I had just finished introducing my helpers to Williams—I was surprised Art hadn’t met the deputy already, on one of the Cooke County visits he’d made with me—when Art pointed toward the mouth of the valley. “Bill, did you order pizza?”
A Crown Victoria eased into the valley and idled across the field toward where we stood. I knew it wasn’t pizza, unless Domino’s had begun recruiting drivers from the ranks of active TBI agents.
Williams and I had almost come to blows over calling in the TBI. As soon as the rotor wash from LifeStar had settled, I had pulled out the satellite phone to call them. “Hell, no,” the deputy said, when I told him what I was doing. “I’m in charge here, and I say no.” It was true that with the sheriff incapacitated and the chief deputy dead, Williams was the ranking law enforcement officer on the scene—and in the whole county, for that matter. But he was a commander without subordinates, and he seemed unsure how to proceed. When he balked at the TBI, I suggested the Tennessee Highway Patrol instead, but he said no to them as well. “Well, somebody’s got to take jurisdiction,” I snapped. “We’re not on federal land, so we can’t call in the feds. Seems like our best bet is your new pals at the TBI.”
I hadn’t meant to say that; it just slipped out in the heat of the moment. Williams went ghostly pale, then angry red; my attempt at an explanation—that I’d been returning a library book to the downtown library, and happened to see him talking with Steve Morgan on the steps of the federal building—sounded lame even to me. “Look,” I’d finally said, “somebody just shot the sheriff’s brother. You don’t have the resources for a big investigation. Call in some reinforcements. It’s your best hope for catching whoever did this.” He still looked unhappy, but he didn’t stop me from making the call. The front doors of the Crown Vic opened in unison. A grim-faced Steve Morgan emerged from the driver’s side; Brian “Rooster” Rankin exited the passenger side. His cover now thoroughly blown, Rankin had traded his feed cap and overalls for a sportcoat and silk tie.
Williams and Morgan nodded awkwardly to one another, in the way of people who know each other but hate to acknowledge it—like two ministers bumping into each other at a strip club. Rankin, on the other hand, made a point of introducing himself to Williams, which told me that the deputy had not met Rankin at the federal building. That made sense—he was still working undercover, after all. As Rankin shook his hand, Williams’s face betrayed a potent mix of confusion, shock, and fear. When I saw that, I knew that Rankin—the undercover version—must have rubbed elbows with the deputy in some unsavory or illegal context.
The two agents huddled briefly with all of us, first getting a brief recap from me, then asking Williams a few questions—where and when he’d learned of the shooting, when he’d arrived, and so on. Excusing themselves for a moment, they got back into their car, where they conferred in low, earnest tones. When they rejoined us, Morgan seemed to have taken charge of things. “Here’s how we’d suggest proceeding,” he said, in a tone that didn’t actually invite feedback or questions. “I’ll stay here with Dr. Brockton and his team as they excavate the chopper. Agent Rankin will ride back to the courthouse with Deputy Williams to get more background, go over the dispatch logs, and review any pertinent files.”
“I ain’t leavin’,” said Williams. “This is a Cooke County crime scene, I was the first officer on the scene, and that makes me the incident commander here.”
The TBI agents glanced at each other, then Rankin beckoned to Williams.