Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) (28 page)

“Yes, thank you,” I answered. “Were you aware that Edward was Wilbur Jones’ love child?”

The pastor nodded. “I’d guessed that. I didn’t mention it because it didn’t seem relevant. Do you think it is?”

“Only if someone was offended by it and acted on his feelings. More than anything it opens up a line of investigation.”

Albert Jones looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. “So you do have reservations about Slide being the killer, don’t you? My experience is that most police go with the obvious solution and inconvenient facts be damned.”

I shrugged. “That’s why they hire me. I seem to think outside the box. It may be Slide, but it doesn’t feel right to me. All the facts have to fit. That’s why I like a Klansman for the killer.”

“The white folk who were at Wilbur’s birthday celebration struck me as being anything but the right sort of folk to kill that way,” Jones replied. “Of course, the killer wouldn’t wear a sign around his neck, either, would he?” He shook his head. “I’m glad you have your work and I have mine.”

“What about Eddie’s family?” I asked. “What can you tell me about them? Were they there the day Smiley was shot?”

“Goodness, you are persistent, aren’t you?” the pastor answered. “But to answer your question, no. The children scattered after Edward’s father—step-father—died. Edward was long gone by then.

What surprised me was that only one of them came back for the funeral. She told me she couldn’t reach the rest of her brothers and sisters.” He shook his head. “That whole family was so sad.”

“Eddie’s got an aunt and uncle living here,” I responded, mentioning their names. “Maybe they’ll know something.”

The pastor shook his head. “I doubt it. They’re not related by blood or in law. I know that may seem a little confusing, but they were close enough friends to Edward’s mother to be called that. They were very much like what Catholics call godparents. Edward grew up calling them aunt and uncle, but he was never close to them later on. They knew him as the child, not the man.”

“Well, ‘the child is the father of the man’,” I quoted.

To my surprise, Albert Jones nodded and recited the poem by heart. “Yes,” he added when he was done. “It’s a wonderful way to approach life. Yet, there’s a more excellent way.”

We talked for a few more minutes, but there was nothing useful that Albert Jones could add to what he already had told us. I thanked him for his time and for his candor, and he asked if I would keep him informed. I told him I would as much as I could, but not to expect much. I told him I was in as much a fog as everyone else on this case.

“I suspect what you call clear as high noon on a dry day is about like fog to the rest of us,” he answered. “I wish you well in your investigation, and I’ll pray for your success. Regardless how it may turn out.”

James Mason and I drove back toward Nashville in silence. About halfway there, I asked him why he had broken cover. “I thought it might give us some leverage with the pastor,” he said. “I think it did. He seemed to join with us after that. Before, he seemed adversarial.”

“I didn’t pick up on it, but you may be right,” I replied. “But what about me? I could be the guardian of the grand lizard’s balls in the Klan.”

“I guess you could,” he said,“but you aren’t. Cowboy would know. He told me to let you in on who I was, and that seemed as good a way of breaking the ice as any. I wish you could have seen your face.”

“Cowboy? You mean John Tanner? Is that what you guys call him?”

Mason laughed. “No, I mean Sam McKee. I work for him.”

I kept silent. McKee had not mentioned James Mason at any point when we talked. As a matter of fact, he had said I was the only person in Nashville who would be calling him.

“Don’t take my word for it,” Mason said. “Call him at the number he gave you when we get back to town.”

“You say you work for this Sam McKee. Does Tanner know?”

“Yes. That’s how Tanner can afford me. McKee pays my salary. I’m a federal agent.” He looked at me. “I even have a DEA card, but that’s about as real as a four dollar bill. I work for McKee.”

I nodded. “It’s hard to imagine what a federal agent would be after here in Nashville, Arkansas.”

“I’m after the Klan,” he told me. “What the pastor said about them using drugs to kill our kids was right on the money. They’ve been doing it for a long time now. I’m here to put a stop to it.”

“No disrespect, but I think you may be outnumbered,” I replied.

Mason laughed. “It sure looks that way, doesn’t it? When you consider the Klan is now connected to the cartels in Asia and Latin America, it’s scary just how outnumbered we are. On the other hand, we’re in the right, and I believe we’ll ultimately prevail.”

That last was said with the fervor of a preacher at a country revival, and I found myself both admiring Mason’s passion and fearing for his disappointment. I envied the passion. I remembered those feelings from when I was a young man, clear in my mission and out to kick criminal ass. Yet, I also remembered the first time I understood how corrupt our criminal justice system can be. I almost quit, and I’m not sure to this day why I didn’t. Maybe I was just too dumb or too pigheaded to let the bastards win.

“I’ll sleep on what you’ve said,” I temporized. “Are you going to be around tomorrow? I’d like you to brief Kruger on your perspective. Why don’t you have breakfast with us? The three of us can talk afterward.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” James asked me. “It might not be too good an idea.”

“Wear your uniform,” I replied. “Everybody will think Tanner assigned you to be our driver.”

“Yazzuh! Sho will Boss!” Despite myself, I laughed. Among other things, James Mason was a first-class ham.

Kruger was back when I arrived at the motel, and I spent the better part of an hour bringing him up to speed. When I was done, he sighed. “Your day was a whole lot more interesting than mine,” he said. He told me about his meeting, and I had to agree.

“What do you think about Mason?” I asked.

“I don’t know. What he says makes sense, but I don’t know if it’s for real. Are you going to call McKee?”

I looked at my watch and shook my head. “No, it’s almost midnight there. I’ll call first thing in the morning. It’s a nice night. I’m going to stretch my legs and think about it.”

*
 
*
 
*

I was up again before the sun the next morning. A front had come in, and the sky was overcast and heavy with moisture. The air was cool, but so thick it felt like I was wading through water. By the time I got to the convenience store, I was soaked with sweat, and I knew if the sun broke through, Nashville would be like a broiler.

Dee answered my call right away. He sounded worried. “When you didn’t call last night, I got concerned,” he told me. “So I called Tanner. He told me you were out with his best deputy.”

I told him about James Mason and our visit with Albert Jones. I also told him about the McKee connection. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t like it. Sounds like McKee is playing things awfully close to his vest.”

“I know, but you can’t blame him,” I answered. “No one knew about the James Smith connection until Mason sniffed him out. I’m afraid the days of the old Klan are over. That was simple and pretty direct. This new strategy of theirs is pretty sophisticated. If it’s true, that makes them a lot scarier.”

“No shit!” Dee exclaimed. “Next thing you know, they’ll be into major corporate takeovers. If they’re not already.”

When I asked about Posey’s military records, Dee uttered a harsh laugh. “What else is new? I got two responses back. One told me the records I want are classified. Then another one came in telling me the man never served. On a whim, I called Arlington Cemetery. they told me the only person by that name who was buried there died in 1944. He was killed on Saipan.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I answered. “Assuming he was killed and his body brought home, he may have been buried in another national cemetery. Or even a private one.”

“Or maybe he never died. I called all the national cemeteries I could think of within five hundred miles and no Wilbur Edward Posey. I tried plain Edward and Edward Wilbur Posey, too, but no soap there, either. Then I checked with the state burial registry here and in Texas. I got nothing.”

“So you think he’s alive?” I asked.

“Not really. That would be too easy. I think the records got screwed up, and he’s rotted away in some jungle in Vietnam. Or maybe Laos or Cambodia. I think Posey was working for the CIA and never came home.”

I thought about that a moment. “Well, one thing’s for sure. No one missed him when he dropped out of sight. He was perfect for black operations from that point of view.”

“I think the word is expendable,” Dee replied. There was ancient anger in his voice. “There was a lot of that going around back then.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me, or is this a gut feeling?” I asked.

“Just a smell,” he replied. “Too many things lining up in a strange way. I think we’re chasing a dead man, but someone is trying to cover their ass thirty years too late. It’s just a hunch.”

“Well, I think you’re right about the cover-up. It may be a loose end we never tie down. I guess this means we focus on Slide. Kruger and I will pay him a visit this morning.”

When I got back to the motel, there was a message waiting for me. I saw it was from McKee, but I didn’t feel like swimming back to the convenience store to call. So I walked down to Kruger’s room to borrow his cell phone. Someone at the other end answered on the second ring, but it was a woman’s voice, and I hung up right away.

I was handing the phone back to Kruger when it rang. He answered, then gave it to me. “Jazz?” came McKee’s voice. “Sorry I missed you. That was my wife who answered.”

At the time, I thought it was strange McKee’s wife would answer his work phone, but I later found out he was her deputy and only acting as head of agency while she was on family leave. McKee’s bunch was sounding more and more strange all the time.

I admitted it was me he was talking with, and McKee went on. “One of my friends told me about your visit with him last night. I wanted to let you know he’s one of mine. Anything you can do for him, I would appreciate.”

“Seems like a good man,” I replied. “He seems well trained.”

“He also grew up around there, which made him particularly useful to us. He said he told you who we’re after and why.”

McKee was being very circumspect, and I guessed he knew he was talking on an FBI line. Remembering what I had read about FBI ties to the Klan, I knew why and responded the same way. “It sounds pretty nasty. I’d like to know more about it.”

“Willie will fill you in. These phones are supposed to be scrambled, but I don’t trust anything more complicated than a number two pencil. I just wanted you to know we’re all singing from the same page. There doesn’t seem to be any overlap between our separate investigations. On the other hand, we’ll do what we can to help you all you can stand.”

“All right,” I said, chuckling. “There’s something you could do that might help me with my case. One of the suspects I would like to clear from my list is a veteran named Wilbur Edward Posey. From what I’ve found out here, he was drafted and served in Special Forces. He’s thought to have been killed or to be missing in action in Southeast Asia. Yet, I can’t find any record of it, not even his name on the Memorial Wall. We got one call back saying there was no record of him and then another telling us his military record is classified.”

McKee laughed. “Sounds like the standard Washington run-around waltz. Let me see what I can find. If there’s anything, I’ll send it along with Willie.”

I got off the phone with a deep sense of foreboding. This case was getting ever more complex, and it felt like I was getting farther and farther out of my element. There are exceptions to the rule, but things are fairly clear cut in basic police work. Sometimes the cops turn out to be robbers, and there can be shades of gray in the choices we make. Yet, most of the time the boundaries are fairly clear. To this policeman, the wonderful world of spooks seemed to be composed in subtle shades of black.

Once again, I considered turning it over to the FBI and bowing out. Were it not for Kruger and the prospect of going after criminal corporations with McKee, I think I might have done so. There comes a point where I get tired of running in seemingly needless circles, and the closer I get to the sunset, the less willing I am to tolerate foolishness. What keeps me going is the memory of just how tired I got of fishing and puttering around the house after the first six weeks of retirement. When I mentioned going back to work again, the way Nellie lit up with a smile told me her prayers had been answered.