Vendetta Stone (19 page)

It was pushing four o’clock, and I hoped to accomplish something before calling it a day. Like Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston, I considered the next twist in this bizarre story. Nobody returned calls, and Jackson must’ve gone into hiding. His secretary said he’d just left for lunch the first time I called. Not yet back the second time I called. Finally, after the fifth time I called, the exasperated but courteous secretary said Mister Stone wasn’t expected back until Tuesday morning. About to tell my editor of no new news, a ding alerted me to new email. Instead, I messaged that I’d file a short story, or at least a local note, involving Stone. Police spokesman Darrin Jensen sent a terse press release to several of us at the paper, plus Clarkston and other media outlets. It raised several questions—but not the right ones:

The Metro Nashville Police Department today indefinitely suspended with pay Sergeant Mike Whitfield of the East Precinct, pending an internal investigation.

“Our highest standards must be me
t, or the public will lose confidence in our ability to protect and serve,” Chief Wilson King said. “Sergeant Whitfield has an outstanding reputation in the community and has been instrumental in solving a number of major crimes to make Nashville a safer place to live, and that is why I am disappointed to make this announcement. But I expect Sergeant Whitfield to be back on the streets soon and that he

will be able to put this behind him.”

The email cited Whitfie
ld’s years of service, awards, and accomplishments and said his current duties on the Stone investigation would be shared by several other officers. I immediately called Jensen for an explanation.

“Everybody’s being kinda hush-hush
, and you can’t use this,” Jensen said. “Mike has a bit of a drinking problem that got out of hand at home and his wife called his supervisor. He goes into treatment tomorrow.”

Hanging up,
I muttered, “That seems out of character for the Mike Whitfield I know.”

At Channel 11, Clarkston’s day mirrored mine, accomplishing little. After a series of meetings with editors, directors, station management, and telephone calls to New York, Clarkston got word that both he and videographer Greg Pittard would work with
Ed and Tara
,
provided that any footage shot appeared on Channel 11 at least twenty-four hours in advance. In exchange, the station would receive on-air credit for its aid in the story. Clarkston spoke with Tara Bradley, who thanked him for agreeing to help and said she looked forward to working with him. Now to convince Stone to do his first national interview on
Ed and Tara
. Clarkston felt that would be no problem. He called Jackson’s office, and an irate secretary lit into him. Clarkston’s first call came after my five.

“
I don’t know where Mister Stone is or when he’ll be back,” she said. “It won’t be today. Please don’t call again.”

Clarkston
ran with the story. If Jackson saw the six o’clock newscast, he would learn of the offer that way. A two-minute rehearsal primed Clarkston. “Channel 11 has learned that the syndicated
Ed and Tara
show hopes to land the first national interview with Jackson Stone for an upcoming segment,” Clarkston said, then swiveled to camera two. “There’s no word yet on when the segment would air on this station.”

After
wrapping up the rehearsal with a recap of the story to date, Clarkston went back to his desk before they went live and looked at his email for any late news tips. In his inbox, the same note about Sergeant Whitfield arrived. Like me, Clarkston called the police spokesman and learned off the record about Whitfield’s alleged drinking problem. At the end of the live telecast Clarkston turned back to camera one.

“And in an unrelated development,
an officer working on the Stone investigation has been indefinitely suspended for a violation of the department’s personal conduct policy.”

The subject of that late-breaking report, Sergeant Mike Whitfield, drove back to the East Precinct after his downtown meeting with Chief King, cleared his desk, and packed up personal items in his locker. Like wildfire, word filtered through the station grapevine that Whitfield drew a two-week suspension for getting drunk and getting physical with his wife. Officer Mendez came by, and Whitfield confirmed the time off to deal with “a personal issue.” They shook hands and Whitfield left for his Antioch home. He wanted to explain to his wife before it made the news, but Interstate 24 was backed up almost to downtown, because of an accident. He tried to call, but his battery was running low.

Marti Whitfield heard the garage door open and ran to greet her husband, tears running down her face. She flew into his arms.

“What is going on? I just saw on the news that you’d been suspended.”

“Shhhh,” he said, smiling at her concern as he wiped away a tear. “Let me exp
lain, then I’m taking you to dinner.”

Jackson parked outside Eddie Paul’s Pub and entered the ancient watering hole, hoping to re-establish some of his old routines. He waved to several drinking buddies. Louie, the bartender, nodded as Jackson approached the bar.

“Goo
d to seeya. I didn’t know if you’d be back since you and Angela spent so much time here.”

Jackson
wondered, too, if he’d ever return until after the unnerving series of meetings with Marty at the office. Had his “mission” jeopardized his career? With much to think about, Jackson needed a drink. He wasn’t ready to lay all this on Patrick yet. Maybe he’d pick Louie’s brain. He smiled at the bartender, knowing he’d listen to his troubles.

“
Think I’m going crazy. This is like a second home to me. It might become my permanent home,” Jackson said as Louie handed him a beer. Jackson rolled the sweaty bottle in his hands and contemplated his future. “I might crawl in this bottle and never come out.”

Jackson
didn’t hear the concern in Louie’s voice when he said, “C’mon, Jack, don’t talk like that.” He moved to “Angela’s booth” and tuned out his surroundings, the world.

He and Angela
had spent so many hours here over the years that it did indeed give him a sense of security. Following that 1995 fund-raiser for one of Al Gore’s projects, they worked on his unsuccessful 2000 presidential campaign, hammering out many details over drinks at the pub. The laughs at Eddie Paul’s poured like the beer, booze, and wine. Jackson had brought friends, family, and clients to the neighborhood eatery; they’d cheered at the annual Super

Bowl party and other major sporting even
ts; they gathered for wakes for friends who passed, for wedding receptions, for young couples just starting out, and for holidays and birthdays.

Louie brought a second beer
. Friends kept coming over for a few minutes to express sorrow, then moved to another table after Jackson choked up or retold a story about Angela for the second or third time. He sat alone, sipping his third beer when a promo for the six o’clock news caught his attention. His picture was being shown on the big-screen television, but Jackson couldn’t hear the report over the 1970’s rock music playing on the sound system.

“He
y, Louie, turn that up.”

The barkeep
complied. “Coming up on the six o’clock report,” co-anchor Cameron Knight said, “which starts right now.”

After
reports on a possible Metro tax increase and an apartment fire in the Hermitage area that displaced three families and injured a fireman, the news anchor introduced Clarkston’s next piece. Jackson watched without comment. He didn’t remember getting a message or talking to anyone from that show. His interest perked up when the segment ended with Clarkston’s late-breaking add-on about the suspension of one of the cops working his wife’s case.

“T
hat’s going to slow down the investigation. Bad for them, good for me,” Jackson told Louie, who turned the music back up.

As
Jackson headed for the bathroom, he wondered what the cop did.

When he
returned, he got his final surprise of the night. He could ask the cop in person why he’d been suspended.

Being seated two tables away were Sergeant Whitfield and his wife.

Jackson re-introduced himself, not surprising the policeman in the least. In planning a run-in with Jackson, Mike had asked around and learned of his affinity for the pub. He figured Jackson would show up there eventually.

“C
ome sit with us,” Whitfield said, introducing Marti.

“Sure I’m not interrupting?”
Jackson asked, not wanting to let on what he’d just seen on television.

Whitfield laughed
, and Marti flashed a weak smile. “Nah. You didn’t hear this from me, but I’m off duty tomorrow. And a few days after that.”

As he retrieved his beer from the bar,
Jackson silently reflected that he might also be off duty tomorrow. And a few days after that.

The evening’s major shocks were over for hunter Jackson. But not for the hunted Wolfe.

He
thought about trying to tail the TV reporter again because he saw the six o’clock report about Stone being sought for a national talk show. Agitated by that revelation, Wolfe felt better after seeing the segment about the cop getting suspended.

One thing that
kept Delmore Wolfe from being caught all these years was that he learned all he could about potential adversaries. Once he saw a policeman’s name in the paper he found out everything he could about who might be hunting him. He would go to the library and read local papers about their past cases, their successes and failures, and tried to think like they did to stay a step ahead. So far, that paranoid strategy had worked.

Instead of going after Clarkston, he decided to check out his true quarry in East Nashville.

He drove past the Stone and Fletcher houses—all quiet and no lights on at either house. “No bodies home. Stop, yer killin’ them,” the comedian later wrote in his journal.

As Wolfe cruised around East Nashville, a series of powerful growls rumbled through his stomach. He pulled into the tavern’s packed parking lot and went inside.

He
never liked being startled, not since that little jerk back in high school—he forgot his name but remembered the twerp never tried that again—snuck up behind him and pushed him down the hill. Wolfe straightened him out good that day and—Rudy, yeah, that pint-sized pissant—Rudy exhibited the scars, mental and physical, to prove it.

But Wo
lfe received one of the most unexpected astonishments of his young, twisted life at the popular but quaint restaurant called Eddie Paul’s Pub.

He went straight to the bar, ordered a scotch on the rocks
, and asked for a menu. He swiveled around and saw Jackson Stone sitting at a table about a dozen feet away, talking to a young blond-haired couple. He didn’t know either person, but studied them. The guy looked familiar, but he couldn’t place the face. Then it dawned on him—
what’s he doing here talking to him?

Wolfe
downed his drink, left a ten on the bar, and left as quickly as possible without making a scene. Deep in conversation, neither Jackson nor Mike Whitfield noticed Wolfe or saw him exit the building.

But the security cameras did.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 17

1

The insistent alarm clock made his head
throb harder. It felt like it took forever to crawl from the bed and stagger across the room to shut it off. Yawning, Jackson made coffee, and took a Goody’s powder to fight off the hangover. He flipped on the TV and slumped on the couch, rubbing his face and trying to remember last night. “How many beers did I have?”

It took him a few minutes to remember how he got home.
Oh yeah, Mike and his wife followed after he insisted on driving his car.

“He
probably would have given me a DUI if he still wore his badge. He’s all right,” Jackson mumbled.

Because of
his cover-story suspension, Whitfield had asked Jackson to call him Mike and not sergeant. They’d talked for hours at the bar, and it got plenty deep.

Jackson
learned where the investigation stood, and about the lack of physical evidence. They chatted about why Jackson went to the media like that, where he thought he might find Angela’s killer, and what Jackson would do to the murderer if and when he found him. Perhaps because of the beer, Jackson found himself opening up to Mike. He said he’d start by cutting the guy’s heart out. Mike said he should start lower, a non-chemical castration with a straight-edged razor. Jackson laughed and said he would hold him down if Mike would do it. When Marti shivered and said to cut it out, Mike laughed and said that’s just what they’d do. Jackson snorted so hard, beer spewed down his chin.