looked an Italianate garden at the back of the house. An alabaster statue of Mercury stood at the intersection of six narrow brick walks. Short and neatly trimmed boxwoods bordered pie-shaped beds of topsoil that held hundreds of colorful annuals planted no more than two weeks ago. Beyond the floral garden, stone steps led to an expansive lawn sloping to the south, terminating at the banks of the Little River.

I knew the homeowner. Not intimately, but I’d seen her around for years. Helene Redpath had spent more than four decades portraying a floozy. She appeared in major motion pictures, TV movies, cable features and even on British television where they’ve never been squeamish about primetime sex or showing lots of skin. As a young actress, everyone remembered her face, but I’d be surprised if many people knew her name.

Helene worked steadily for years, but spent most of that time on the “B” list. Whenever a studio needed a beautiful girl with a figure to make Miss Universe jealous, they cast Helene as a cheating housewife, an oversexed career woman, a hooker with a heart of gold or a scrumptious drunk. Then, as she aged and the world watched her career declining, Ms. Redpath landed a part in the film Cover-up, playing the alcoholic mother of a soldier killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan. Suddenly the critics realized Helene could act, and she won an Oscar for best supporting role.

Jackie Shuman and David Sparks, crime scene investigators from the county Sheriff’s office, worked the bedroom with the efficiency of well trained automatons. The deputy medical examiner, Dr. Morris Rappaport, and his assistant, Earl W. Ogle, conducted field tests on the bodies and prepared them for their trip to the University of Tennessee’s forensics lab.

“Got a time of death, Mo?” I asked the pathologist.

“For once, Sam, I can give you a definite answer. This young man likes to make love wearing a watch. A shotgun pellet stopped his Tag Huerer at exactly 10:28 last night.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Hard to controvert that.”

“By this afternoon, I’ll be able to tell you if there are any factors beyond the obvious.”

“Thank you, Morris. You’re my favorite M.E.”

He shrugged. “Such an honor.”

I next spoke to the evidence technicians. “Talk to me, Jackie. What do you know so far?”

“Well, as y’all kin see fer yer own self, there weren’t no break. Either the door was open, or the shooter had him a key. The shotgun, it’s layin’ over yonder.” He pointed just beyond the foot of the bed. “It’s one sweet weapon. Musta cost more’n I make in a month. I believe it came from the cabinet downstairs in the den. Check it out. You’ll find the door open an’ only seven of the eight slots filled.”

“Dust it yet?”

“David did. Wiped clean. Cabinet, too.”

“Okay. When you finish and write all this up, stop at the PD.”

“You got it, Chief.”

The bedroom looked like a featured display from a museum of Early American furniture. Not the kind of things you’d buy in an antique mall, but rather what you’d acquire from a dealer who wore a double-breasted blazer and silk bow tie and paid fifty bucks for a short haircut every three weeks. A lot of thought went into decorating the room, but Helene would never enjoy it again.

Prospect, Tennessee had always been one of the vacation spots favored by some of the nine million people who visited the Great Smoky Mountains National Park annually. Those who desired a more tranquil atmosphere, a place without music halls, outlet malls or bumper car rides, visited my town. The travel brochures called us “the Peaceful side of the Smokies.” It is peaceful…if we’re not investigating double homicides.

When a small resort named Blackberry Farm, a place not far from where I lived, was named the number one holiday destination in North America by a famous travel magazine, the rich and famous began invading the hotel in force, totally oblivious to the nightly rates that topped off at $3,500.00. As Blackberry Farm gained popularity with people whose faces appeared regularly on shows like Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood, these celebrities decided they’d like a chunk of the Smokies for themselves and started purchasing their own private getaways.

Soon, the demand outweighed the supply, and farmers owning land with spectacular mountain views put the family homesteads on the market. Realtors began making commissions that allowed them to replace their four-door Chevys with top-of-the-line Range Rovers. Upper-crust subdivisions called Yorkshire Dales, Worthington Cove and The Cedars at Whispering Mountain overshadowed little communities within the Prospect postal district with traditional names like Gamble’s Woods, Cutter’s Gap or Keeble’s Chapel.

Helene Redpath, herself a country girl originally from North Carolina, was one of the glamorous west coast celebrities who had discovered our corner of east Tennessee. In the years following her Oscar Award, she landed several more parts that made her a multi-millionaire. Two years ago, I she and her husband paid a premium for the property I found myself now visiting, a 200-year-old farmhouse surrounded by 100 acres of choice land. Once she saw the house in which she eventually died, Helene became determined to buy it out from under a horde of hungry developers bent on carving up the land and creating another up-scale neighborhood in beautiful Prospect.

If I knew how to deal with women, I wouldn’t get involved with some of the things that cause me trouble.

I was minding my own business, trying to be just another small-town cop when the phone rang. Caller ID showed the number of my favorite TV reporter.

“Well, hello there.” She sounded very sexy.

“Hi, how’re you today?”

“I’m doing just fine, and I’m glad you’re in the office.”

“You sound like you’re in a good mood this morning,” I said.

“I am. I’m in the mood for love. Want to have phone-sex?”

I think I’m a pretty worldly guy, but that one threw me for a loop. “Rachel, sweetheart, you’re my best friend, but the last time I looked we were married—and not to each other. You know I try to be good where you’re concerned. So, how can you ask me that? You have no mercy.”

“You are so cute when you get flustered.”

“I am not flustered.”

“Are, too.”

“Jeez,” I said, “did you hear yourself? That was so jejune.”

“Jejune?”

“Yeah, it means…”

“I know what it means,” she interrupted. “No one on earth says jejune except you.”

“That’s not true. If I didn’t want to behave myself, I’d rent a movie, and we could watch an old Woody Allen film where they use the word more than once.”

“If you take me to that drive-in near Prospect, I’ll make out with you.”

“Will you cut that out?”

“Well, if you won’t take advantage of my invitations, I’d better get down to business.”

“You just want to stop this R-rated dialogue and talk business without skipping a beat? Is that any way to treat your buddy?”

“Oh, I love this. Little Rachel can turn her big tough-guy into an old softie.”

“Lady, you won’t get me to comment on that one. No ma’am, not me.”

“I think you just did, Sammy. Were you getting hot and bothered?”

“You’re a shameless hussy.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. You’re the only man I’d ever leave home for.”

“Where have I heard that line before?”

“Well, it’s true. Now, if you won’t make love to me over the phone, we have to talk seriously. Will you do me a favor?”

“Of course I’ll do you a favor. Silly woman. You could have just asked instead of making me need a cold shower.”

“Do I have that effect on you?”

“Stop fishing. What do you want?”

“It’s really not for me. One of the assistant producers, Angie Valle—I think you’ve met her—is having a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to ask something first. How do you feel about arresting another police officer?”

That’s the kind of thing a cop never likes to hear, but occasionally you do. “I’ve had to do that before when I worked in New York. Look, cops generally don’t like to lock up other cops, but if it’s necessary, I can deal with that.”

“Okay, good. Angie’s separated from her husband, a Knoxville policeman. He’s threatened her.” “He’s a Knoxville city cop?”

“Yes.”

“Where does Angie live?”

“In Fountain City.”

“That’s Knox County’s area. I can’t do something that far away. Police work is like the garbage collection business. The local wise guys dictate who picks up trash in designated areas. Cops have their own turf. We don’t go into other districts unless we connect it to a crime where we work.”

“I know all that, Sammy. I just thought since he lives in Prospect now, you could have a talk with him.”

“Aha!” I said.

“Aha?”

“Yes, aha. The plot thickens.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“You want me to act as Angie’s hired muscle.”

“No, I don’t. Well, maybe, sort of. She doesn’t really want to have him arrested. I only thought that you could have a talk with him. You know, as one policeman to another.”

“Are you going to tell me the story, or is Angie?”

“She’s right here. I’ll put her on.”

“Wait a minute, woman. Has she been there all the time we’ve been talking?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She heard what you said to me?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Jeez. It’s like being filmed having sex.”

“Oh, don’t be such a prude.”

“My life was not this complicated until I met you.”

“I know, Lover. You’re so sweet. Here talk to Angie.”

The rain never stopped. From early June through late August, it poured or drizzled almost every day. I thought if I stood still too long I might begin to mold. It reminded me of the monsoons in Southeast Asia.

Drops of rain falling from the brim of my cap were exceeded only by the young woman’s tears.

“When did you see the boy last?” I asked.

“Right after breakfast. He went into the living room to watch TV, and I started doing laundry in the basement.”

“And when you came upstairs he was gone?”

More tears rolled over her cheeks as she stood there, wringing her hands. “Yes.”

“Was your door locked?”

“Lord have mercy, no.”

“Is your son’s rain jacket here?”

She shrugged and cried a little more.

“Let’s look,” I suggested.

We walked to the mud room off the kitchen. A small hooded jacket hung on one of the five pegs over an antique wooden chair not six feet from the back door. A small pair of bright blue rubber Wellingtons sat on the floor.

“You call for him outside?”

“Of course. I ran all around.”

Without the puffy eyes and fear scarring her face, Emily Suttles would have been an attractive brunette.

“And then you called 9-1-1?”

“Yes.”

“What was he watching?”

“I don’t know. He knows how to work the TV.”

“You turn it off?”

“One of the policemen did.”

“Let’s take a look.”

She stared at me as if I had two heads. “Why?”

“Indulge me.”

Back in the living room, Emily picked up the remote control and turned on a flat screen about the size of a stretch van. The American Movie Classics channel came on playing a scene from Halloween 4.

“Did you or the cops look through the house?” I asked.

“Yes, of course, me.”

“All over?”

“Every room.”

“Slowly or quick?”

“Quick. I was frantic.”

“Let’s try again. Where’s Elijah’s room?”

“Upstairs.” Emily began to look impatient. “I know he’s not there.”

We walked upstairs anyway. I looked under the bed. Nothing. The boy’s mother called his name. More nothing. I opened the closet. Huddled in the left corner, leaning against the wall, four-year-old Elijah Suttles slept peacefully, a small flashlight in his right hand. I shook his knee.

“Hey, partner, you doing okay in here?”

He opened his eyes, blinked rapidly, and looked frightened.

“Take it easy, son. I’m a policeman. Your mom couldn’t find you and asked for some help.”

“Jesus have mercy, Elijah,” his mother said, “you ‘bout scared me half ta death. You come out here right now, young man.”

“Go slow, Mrs. Suttles. He probably had a good reason to hide in here. Didn’t you, son?”

The little boy nodded, but still looked scared.

“Something happen on the TV?”

Another nod.

“Ready to come out now?”

The boy stuck out a hand, and I pulled. Once on his feet, he scrambled to his mother and locked onto her leg, mumbling an apology.

“Some of these slasher movies scare me, too,” I said. “He just ran from the killer on the screen. Wasn’t a bad idea.”

Emily Suttles hugged her son, looked at me, and said, “Thank you.”

“I’ll call the three officers and let them know your son’s safe.”

I switched on the ignition in my unmarked Crown Victoria and keyed the microphone. “Prospect-one to headquarters and all units. The missing child has been found. Resume patrol. Five-twelve, close out the call at 1015 hours.”

PO Johnny Rutledge acknowledged. “10-4, Prospect-one.”

“Five-oh-nine, I copy that,” Billy Puckett said.

After a long moment of silence, Sergeant Bettye Lambert, our desk officer, broke in. “Unit 513, five-one-three, do you copy?”

No answer.

“Anyone know 513’s 10-35?” I asked.

“Joey was goin’ house ta house, east end o’ the street,” Puckett said.

“I’m probably the closest,” I said. “I’ll check.”

Just as I shifted into reverse, PO Joey Gillespie spoke on the radio.

“513 ta Prospect-one. Boss, ya gonna need ta see this. 1175 Benny Stillwell Road, obvious 10-5.”

10-5 is our brevity code for a homicide.

* * * *

Two men lay face down on the kitchen floor. One with a shaved head made it easy to see the small caliber bullet hole at the base of his skull—a .25 perhaps or more likely a .22. Blood trickled from the wound down past his right ear, over a thick neck, and onto the Mexican tile floor. The other victim’s blood oozed to his left. Funny, the little details you notice at the scene of a murder.

“You call crime scene and the ME?” I asked.

“Yessir, had Miss Bettye do it right after I called ya.”

I nodded and looked around the kitchen of a relatively new and expensive home. “Big house.”

Joey Gillespie nodded.

“At least 4,000 square feet,” I guessed. “And quality. These guys had bucks.”

He nodded again and looked a little queasy.

“The air hasn’t come on recently. In this humidity blood tends to stink quicker. Smell bother you?”

“Yessir, I ain’t used ta this.”

“Nobody gets used to it, kid. You just learn to ignore it.”

“I guess.”

“You search the rest of the house?”

“Jest looked on the first floor ta see if there was anybody here.”

“Basement?”

“Nosir. On a slab.”

“Let’s go upstairs.”

I drew my old Smith & Wesson from the holster on my right hip, and Joey pulled out his .40 caliber Glock.

“Look around, and pay attention. Don’t watch me. There’s probably no one here, but we’ll do this by the numbers.”

“Yessir. I’m right behind ya.”

We made a quick sweep of the first floor, opening all the closets before ascending the stairs. The landing above left us in a hallway with what looked like four bedrooms, two baths and two closet doors. We found nothing in the guest johns or closets. A lack of personal property in three of the bedrooms led me to believe they were set also aside for guests. We looked further in the master suite and discovered two closets holding clothing for two different people.

“I guess the two guys slept t’gether,” Joey said.

“Yep.”

“Strange, huh?”

“Not strange, just a minority.”

“Uh-huh.”

Two car doors slammed out front.

“Let’s see who’s here,” I suggested.

Jackie Shuman and David Sparks, crime scene investigators from the Blount County Sheriff’s Office, had arrived and stood in the foyer holding cameras and forensic kits. Moments later, Deputy Medical Examiner Morris Rappaport and his assistant Earl Ogle pulled up in the morgue wagon.