Murder in Humboldt Read online

  This normally quiet, sleepy, West Tennessee town seemed unusually busy. More cars were moving along the streets and people hustling along the sidewalks. To me the town appeared to be more crowded than I remembered – I was right.

  I stopped by Pullums Bar-B-Q and picked up a pound of meat with trimmings before heading to my parent’s house. With perhaps the exception of ‘Bozo’s restaurant in Mason, Tennessee, I believed ‘Pullums’ prepared the best barbeque anywhere east of the Mississippi river. However, most of the people that went to ‘Bozos’ ate in their dining room – ‘Pullums’ was strictly ‘take-out’. I figured Dad had already had lunch, but I hadn’t and this would give me a good opportunity to have lunch while visiting with my parents.

  Pullums Bar-B-Q

  As I suspected, Dad had already eaten, but we shared a beer; and over the next three hours he and mother caught me up on everything that was happening in this small town. The local Hosiery Mill (Wayne Knitting) was on strike, which included picket lines, bottle throwing, food tents and a general rowdy crowd around Humboldt. Evidently, the other local industry, Brown Shoe, was also on the brink of a strike; so, the whole population of this little community was on edge. It didn’t help that news crews, camera crews and the media had latched on to the issues. Constant news stories and ‘updates’ flooded the television broadcasts, and both local and state newspapers were using Humboldt’s problems as daily headlines. This town was in a state of confusion.

  I also learned that Grannies’ (my grandmother’s) cat had ‘found’ another litter of kittens. Now, mother knows that I know you don’t just ‘find’ a litter of kittens. But, there are just some things she is not comfortable talking about – I understood. I left the remaining barbeque with Dad finally said goodbye at about five o’clock. They made me promise to stop and see them before heading back to Memphis – I wouldn’t keep that promise.

  Leaving my parent’s house, I drove to 22 nd Avenue and stopped at Chiefs Motel and Restaurant to see if I could get a room. Chiefs is a popular local hangout located on one of the main roads that travels through Humboldt. It is actually on U.S. Highway 45, which runs north and south through this part of Tennessee. The busy road is lined with restaurants, motels, shops and businesses as it transitions from a city street to a major highway. Traffic is always heavy, regardless of the hour.

  Chiefs is owned and operated by a couple of very close friends, Ronnie and Nickie Woodson. Given the opportunity, you would find it an unusual and terrific place to stay and visit. They offer an indoor restaurant/bar, outside curb service and small cottage rooms for traveling guests. You can’t miss it – it’s located right under the big neon Indian Chief sign!

  Chiefs Restaurant and Bar

  Chiefs Cottages

  Chiefs was crowded and I almost had to fight my way through the front door. The restaurant and bar were loaded and I really didn’t see anyone I recognized, except Nickie, who was working the counter. I waved and she motioned me over, where I managed to find a vacant stool at the end of the bar.

  Over the noise and the jukebox I yelled, “Hey, sweetheart, can I get a room?”

  “As usual, Mr. Carson Reno, you are a lucky man,” she shouted back. “I just had a cancellation, and I’ll put you up in Cottage 4. Will that be alright?”

  “That will be super, and can a man get a drink in this dive?” I asked looking around at the wild crowd.

  “Probably not,” she laughed. “I think they have already drunk everything we have. But, let me see what I can do. Jack and Coke – right?”

  “Right, and who are all these people?” I asked before she walked away.

  “Union people and labor workers, mostly from out of town and here because of the Wayne Knitting Hosiery Mill strike. You hadn’t heard about that?” Nickie frowned.

  “Mother and Dad briefed me, but I had no idea it was this crazy,” I exclaimed.

  Nickie shrugged and headed off to make my drink and I continued to observe the crowd. Inside Chiefs bar and restaurant was a place where you simply could not hear anything. In addition to the loud and sometimes shouting conversations, the jukebox never stopped screaming out one country song after another. The noise tonight was not unusual – the overstuffed crowd was.

  Ronnie had a small black and white TV over the bar, mostly for sports stuff; however, never any volume. It wouldn’t have gotten loud enough to hear anyway! Waiting on Nickie to fix my drink, I watched the muted TV news broadcast from Channel 5 in Memphis. I’m not a good lip reader, but I guessed they were reporting from Humboldt, and about the labor stoppage at Wayne Knitting. The reporter left the screen, and they cut to a live interview by reporter Debby Day. She appeared to be standing on the road somewhere just outside the factory.

  Debby was speaking with Gerald Wayne, the CEO and President of Wayne Knitting Enterprise, which operated Wayne Knitting Hosiery Mill in Humboldt. Standing next to Wayne was his wife, Dorothy Wayne, (the former Dorothy Brasfield). Dorothy was an Arkansas native, who had moved to Humboldt with her parents during her sophomore or freshman year - I don’t remember which. But, soon after graduation, she moved out of town -somewhere. When she returned a few years later, she brought Gerald with her. I don’t think anyone ever knew where Gerald’s wealth came from, but he had plenty of it. He and his father, Rufus Wayne, (now deceased) purchased the Hosiery Mill, and it became a part of Wayne Knitting and the Wayne Knitting enterprise. Gerald and Dorothy lived in the old Jones homestead, and have become fixtures in the Humboldt community.

  I had met Gerald on a couple of occasions, but only socially. In my opinion he was ‘hen-pecked’; however, he seemed like a straight shooter and had a good head for business. I liked him.

  Dorothy, on the other hand, was quite different. While it seemed she always wanted to be ‘in charge’, she had absolutely no head for business. But, that didn’t keep her from sticking her nose into other peoples business, and also in other places it didn’t belong. It also didn’t keep her from sticking ‘other things’ where they didn’t belong either. I think everybody who was anybody had been linked to Dorothy, at one time or another. When I knew Dorothy in school she was a very attractive girl. At 5 foot 9, she was taller than most boys, but knew how to use her looks to her advantage. Watching her on the little television, she looked a lot different now. It wasn’t the age, so it had to be the mileage. Dorothy had been burning her candles too bright for too long.

  “Here’s your drink and the key to Cottage 4,” Nickie said when she finally returned.

  “What did you do?” I asked frowning. “Did you have to distill this whiskey?” I was not being nice and I knew better.

  “Hey, handsome, we’re busy. Or haven’t you noticed?” Nickie snapped.

  Yes, I had noticed, and it was time for me to get out of this bar.

  ~

  ‘Night Time is the Right Time’ at Chiefs and it just kept getting busier, and especially busy for a Thursday. Cars constantly circle the building until they can find a place to park, which could take hours. I suspected a lot of the activity was coming from the striking Hosiery Mill workers. It was pretty wild.

  After checking into Cottage 4, I walked up to the phone booth outside the front of the restaurant and placed a call to the number Mary Ellen had provided - I got no answer.

  I had room service, which I guess is the same as curb service without having to blow your car horn, and called it a day. No wake-up calls.

  DAY TWO

  Friday

  A fter Ronnie’s breakfast of biscuits and gravy, I used the outside pay phone to call Mary Ellen. Again, there was no answer.

  Since I really had no client and needed to get back to Memphis, I was getting more than anxious to resolve this issue. I grabbed a coffee to go, and decided to pay Mary Ellen a personal visit. I wanted to return the money and get back to Memphis before the Friday crowd got too big at ‘ The Starlight’ . While driving to the Maxwell house, I wondered if I REALLY wanted to talk with anyone who might be there.

&nb
sp; The Maxwell home driveway dropped sharply from the main road, and came almost immediately to a parking area next to the pool and guesthouse. Only one car was present, a 60 white Edsel, covered in leaves, and didn’t appear to have been driven recently.

  I strolled up the short walkway to the front door and rang the doorbell of the main residence - no response. The guesthouse was located opposite the pool and I decided to give it a try, too. I knocked at the door of the guesthouse, and again, no response. Other than the ducks on the adjacent lake, there seemed to be no one around.

  Walking back to the car and thinking about my next move, I thought I caught movement of someone within the residence - in what could be the kitchen area of the main house. I went back and rang the doorbell again. Again, there was no response – I guess I was imagining things.

  Getting a zero here, and really needing to return to Memphis, I figured that seeing JR was my last and only alternative. So, I headed to Maxwell Trucking.

  ~

  Also located on 22 nd avenue, Maxwell Trucking was a big complex, but with a small modest office. The receptionist, Brenda, was busy hammering on her Royal typewriter when I entered the main office door.

  She turned in her office chair, looked up at me and said, “Good morning, may I help you?”

  Brenda was a strangely attractive woman that I guessed to be in her early forties and was slightly overweight. Unlike most women, she didn’t dress to disguise that weight, and judging by her clothing and mannerisms, she seemed to be proud of it.

  “Yes, you can,” I answered. “I would like to see Mr. Maxwell. Mr. J.R. Maxwell.”

  “Mr. Maxwell isn’t available. I can make you an appointment, if you wish,” she curtly replied.

  “Brenda,” I responded, “my business is really with Mrs. Maxwell. Can you possibly tell me where or how I could reach her?”

  “Are you a friend?” she asked quickly.

  I thought I detected an undertone in her question, so I was a little cautious with my response. “Well, yes, sorta. Mrs. Maxwell has asked me to handle a business matter for her, and I need to give her an update. A phone call would be fine, but I can’t seem to reach her at the number she left”.

  “Mrs. Maxwell is out of town,” she abruptly replied. “And I’m not authorized to offer any additional information.”

  “Then perhaps I should speak with Mr. Maxwell, and if possible, it needs to be today. I will be leaving town within the hour,” I lied.

  Brenda fumbled with a calendar and then looked at me over her dark rim glasses. “Mr. Maxwell can see you tomorrow at 2:00 PM. I’m sorry, but that is the best I can offer. His schedule is completely full.” Looking over her shoulder as she spoke, I spotted JR and another lady hurriedly leaving the office by a back exit.

  “Okay thanks, Brenda,” I said quickly. “Please put me on his calendar, and I’ll be back tomorrow. My name is Carson Reno, Carson Reno of Memphis. That’s 2:00 tomorrow - right?”

  “Correct. Your appointment is confirmed,” Brenda said as she went back to her typewriter and I walked swiftly toward the front door.

  I watched JR’s gray 62 Lincoln leave the parking lot as I exited the front door and hurried down the steps. He was already out of site by the time I reached the Ford and finally got it pointed south on 22 nd Avenue. On a guess, I turned right on Mitchell and luckily spotted his car just as he turned off Mitchell and headed north on highway 45, the Trenton highway.

  I stayed well behind and followed him cautiously as he drove out Hwy 45 at a very quick speed. Before he reached Fruitland, he slowed and pulled into the Tennessee Motel parking lot. Without hesitation, he put the Lincoln in one of the provided parking spaces and exited the vehicle. I stopped the Ford in front of the motel’s small office and watched JR Maxwell.

  He walked swiftly to Room 7, entering the room using a key he evidently had in his pocket. He was alone.

  Trying to remain inconspicuous, I pulled the Ford back out onto the highway and headed north.

  The Tennessee Motel is a single story motel; L shaped with a restaurant on one end and the office on the other. Rooms are contained within the L and Room 7 was almost in the center. It was not well hidden and not very discrete.

  After driving just a couple of miles, I turned around and headed back toward the Tennessee Motel. Across Hwy 45, directly opposite the motel, is a small 9-hole public golf course. They have a large parking area that offers a full view of the motel and its parking lot. That’s where I pulled in to observe what I knew was going to happen next. However, what I expected didn’t happen.

  Trying not to be conspicuous, I was standing next to the Ford while watching and waiting for the next activity. I had a clear view of the motel, but unfortunately, was not able to hide my activities. Thankfully, I didn’t need to wait long. Five minutes after JR arrived and entered the motel room; another vehicle pulled up and parked next to his Lincoln. It was a 1955 Chevrolet – ARMY issue! It was painted green army drab with distinctive white letters, telling me it was an official Army vehicle. I watched a tall and stout uniformed gentleman exit the vehicle and enter Room 7 - this is definitely not what I expected!

  As I was writing the army car’s identification numbers in my notebook, I sensed someone walking up behind me. But before I could turn, I felt something very familiar pressing at the base of my neck – cold, hard and not very friendly.

  I am licensed, but do not carry a weapon. My grandfather’s .38 police special remains in my glove compartment with a note attached ‘DON’T DO THIS’! (OK, I’m just kidding about the note, but I am not armed – usually - and wasn’t now.)

  “What do you think you are doing?” The voice from behind me asked.

  “I’m writing advertising copy for the local paper,” I answered raising my hands. “What is the problem?”

  “Bullshit, Mr. Reno. Turn around slowly and let’s talk,” he said quietly. Apparently he didn’t believe me!

  As I turned, I saw two things. First, that the cold hard impression on my neck was made by a 4 iron, and not a gun; second, that the asshole hassling me was Bubba Knight – a well known, and dangerous member of the Memphis Mafia. Standing behind Bubba, as his backup I guess, was Bobby James. He was another member of that band of crooks. But, I was more concerned and disappointed by the fact that they knew my name, which could not be good news.

  Steve Carrollton was the leader of these thieves. He controlled activities from a second floor office on Beale Street, and it is a mystery to a lot of people on how he stayed out of jail. He, and his ‘Merry Mafia Men’ , has their hands in every vice around Memphis, Shelby County and West Memphis. Fortunately, I have personally never had any occasion to cross his path. But now, somehow, they knew me, and what they were doing in Humboldt, is a question I had no answer for - yet.

  “Why are you watching General Samson?” Bubba finally asked.

  “I’m not. And since you seem to know my name, then you should know who I am and what I do. What is your name, and what do you do?” Bubba didn’t seem impressed with my question.

  “I’ve asked you a question, and I asked first. Typically I don’t ask them twice,” he responded. I believed him.

  “Okay, I don’t know this General Samson, and have no interest in his activities. I was hired to look into possible inappropriate actions by JR Maxwell, who now seems to be in that motel room with your General Samson. And, that is just what I am doing - looking. You, on the other had, are interfering with my business, and I really don’t have to answer your questions – do I!” A strong statement that I was afraid wouldn’t stand up – it didn’t.

  “Mr. Reno, unless you’ve got golf clubs in this rolling turd you call a car, and want to play a quick 9, I suggest you get back behind the wheel, and go to wherever it is you need to go,” Bubba said quietly.

  Knowing to whom I was talking, I actually thought that was a good idea. Without other words, I did just as he requested.

  Getting back in the Ford, I left the parking lot. As I turned
onto the highway, I noticed that both JR and the General had already left the motel.

  By the way, for future reference, this ‘rolling turd’ DID have a set of golf clubs in the trunk. Do you think I should have told him that? I guess not.

  I’m just trying to give back $100, and so far not having much success. More frustrating is the fact that Bubba (and I’m sure his other friends) know who I am. Why? Better yet, why didn’t I just keep the money and go home? Where is Mary Ellen, and why did she send me the letter? Did she know about my connections to Humboldt? I had a lot of questions and very few answers. I decided to keep the money and go home, it was healthier that way.

  ~

  Needing some fresh conversation and a drink, I stopped at the Humboldt Country Club before heading back to my room.

  It was Friday, and the bar was crowded. Some were waiting to have dinner and some, like me, just drinking. Nuddy had just delivered my third Jack/Coke, and I was standing at the bar talking with Mike Barker, when the worst happened.

  JR entered the lower level bar with a lady who simply oozed beauty with every movement. She wasn’t tall but compact, with cold dark hair and displaying a manor that suited her good looks. Her black cocktail dress fit in all the right places, and offered just enough to send your imagination into overdrive.

  This was the lady I had seen earlier that day at Maxwell Trucking, at least I thought so. Her name was Judy Strong; she had an office adjacent to JR, and the woman I saw leave with him through a rear exit while I waited in the lobby. This lady could stop traffic, but who would want to be driving?