The Pastor's Wife (8 page)

The General Assembly of Tennessee formed McNairy County in 1823 when it cut 560 square miles out of Hardin County to create it. They named the new jurisdiction on the border of Mississippi after Federal Judge John McNairy, appointed to the bench by President George Washington. In 1838, history marked the county with pain, sorrow and national disgrace as one route of the Cherokee Trail of Tears.

When the Civil War ripped the nation apart, McNairy County was marked for disaster. Shiloh, where Union and Confederate soldiers clashed in the second largest battle of the war, was just miles away. Lieutenant Colonel Fielding Hurst, Tennessee-born and McNairy County–raised, led the Union forces on a path of destruction through western Tennessee. In the town of Purdy, he sang songs and prayed while his troops burned down all of the churches and most of the homes. Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest wrote: “From Tupelo to Purdy, the country has been laid waste.”

The residents of the town struggled to recover, but the final blow brought an end to their dreams—their fifty-year-old brick courthouse was burned to the ground in 1881. By 1897, Purdy lay in ruins. The county seat moved by the railroad tracks in the recently incorporated town of New South, later renamed “Selma.” However, when the documents were submitted, the applicant spelled the name
phonetically, according to the local pronunciation, and the town of Selmer was born.

With its new county seat, McNairy County grew into a thriving area of industrial development dominated by textile plants. But in the 1970s, the factories began closing their doors—either going out of business or moving operations to foreign countries. The economic downturn placed it on the national list of impoverished counties. Its 22,000 predominantly white citizens remained in that condition until 2003 when an upsurge began in the area's fiscal health.

The annals of crime in McNairy County include the death of United States Post Office Inspector Elbert Lamberth in Stantonville on August 17, 1917. Long before “going postal” crept into the common vernacular, a postal carrier gunned down the inspector in front of the Elam Hotel.

It was another law enforcement official, though, who gained the greater prominence in crime lore for the county. His name was Sheriff Buford Pusser. His exploits inspired a cinematic depiction in the
Walking Tall
series of movies and a short-lived television show.

The 6'6", 250-pound man attended morticians' school in Chicago and earned a living wrestling as Buford the Bull—once defeating a grizzly bear.

In 1962, when his father Carl's health took a turn for the worse, Buford, his new wife and her children from a previous marriage moved back to McNairy County. He entered law enforcement working for his father. When Carl's medical problems forced him to resign as the town's police chief, the town council hired Buford to take his place.

It was a wild and wooly era in McNairy County and the adjoining Alcorn County across the Mississippi line. The Dixie Mafia and the State Line Mob ran successful bordellos, gambling dens and bootlegging operations on both sides of the border between the two states. Buford wanted to bring all of that to an end.

To accomplish that goal, he ran for sheriff in 1964. Two weeks after his predecessor, James Dickey, died in an automobile accident, Buford Pusser, at the age of 26, became the youngest sheriff in the history of Tennessee.

He got busy making enemies out of all the vice merchants in the area. In 1965 alone, he destroyed eighty-seven whiskey stills. A lot of people wanted him dead.

At 4:30
A.M.
on August 12, 1967, he responded to a disturbance call on the state line. His wife, Pauline, rode with him in what was expected to be a routine call. But a black Cadillac pulled up beside them and a shot rang out. It hit Pauline in the head.

Buford raced away from the vehicle and came to a stop two miles down the road to care for his wife. The black car returned. He came under fire once again—one bullet lodged in Pauline's head, another hit Buford in the face, literally knocking off the left side of his jaw. Buford fell to the floorboard. Eleven additional bullets riddled his car.

Pauline died that night. But Buford, although disfigured, survived, and stepped into the national consciousness as a great American hero. By the time term limits pushed him out of office in 1970, he'd been shot eight times; knifed seven times; single-handedly fought off six men at once, sending three to jail and three to the hospital; and killed two people in self-defense. The
Walking Tall
legend was born.

On August 20, 1974, a year after the first movie hit theaters, Buford Pusser faced the media in Memphis at a press conference called to announce that he would play the lead in a new movie titled
Buford
. He then drove a hundred miles to Adamsville, where he changed clothes and got into his maroon Corvette to drive to the McNairy County Fair. There, he signed autographs and spoke to his 13-year-old daughter, Dawna, who arrived earlier with a family member. He left the fair around midnight.

He raced home alone up Highway 64. Six miles down the road, he lost control of his car and smashed into an embankment and was thrown from the vehicle. Dawna was in
the first car on the scene after the accident. She knelt in the dirt by her father's side, begging him not to die.

The funeral cortege numbered in the thousands, including luminaries Joe Don Baker, Tammy Wynette and George Jones. Even Elvis Presley showed up to pay his respects, but he did not want to steal Buford's moment of glory, so he waited in the Pusser home during the funeral and sat in his limousine and viewed the interment from a distance. Buford was laid to rest beside his wife Pauline at the Adamsville Cemetery.

As often happens with larger-than-life figures, Buford's death gave birth to a cottage industry of rumors, conspiracy theories and innuendo.

Many, including Buford's mother and daughter, believed he was murdered, even though officials ruled his death an accident caused by excessive speed. There were those who claimed he was a player in the vice operations in the county and his crime-fighting was only a thinly disguised attack on his rivals in criminal enterprise. No one, though, has offered any proof of this accusation.

A little more than a year after Matthew Winkler's arrival in McNairy County, his death would draw the country's attention back to this quiet, rural area. The rumors spawned would again tarnish the reputation of a victim of a violent death. Lines would be drawn, and life in McNairy County would not be the same.

As pulpit minister, Matthew earned an annual salary of $50,000 and the use of the church parsonage. The Winkler family moved into the three-bedroom brick ranch house, set high on a hill on Mollie Drive. Selmer Elementary, where Patricia and Allie would attend school, was only a couple of blocks away.

Mary's advanced pregnancy that early February 2005 made unpacking and settling into a new home a difficult and demanding task. It all had to be done while caring for two little girls. Mary, normally very energetic, had to struggle to keep in motion and get things done.

Allie had a hard time adjusting to kindergarten in her new school, and was anxious about being supplanted by the baby whose birth was just a month away. She cried every day in class, prompting the assistant principal, Pam Killingsworth, to schedule a meeting. Since Pam was also a member of Fourth Street Church of Christ, she was doubly pleased when her new pastor and his wife both showed up for the conference and displayed genuine concern for their little girl's distress.

Not everyone had a good first impression of Matthew Winkler. It took only two weeks until he had a run-in with one of his neighbors. The conflict arose over a 15-year-old rottweiler named Madison.

The dog's owners, Sharyn and Dan Everitt, lived across the street and two doors down. Since the Everitts' biological
children grew up and left the house, the couple welcomed foster children into their home. In February 2006, they had six of them living there, ages 2 to 13.

In the Everitts' front yard, a 500-foot driveway formed a half-circle on the property. The children were outside one day writing on it with sidewalk chalk. Madison sat on the front porch watching over them while they played.

Sharyn was in the back rooms of the house when she heard two sharp warning barks. She walked to the front of the house, looked out the window and saw Matthew Winkler leaving her property and crossing the street.

The 8-year-old boy in her care raced into the house. “There's a man out there and he says he's going to kill Madison.”

“You must have misunderstood,” Sharyn said. “That man's not going to kill Madison. He's the new preacher. You don't need to be afraid.”

But he was, and so were the rest of the kids.
They must have misunderstood what he said. He's a preacher
, Sharyn thought. She decided she needed to talk to him right away and clear up the misunderstanding.

The distance to the parsonage property was very short, but the incline up the driveway was quite steep. Unwilling to labor up the hill on foot, Sharyn drove over to the Winklers'. Matthew and Mary were outside with their girls, Patricia and Allie, who were bouncing a ball. She pulled up, rolled down the window and introduced herself.

“Matt Winkler,” he said in response.

Sharyn nodded and said, “I thought I'd come over 'cause my kids were upset and I thought they must have misunderstood what you said.”

“I think I made myself really clear,” Matthew said.

Sharyn was still certain the children were alarmed over nothing and Matthew didn't realize what they thought he told them. She clarified, “The children said that you were going to shoot our dog.”

“Yes. That's a rottweiler. Rottweilers kill people.” Matthew's voice sounded etched with acid. “I have two
children here. If your dog ever came after one of my kids, I'd kill it.”

As he spoke, Mary stepped back to stand beside the two girls as if she wanted to put distance between herself and Matthew's words.

Fear, it's just a matter of fear. I need to reassure him
, Sharyn thought. “My dog won't do that. She's used to children. You could break into our house and she would let you, but she wouldn't let you leave. You could come in with a gun in your hand and she'd grab that hand in her mouth. She's protection-trained. But since you're not going to break into my house, we don't have a problem.”

“Look, lady. If I see that dog out of your yard, I'll shoot it.”

Matthew wasn't budging an inch. Talking to him seemed fruitless, so Sharyn changed the subject, turning her attention to Mary. “When's your baby due?”

“April,” Mary told her.

“Do you know the sex?”

“It's a little girl,” Mary said.

“I bet you're excited.”

Matthew chimed in, “You can't have too many princesses.”

What an odd thing to say.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Sharyn said as she put her car in reverse and made her getaway.

“Don't you forget,” Matthew hollered after her. “You keep that dog in your yard.”

“I'll try,” Sharyn said, but she wasn't sure how she'd make that happen. The neighbors across the street adored Madison. They often called her across to play ball. As long as Madison stayed out of the Winklers' yard, there wouldn't be a problem, Sharyn assured herself. Madison never roamed the neighborhood, so we have no cause for concern.

On the short drive back, Sharyn wondered about the addition to their neighborhood.
This is not new neighbor behavior. This is not preacher behavior. What is this
aggression?
She put those thoughts aside and summoned up far more confidence than she felt as she comforted the children and promised them that everything would be fine. She calmed them for the moment, but she didn't really convince them. They harbored a permanent fear of their new neighbor. They wouldn't go over to the Winklers' yard to play with the girls unless Matthew was away from home.

When her husband Dan returned from work, she told him about her encounter with Matthew Winkler—about his threats, his tone of voice, his severe body language. She said, “Any man who talks like that to another man's wife is a man who abuses his own wife.”

Dan laughed off her concerns.

“I'm serious, Dan,” she said. “If he would say what he said and act that way with me, a neighbor, who knows what he'd do or say to his family?”

Two months later, Dan was mowing the front lawn when he spotted Matthew standing at the edge of the yard in the spot he just cut. Dan got off the mower and stepped over to Matthew and stuck out his hand.

The preacher wouldn't accept his greeting—he kept his hands on his hips. “Your dog is in a neighbor's yard. I've warned your wife. I'll shoot that dog.”

“Sorry, I didn't know. We have small foster children, sometimes they let the dog out.” Dan looked around, but didn't see Madison. “Do you know where the dog is now?”

Matt said “No,” turned around and left.

Dan went into the house and discovered that Madison was inside. Matthew couldn't have seen their dog, but there were two other rottweilers living on the street. It must have been one of them. “You're right,” Dan told Sharyn as he related his experience with Matthew. “I bet he is an abuser.”

 

Not everyone in the community believed that the Everitts' version of events was accurate. Despite Sharyn's protestations that Madison was harmless, Vice Principal Pam Killingsworth thought otherwise. She said that a number of men on Mollie Drive had threatened to shoot that dog.
She recalled one day when Sharyn, whose granddaughter attended Selmer Elementary, came into the school office heavily bandaged. When Pam asked what happened, Sharyn said, “The dog bit me. I think I'm going to have to start chaining her up.”