Vendetta Stone (14 page)

Most of the visitors at Patrick’s house after the funeral were fellow church-goers, and they’d all shared kind words and promises to pray for Jackson, especially the aging organist who’d accompanied Angela during her choir solo the previous Christmas. But it became more difficult for him to hold his tongue as everyone opined on how he should proceed in his quest, or that he should end this nonsense now, or that he wasn’t acting as a faithful follower of Jesus Christ should, and on and on and on throughout the evening.

“I’m
just trying to do the right thing,” he said. “It’s something I
have
to do.”

The flow of familiar faces continued
to stream by until about eight-thirty and by nine dwindled to just a dozen or so stragglers. Jackson sagged into the couch where Chief King sat just twelve hours ago, though it seemed more like twelve days. He closed his eyes and prayed.

“
God, I could use some sleep right now. Keep me strong, Lord.”
His eyes popped open, and he started upright as a large hand clasped his shoulder. He looked up into the smiling face of his pastor, Reverend Armstrong.

“Hope I didn’t startle you, Jack.”

“Not at all, Brother Bob. I prayed for guidance, and here you are. There are no coincidences.”

“I’ve been working on my sermon for tomorrow morning. I hope you’ll be in church. I’ve changed from the topic I’d originally planned to speak on, and I think you’ll find it very enlightening.”

Wolfe grew impatient and looked at his luminous watch. It was ten thirty p.m.

“Dammit, where is he?”

He had followed Clarkston back to Channel 11 after he emerged from Cue Tips at seven thirty, parking in the drugstore lot so he could eye the television station’s front door and lobby. Three long, hurry up-and-wait hours had passed. He was anxious to get back to his journal, but more eager to see where Clarkston lived—just in case. He watched and waited some more.

After Pittard
had downed his sandwich, he and Clarkston spent an hour reviewing footage from the morning visitation and both afternoon press conferences, then spent a half-hour with weekend director Joan McCall discussing the gist of Clarkston’s ten o’clock report. Joan wanted Clarkston to do a stand-up introduction plus cutaways to walk viewers through a chronological summation of the day, but Clarkston balked.

“This is my story and since Ellie’s off this weekend, I’m calling the shots,” Clarkston said, flexing his muscles as the station’s top investigative reporter. “It’s going to be a lot sexier if we lead with Chief King putting this kook in his place. And who knows
—it might even help Stone win some support or sympathy.”

Joan d
idn’t like it, but didn’t protest much. The A-team rarely worked Saturday shifts, and she didn’t want him acting all prissy on
her
newscast. After a few questions, she nodded approval.

“Sounds good, Dan. We’ll run through a thirty-second intro to the day’s news, then you’ve got the next three-and-a-half minutes. Maybe four, if it’s good enough. Get cracking guys.
I want to see something by nine fifteen.”

C
larkston grinned. At nine ten, Pittard finished his final re-cuts the way he and Clarkston discussed. Joan arrived, and Clarkston handed the director his script. She scratched one phrase. “Would that work better?”

“P
erfect, Joan. Give us five minutes and we’ll be ready.”

After feeding
copy into the teleprompter, Clarkston took his position on the set and awaited his cue from weekend anchor Luis Reyes. “Our Dan Clarkston has spent the day following the extraordinary twists and turns this case has taken.”

“Thanks
, Luis. Yesterday, Jackson Stone threw down the gauntlet to Metro police, challenging them to find his wife’s killer before he did. Today, no less than Chief King delivered a response no one expected.” Clarkston swiveled to camera two. “Just hours before Angela Stone was buried, Nashville’s top cop informed Stone in no uncertain terms that he could face charges if he continued his quest for vengeance. Then about an hour after Stone announced a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward and a website in his wife’s name, Chief King explained to the media what penalties Stone could face if he takes the law into his own hands.”

“Cut to video one,” Joan said in the control room. King’s commanding presence filled the screen. “The law is the law. If you
break it, you are in trouble.”

Clarkston watched the rapid
-fire report he and Pittard put together on the studio’s large monitor. Clips included Stone’s confrontation with his lawyer, the Chief’s recollections of his grandfather’s murder, and interviews from the visitation. One particular scene caught Clarkston’s attention, one he failed to notice on Pittard’s smaller editing unit. During a wide pan of the visitation line outside the funeral home, he noticed Stone’s neighbor Herb Fletcher talking to a young mustached man behind him. He’d seen that face before, but where?

At ten forty
, Clarkston exited the station, tapped the keyless entry system numbers on the driver side’s door, got in his Audi and sped off. Wolfe, tired and half-asleep, almost missed him.

Cursing, he
peeled out. There wasn’t much traffic at that time of night, so Wolfe hung back. When Clarkston made a right turn on Belle Meade Boulevard and drove through the highest end of Nashville’s high-end communities, so did Wolfe. When Clarkston went through the four-way stop at the upper-crust country club, so did Wolfe. When Clarkston turned left onto Harding Road, so did Wolfe some ten seconds later. But the light turned yellow some five seconds after Clarkston’s turn, so Wolfe stomped the pedal and ran the red light as a car on his right honked.

Clarkston heard the horns and saw in his rearview mirror the old car barrel through the light. But he didn’t make much of it until he turned right, crossed the railroad tracks
, and eased through the four-way stop, then realized the old car behind him made the same maneuvers. A paid observer of life, Clarkston paid attention to the inner alarms going off and drove past his normal turn. Two streets later, Clarkston swerved right, hit the gas, and then made a hard left and whipped his car into the driveway of a vacant, tear-down house for sale. He shut off the car and waited. Some five seconds later, an old car—blue, he noticed in the streetlight’s harsh glare—roared down the street and sped out of sight. He waited for another half-minute before backing out of the driveway.

Puzzled,
Clarkston headed home for real. Who’s the stalker?

SUNDAY, AUGUST 15

1

A
beautiful morning spread its way across the Nashville skyline. The day began with a variety of reactions as those connected with the Angela Stone murder eagerly fetched their morning newspapers. Our outside sales for that Sunday edition were the highest since the Titans went to Super Bowl XXXIV in Atlanta.

Jackson Stone woke up about a quarter to nine, feeling refreshed after an emotional, exhausting Saturday. His first thoughts were of Angela. He hoped they always would be.

He
showered, dressed, and joined Patrick and Sheila in the den, where they drank coffee and read the Sunday paper. A steaming cup of extra bold roast awaited Jackson as he sat. Patrick leaned over and handed him the folded front section.

“Y
ou better look at this.”

I woke up from a dead sleep at nine and joined Jill in the breakfast nook. She sat at the table with her right leg folded under her, enjoying her steaming first cup of fresh coffee. I looked over her shoulder at the front page. Wow!

“Morning
, babe,” she chirped. “You were late. Sorry I couldn’t wait up. I loved your story. And that headline! Perfect.”

“Thanks. Wish I’d written it
,” I said, filling my mug. “What a day. And today might be more of the same.”

“What
now? I thought we’d go to the Nashville Sounds ballgame tonight. It
is
my birthday you know,” she said, preening in her flowery sun dress.

“
Happy birthday, hon. That would be fun and relaxing. I hope I’m home in time. But first I’m curious to see what kind of reaction Stone gets in church this morning.”

Jill’s jaw dropped. It had been at least five years since m
y last trip to church.

Monica Clarkston had awakened her husband, Dan, at nine-fifteen, setting her cup of espresso on the bedside table and leaning over to plant a wet kiss full on the lips. It was his regular day off, so the Channel 11 star reporter ignored the outside world as much as possible, meaning he didn’t see the newspaper until later that afternoon. They spent the rest of the morning in bed, finally going to brunch in Green Hills, followed by a movie at their favorite art house.

When they finally got home, Dan cursed
when he read the main headline, wishing he’d used the catchy phrase in his report the night before. Up until that moment, his day off had been enjoyable.

The Kings arrived home at nine-fifty from Midtown United Methodist Church, and the giant policeman’s mood had soured rather than having been lifted by the early worship service.

He
thought the headline in the paper stated his point perfectly and expected a good response at church. Just the opposite, King drew one sharp comment after another from fellow worshipers. Few appreciated his stance.

“That poor man jus
t lost his wife,” Edna Edmundson said shrilly to the chief on the front steps before services. “How could you talk to him like that? I hope he finds the killer before you do.”

“Now
, ma’am, you know two wrongs don’t make a right,” King said, keeping his cool. “Believe me, no one is more sympathetic to Mister Stone’s plight than me, but nobody can take the law into their own hands.”

A few church-goers paused to watch
, and Joe Davenport added his two-cents worth.

“I think the police are afraid he’s going to find the killer before they do,” Joe said, and others nodded in agreeme
nt. “It’s going to give your department a black eye.”

“No it w
on’t,” Marvin Kripkey said, standing a few feet behind the Chief. All eyes turned to him, including the Kings’.

“If Stone catches up with his wife’s killer, do you think he’ll call another press conference to announce it? Angela’s death will remain an unsolved mystery.”

The Chief stared dumbfounded at the crowd for a few seconds, then took his wife’s hand and led her into the church. But King grew so irritated and frustrated that he barely heard the sermon, which centered on the theme, “Do Unto Others.” King didn’t want anyone doing anything to anybody in his city.

About ten a.m., Patrick Stone, sitting on the sofa, watched his brother re-reading the extensive newspaper coverage of Saturday’s events.

“Jack, you okay? What’d you think about the Chief’s statement? He tore into you, didn’t he?”

Jackson looked up, took a half-sip of his now-cold coffee.

“
I know what he meant when he said he understood what I was going through. But he didn’t understand me when I said I
had
to do this.”

Jackson
stood and looked at his watch. “How come you’re not dressed? Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be ready to leave for church. I feel a need to be there.”

At ten-fifteen, Chief King began thumbing through the morning paper again. The television blared, but his thoughts centered on Jackson Stone and just what to do about him.

“My department’s not going to take the blame if Stone gets himself ki
lled,” King vowed as his wife set a fresh cup of coffee at his side. “Or somebody else, God forbid.”

Mechelle King
could always read her husband’s thoughts, even when he didn’t talk about his problems or seek her opinion. And while she didn’t always offer solutions, she’d been a good sounding board.

“This is one fight you can’t win,
Wil. You’ve got to figure out some way to stand up for what’s right without coming down too hard on Stone. Don’t make him a martyr.”

After she left t
he room, King puzzled over his wife’s advice. Right, as usual.

But how would he
help Stone without hurting him?

Both the Stones and I left for Belle Rive Baptist Church at about ten-thirty a.m. With three times as far to travel from my Hendersonville home, I should have left by ten, but thought I’d still get to the church on time.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” I
asked Jill after a final kiss at the door. “I’ll be glad to wait.”

Jill straightened my tie
and shook her head.

“I don’t want you to have to bring me home before you head to the office. Just don’t make a scene at church.”

I smiled and headed for the car.

“There may not be a story. I
f nothing else, an hour in church won’t hurt me.”

The Stones arrived at ten forty-five and took their customary seats seven rows back on the right side of the church, near the center aisle.

I’ve
always been on the right side
, Jackson reflected as the organist played her prelude music.
Am I now?
He looked up to the large wooden cross on the wall behind the purple-robed choir that filed in and took their seats, and he prayed for guidance. He shifted and found Brother Bob’s eyes upon him, a curious smile on his face. Jackson nodded.

Sitting between
Patrick and Jackson, Sheila held each brother’s hand. She worried about Jackson and considered trying to get him an appointment with her friend Judy’s teaching psychiatrist, a Doctor Karnoff at Vanderbilt.

At eleven sharp, the church music director stood, the choir members rose
, and the congregation joined the singing of “Jesus, Lead Me to the Cross.”

I arrived at church about five after eleven. The wreck at Trinity Lane had reduced traffic to one lane, or I would’ve been there on time. The choir’s voices greeted me as I opened the church doors, and a deacon handed me a program, whispering “Welcome, Brother.” I nodded my thanks, smiled, and took a seat on the next-to-last row. I got out my pen, notepad, and microcassette recorder from jacket pockets, then laid them on the empty pew and glanced at the program. After the church welcome, hymn, Offertory prayer, and choir special would come the Pastor’s Message. I wondered if that message would be directed at more than one member.

Back at his squalid Dickerson Pike motel, Delmore Wolfe woke with a start at about eleven-fifteen, grabbed a tallboy out of his mini-fridge and lit a cigarette.

“What a wasted night. Good thing I got wasted,” he growled, scratching himself.

Enraged that he failed to find out where the TV reporter lived, but certain that he’d find out eventually, Wolfe decided to play it carefully. After he had finally zig-zagged out of the West Nashville neighborhood near midnight, Wolfe drove around downtown until he saw the young guy in a darkened alley. He drove around the block three times before he hit the brakes.

“So whaddya got?”

“You coulda stopped the first time, man,” the dirty teen-ager said. “Ain’t no problems here. I can get whatever you want and more. This is our corner. Need some weed? How ’bout some speed?”

“Got any Gold?”
Wolfe handed him a wad of bills.

The youth took th
e money and handed him two plastic bags full of pills and pot.

“Not here, but check back tomorrow.”

Wolfe’s head still buzzed Sunday morning. He slipped on his jeans, a tee-shirt, and his sneakers, and opened the door. The heat beat down on him, and the bright sun burned his eyeballs. He ducked back into his grungy room, put on his wraparound sunglasses, and crossed the road to the 1960s-themed diner. Outside the door, he popped quarter after quarter into the newspaper vending machine and got the last one. The diner’s air conditioner, set on high, couldn’t fully counteract the heat from the grills.

“It’s hot as
hell in here,” he barked at the short-order cook, who retorted, “Get used to it, pal.”

Wolfe
took the table at the far end of the diner and stared at the paper. Plastered on the front page were pictures of Stone grappling with “some old fart and a burly, mad cop,” as he later wrote in his journal of that incident. The bold headline hit a home run.

I’ll be damned
!

Police to Stone:

Thou shalt not kill

Nashville man warned that quest

for vengeance
won’t be tolerated

By
GERRY HILLIARD

TenneScene Today

Nashville advertising executive Jackson Stone could face severe consequences — at least second-degree murder charges — if he were to succeed in his premeditated quest for vengeance stemming from the Aug. 3 murder of his wife, Angela, 35.

That was the stern message poli
ce Chief Wilson King delivered Saturday morning to Jackson Stone just hours before Angela’s funeral at Belle Valley Memorial Cemetery. King reiterated that message at a press conference shortly after Stone made more headlines by announcing a $100,000 reward and the imminent launching of his “Angela’s Angels” website and hotline.

“Our society seeks justice, not revenge. Society does not condone such actions,” King said during an emotional recounting of the 1982 shooting death of his grandfather in Memphis that he said led him to a career in law enforcement. King added that “any criminal behavior on (Stone’s) part could result in charges being filed against him. He would be treated like any other criminal.”

Stone could not be reached for comment on the possibility of facing charges for what King called “vigilante justice.”

The chief
said he was concerned about a copycat

CONTINUED ON PAGE 10A

“You ready to order yet, hon?”

Wolfe ignored the waitress, thumbing through the paper to continue reading. But instead of picking up the story on 10-A where it jumped from the front page, his eyes went to several photos on the facing page that accompanied an article on the Stone visitation and funeral. One, a vertical, showed a close-cropped picture of Herb Fletcher. Behind him, one could see the right shoulder and a few strands of hair on the head of a man with his back to the camera.

Delmore Wolfe
sighed in relief.