Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) (24 page)

I had a strange feeling talking to Dee. I told him most of what McKee told me about his agency and the fact he wanted to hire me as a consultant. Yet, I held back why McKee wanted to consult me.

That bothered me. While I knew I was completely within normal ethical boundaries by respecting McKee’s confidence, and although it was none of Dee’s business what McKee wanted me to do as a consultant, I still had a feeling I was somehow betraying DiRado with my silence. Maybe it was because we were both cops and had been partners so long. Partners spend more time together than husbands and wives, and in some ways, are closer, if not more intimate.

Or maybe it was because I knew how Dee might look at what McKee and company did for a living. To a cop, stealing is stealing, even if the victim is a criminal. I know that, in this day and age, a lot of cops drive cars confiscated from drug dealers without due process of law, so maybe Dee wouldn’t have seen it that way at all. Yet, he was as old school as I am, and I think the bottom line was I just didn’t want to take the risk. That was a strange decision with someone I have trusted with my life.

I should have known he would pick up on it. “What’s the matter, Jazz?” he asked me.

“This thing is getting way too complicated,” I answered. “It started out as a pretty standard murder, and now we have spooks involved. I don’t like it, Dee. I’m wondering what’s going to jump out of the bushes next.”

“No shit!” he replied. “You want out? It’s no skin off my ass if you do. I’m in the clear now. They can shove this case and the whole frigging CID as far as I’m concerned.”

“No,” I said. “It just gives me the red-ass. I’ll get over it.”

“You’ve been known to do that,” he laughed. “Look, you want me to drive over to keep you company?”

“No, I want you to take care of yourself. Your boss might get the wrong idea if you come with us, and I don’t want to mess up your retirement. Tanner is giving me a deputy for the day, so I’ve got help, or at least backup. I’m all right. I’m just blowing off a little steam.”

 
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The deputy Tanner promised was waiting for me when I got to the jail. It was Leslie Parker, the fellow on duty the night I brought in the rifle and he was dressed in jeans and a faded cotton warmup parka over a black tee shirt. The jacket was hunter green and on the left breast was a golden shield with the words “Sheriff’s Department” written in small block letters circling it. The same words were written in large letters across the back of the parka, and underneath that I could see the bulge of a pistol holster on his belt. I suspected his cuffs were looped over his belt in back.

Leslie seemed cheerful and friendly, like a large, overgrown pup, but I wasn’t sure just where I stood with him. I decided it would be better to confront any issues he might have before we left town. “I hope I did n’t get you in a jam with your boss,” I told him, watching carefully.

He seemed surprised I mentioned it. “You mean with the rifle? No sweat. It was my own fault for getting sloppy. He didn’t even say much. Just moved me back to patrol.”

“So no hard feelings?” I asked.

He shook his head and grinned. “No, I’d rather be out on patrol, anyway. I don’t like driving a desk much.”

“I don’t either,” I said. I told him what I had in mind.

Leslie echoed the sheriff’s assessment. “I was in on the first search, but there wasn’t a whole lot there like there is with some old people. Mostly his clothes and some musical instruments. What there was has probably disappeared by now, but we can give it a try.”

It turned out he was right. Smiley had lived alone in his own house, and it was obvious he had taken care of the place. Yet, the front door was missing, as was the kitchen sink and the commode. The place was bare of furniture and the only thing that remained was trash scattered around the polished wooden floor. Not even coat hangers remained in the one closet. “It sure don’t take long out here,” the deputy observed, looking around. “Unless someone moves in, the floor boards will be gone soon.”

The way he was eyeing the oak flooring, I wondered if he was considering it himself. “Not much left for his family, is there?”

The deputy gave me a startled look. “Hell, it was probably his family who done this,” he said. “Cousins. He didn’t have no kids or even an ex-wife.”

“Any evidence he was gay?” I asked, watching the deputy closely.

“Wouldn’t surprise me, him being a musician and all, but I ain’t heard a word about that. He had the reputation of being a lady’s man and I hear a lot of ladies thought he was their man.” He laughed.

“Sometimes that’s a screen,” I said and I could tell he didn’t follow. “You know, what people in the gay community call window dressing.”

“Window dressing?” he asked, looking at the bare frames where even the curtain rods had been taken.

“It’s the way some guys hide the fact they are gay. They have a family or lots of girl friends.”

“Jesus!” he said. The look of revulsion on his face almost made me laugh. When the implications hit him he frowned. “Then how do you know...?”

I shrugged. “Mostly, you don’t. That’s why I was asking.”

“Yeah,” he said absently, looking deeply troubled. I realized I had opened the door to a vast abyss before him, and there was nothing I could do to close it. “You know, we’ve got a guy like that in the sheriff’s department,” he told me. “A real ladies’ man. You don’t think...?”

“Good heavens, no,” I said, improvising. The last thing I wanted to do was stir up trouble in Tanner’s office. “Not out here. Smiley was a city guy most of his life. That’s why I asked.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I see what you mean.” It was obvious he didn’t see, and it was equally clear he was still troubled. Yet, I hoped I had given him a way back to shore. What he said next told me I had failed. “There are some weird folks out there. Guy has to watch himself.”

Out of habit, I sorted through the trash. Most of it was just that, but in one of the back rooms, I turned over what I thought was a sheet of yellowed paper and found myself looking at an old photograph. It was black and white and the paper was stained a bit from age and dust, but the image was still clear. Nor was it a snapshot. It looked professionally composed, almost like a publicity shot, though there was no name of the photographer on the back.

The picture showed six young African American men dressed in their Sunday best. One of them was older and a bit taller and wore a black suit with a white shirt and a wide conservative tie. He looked to be in his early twenties, but he could have been forty or more. There was something that looked like a white carnation in his lapel and he was smiling broadly, his large white teeth as bright against piano keys against his dark skin. It was that famous smile that had given Wilbur Jones his sobriquet.

Directly in front of Smiley was a much younger man about the same age as Robert McNutt was now. He was wearing what looked like a grey blazer and black dress pants and was seated facing the camera directly. His tie was much narrower, but he, too, wore a white carnation in his jacket lapel. What struck me immediately was how much he looked like Wilbur, whose hands rested on the youngster’s shoulders. Most viewers would probably think they were looking at a father and his son—a son born in his father’s exact image.

The other four men were much younger than the man in the center, in their middle teens and a bit older than the youth. Two of them stood to either side of Wilbur, and they were dressed the same way as the young man in front, with grey blazers, black pants, and carnations on their lapels. They were all grinning, too, and small beads of light reflected from the shine on their shoes.

While all of these four young men were about the same height and build, only one of them bore any resemblance to the two in the center. This young man stood directly to the left of the man in the center, and except for his height and age, could have been the older man’s twin. Or perhaps the youngster’s twin.

I recognized the photo as one I’d seen in the article on Smiley. There, the man in the middle was identified as Smiley, but the other men were described as members of his church choir. Now I recognized the man to his left as a much younger Slide Jones, and the man standing immediately to Smiley’s right was Luther Adams. Next to him I recognized the young Albert Jones, and from what I had been told, I knew the youngster was Edward Posey.

The man I did not recognize, standing next to Slide Jones, had to be Luther Goodman. Dressed up and posed for the photograph, I would not have recognized him from the picture in Luther Adams’ Bible. I guessed the photo I was holding must have been taken some time before his death.

Whether it was the clothes or the formal setting of the photo, all the young men looked older than I expected. Or it could be Albert Jones was mistaken about how old they were when Goodie was shot. I made myself a note to check the date in the county records.

Something at the very bottom of the photo caught my eye. It was a line of small type and I had to move to better light to make it out. When I did I saw it said that the photo was by one Jackson Smith of Arkadelphia. So it was done by a professional, and I guessed it must have been a publicity photo for the young man’s choir from Oak Grove Baptist Church. Assuming Jackson Smith was still alive, he might be able to tell me exactly when the picture was taken.

“I hear they were really good.” Leslie’s voice startled me. He had come to where I was standing by the window and was peering over my shoulder.

“They were a bit before your time, weren’t they?” I asked, irritated with him for sneaking up on me but trying not to show it.

“My mama used to listen to them all the time,” he said, oblivious to my rancor. “She had an old record they made when they first started. It was good but all scratchy.”

My rancor turned to interest. “Did she know much about them?”

Leslie laughed. “As much as any white woman, I guess. Her daddy used to get upset by her spending so much time at the n...at their church.”

Leslie looked at me nervously to see if I had caught his near slip. I ignored it, more concerned with any information he might have than with his political correctitude. “Do you think she would mind talking to me?” I asked. “It could help our case here.”

“I don’t see why not,” he replied, relieved. “Only thing is, after our daddy died, she went to live with my sister in Orlando. Down in Florida. She won’t be home until just before Christmas.”

I got the sister’s telephone number and asked Leslie to let his mother know I might call in a few days. When it comes to gossip, there’s very little crossover between the white community and the black community, and I doubted Leslie’s mother would be much help. On the other hand, she might, or she might know someone in the black community who could give me a different take on Smiley Jones and his choir boys. I didn’t expect much would come of this, but one never knows. Over the years there have been several times when some of my biggest breaks came from the most unexpected sources. I made myself a note to follow up on this and tucked it in my pocket.

There wasn’t much more we could do at Smiley’s place. The house was empty and there were no sheds or other buildings to search. I needed to talk to Albert Jones, but I didn’t think Leslie’s presence would help, so I let him get back to patrol. He told me he was on split shift that day and hoped to get in a little fishing in between.

I watched Leslie drive away, then stood there a while. I wasn’t looking for anything or even thinking. I was listening to the silence of the house, like a dog testing the wind with its nose for whatever scent it might bring. I was listening for what the silence could tell me about the man who lived here, about the people he lived among, and for anything this could tell me about why he died.

Yet, there was nothing there. Too many strangers to this place had passed through, raiding the house for its possessions. Their tracks had made this home a public place, and whatever sense might remain of Smiley’s presence in this place had been trampled in their greed. I would need to look elsewhere for a sense of the man who lived here.

I looked down at the photo I was holding, now secure in it’s plastic bag. As I looked at it, I was overcome by a profound sense of loss. Normally, I try to stay away from such feelings. They can be useful in an investigation, but they can cloud the issues and rob the investigator of objectivity. For such feelings are as much about the beholder as what is beheld.

This time it came on too fast, and I was faced with a difficult choice. I could fight the feeling and risk losing whatever it might tell me, or I could be present to it and enter the fog of crime. I decided to listen to whatever this side of my soul had to tell me, and I fixed my attention on the photo.

The sense of sadness and waste that washed over me at that moment was almost like a physical blow, I was looking at six young men full of confidence and hope. They were full of hope knowing the deck was stacked against them, just as it had been for their fathers. They were male and they were of African descent, and the world they were born in did not prize them. It was afraid of them, and in every generation it ignored those among them who it could not destroy.