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didn’t associate the sirens last night with the car speeding out of the complex?” Mike asked.
    “I live in the back of the apartments, and in South Nashville we’ve got sirens twenty-four seven. They all sound like they’re out on Nolensville Road to me.”
    “Can we have your phone numbers, at home and work so we can get in touch if we have any more questions?” Mike asked.
    “Sure.” Snell gave Mike his numbers and ate more of his cheese fries.
    “You gonna eat that?” Norm asked Mike while grinding the final bite of his sandwich.
    “Why? You want it?” Mike asked what he knew was a dumb question.
    “Well, there’s no sense in letting it go to waste.”
    “Geez, Norm,” Mike handed the plate across the table.
    “Well, if there’s nothing else, I gotta get back to work,” Snell said.
    “Derek, thanks for your help,” Mike said. “If we make any headway with your information, Crimestoppers will be in touch.”
    Snell scooted out of the booth and stood. “Let’s hope so. I could use the funds, and I’d like to think it might help you catch that boy’s killer.”
    “Me too,” Mike said. “Thanks.”
    Norm tossed his head and grunted a goodbye.
    As Snell walked toward the door, Mike watched Norm vacuum the remains of the second sandwich and fries.
    “Man, you have got to rein in that appetite. You’re gonna have trouble hitting your numbers on the POPAT in September.” Mike knew how taxing the Police Officer Physical Abilities Test could be for an officer who was accustomed to the exertion. Someone who was essentially sedentary and carrying Norm’s load could easily fail to meet his minimum limits and end up on suspension.
    “That’s five months away.” Norm wiped the melted cheese from the corner of his mouth.
    “Yeah,” Mike said, “and about thirty pounds.”

Chapter 6
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    White Tail Lodge
    Hubbard County, Tennessee
    Monday Afternoon
    “Damn it, Richard. I don’t care what it takes. Listen, you’ve got to use this opportunity to ramp up our image and our exposure. With a vehicle like the Internet available to us, we have a unique means to market our organization, and our beliefs. We have to seize it,” Carl W. Garrison III explained to Richard Hopkins, Director of Public Relations for The Alliance for the Racial Purification of America.
    “TARPA’s image is critical.” Garrison stood. He began to pace behind his desk as much as the coiled phone cord would allow. “If we are going to fight this war, we have to have soldiers—battalions of soldiers. As you and I have discussed before, too many of the members we’ve been attracting over the last few years aren’t arriving with the skills we need for the coming battle.”
    “So true. But we do need numbers,” Hopkins said.
    “I understand we need numbers.” Garrison waved his arm in the air. “But, first we need strong, impressive and committed recruiters we can send out to enlist others like themselves; others who believe our country is headed down the road to hell, and that somebody has to have the balls to step up and save it, before it’s too late. These engaging and intelligent people will then be able to clone themselves and grow our numbers with folks armed for the conflict.”
    As the charismatic leader of TARPA, Garrison practiced the television evangelist brogue that captured and held the attention of so many supporters. Garrison, like his father before him, worked hard to maintain an impressive appearance. His hair received a conservative cut every two weeks, and American-made suits were the only clothes he purchased. You would never see Carl Garrison in an Italian suit, or one made anywhere outside his country.
    He knew one of the main reasons his father’s philosophies on race and religion had been so difficult to promote was centered on the number of less-than-impressive individuals who had flocked to their cause over the early years. Garrison made strides in improving TARPA’s image in the years since