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later, it struck me as pretty clever. Jackson whipped the station wagon behind the by-then closed Public Health Building, stuck the ignition keys under the front seat, got into his Honda, and pulled away. The getaway plan worked perfect as we all watched for the wrong vehicle.
    Channel 11’s Dan Clarkston, with his cameraman hot on his heels, headed for the front door, knowing the route of the police lot’s only exit. I watched a couple of the other TV people go out the same side exit as Jackson, then reverse course and head for the front door. The precinct commander, Reynolds, tried to gain control of the confusion, but gave up and retreated to his office, recognizing a disaster when he saw one. Disgusted, the lawyer Allenby berated Patrick Stone. I jotted down all this to spice up what I now considered a Page 1A story. First, I needed to find my photographer.
    Clarkston’s bolt out the front door made him the lone reporter to see Jackson’s vehicle and the direction it took. A recreational runner, Clarkston still couldn’t get to the street quick enough to see what other maneuvers Jackson made after dropping out of sight.
     
     

 
                 
    But he spotted a couple of teenagers walking along the road in the same direction and hoped they remembered seeing a white wagon. Clarkston caught up to them just before the train underpass. So focused on the young couple, he failed to notice the royal blue Honda Accord that drove in the opposite direction past the police station and turned left on Ellington Parkway to head toward the city. Flabbergasted, Patrick Stone recognized his brother’s car, but he wasn’t tattling.
    “Did you kids notice the station wagon that just drove up that way,” Dan Clarkston asked the teens, “or which way it turned?”
    The vacant-eyed girl didn’t respond at first, and then recognized Clarkston, the most popular electronic journalist in the mid-major market. In his late thirties, Dan’s lean, angular face fit his runner’s body. Known around the media for an inflated ego, occasional outbursts of temper, and bouts of vanity, Clarkston wore a light gray summer suit, with a striped red tie to play off the teal shirt.
    “Hey, you’re that guy on TV that my parents still watch,” the girl said.
    “Yeah. So did you see a car like that?”
    “Nah,” the slacker boyfriend said, flicking his cigarette. “What ’d the guy do, rob a bank? Police station’s right back there if yawanna report it.”
    Clarkston grinned.
    “Tune in at ten to find out.”
    “Stuff it, old man.”
    The teens went on their way as Clarkston turned back to Greg Pittard, the cameraman he was teamed with. He moved around Pittard so the background shot included the police station.
    “Ready to roll?”
    Clarkston gathered himself, smoothing down a few stray gray hairs.
    “On three . . . two . . . one.”
    Clarkston spoke with an air of authority while also trying to show a degree of compassion. He’d practiced this “signature style” thousands of times and nailed it again.
    “You’ve just heard the shocking first public statement from an angry Jackson Stone, whose wife Angela was brutally murdered ten days ago in East Nashville. A senseless crime like so many others, it sent shockwaves through this community and put pressure on police across the city to find the murderer who committed such a heinous act. But Jackson Stone just upped the ante and gave Metro police a new mandate—find a killer before he does. How will police react to this unprecedented—and most public—challenge? Is Jackson Stone the kind of man who can carry out such an act of vengeance? We’ll try to answer some of those questions on our ten o’clock report.”
    “And cut,” Pittard said. “If we hurry, we can make the six o’clock newscast.”
    “You drop it off, then get back over here for some police reaction. And then we’re going to try to find this nut-job for an exclusive.”
     
    Spotting my