Murder
in Knoxville
and
other Sam Jenkins Mysteries
Sam
Jenkins is the new police chief in town and everyone wonders, will Prospect,
Tennessee ever be the same?
Here are
six novelettes where Jenkins gets to show off his skills learned as a former
New York detective.
A LABOR
DAY MURDER and A MURDER IN KNOXVILLE take the reader into the world of domestic
violence with a smattering of political corruption. In BULLETS OFF-BROADWAY,
the investigation leads Sam into the life of a victim who spent his leisure
time reenacting the days of the old west and was killed with an antique
revolver. The hard-boiled story of SCRAP METAL AND MURDER begins with a simple
larceny and quickly escalates into the murder of a building contractor,
infidelity and more suspects than you can shake a claw hammer at. And the off-beat
stories, BY THE HORNS OF A COW and its sequel SERPENTS & SCOUNDRELS show
the more bizarre side of police work as Jenkins looks for a stolen
fourteen-foot-tall statue of a dairy cow and ends up among a group of snake
handling fundamentalists who use their serpents in a deadly manner.
Excerpt
A Labor
Day Murder
I don’t
think she really hates me, but she does cringe every time I walk into her
office. Maybe it’s the lawyer jokes I tell. Or maybe it’s how I show a lack of
respect for the local politicians. I guess I’m comfortable with our
relationship. And someday Moira may learn the Jenkins method of compromise: We
talk about it and then do it my way.
“You
expect me to go before a judge and ask for a warrant so you can search a
restaurant for the proceeds of illegal gambling?”
“Yes,
ma’am. That’s why I’m here,” I said.
“Lord have
mercy, Sam. It’s only a card game.”
“In the
last seven days, my cops have made two DUI arrests of men leaving that place
after hours. Both people said they were playing cards, and the owner was
chopping the pot.”
“If you
held a card game at your home wouldn’t you accept some reimbursement for the
food and drink you offered the players?”
“This guy
is taking fifteen percent from each pot. They’re playing dollar-five poker.
That’s more than the goombahs get back where I used to work. He’s also
operating a cash bar, serving untaxed moonshine. His restaurant only has a beer
license.”
“I hear
what you’re sayin’, Sam. I understand. Do you understand that Audie Blevins has
operated that restaurant for almost forty years? His daddy owned it for Lord
knows how many years before that. Audie’s brother is the chairman of the county
commission, and Audie’s a very, and I emphasize very, big supporter of and
contributor to the local Republican party.”
“Well,
three cheers for Audie. He sounds like a real good ol’ boy. Do I have to tell
you I don’t give a rat’s ass to whom he’s related or to what he contributes?” I
asked.
Moira
Menzies is a pretty blonde, around fifty, and if she smiled more often would be
even more attractive. She’s also the chief assistant district attorney general
for Blount County, Tennessee. Whenever I need a search or arrest warrant, I
deal directly with her.
For a
moment before she spoke, she closed her eyes and shook her head. “You’re not
goin’ away, are you?”
I smiled
at her. My lady-killer smile has been known to melt the coldest heart.
“Nope.”
We were
sitting in her second floor corner office in the Justice Center, overlooking
the new jail.
She stood
up and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t try that smile on me, Jenkins. More
cops have tried that act than I can count.”
I looked
up at her. “Yeah, but I’m the only ex-New York cop you know, and I’ll bet I’m
the best lookin’ police chief in the county.”
She
dropped the pencil she’d been holding onto her desktop—with a little more force
than necessary. “You sure ain’t the most modest. Come on, I’ll walk you up to
the judge’s chambers.”
Twenty
minutes later, I had my ‘no knock’ search warrant for the Iron Skillet
restaurant.
“You think
the judge will drop a dime on Audie and give him a heads-up about the warrant?”
I asked.
“Judge
Myers is a pretty straight shooter, but anything’s possible. Audie is
well-connected.”
“Let’s
hope Judge Myers believes in truth, justice and the American way.”
“Let’s
hope he believes in at least the first two,” she said.
* * *
At 11:30
Saturday night, six of the twelve cops employed by Prospect PD and I waited
outside the Iron Skillet on Sevierville Road. Five of us had driven our
personally-owned pickup trucks to haul away the furniture, file cabinets and
other accouterments used by the owner to promote gambling and sell untaxed
alcoholic beverages.
“Twelve
cars plus Audie’s. Must be a couple of games goin’ on,” Sergeant Stan Rose
observed.
“I guess,”
I said. “No one new has shown up for thirty minutes. Time to kick in the door.”
Stanley
nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
“I wish we
had a paddy wagon. It looks unprofessional using our own pickup trucks.”
“A paddy
wagon? Sometimes we look like the Keystone Cops, but there’s no reason we need
a paddy wagon.”
“Each
precinct had a paddy wagon in New York.”
“You own a
pick-up in New York?”
“Of course
not.”
“Well?”
“You
sayin’ I’m getting like the locals?”
“I’ve got
no theory. I’m just presenting the evidence.”
“Don’t you
feel stereotypical driving a Cadillac?” I asked.
Stan is
from Los Angeles and usually sounds like a Cal Tech graduate. “I do not. A
brother’s got to look good when he’s on the road. Clean car, pretty woman…you
unnerstand what I’m sayin’?” Occasionally he lapses into Ebonics for my
benefit.
“Uh-huh.
My man. Right on. What it is!” I said, sounding more like a Black Panther than
a police chief.
“Honky
racist.”
“You
wish.”
“We ready
to go?” he asked.
“I was
ready before you started all this ethnic crap.”
“Well
then, great white leader?”
“My wife
doesn’t give me as much trouble as you.”
Stanley
gave me a big grin. “Come on, man. It’s show time.”
I keyed
the portable radio I held, “Prospect-one to all units—do it.”
Officers
Bobby John Crockett and Vernon Hobbs pounded on the front door. Harlan Flatt,
Leonard Alcock and Junior Huskey covered the back door and the windows at the
rear of the restaurant. Stanley and I moseyed up to the front entrance.
A thin man
with short dark hair and a wispy mustache, looking like a bartender in his
white apron, answered the door. The two cops pushed their way in. Stan and I
followed.
“Police
department. We have a search warrant. Nobody move!” Bobby called out.
No one
moved.
“Where’s
Audie Blevins?” I asked, waving a copy of the warrant in my left hand.
“That
would be me,” said a short, well-dressed man of about sixty.
I handed
him the paper.
“This is a
warrant to search your premises for evidence of illegal gambling and untaxed
liquor,” I said. “I see two card games. Care to explain anything?”
“Jest some
friendly games, officer. We get t’gether ever once’t in a while ta play cards.
Nothin’ more.”
“Have a
seat, Mr. Blevins, and don’t touch anything.” Turning to the bartender I said,
“What’s your name?”
“James
Begley, sir. Most ever’ one calls me Jammer.”
“Okay,
Jammer, you have a seat, too.”
I told
Bobby Crockett to open the back door and let the other three cops in. While
Stan and I took names, and capped the drinks on the tables with Glad-Wrap, the
boys searched the restaurant, the adjacent office and the storerooms.
The
quickest way to put pressure on a restaurant owner is to threaten to take away
their liquor license. I demanded a copy of his from Audie Blevins. As I
recorded all that information, Junior Huskey got my attention.
“Sam,
look-it here.” He handed me two folders and a well-stuffed, padded manila
envelope. One folder was marked players; the other was unmarked. The
envelope was full of cash. I looked over the two-page list of players. There
were over thirty names with telephone numbers. The unmarked folder had several
loose-leaf pages showing dates and dollar figures. The dates went back more
than two years.
“Good
work, kid,” I said to Junior, “a list of gamblers and profits from the games.
You ought to be a detective.”
“I could
live with that, boss.”
I gave him
an encouraging thumbs-up even though we have no detectives at Prospect PD.
Crockett
and Harley Flatt carried in four plastic, gallon milk jugs all full of clear
liquid.
“They’s
about six or seven more jest like these in the back,” Harley said. “Take a
whiff, boss.”
He popped the
cap off one jug and lifted it to my nose.
“Yahoo.” I
took a half step backwards. “Smells like pure alcohol. Must be 190 proof or
better.” I turned to the closest table of players. “Any of you guys feel like
you’re going blind?” No one seemed to enjoy my attempt at humor. “Harley,
confiscate everything and box up all these glasses we’ve put tops on. We’ll let
the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people analyze this for us.”
Then Vern
Hobbs walked up, extended his hand and showed me a large revolver.
“Got this
in the office, boss. Nice lookin’ gun.”
It was an
old Smith and Wesson model 1917, .45 caliber revolver...a revolver that fired
.45 automatic ammunition.
“This
pistol have a story behind it, Mr. Blevins?” I asked.
“I got a
right ta keep a gun in my restaurant. It’s all bought an’ paid fer, all
legal-like,” he said. “Ain’t yew ever heard o’ the Second Amendment?”
I wanted
to give Audi the finger, but resisted the urge. “Bag it, and tag it, Vern. I’ll
send it off to be checked.”
All the
players we met that night were on the list Junior found. I wanted each man
charged with participating in illegal gambling, privately interviewed and a
statement taken from each one. We had several hours of work ahead of us. I’ll
send it off to be checked.”
When we
finished issuing appearance tickets to the players and Jammer Begley, we took
Audie Blevins to Prospect PD to process his arrest. At three in the morning, we
released him on one hundred dollars bail. Two sixty-inch round tables, sixteen
chairs and two tall file cabinets filled the lobby of our office and the squad
room. The evidence closet held eleven-and-a-half gallons of moonshine, over
three thousand dollars in cash and a few other evidentiary items taken from the
Iron Skillet. In a few hours, the Sunday eight-to-four shift would arrive at
work, wonder what the hell went on the night before, and then life would go on.
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Genres
Mystery
Anthology
Series
Heat Level: 1 flame
Sweet
Love scenes are not consummated, or if the love scenes are consummated details
are not given.
Wayne
Zurl
Wayne Zurl
grew up on Long Island and retired after twenty years with the Suffolk County
Police Department, one of the largest municipal law enforcement agencies in New
York and the nation. For thirteen of those years he served as a section
commander supervising investigators. He is a graduate of SUNY, Empire State
College and served on active duty in the US Army during the Vietnam War and
later in the reserves. Zurl left New York to live in the foothills of the Great
Smoky Mountains of Tennessee with his wife, Barbara.
Zurl has
won Eric Hoffer and Indie Book Awards, and was named a finalist for a Montaigne
Medal and First Horizon Book Award. He has written four novels and more than
twenty novelettes in the Sam Jenkins mystery series.
Available
Now
Sam
Jenkins Mysteries
