Chapter 1
Like just about everything else in his short but remarkable life, the death of Jimmy Chin Lee was perfectly timed. At least, that’s what the staff of the Nashville Daily Tribune thought on that hot August Saturday afternoon. Jimmy Chin died earlier that morning, too late for the Saturday edition but with plenty of time left for the Sunday paper.
Of course, I couldn’t say that to anybody, especially if the person wasn’t a journalist. But every journalist who has covered breaking news knows what I am talking about. You hate the person who dies too close to deadline.
And Jimmy Chin Lee was hard to hate, even if you found yourself in the stands on a fall Saturday afternoon hoping a linebacker for your team would flatten him before he zipped a pass to one of his tight ends. Jimmy Chin had a manner, a presence, an aura that endeared him to just about everybody.
Except to the person who killed him.
My mind randomly and irreverently dialed through these thoughts on that humid Saturday, a couple of weeks before the collegiate football season was to begin. The newsroom of the Tribune, Nashville’s second-place and second-rate newspaper where I was the chief cop and crime reporter, buzzed with people, movement and sounds. Normally, at this hour of the week, the newsroom was silent. Nothing makes a newsroom come alive like the death of a famous person.
“Forget Joe Namath!”
Deck Layton, the Trib’s sports editor, aimed his words at me as he ambled across the wide expanse of desks and chairs toward my half cubicle. Deck was a big guy who normally carried himself well. Shoulders like an aircraft carrier, hips like a snake. Upright and sober, he looked like the former football player he was.
Today he was neither upright nor, I suspected, completely sober. He knocked a couple of chairs into a death spin as he meandered toward me.
“And you can forget Bart Starr and Kenny Stabler, too!”
The Tribune’s office was five miles from Vanderbilt’s campus. We were in the middle of the state of Tennessee. But Deck had a soft spot for Alabama football.
“And you can forget Peyton Manning and Tee Martin and . . ..” He named several other Southeastern Conference legends.
“All you got to do is remember one name,” he said. He paused and held up one finger for dramatic effect.
“Jimmy Chin Lee.”
Deck eased himself down into the chair beside my desk. He wasn’t too drunk, but he and a bottle of Jack Daniels had crossed paths in the last hour or two. I looked at the clock on my computer screen. Nearly three o’clock. Plenty of time before deadline. I took my hands off the keyboard and swung my chair around to face him. The chair gave its usual screech of pain at having to move.
“Deck,” I said, acknowledging his presence.
He had sunk deeply into the chair, and he eyed me with a bit of a stupid grin.
“Mitchell Patrick Sawyer!” he said, not shouting but loud enough to attract attention “How the hell are you, Sawman?”
Deck wanted to talk about Jimmy Chin Lee. I didn’t. I wanted to write my story and get the hell out of there. I wasn’t supposed to be working this Saturday.
Deck wasn’t going away. I decided to make conversation.
“Got your column done?”
He waved his right hand, dismissing the question and then used his hand as a resting place for his head. That told me the column was done or that it was simply a matter of getting it onto the computer screen. Then he leaned forward, his forearms on his knees and stared at the floor. He smelled a bit of liquor, a bit of perspiration, a bit of shaving cream.
“Mathematics,” he said, still staring at the floor.
“What?”
“Mathematics – that’s how he did it, Sawman. That’s what made Jimmy Chin Lee a great quarterback.”
I leaned back in my chair. The wood that constituted most of the furniture in the Trib’s newsroom had begun life sometime in the late nineteenth century. It wanted to die, but our tight-fisted publisher Felix Wakefield, my friend and mentor, wouldn’t let it.
“What are you talking about, Deck?”
Deck was smart guy. He was also one of the few people left in the newsroom who would talk to me on a voluntary basis. So I listened to his theories even when they sounded cock-eyed.
“Look,” he said, “This may sound a little crazy – and a little stereotypical, given that he was Oriental, Asian, whatever – but Jimmy Chin had everything that happened on the field, all the movements of the linebackers and his own linemen, reduced to numbers. Real numbers. Most of us, we learn to judge how near and far people are away from us, and if they are coming toward us, how long it will take them to reach us. But Jimmy Chin, when he was on the football field, calculated that using real numbers.”
“You’re right, Deck. That sounds crazy,” I said, but I was still curious. “Just how did he pull this off when some 350-pound linebacker was bearing down on him?”
“Well, he actually had it worked out before the 350-pound linebacker was bearing down on him – and he worked it so the 350-pound linebacker wouldn’t be bearing down on him.”
“You’re losing me, Deck.”
“Okay, I won’t try to explain the whole system to you,” he said a bit exasperated, “but here’s an important part of it. A quarterback’s biggest enemy on the field is linebackers. They either come after you or they go after your receivers or blockers.”
Deck had been a linebacker in college, a second-team All American with a brief NFL experience.
“So, as a quarterback, you want to avoid the linebackers?” I ventured.
I had played a little college ball myself. I didn’t need the lesson, but I let Deck ramble on.
“Well, yeah, if they decide to come after you. But the key thing is figuring out what they’re going to decide. And it’s even better if you can help them make the wrong decision – make them go after your receivers when they should be coming after you. That’s what Jimmy Chin could do better than anybody in college football. And he did it because his calculations on the field were far more precise than anybody else – probably anybody who ever played the game.”
Deck stopped talking, just like that – just like a radio that had been turned off. He seemed lost in his thoughts. I waited for a moment and then tried to get him started again.
“Is that what’s going to be in your column tomorrow?”
“Can’t say,” he said. He stood up and started to walk away. “Guess you’ll have to read it.”
I sat there and watched him wander back to his office, which was a glassed-in space at the far end of the newsroom. It took him a minute or so to get there, and he didn’t say anything to anyone along the way. He walked like he was deep in thought and like his office was just the location he was aiming for.
He had definitely been engaged with Mr. Jack at some point earlier in the day.
Before I could think too much about Deck, my phone rang, and I was back into reporting mode again. A friend on the police force was returning my call. I had everything the official police spokesman told me about the investigation into Jimmy Chin’s death, which was nothing. I was trying to figure out if there really was nothing or if there was something that the cop shop or the mayor’s office or the Vanderbilt president’s office didn’t want the public to know.
“Nah, Mitch, we got nothing,” Tommie Hampton said. Tommie was a 10-year detective on the force and the toughest and most honest cop I knew. She could also beat me four out of five times at racquetball whenever she took a mind to. She let me win every fifth game or so to keep me interested in playing with her. Her husband, a totally sensible torts attorney, would never set foot on a racquetball court.
“Nothing? Surely you got something.”
“Wrong on that score, my friend.”
“Not even a rumor?”
“Not even that.”
I let a moment of silence put a benediction on that. Silence is one of the best tricks of an interviewer. People want to fill in the silence, so they start talking. Except Tommie knew that trick, too. She’s a cop.
Finally, I said, “Tommie, as you often say, most murders aren’t mysteries. It’s pretty obvious from the moment you look at the scene or the body or talk to the first witness who killed the victim.”
“That’s usually the way it is.”
“But not this time.”
“Nope, not this time. No witnesses, no forensics, no weapon.”
“And no motive?”
“Not one we’ve found.”
The silence took over again. I didn’t know if Tommie was holding out on me or if the police were really stumped. Tommie didn’t usually hold out on me, but occasionally she did, and I had to understand that. That was part of the whole source-friendship-trust thing we had going.
I gave it one more shot. “You know, a famous guy like Jimmy Chin Lee. Must have been a lot of people who wanted him dead.”
“At least one,” Tommie said. “But the problem for us is that there were lots of people who wanted him alive.”
Did they ever. After I finished talking with Tommie Hampton, I fielded a quick series of phone calls from the mayor and a variety of big shots around town, telling me how sorry they were that Jimmy Chin Lee had been killed. Some of them wanted to give me statements to put in my story, and others just wanted to pump me for information so they could have a little something to chatter about at the country club that evening. To the degree that I liked them or that they had been a useful source for me in the past, I told them bits of what I knew.
In between the calls, and sometimes during the calls, I fiddled with my story about the death of Jimmy Chin Lee, adding a bit here and deleting a word or two there.
Occasionally, I glanced toward Deck’s office. He was there throughout the afternoon. Sometimes I saw people going in and out, but mostly he was either slouched in his chair, watching a small television or hunched over his computer.
I wondered how Deck was really taking the news of Jimmy Chin’s death. The whole town had been looking forward to Jimmy Chin’s senior season, especially since last March when he announced that he was bypassing the National Football League draft and staying at Vanderbilt for one final year. This is the year college football would get really interesting in this town. Deck and his sports crew were set to be in the center of it. His death had to be a blow to those guys.
“And just what the hell am I doing here on a Saturday afternoon? I want you to tell me that.”
The rapid fire and angry voice was that of Darlita Lewis, our female African-American education beat reporter who was nobody’s token. Darlita was usually mightily pissed off about something. That’s why I liked her. Our cubicles were next to each other, and we pretty much knew each other’s business.
I put on my best radio voice: “Big stories in the Music City,” dramatic pause, “don’t happen without Darlita Lewis.” She was not amused – at least, not so she would show it.
“I got things to do, Mitch. Places to go. People to see. I got a family. I don’t need to be spending my Saturday afternoon at work just because some little pissant of a football player happens to get his ass shot off.”
Darlita was genuinely angry.
“Listen, Darlita, it wasn’t me who called you in. I had nothing to do with it.”
“I know who called me in, Mitch. I still got sense enough to know your voice from Shannon’s.”
Shannon Hartman, the newspaper’s editor. My jaws clinched at the mention of her name, and my blood pressure started to rise. I disliked Shannon Hartman intensely. Now it was Darlita’s turn to get defensive.
“Hey, Mitch, I know what you’re going to say.” Darlta’s tone had softened a bit. “Let’s just get this thing done, okay? I got a husband who wants me to come home. Who do you want me to call?”
Chances are, I wouldn’t have liked Shannon Hartman under any circumstances. She was, after all, an editor, and editors don’t get the tender spots in my heart, especially after my brief foray into editorship several years ago. I have had a couple of editors whom I liked, but they died young either literally or figuratively. More recently I have found editors to be mouthpieces for the corporate organization or for some vague idea of journalism that doesn’t match up with what I do everyday. The best editor for me is the one you can avoid most easily.
Shannon had been brought in to the Daily Tribune as editor about four years ago. Felix Wakefield had met her at a press association meeting when she was working as a city editor for some little podunk daily in the mountains in East Tennessee. That year the paper she had been working for swept a lot of the awards and made her pretty impressive, so Felix invited her to join the staff. I never asked Felix why he did that. I could have. Felix and I have a special relationship based in part on giving each other straight answers. But I never asked. After I had met Shannon and worked with her enough to thoroughly disliked her, I didn’t want to know.
Shannon’s job as editor of the paper was one that about four other people already on the staff had some legitimate claim to. One of them was Deck. I wasn’t sure Deck would have made a good editor, but he had his advocates. One of them was Deck himself.
The story was that before Shannon was hired, Deck had gone to Felix, told him he wanted the job, and Felix had led him to believe that he would get it. Next thing anybody knew, Shannon was sitting in the editor’s office.
I never asked Felix about that either.
A couple of other people on the staff who should have had a shot at that job wound up leaving within a year after Shannon was hired. I regretted that because they were people who would talk to me, and people with whom I could have worked.
All that was just office politics, and I didn’t really hold that against Shannon. People who get in the game should play to win, and Shannon was the current winner. That didn’t bother me. Nor did the fact that she was an intellectual lightweight intent on protecting her realm, toeing the corporate line and bluffing her way out of situations rather than thinking them through.
What irked me the most about her was the way she handled the staff, particularly when the big stories, such as the death of Jimmy Chin Lee, came along. Shannon believed in the “team concept” – her words. She believed that no individual reporter owned a story. Any story should be “shared,” another of her words, as if the Tribune newsroom was one big kindergarten class where we could all take naps in the middle of the afternoon.
I didn’t like to share.
I gave Darlita a list of names to call and made some suggestions about what to ask them. She didn’t need the suggestions, but she was patient enough not to bite my head off about it. She added a couple of names of her own, people she knew who would say interesting things about Jimmy Chin. She picked up the phone, and I went back to my desk, woke my computer up and fiddled with my story a bit more. The phone rang.
“Mitch, you on for tonight?” She was asking if I wanted to go a couple of rounds on the racquetball court with her.
“Sure,” I said. Tommie knew my social calendar was open. “What did you have in mind?
“Gym at seven – meet me there. I need to kick somebody’s ass on the racquetball court. Might as well be yours.”
Might as well.
“Jack’s going to cook dinner for us after that.”
Jack, her husband, was a great American and a pretty damn good cook. His meals were worth an ass-kicking.
“You still working?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“You going back to work after we eat?”
“Maybe.”
“Figured anything out yet?”
“Nope. That’s why I need to kick your ass.”
The Cumberland River snakes its way through Nashville almost unnoticed by the city’s citizens. I try to notice it as much as I can, and I paid particular attention to it when I walked across the Woodland Street bridge toward my house on Fatherland Street later that afternoon. The air was still hot and heavy. The river didn’t know anything about Jimmy Chin Lee and didn’t appear to care. I wondered if ultimately Nashville would be the same way.
I say “my house” because that’s the easiest way to refer to the half of the first floor of a rambling Victorian that I rent from Rosswell Miller. Ross is about eighty-five, a fellow Kentuckian by birth and Tennessean by choice, and a cynic whose point of view I value. We both live in the house at the indulgence of Frisk, a black, long-haired cat who skipped all the finicky lessons at cat school.
The house is about a ten-minute walk across the river and into East Nashville from the Daily Tribune building. That’s on a cool, crisp autumn day. On an average day in the summer it takes fifteen minutes. The afternoon of the day Jimmy Chin Lee was killed, it took me twenty. I like to walk and try to do it every chance I get.
Frisk met me at the back door, hungry as usual. I reached into the fridge and grabbed some cooked chicken – her favorite food – broke it up and put it in her dish. I walked through to the living room, which is technically Ross’s part of the house, and found him in front of the television watching the Cincinnati Reds baseball game.
“Guess you heard the news?” I said.
He harrumped but didn’t look up.
“Dumb sumbitch.”
That was Ross’ all-purpose appellation for just about anyone who came onto his radar screen.
He was intent on watching Ken Griffey Junior strike out. When that finally happened three pitches later, he muttered, “Just as well. You can’t get that little bastard to run to first base anyway.”
Then for the first time he took notice of me.
“Little pissant quarterback got himself killed,” he said. “That gave you the chance to be Mr. Hotshot Cop Reporter. Think anybody in this city really cares?”
I shrugged. Ross was a paid-up member of the Blame the Victim Association. He once told me he thought the guy in the Good Samaritan story deserved to get whacked because he shouldn’t have been out on the road in the first place. As I said, I value Ross’s point of view. It’s not one you hear very much.
And I wondered about what Ross had said. Would anybody in this city really care?
Nashville is an odd town, world famous because of country music but still self-conscious and inward-looking. Tourists flock here for reasons that Nashvillians don’t really understand or would rather not think about. Thirty years ago Robert Altman’s film “Nashville” was hailed by critics as one of the best pieces of cinema ever produced. It was about ambition and striving and frustration.
“But Nashville never got that film,” Ross had told me many times. “People in this damn town didn’t understand that Nashville was just a metaphor. Hell, most people don’t even know what a metaphor is.”
By the end of the next half inning, Ross was asleep in his chair. He did that often watching baseball. I slipped the clicker off the table next to his chair, turned the sound down some and flipped around on the channels. The murder of Jimmy Chin Lee was my story. I wanted to watch other journalists trying to catch up.
That sounds smug, but if you’re a cop reporter like me, you don’t get paid much, and you get your image built up by the TV dramas. Occasionally, you get the satisfaction of being first and being right.
I decided to see what the TV guys were doing with the story.
The answer was: Not much. CNN was including it in their reports and occasionally cutting to a reporter who had driven to Nashville from Atlanta that morning. The other national news channels were doing less. I stopped clicking around when I saw Deck Layton’s image. He was on one of the local channels, sitting there talking with the station’s main sports guy.
Seeing Deck on TV surprised me for two reasons. The last time I had seen him, less than two hours before, he was well on his way to an alcoholic stupor. And Deck rarely did TV. He didn’t like it, he said, and he didn’t think there was anything to it. But there he was on the day Jimmy Chin had been murdered – calm, relaxed, articulate.
“The kid was special from the time he first stepped onto a sports field,” Deck was saying.
Deck answered the sports guy’s questions with a mixture of regret, sadness and humor. What he said led me into my own reveries on the history of Jimmy Chin Lee.
Jimmy Chin came from Caneyville, a little town stuck up in the hills of Middle Tennessee near Carthage. His parents were Vietnamese refugees, boat people who came to America a couple of years after the fall of Saigon. It was a time when America still had a memory, a conscience and a heart. Jimmy Chin’s dad had done something for the American army when we were still in the Vietnam quagmire, but he never talked about what it was. They set up a store and dry cleaning business, joined the Methodist church and lived as quietly as possible. A few years after they arrived, Jimmy Chin was born.
“What made Jimmy Chin so special, Deck,” the sports guy asked.
“When Jimmy Chin started his first game as a high school freshman at quarterback, there was nobody better,” Deck said. “Nobody could touch him. His on-the-field calculations were the best I ever saw.”
Deck talked about how Jimmy Chin gathered some of attention during those first couple of years, but when Caneyville produced its third winning season in a row during his junior year, the spotlight turned toward Jimmy Chin and stayed there. He was named to several pre-season All-State teams just before his senior year, and recruiters from Southern Cal, Notre Dame and Texas bought season tickets for the Caneyville games.
“Jimmy Chin was not only good on the field, but he was also exceptionally bright in the classroom,” the sports guy said. “That must have made him a coach’s dream.”
Deck nodded. “He could also handle himself in public, too. He had an easy grin that told you there was nothing to fear from this kid. He was modest, always giving credit to his coach, teammates, teachers or parents.”
Deck and the sports guy talked about how the Vanderbilt team won six games that year, including beating Deck’s beloved Alabama Crimson Tide. Tennessee won on a last-second field goal after Vanderbilt had led for most of the game.
“After that year the Vanderbilt coach recruited some bigger linemen to give Jimmy Chin more protection,” the sports guy chimed in, “so that during his sophomore year Vanderbilt won eight games, including the Tennessee game. In his junior year Vanderbilt won nine games, lost to Auburn in the Southeastern Conference championship, and then beat Nebraska in the Orange Bowl.”
Deck and the sports guy agreed that Jimmy Chin got better with every game he played. He could elude linebackers with grace and always seemed to find receivers wherever they were on the field. Off the field he gave interviews and was suitably modest, never failing to give credit to his line for protecting him even when they hadn’t done a particularly good job at it. He shunned the limelight, which only increased the aura around him, and the people of Nashville loved him. He was one of them, home-grown, they said, even though most people in Nashville had no idea where Caneyville was.
“Jimmy Chin would have had a great senior season,” Deck said. “No doubt – he would have been the leading candidate for the Heisman.” College football’s top honor. Nobody in Nashville had ever come close to that.
While Ross slipped into a full-throated snore, I sat there and watched Deck and the TV sports guy yammer on. I should have slipped into slumberland myself, but all that I had seen and heard since early that morning kept me conscious.
I had maintained a sophisticated and studied ignorance of college football, particularly during the era of Jimmy Chin Lee. Part of my indifference stemmed from my two years on the Western Kentucky football squad and a Hitler-like coach who showed little sympathy for my tendencies to dog it both during practices and during the games. Nor did he appreciate my nocturnal attempts to have a normal college experience of Baccanalean debauchery. After our eight-loss season, for which I showed an improper amount of remorse, I was off the team, deprived of a scholarship and thus relieved of all academic responsibility.
Shortly afterwards, I drifted south and landed in Nashville where I was found and rescued from myself by Pike Lewis, a local political pro and friend of my late father. He steered me toward a job at the Tribune, which was looking for cheap help, and I fit that requirement. I couldn’t write all that well, but I had a knack for talking to people, for picking up bits of information and for understanding what the editors wanted out of a cop reporter.
My life, both professional and personal, had lots of other distractions during the time that Jimmy Chin conquered Nashville, and I tried to pay as little attention to him as possible. He was one of those people who was on the rise in life. His existence was becoming rich and full, and his future was ripe with possibilities and promise. My life was going in the other direction. His story was the opposite of my story.
But whether I liked it or not, his story was now my story.
The program with Deck and the sports guy seemed to be drawing to a close, and I reached for the clicker to resume my wanderings around cableland when I heard the sports guy intone: “Well, Deck, what can you tell us about Jimmy Chin’s murder? I know it’s been less than twelve hours since they found the body. Are the police making any progress in their investigation?”
Deck shook his head. “Not really, Bob. I don’t think that the police have much of a clue about why he was killed, much less who killed him.”
“Well, do they think it might have been a random killing or a robbery or something like that?”
“It’s hard to say. My understanding is that the little house where Jimmy Chin lived was pretty much wrecked – like there had been a fight or something. And the forensics people haven’t been able to come up with much as yet.”
Deck didn’t get that information from me. He must have been doing his own reporting, calling his own sources. He was saying stuff that I hadn’t put in any of my stories. It didn’t surprise me. Deck had been around for a while and knew a lot of people.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what develops.” The sports guy was just full of wisdom.
“Bob, before we have to go, I gotta put in a plug for the Daily Tribune and our first class police reporter Mitch Sawyer. You know, he’s the one who had the first story about Jimmy Chin’s murder this morning. That guy never sleeps. I’m telling you, he’ll stay on top of this thing and let people know what’s going on.”
Thanks a lot, Deck. Nothing like being set up by the people you work with.
I changed the channel back to the baseball game. The Reds were still losing, and Ross was still snoring. I turned the sound down, having absorbed all of the intelligent sports commentary I could stand, and watched the Reds fall even further behind. When Ross woke up, he wouldn’t be happy.
My cell phone rang.
“You ready to get your ass kicked?” It was Tommie.
“Careful,” I said. “I may not really be the wimp I have been playing all these years.”
She snorted out a “Ha!” and hung up.
She didn’t kick my ass that night. I can say that much. We nearly ran each other into the ground, playing about evenly. She’d take a couple of games, and then I’d take a couple of games. Compared to the way things normally went on the racquetball court, it was the equivalent of my kicking her ass. But we didn’t count it like that either.
Direct competition sports, no matter how good of friend you are with your opponent, is more psychological than physical. Getting the psychological edge, making your opponent think you are going to win or that you can win, means more than who’s got more ability and skill. I had the edge, but only slightly, that night. Tommie was distracted. She missed shots she should have made, and she blew chances to take me out.
I knew she was missing, and so did she.
When we were at the point where we could barely stand, we quit. I knew better than to talk about the game.
“Get your shower,” she said. “Jack’s going to have dinner waiting.” Her orders sounded like both my ex-wives put together. She reminded me why I was no longer married.
“You got anything to tell me?”
“You know I can’t talk about an open investigation. You’ll have to speak to someone in the public information office.”
That meant she had plenty to say -- and even a few things to tell me.
“One pink for you, Mitch, and two well-done for us.”
Jack Hampton was pulling three ribeyes off the grill as I walked through the den of their house and onto the patio. It was still warm, but there was still a breeze coming off the Cumberland River, which was about 100 feet away across the road, over a neighbor’s yard and down a bluff. Tommie and Jack lived in a modest but extremely nice house in East Nashville just beyond Shelby Park. The house and location were a tribute to Jack prowess as a torts attorney in a town full of torts and attorneys. As I told him many times, if I had a tort and needed an attorney, he’d be the one I’d call.
“Tommie’s upstairs on the phone,” he told me. “Grab yourself a beer out of the ice chest. I need to go in and check the salad.”
With that, Jack left me out on his patio to drink with the crickets.
I sipped the beer, felt the breeze and tried not to wonder too much about the conversation Tommie was having on the phone upstairs. Undoubtedly, it was about the investigation into the murder of Jimmy Chin Lee.
I had met Tommie a few years ago when she was transferred temporarily to the homicide-robbery division. She hadn’t been the first female detective to land in that spot, but she had been tougher than any of the others, so she stuck. I had no idea what she had gone through to get to where she was, but it probably had its moments of hell created by some of her so-called colleagues. Tommie had no particular love for her fellow cops at the Nashville Metropolitan Police Department, but she liked police work, especially investigations, and she didn’t seem to mind all of the crap she had to put up with.
One night, not long after she had made detective, she brought in a collar who was being abusive to Tommie’s gender, despite his own lowly station in life. Some of the abuse was directed at Tommie herself. It was the middle of the night, and I just happened to be there checking on something else. It had been a double-shift day for her, and Tommie took the abuse about as long as any reasonable human could. Finally, she dragged the guy into a deserted corridor and punched his lights out. She then looked up and saw me.
I just stared at her for a second, stared at the collar and then walked off. I never said a word about it to anyone. Neither did she.
After that, she went out of her way to talk to me and give me information when she could. There were times when she couldn’t, and I understood that.
I had taken care of about half the beer in the bottle, thinking random thoughts, when the patio door slid open, and Tommie stepped outside. She checked the grill – Jack had left some baked potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil – but she didn’t pay much attention. She stared out toward the river and lit the cigarette she had in her hand. Jack didn’t like for her to smoke in the house. He didn’t like for her to smoke at all, but I didn’t judge her. I had quit just a few years ago myself. Two-pack-a-day, quit and never looked back. Some folks aren’t as lucky.
“I see you’re still standing,” I said.
She shot me a look, grinned a bit but didn’t take the bait. She didn’t have to. She could still kick my ass on the racquetball court on any normal day. She knew it, and so did I. But at least the comment brought her back from whatever world she was contemplating.
She pulled out a beer from the ice chest and opened it.
“Here’s to Jimmy Chin Lee,” I said, holding up what was left of mine.
“To Jimmy Chin,” she said, holding hers up in response. She settled into a patio chair beside mine. She tried to relax but still looked distracted and even worried.
Tommie had already done me a big favor that morning. She had called to tell me about the murder sometime before eight o’clock – sometime before my cat Frisk had nudged me awake – and had invited me to come out to view the crime scene. Jimmy Chin had been living in a small house in one of the student housing ghettos across from 21st Avenue from the Vanderbilt campus, and that’s where he had been killed with three shots from a small arms pistol. There had been a struggle; furniture and lamps had been overturned. By the time I got there, the police and crime scene people had been there for a couple of hours, and there wasn’t much to see. Still, I was the first reporter on the scene, and I used my laptop and the direct access I had to the Trib’s web site to post something about the murder. Within an hour, it had been picked up by the Associated Press and CNN.
All that would make me a hero inside the Tribune’s newsroom and kept Shannon Hartman at bay for a bit, and Tommie understood that. One of these days soon, I would return the favor. That’s how things worked.
Jack joined us with the salad. We chatted amiably during dinner. Jack is short and bald and a bit chubby. He wears his clothes loose, and he always looks relaxed. The subject of Jimmy Chin Lee didn’t come up, but every time I caught Tommie staring into the distance, I figured that was what she was thinking about.
“So, how’s your love life, Mitch?” The question came from Jack, casually but like a fired strike from a strong-armed left fielder.
“Still at Ground Zero,” I said. They weren’t supposed to talk about this. I thought they knew the rules. If it had been another couple, I would have sworn that Tommie had planted the question with Jack. But with Tommie and Jack, things didn’t work like that.
“Yeah, Mitch, how’s your love life?” Tommie took a sudden interest in the conversation. Jack had just been curious. She was being cruel.
My divorce from Anne was about a year-and-a-half old. I hadn’t wanted it, but all the books say you have to accept what happens and move on. It was time I was “back in circulation.” The fact that I wasn’t had not been for lack of effort on the part of Tommie and Jack and a few independent contractors.
“About like my racquetball game,” I said, giving Tommie a look that said cease and desist. She took the look, got the message, and decided she wasn’t up for the game that night anyway.
When we had finished, Jack told us to sit tight; he would pick up and clean up. We protested, but he was firm. We had worked all day, and he hadn’t. So we did what we were told. Jack poured us each a cup of coffee. I wanted another beer but chose the coffee instead. I don’t usually make the right choice on such occasions.
“What’s bugging you?”
She shook her head. “Can’t say. I just can’t get a grip on this one.”
“What’s forensics got?” I asked.
She snorted a laugh. “Nothing, as usual,” she said. “Nothing more than I’ve got.”
Tommie didn’t have much use for the crime scene and forensics people. She told me once – and she swore this was true – she met a forensics guy who couldn’t tell the difference between fingerprint power and gunshot residue. Her contempt was heightened by the fact that so many hit television shows featured crime scene investigation units. “They make it look like these people are quick and precise,” she said, “when they’re really slow and stupid. They get it wrong about as much as they get it right. Most of the time they’re just guessing.” Rarely did they produce anything she could take to court in her investigations, she said. “But they all act like TV stars now.”
Tommie pulled another beer out of the cooler. She didn’t offer me one. She knew I was driving. Part of a cop is always on duty. She took a long swallow and let it settle.
“Here’s what I can’t figure, Mitch,” she said. “We got this guy, one of the most famous guys in the city. He gets beaten up and then plugged a couple of times, which renders him dead. Nobody sees anything. Nobody knows anything. Nothing stolen that we can determine. No obvious motive.”
She took another swallow, this one not as long as the first.
“And everybody likes the guy. Everybody thinks he’s the cat’s pajamas. Everybody thinks he hung the moon, that he’s God’s gift to mankind. I talked with people all day long and never heard a discouraging or disparaging word. But, you know, with all of those conversations and interviews, two things impressed me.”
I took the bait. “And they would be – what?”
“Number one, nobody seemed particularly broken up about his being dispatched to receive his heavenly reward.”
She stopped, and again, I was glad to fill in. “And number two?”
“Number two: I can’t find out a damned thing about the guy.”
.
