A New Prospect Read online

  Officers Vernon Hobbs, Junior Huskey and Bobby John Crockett joined Bettye and me promptly at 3:30 p.m. I said the appropriate hellos, started talking about the future and generally bantering around the cop-talk officers like to hear.

  I saved my full-blown pep talk until the people from the evening shift drifted in and joined us. Seven uniformed cops stood or sat in the lobby looking at me. Show time for yours truly.

  “Hello to all of you,” I said. “If you’ve not heard yet, I’m Sam Jenkins, your new boss. I won’t make a speech to rival the Gettysburg Address, just a basic pitch about how I do business and how I’d like to see this place run.

  “You all know the job we’ve been hired to do. But I’m not foolish enough to think a cop in a sector car will work a solid eight hours a day. Nobody out there does. What I do expect is for you to put the department first. I’ll never ask you to polish a clean counter, but save the screwing off and Christmas shopping on duty until after the job is done.

  “I expect you to have respect and loyalty for me and each other. In the big scheme of things, it’s you and me against the rest of the world. Everybody loves a cop when we pick up the pieces at an accident, but you’re a son-of-a-bitch when you write a traffic ticket. Few people seem to make the connection. I get paid to deal with them. I give myself the job of taking care of you. I can handle the public or the mayor with a clear conscience when we all give the job a hundred percent when it’s necessary.”

  I noticed a couple of nods, and two or three men took a quick look at each other and smiled.

  “I’ve always thought being a cop is a fun job,” I said. “If it hasn’t been that way here, I’d like it to change. If anyone ever has a problem or question about why I do what I do, stop in and see me.”

  I looked from one face to another and saw everything from grins to straight faces. Typical cops. But no one stuck out their tongue or threw a sharp object at me. I thought I gave a rousing speech. Knute Rockne would have been proud of me.

  “Any questions?”

  No one spoke up. A few heads shook. No one gave me the finger.

  “Okay. Thanks for your time. Be careful out there.”

  Soon after I stopped talking, the day men left to gas their cars. The swing-shift people walked up, shook my hand and introduced themselves. Before hitting the road, they picked up any new paperwork they needed and a couple of warrants recently issued for forgetful members of the community who failed to answer their summonses or pay their fines. At 1600 hours, Prospect’s finest peeled out of the parking lot, looking to suppress crime in East Tennessee.

  After the dust settled and the cavalry rode off onto the prairie, Bettye and I were left standing in the lobby.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not much for wearing a uniform, but I guess I’ll need one.”

  Bettye nodded. I thought she might be thinking a typical womanly thing. Something like: ‘Of course you need a uniform, dear. You’re a policeman now, and policemen wear uniforms.’ But she waited patiently to hear what I’d say.

  “Did Buck always wear a uniform?” I asked.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Then maybe the new chief needs a new image. Tradition is good, but it’s not written in stone. Right?”

  “You’re the boss.” She smiled, indulging me.

  “But I should get a uniform in case I need one. At least for ceremonies—if we have any ceremonies.”

  “Not very often.”

  “Where do I get these uniforms? I understand the city provides them.”

  “We use Old Town Police Supply in Knoxville. We have an account there. I’ll get you the phone number.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Tell me about the important thing coming up this weekend.”

  “Just the annual car show tomorrow,” she said. “They have it on that big grassy meadow in front of the Best Western Motel, the one called Foothills View. It’s just down the road from the town square.”

  “I know where that is. Is it for just one day?”

  “Just one day.”

  “Lucky me. Uncompensated overtime already.”

  She smiled again, a compassionate one.

  “There are more car shows in Tennessee than Detroit,” I said. “What kind is this one?”

  “I’ve got their flyer right here.” She picked up a printed page from her desk and read from it. “They call it the Smoky Mountain British Car Show and Swap Meet, hosted by The Royal Auto Legion of East Tennessee.”

  “I remember that one. I haven’t been to it in years. I like old British cars, and I know one of the members. They used to hold that show in Townsend.”

  “I think they did.”

  “Maybe I should wear a uniform if I work with one of the patrolmen.”

  “Yes, maybe you should. Then you’d both be…uniform.”

  “I won’t be able to get one for tomorrow. Any suggestions?”

  “Bobby Crockett looks to be about your size. I’m sure he’d lend you one.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask. Ah, how can I contact him?”

  “I’ll call him for you, Sam.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and what sector is the show in, and who’s working there tomorrow?”

  “That’s the central sector. Junior handles it. His car number is 501.”

  “What’s my call sign?”

  “You’re Prospect One.”

  “Wow, sounds important.”

  “Yes, sir. You’re our boss.”

  “Ask Junior to pick me up at the car show at eight o’clock. My friend is the club president. I’ll stop there first. And have Bobby leave a shirt in my office—so I’m…uniform.”

  “I’ll take care of that for you.”

  I wandered around the PD and looked over my new office while Bettye spoke on the phone.

  At 4:50 I stepped back into the lobby and watched Bettye clean up her desk in anticipation of closing the shop at five o’clock and switching the communications responsibility over to the county 9-1-1 center and their dispatcher.

  “Before you leave, Bettye, one more question. Just between you and me, what did you think of Buck? I didn’t know him, and the arrest didn’t make him look too good. What kind of a guy was he?”

  Bettye let out a long breath and shook her head. “Buck Webbster was a fool and a bully. Sometimes I just hated to come to work. I never worked for another chief, so I have no one else to compare him to, but in my mind ol’ Buck left a lot to be desired. I never could figure out why they didn’t fire him long ago.”

  As she spoke, she continued to tidy up all the desk items that clutter a workspace.

  “Buck was never a good policeman,” she said. “He really didn’t know much about the job and didn’t care to learn. And he sure didn’t care about anybody who worked here. He seemed happy to let things happen and hope for the best.”

  I thought about that and nodded.

  Cool. They’re gonna love me in no time.

  Chapter Four

  I left Prospect PD at 5 p.m. as the huddled masses of municipal workers poured from the red brick building. The Healey got a few approving stares and even a thumbs-up from the city mechanic when he left his office in the garage.

  I arrived home at 5:15. Even though I was gasping for a drink, I tended to the needs of the dog first.

  At ten-to-six Katherine came home all smiles, telling me how she won five mahjongg games, two of which were extremely difficult combinations, whatever that meant.

  After a tall gin and tonic, I needed a snack or my main meal. My first half-day on the new job left me feeling hungry. My wife, who hasn’t gained or lost any weight in the past forty years, frowned at the mention of the word snack. She did offer an alternative.

  “How about Mexican in Maryville? I’m in the mood for Camarones Pancho Villa. I’ll give you my rice and beans.”

  She’s not only cute, but good at bribery.

  “You can tell me about your first day at the new job while we eat.”

  I approved of that idea and to
ld her so.

  “And, big feller, if you play your cards right, I might be persuaded to let you snuggle with me later on,” she said.

  Considering the alternatives of either mindless reality shows on the networks or Law & Order reruns on the cable stations, I decided to behave myself, be affectionate and see what developed.

  * * * *

  Three weeks earlier, my friend Adolph, a urologist from New York, sent me a free sample of a half-dozen Cialis tablets.

  At 6:30 I popped one, thinking that Kate’s promise of a snuggle wasn’t just an idle comment, but sort of a bonus for going out and getting myself real job.

  Sitting in the restaurant, I remembered the TV commercial—the one where two lovers sit in separate bath tubs on the south rim of the Grand Canyon, looking off into the sunset. Weird but memorable.

  Following the instructions from that commercial, I didn’t indulge in excess alcohol consumption after taking Cialis. I drank one twelve-ounce draft of Dos Equis. Kate, who didn’t have to worry about any warning, ordered a bowl-like glass of frozen Margarita. After getting a little giggly, she held my hand on the way home.

  As I topped a hill on US 321, I noticed an old Ford Tempo in the turning lane waiting to make a left onto Gateway Road. Five or six cars coming from the opposite direction prevented the Tempo driver from doing that. A short break in the cluster of westbound vehicles opened up before the last car would pass the Tempo.

  For some ill-fated reason, the woman in the Ford began her turn directly in front of a new Camry going at least sixty. The old Tempo didn’t have the pick-up to clear the two westbound lanes before the driver of the blue Toyota, talking on her cell phone, crashed broadside into the right front door of the Ford.

  Driving in the left lane doing fifty-five, I watched the Tempo propelled backward and at an angle that would quickly intersect with us. I nailed the brake pedal of Kate’s Subaru as hard as I could, immediately pulled my foot back off and simultaneously threw the steering wheel hard to the right and hit the gas. The little Outback zigged right. I twisted my upper body, now to the left, again jerking the wheel. The car zagged left, avoiding the spinning Tempo. I hit the brakes hard again and brought our car to a squealing stop in the eastbound, right-hand lane. The collision sounded deafening, the squeal of brakes loud and high pitched. I smelled rubber burning as the Subaru came to a stop. I pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, thankful I never forgot what I learned in the Emergency Vehicle Operation Clinic back in 1972.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Kate who always wore a seatbelt.

  She looked up at me, shaken but unhurt. She nodded. People ran out of the house just above where I stopped the car.

  We had no cell phone with us. “Make sure they call 9-1-1, fast,” I said.

  She unfastened her seatbelt and ran up the small hill to the lawn where two adults and a teenage boy stood by looking down toward the highway.

  I jumped out of the Subaru and ran over to the driver of the Ford, the closest vehicle to me. Other people drove by slowly, rubbernecking. A burly, bearded guy parked his pick-up behind the Tempo and switched on his four-way flashers. I jerked open the driver’s door of the Ford—she hadn’t worn a seatbelt, and the old car had no air bag.

  Clearly, her head bounced off both the side window and the windshield causing great spider-like breaks in the glass now pushed outward by the force of the driver’s skull. The woman’s head hung at an unnatural angle, something I’d seen before in similar situations. I placed three fingers over her carotid artery, but had little hope of finding a pulse. I felt nothing.

  I shook my head and looked at my bearded assistant. “She’s dead. Let’s go.” We ran to the Camry.

  Another car stopped, blocking one lane of traffic. A young man went to the Toyota and tried without luck to open the driver’s door.

  “We’ll handle this,” I said, pointing at the car door. “Back your car up about a hundred feet and put on your lights and four-ways. No one down the hill can see us up here. Try to get traffic to slow down.” He hesitated. “Do it! Quickly!” He moved.

  The Camry’s door jammed shut after the front-end impact. The side window shattered and broke out completely. I pulled on the doorframe. Nothing happened.

  “Watch out!” the big guy said.

  He pulled the door open almost an inch-and-a-half, just enough to get his fingers between the frame and the jamb. With two hands locked around the frame and his foot braced on the side of the car, he pulled again and gave a loud grunt. The door moved.

  “A li’l he’p here.” He panted, straining against the twisted metal.

  We positioned ourselves so we could both pull, and on his signal, we did. The door moved more, now almost halfway open, enough room for me to squeeze in and get to the driver. I felt for a pulse, found one and tried to open her seatbelt. The buckle had jammed. I pulled a knife out of my pocket, pressed a button and the sharp, spring-loaded blade locked open. I cut the lap and shoulder straps that restrained the driver. She moaned. The big guy slapped my shoulder.

  “Hey!” He pointed to a puddle of gasoline forming around my left foot.

  I nodded—he knew I understood. He jerked the door open a little more. I put my arm behind the driver’s back and gently drew her toward me. She was young and lightweight. Keyed up from the excitement and with adrenaline pumping through my body, I easily extracted the girl from the car. I had her halfway out when the bearded man took over and hefted the burden from me.

  We moved forty feet behind the Toyota where he laid her down on the blacktop. The big guy balled up his shirt and placed it under her head. I heard sirens, both nearby and in the distance. There were two types, the screams and yelps of police cars and the steady, high—low sound of a Rural Metro ambulance.

  I looked up and saw flashing blue lights just behind the Tempo. Another man and a woman who said she was a nurse joined the big guy who comforted our victim. I got up and ran toward the source of the blue light, a white and green county sheriff’s unit. A young cop with a crew cut and a mustache got out, first adjusting his campaign hat and then his gun belt. He walked slowly toward me.

  “Quick, give me your fire extinguisher,” I said, almost out of breath. “Then get some flares or cones down that hill to warn traffic.”

  “Jest who the hell you think you are?” he asked with a dose of attitude.

  I hesitated for a second, took a step closer and raised my voice, “I’m the goddamned Chief of Prospect PD. Give me that extinguisher—now!”

  He hustled back to his car and pulled out an oversized portable fire extinguisher. I pulled the pin, sprayed the puddle of gas and exhausted the rest of the foam inside the engine compartment, hoping to ward off a fire. The cop watched me.

  “I told you—get back down the hill with some flares or cones! I don’t want someone parking in your goddamn trunk at sixty-miles-an-hour.” Finally, he moved out smartly.

  Two other police cars pulled up, a county sergeant and a state trooper. I stepped over to the supervisor.

  “Sarge, you’ve got one DOA in the Tempo, a critical on the ground over there.” I pointed toward the victim. “A nurse is helping her. You’ll need the fire department for a wash-down—gasoline’s under the Camry. You also want a car with lights down the hill to the east, and you might need a couple of guys to direct the traffic.” I began losing breath.

  “You done this before?” He grinned as he unhooked a portable radio from his gun belt. He didn’t know me, but I’m sure he recognized a cop speaking.

  I smiled and nodded. “Yeah…once or twice.”

  The sergeant began talking to his dispatcher.

  As he spoke into the radio, an ambulance weaved slowly onto the scene, the driver looking for a safe place to park. All the pros were arriving. I walked over to the trooper, gave him my name and phone number and volunteered a witness statement when the county dicks got around to wanting one. I considered my job finished.

  I crossed two lanes of eastbound traffic
, trying not to get hit by a rubbernecker. Feeling exhausted, I trudged up the small rise to fetch my wife.

  Back on the highway, we settled into the car, and Kate fastened her seatbelt. I took a deep breath. After a few seconds, I switched on the ignition and put the car into drive.

  Kate asked, “And you want to do this for a living again?”

  Chapter Five

  George Morgan, a personal friend and current president of the Royal Auto Legion of East Tennessee, would figure prominently on Saturday, July 22nd—my first day on patrol with Prospect PD.

  An expert on vintage Triumph automobiles, George retired from his job in Iowa five years earlier to live in Prospect with his wife, Nonie, one of the local mahjong girls.

  When I learned that hordes of British car enthusiasts would be descending on my town that weekend, I called George to coordinate our efforts for traffic and crowd control and to ask for a non-member’s spot to park the best-looking old Austin-Healey east of the Mississippi. I’d let a few of those enthusiasts drool a little.

  That morning, I drove my big silver blue Healey to the designated area, gave George the keys and dropped Katherine and her Scrabble game into the care of Nonie Morgan. Then I jumped into a marked police car driven by Junior Huskey.

  Davis Huskey Jr. and I stood shoulder to shoulder, making him six feet tall. But the dark-haired kid looked like a high school coach’s dream linebacker, weighing in at around one-ninety-five, fifteen pounds more than me.

  Junior and I would ensure that traffic heading to the car show didn’t interfere with the rest of a summer Saturday in Prospect, and we’d handle whatever jobs the county dispatcher assigned until four that afternoon. Junior, the guy with all the experience in the sector, assured me that car buffs were a law-abiding crowd, never causing even the smallest problem. Prospect, as the tourist booklets say, is on the peaceful side of the Smokies.

  After a quick stop at the PD for me to change into the uniform shirt Bobby Crockett dropped off, Junior drove his big white and blue Ford Police Interceptor out of the municipal lot and turned right onto Main Street away from the town square.

  Across the road on our left, I saw Hardee’s lot full of parked cars and more vehicles in the drive-up lane wrapped around the building. I contemplated the fat and cholesterol in one of their sausage, biscuit, and gravy breakfast specials. But I doubted any of the patrons gave a rat’s ass about either.