“Well,” I pointed out, “that could be an argument for bringing in the FBI.”
O’Conner shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “Yes and no,” he said. “Here’s my issue with the FBI. I don’t give a rat’s ass who gets credit for bringing him in, if he did this. What worries me is, there’s a lot of distrust of the federal government up here. Some of it goes back eighty years. Some families are still pissed off about the park.” I nodded; Great Smoky Mountains National Park was America’s most heavily visited park, but its creation had taken a toll on hundreds of hardscrabble mountain families, forced off their land for the sake of a park for tourists. “I’m just imagining a convoy of FBI armored vehicles rolling in here,” the sheriff continued. “I hate to say it, but I’m afraid things could get ugly; spiral out of hand. You’d be surprised how many folks up here believe the stories about jackbooted soldiers and black helicopters and the New World Order. I’d hate to see this turn into some sort of Waco.”
I had an idea. “Would they be less freaked out by Knoxville police? KPD has a great SWAT team. They serve a lot of high-risk warrants, and this guy Shiflett sounds about as high-risk as they come.” O’Conner drummed his fingers, pondering the suggestion. “Sure, they’re outsiders, too,” I conceded, “but they’re East Tennessee outsiders. Some of them probably have kinfolk up here.”
O’Conner pondered further, then looked inquiringly at his deputy. Waylon answered the unspoken question with a fine-by-me shrug. “Sold,” said the sheriff. “I’ll make the call.”
I took out my cell phone, searched my contacts for “KPD Decker,” then slid the phone across the desk. “Captain Brian Decker. The SWAT team commander. He’s a good guy.”
O’Conner looked mildly surprised, then smiled, took the phone, and pressed the “call” button. After three rings, I heard Decker’s familiar voice spooling from the tiny speaker in a thin thread of sound, faint but distinct. “Hey, Doc. Everything okay?”
“Captain Decker, this is Jim O’Conner, the sheriff up in Cooke County. Not to worry—everything’s fine. Dr. Brockton just loaned me his phone to call you, since he’s got your number in his contacts.” He put the phone closer to his ear, muffling Decker’s words. “Sure, I’ll hand the phone back to Dr. Brockton in just a second. He suggested I call and see if your SWAT team might be able to help us serve a warrant on a fellow we think might not come quietly. . . . Murder suspect. . . . He’s ex-military. Possible militia member. White supremacist. Permanently pissed off. . . . Exactly, one helluva nice guy.”
They talked a while longer, then made a plan for Decker and two of his men to come to Cooke County later in the day to reconnoiter and formulate a plan.
O’Conner handed me the phone so Decker and I could finish the call. “Talk to me, Deck,” I said. “What’s the word on Satterfield? Any progress?”
“Well, hell,” he said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
What was the line from The Princess Bride, that tongue-in-cheek fairy-tale movie my grandsons had made me watch a dozen times when they were younger? Oh, right: “Get used to disappointment.”
MOST OF THE DRIVE BACK TO KNOXVILLE WAS A grim, bleak blur. Miranda did not give me her ACLU lecture, although under the circumstances, a liberal rant about protecting civil liberties would have been a lot more pleasant than the dark fears and memories swirling in my mind.
Finally, as we approached the eastern outskirts of the city—about the time we passed the spot where Satterfield had killed several of his victims—Miranda spoke. She sounded as if she were far away—perhaps she’d been trying to get my attention for some time—and if I’d ever heard her voice so tentative, I couldn’t remember when. “Excuse me? Dr. B?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was somewhere else. Didn’t mean to ignore you.”
“I didn’t take it that way. And maybe I should just leave you alone.”
“No, please,” I said. “I’d appreciate some distraction.”
“Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” I waved away her concern, and she went on. “Satterfield—that all happened before my time.”
I nodded. “You were probably in first grade,” I said. “Twenty years ago? No, more than that—it was 1992. Bill Clinton was running for president. Clinton and Al Gore. Running against Bush the Elder.” When I put it in those terms, it sounded as if several lifetimes had passed since Clinton first ran. “Wow. Elections were a lot more civilized back then, seems like. Now, campaigning’s turned into a reality TV show. Survivor meets Jerry Springer or something.”