Three Deuces Down. Keith Donnelly

forget it. Ed Sanders was an alcoholic. It was the reason he had to leave the Knoxville police force. He did good work and promised me he would never drink on the job and as far as I know he didn’t. Sometimes when he wasn’t working a case he would go on a bender. Then I’d call and tell him to sober up, that I had a job for him. The next day he would show up sober and ready to work. That’s pretty much the way it went the entire three years he worked for me. I was sorry when I heard the news, but not surprised. If he hadn’t been an ex-cop he would probably have had a dozen DUI’s.

      “Do you know any of the details?” I asked.

      “Single-car accident late at night. No witnesses.”

      “Can I have a copy of this file?”

      “No need for a copy, take the file. Send it back when you’re through with it.”

      I thanked Slack for his time. We shook hands and I left his office. The reception area was empty as I gathered my trench coat from the coat rack.

      “In town long?” Emily queried with a smile beyond friendliness.

      I smiled back. “It does look like I might have to stay at least one night.”

      She handed me a card. “Call me if you’re free, and I’ll buy you a drink.”

      I pocketed the card. “I’ll do that,” I said and left.

      The times, as Dylan said, they are a changin’.

      Not long after leaving Tom Slack Investigations, I was in a downtown coffee shop doing major damage to a loaded cheeseburger and a large order of fries. I had commandeered a booth in the back and was deeply engrossed in my food, a USA Today, and a Knoxville News Sentinel. My beloved Tennessee Vols were entrenched in the top ten after wins over UCLA, Arkansas, the hated Florida Gators, and LSU. Visions of another national championship danced in my head. Georgia was next. Then my cheeseburger almost did an about-face as I read that our star running back was out for the season. My visions of a national championship vanished.

      I had not lied to the lovely Emily when I said I might be spending the night. I disliked coincidences, even when they made sense. Ed Sanders could have died after working on any case, but he died after working on the case I was now investigating and my naturally suspicious nature was working overtime. I used my cell phone to call Big Bob Wilson.

      Big Bob was my best high school friend and we had stayed in touch after graduation. His nickname was bestowed by teammates after the local paper repeatedly reported that “Big Bob Wilson” had done this or that when referring to a win by our high school basketball team. Big Bob went on to UT on a basketball scholarship. In his senior year, he made All-SEC and Tennessee went to the NCAA tournament, an occurrence that came around about as often as Halley’s Comet. The Vols made it to the sweet sixteen.

      Big Bob graduated with a degree in criminal science but he still let his very close friends call him Big Bob even though he was now Chief of Police in Mountain Center. Big Bob’s father was also one of the five richest men in town and many thought this was why Big Bob was police chief at such a young age. I didn’t think Big Bob was all that young. We were both pushing forty.

      “Mountain Center Police Headquarters,” announced a female voice on the other end of the line.

      “Hi, Susie,” I said. “Let me speak to the Big Bob.”

      “Hey Donnie. How you doin’?”

      Susie was Big Bob’s sister. After small talk, she got him on the line.

      “Hey Blood! What’s going on?” Big Bob’s voice matched his nickname. He was a serious man with a subtle sense of humor. He had become more serious after being appointed Chief. Crime and all that went with it had had its effects on the big man. Big Bob had ulcers.

      “Investigating,” I replied. “Remember, I’m a private investigator.”

      “Like shit you are,” he teased. “Investor gator is more like it.”

      “I’m on a serious case and surrounded by comedians,” I said. “Listen, Big Bob, I need a favor. Do you know the Knoxville Chief of Police?”

      “Of course. What do you need?”

      “I need to talk to the officer who investigated a traffic accident about five years ago if he is still with the force. If not, then I need to know where he is. I need to know something today if possible. Call me on the cell phone.”

      “Will do. By the way, we’re expecting you for dinner Friday night.” Before I could accept or decline, Big Bob hung up. I took out my day planner and wrote Dinner@Wilsons under Friday. Big Bob had spoken.

      I had finished with USA Today and was well into my second cup of coffee when my cell phone rang.

      “Ask for Captain Liam McSwain,” Big Bob commanded.

      “An Irish cop. How quaint.”

      Big Bob ignored the humor. “He’ll see you as soon as you get there.”

      “Thanks,” I said. “He must owe you a favor.”

      “Everybody owes me a favor,” he said and hung up.

      I opened the Fairchild file and re-read it. Then I looked at the late Ed Sanders’s expense account. His written report about the trip said he had spent two days in Connecticut but there was a receipt for only one night at a Holiday Inn in Darien. Other than that one discrepancy, I found no other information that I had not found the first time I looked at the file. I tucked the file in my briefcase and left a tip and the newspapers behind as I paid the check at the front register. The police department was in a municipal building near the Tennessee River, not far from the University of Tennessee campus. I decided to walk. I needed to walk and think. It took fifteen minutes.

      I rode the elevator to the fifth floor where the lobby directory informed me I might find the Chief. I introduced myself to the receptionist, handed her my card and told her that I was expected. I was shortly sitting in front of the Knoxville Chief of Police.

      “So how is Big Bob?” Liam McSwain asked with a heavy brogue.

      “Big,” I said. I resisted the temptation of asking the Irishman how he had ended up in Knoxville, Tennessee, as the Chief of Police.

      “He certainly is that,” McSwain said. “What can I do for you?”

      McSwain was no lightweight himself. He was about six foot two and probably weighed two-fifty but did not look fat. He had a ruddy complexion and premature gray hair with eyebrows to match. His hands were large and meaty and a barrel chest tapered to relatively slender hips. I imagined him to be one of those graceful big men whose agility and coordination belied his size. Even at his age—mid-fifties, I guessed—he was not a guy I would want to mess with. I also guessed that when he gave orders they were followed. I told him what I needed.

      “Sanders, you say,” McSwain said as he turned sideways to his computer. I could listen to this guy talk all day, I thought. “About five years ago?”

      I nodded.

      The big hands moved deftly over the keyboard. He brought up the accident report. Seconds later his printer whirred into action and spit out a page. McSwain glanced at it and handed it to me.

      “Looks routine,” he said.

      I scanned it. Two am, single-car accident, dead drunk, etc. Ed Sanders was just another statistic. The investigating officer was Hoffman.

      “Where can I find this Officer Hoffman?” I asked.

      He turned back to his computer and opened another file.

      “Left the force last year,” McSwain said.

      “Know where he went?”

      “Doesn’t say,” he replied, glancing at the screen with a sigh that said my time was up.

      “Any chance you can find out for me?”

      He