in Jonesborough. He was waiting for me in a conference room just down the hall from my office. Sitting with him at the table were Jerry Blake, the Special Agent in Charge of the TBI office in Johnson City, Hank Fraley, the agent who was running point on the Beck case, and Sheriff Bates.
All of the murders had happened in the county, which fell under Bates’s jurisdiction, but because both Bates and his lead investigators were relatively inexperienced in murder investigations, Mooney had assigned the case to the TBI. That hadn’t stopped Bates from talking to the press about the case, but up to that point, he’d been excluded from the investigation.
“I want to form a task force,” Lee Mooney said as soon as I sat down. “And I want you to head it up.”
I looked at him, incredulous, then looked around the table at the others. The TBI agents were staring down at the table. Bates was looking at the ceiling.
“Me?” I said. “What the hell do I know about heading up a task force, Lee?”
“You’re a leader. People trust your judgment. And you know how to handle the press.”
“And who would make up this task force?”
“Five or six guys from the TBI. A couple of detectives from Johnson City. The sheriff and a few of his people. We might even be able to get one of the local FBI guys involved.”
Jerry Blake was fiddling with a notepad.
“How long have you been a cop, Jerry?” I asked.
“Close to twenty-five years.”
“Ever been on a task force?”
“A couple.”
“What do you think about them? Be honest. Are they effective?”
Blake gave Mooney a sideways glance. “They’re bullshit.”
“Why?”
“Turf wars, mostly. The different agencies don’t trust one another; then they want to take credit for anything good that happens and they want to blame anything bad on somebody else. Lots of egos involved. You wind up with too many chiefs and not enough warriors. You have communication problems. Things that ought to get done don’t get done. Information that ought to be shared doesn’t get shared. It just doesn’t work very well.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “The only time I’ve ever seen a task force formed is when the police aren’t making any progress in a case and they want the public to think they’re doing something.”
“But that’s exactly where we are, Joe,” Mooney said. “Word of these killings is already leaking out. By morning, everybody in northeast Tennessee is going to know about it, and we’re going to have a panic on our hands. We have to make people think we’re doing something .”
“Where are we now?” I said to Fraley. “What do you have that you didn’t have before?”
Fraley looked around nervously, as though he were afraid to share information with Bates in the room. Blake’s assertion about distrust between law enforcement agencies was already evident.
“We’re still nowhere,” he said quietly. “We’ve got more footprints that we’ll compare with the Beck murder scene. My guess is that some of them will match up. We’ve got more tire tracks, but we know they’re not from the same vehicle that was at the Beck murder scene. We’ll compare the shell casings and bullets to see if they match, and I’m betting they will. We’ve got two more bodies with crosses carved into them and wounds to their right eyes. They carved ‘ah Satan’ into Norman Brockwell’s forehead just like they did on Mr. Beck. We’ve got hair and fiber and a couple of latent prints from the Becks’ van, but we’ve run the latents through AFIS and haven’t found a match. We’ve got hair and fiber from the Brockwells’ home. We’ve got the rope they used to tie Mr. Brockwell to the tree. The medical examiner says Mrs. Brockwell was probably stabbed with an ice pick, but we don’t have the weapon. She also says Mr. Brockwell had abrasions on his back, elbows, and knees. She thinks he rode out to the woods in the trunk of a car. We’re checking to
All of the murders had happened in the county, which fell under Bates’s jurisdiction, but because both Bates and his lead investigators were relatively inexperienced in murder investigations, Mooney had assigned the case to the TBI. That hadn’t stopped Bates from talking to the press about the case, but up to that point, he’d been excluded from the investigation.
“I want to form a task force,” Lee Mooney said as soon as I sat down. “And I want you to head it up.”
I looked at him, incredulous, then looked around the table at the others. The TBI agents were staring down at the table. Bates was looking at the ceiling.
“Me?” I said. “What the hell do I know about heading up a task force, Lee?”
“You’re a leader. People trust your judgment. And you know how to handle the press.”
“And who would make up this task force?”
“Five or six guys from the TBI. A couple of detectives from Johnson City. The sheriff and a few of his people. We might even be able to get one of the local FBI guys involved.”
Jerry Blake was fiddling with a notepad.
“How long have you been a cop, Jerry?” I asked.
“Close to twenty-five years.”
“Ever been on a task force?”
“A couple.”
“What do you think about them? Be honest. Are they effective?”
Blake gave Mooney a sideways glance. “They’re bullshit.”
“Why?”
“Turf wars, mostly. The different agencies don’t trust one another; then they want to take credit for anything good that happens and they want to blame anything bad on somebody else. Lots of egos involved. You wind up with too many chiefs and not enough warriors. You have communication problems. Things that ought to get done don’t get done. Information that ought to be shared doesn’t get shared. It just doesn’t work very well.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “The only time I’ve ever seen a task force formed is when the police aren’t making any progress in a case and they want the public to think they’re doing something.”
“But that’s exactly where we are, Joe,” Mooney said. “Word of these killings is already leaking out. By morning, everybody in northeast Tennessee is going to know about it, and we’re going to have a panic on our hands. We have to make people think we’re doing something .”
“Where are we now?” I said to Fraley. “What do you have that you didn’t have before?”
Fraley looked around nervously, as though he were afraid to share information with Bates in the room. Blake’s assertion about distrust between law enforcement agencies was already evident.
“We’re still nowhere,” he said quietly. “We’ve got more footprints that we’ll compare with the Beck murder scene. My guess is that some of them will match up. We’ve got more tire tracks, but we know they’re not from the same vehicle that was at the Beck murder scene. We’ll compare the shell casings and bullets to see if they match, and I’m betting they will. We’ve got two more bodies with crosses carved into them and wounds to their right eyes. They carved ‘ah Satan’ into Norman Brockwell’s forehead just like they did on Mr. Beck. We’ve got hair and fiber and a couple of latent prints from the Becks’ van, but we’ve run the latents through AFIS and haven’t found a match. We’ve got hair and fiber from the Brockwells’ home. We’ve got the rope they used to tie Mr. Brockwell to the tree. The medical examiner says Mrs. Brockwell was probably stabbed with an ice pick, but we don’t have the weapon. She also says Mr. Brockwell had abrasions on his back, elbows, and knees. She thinks he rode out to the woods in the trunk of a car. We’re checking to
Similar Books
